We Hunt the Flame(87)

“You must have been hoping I was.”

No, but what a distraction to be free of. “Lower your voice,” he said, trying to ignore her sleepy rasp.

“Now’s not the time, habibi,” Altair murmured.

Indeed. They had bigger things to worry about than Altair calling him beloved.

Like the line of growling creatures surrounding them in the crumbling ruins.

“What are they?” the Huntress whispered. “Wolves?” She rose, lifting her bow and nocking an arrow in one fluid movement.

Altair’s response was a low murmur. “Meet your newest adversary: the kaftar.”

They were larger than wolves. Their agile bodies were coated in sparse fur, mottled in a darker brown than their coats. Long tongues lolled out of mouths cut in perpetually wicked grins, some bearing rows of sharp teeth.

“Hyenas?” she asked. One of the seven creatures growled and yipped.

Benyamin laughed his soft laugh. “Somewhat. Though in comparison, a hyena and a kaftar are like a stream and a stormy sea.”

Another growl.

And one of the sleek storms leaped.

Powerful muscles undulated, and its depthless dark eyes flashed. Its brethren fanned out, stalking closer.

Nasir breathed down the shaft of his arrow, but before he could loosen the bowstring, a metallic arc cut through the air, catching the meager light. The moment the liquid gold touched the creature, time seemed to still.

The kaftar shifted into a man and landed on his feet.

Nasir heard the hitch in the Huntress’s breath. The hyena-turned-man shook his head like a wet dog, pinning Benyamin with glowing eyes like qahwa not steeped long. He looked like a typical Arawiyan: dark hair, dark beard, light brown skin, except for that unnatural gaze glittering with anciency.

“Alder,” the kaftar said to Benyamin in a garbled voice. Did he see Benyamin’s pointed ears through his keffiyah, or could he sniff the safi?

To his either side, the other kaftar slowly shifted into men as the remnants of Benyamin’s gold substance touched them. They were dressed in thobes, ankle-length and white, with ratty hair emerging from dark turbans. How they had attained such pristine white thobes during their shape-shift was beyond Nasir.

Benyamin tipped his head. “Kaftar.”

The kaftar bared his teeth in a smile, and Nasir thought he saw a snout and pointed teeth. Then he blinked, and the creature appeared as a man once more.

“How long since you’ve stood a man?” Benyamin asked, calm and collected, as if the kaftar were wholly human and nothing else. How long before one of you leaps and rips out someone’s throat? was what Nasir would have asked.

The kaftar stretched his neck with a sigh. This time, his voice was smooth when he answered. A hot knife through butter, a keen blade through flesh. “One hundred and four years.”

Benyamin noticeably stiffened. Nasir’s grip tightened around his drawn bow.

“One hundred and four years since we’ve eaten a meal cooked to perfection. One hundred and four years since I’ve lain in a warm bed and held a woman in my arms. Kaftar must shift at sunset and at sunrise, but it has been one hundred and four years, Alder”—the man’s eyes burned murderous as he stalked closer—“since your kind cursed me and my brethren to the bodies of beasts, imprisoning us upon this island.”

“Not a step closer, creature,” Nasir said, voice low.

Surprise flickered in the murky pools of the kaftar’s eyes. “A Sarasin, defending an Alder? Arawiya must truly lie in ruin.” He lifted a hand to his beard.

Nasir held his breath as the kaftar’s fingernails lengthened and sharpened into claws. One move, and both sides would clash.

The kaftar set his gaze on Altair. “I smell a sweetness in his blood, Alder, and I wonder—”

“Enough!” Cold alarm crossed Benyamin’s face. The Huntress jumped. Kifah looked at Benyamin sharply. Very little ever fazed the safi, and they all took note.

“I can change you back into the monsters you were cursed to be and let them run you through with their weapons,” Benyamin continued, gesturing to the others, “or you may leave us and remain in human form.”

The tension crackled.

The hairs on the back of Nasir’s neck stood on end.

“Why have you come?” the kaftar asked.

“A shadow stirs,” Benyamin ceded. “Arawiya darkens.”

“You panic, Alder.” The kaftar stepped forward. His eyes glowed with barely contained savagery.

“The Jawarat will not remain lost much longer.”

This time alarm befell the kaftar, and Nasir felt a cold grip in his chest at the reminder: whatever tome this Jawarat was, it was more than an answer to the disappearance of magic. The kaftar stared longingly at Altair, inhaling deep, and Nasir nearly stepped between them, but Kifah moved first, crossing her arms.

After a long moment, the kaftar stepped back, and his brethren mimicked his movements.

“Take your leave, Alder. Whistle, and my pack might assist.” His gaze drifted to Kifah before it settled on the Huntress, roving across her form. Nasir wanted to cut him down where he stood. “But the cursed take no oaths and make no promises.”





CHAPTER 57


Nasir turned his back on the kaftar with heavy reluctance. He never left a threat breathing. He hardly left the innocent breathing. His blood still boiled from the way the lead kaftar had nearly undressed the Huntress with his wandering gaze.