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Nasir pulled back. “I fear nothing.”
It laughed, a wheezing, dying sound.
“What are you?” he asked.
“One of many trapped on this island,” the voice rasped. “Not all as wicked as you.”
Nasir did not refute his wickedness.
He felt the slither of the thing that had wrapped around his ankle and realized there were more than one of them. Tentacles? Before he could demand again, there was a scuttle to his right, and the heave of stone made him turn.
The dust settled and gray light poured from the world outside. A palace sprawled before him, a massive creation of shadow and stone. Domes of black glittered beneath a shrouded moon.
“Shift the imbalance. Bring us light. Destroy us so we may rest in peace.”
He stepped onto the stone pathway and slipped the compass back into his pocket. He turned back, slightly, and found he could now say a word more easily than before.
“Shukrun.”
CHAPTER 70
“You’re the Lion of the Night,” Zafira breathed, her will coming undone. She could no longer find the strength to hold herself and slumped, chains rattling.
He smiled, his amber eyes cool. The eyes of a lion, she realized.
This was the master Benyamin had been too cowardly to reveal. This was the creature to whom Sharr answered. This was the reason for the sultan’s change. Why wasn’t he dead?
Breathe. Assess.
If, by some miracle, she escaped the Shadow’s—the Lion’s—clutches, she had nowhere to go. If she found the Jawarat, he would take it from her. If she deliberately failed, he could send someone for her family.
If Zafira died, no one would miss her. No one would be able to find the Jawarat, either. Her death would be a sacrifice.
“You never could keep your thoughts to yourself.” The Lion of the Night breathed a laugh. “Azizi, I would miss you.”
She spat at his feet.
“He would miss you.”
The latch of a door clicked in the silence, and Zafira looked beyond the lattice screen, past the rug and pillows blanketing the ground, to a man. His footsteps swept the copper ground, and Zafira knew the toe of his right sock was torn. He set his beloved tabar against the wall and smiled.
Deen.
“Showing me the same dead man twice? You’ll need to try harder,” Zafira drawled, hoping he wouldn’t notice her erratic pulse.
“Zafira?”
That voice. Ifrit couldn’t borrow voices.
She could feel the brush of the frigid Demenhur air, the steady comfort of her cloak, the warmth of his smile, the thrill of Yasmine’s laugh. The sun in his curls and the reassurance of a pinkie around hers.
“Why can’t you stay dead?” she whispered.
“I’m not deaf, you know,” he—it—pointed out. Her resolve was being skinned from her body.
“You’re not real, either.”
She stared at the Lion, unable to muster the strength to look away as he read her face. As he saw how close she was to losing her sanity, despite her bold words.
