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Nasir almost growled aloud.
The fool of a Hunter was mad. He witnessed the creature, ugly and dark, and sheathed his jambiya.
Relaxed his defenses.
Stepped closer.
Nasir watched from a dilapidated vestibule, frustration making him jittery.
The ifrit trod with caution. It was a creature of smokeless fire, imprisoned on Sharr by the Sisters. And with the darkening sky, it wasn’t just ifrit that would stray from the shadows.
“Do you really think the Hunter sees the ifrit for what it is?” Altair asked, carefully rotating his shoulder.
Nasir didn’t care. If he waited any longer, it would kill the Hunter and their only way to the Jawarat would die, too. Why was the man always in danger?
He lifted his bow, the compass heavy in his pocket. He did not tell Altair that since they had climbed Sharr’s wall, the compass had changed direction, twice.
That it had led him to the Hunter, twice.
The beginning of a scream scattered Nasir’s thoughts.
CHAPTER 31
It was Zafira’s second time seeing Deen die. Surely such torture had an end.
The arrow struck again below his heart. The same arrow as before, ebony with a tapered silver fletching. A look of rage twisted Deen’s features as it happened. A violence she had never before seen on his face.
Yet as he fell, her heart took control of her voice and elicited half a scream before her brain made it stop. It wasn’t a sound she ever made.
But.
He was decaying before her eyes. Changing. His hair thinned until his head balded, his eyes darkened to depthless black as the body fell into the shadows of the sooq.
She shrank back with a curse. Deen’s death had addled her so much that she had lowered her guard and fallen for Sharr’s trap. An ifrit. Creatures that fed on despair and grief. Sharr hadn’t buried Deen’s body, or even eaten it.
It had stolen it.
Something snapped behind her, and Zafira stilled. Another snap—a deliberate sound meant to be heard.
Heavy boots on terraced stone. Whoever had saved her from the ifrit now and had killed Deen earlier. She reached behind for her bow and—
“Freeze.”
It was a cold voice, accustomed to giving orders without ever having to repeat itself, despite the low timbre of it. She froze, hand hanging above her head before she slowly curled it into a fist.
“Don’t move, Hunter.”
At that, she stiffened.
“Your reputation precedes you.”
Her eyes fell to the corpse of the ifrit, where the black-and-silver arrow taunted. Real silver, which meant it belonged to someone with means. Black and silver, black and silver. She racked her memory. She knew those colors. She knew where people spoke with that soothing lilt.
Her breath halted. Sarasin.
“Drop your rida’.”
Rida’. Sarasin for hood. Sarasin, like the ones who had ambushed her at the edge of the Arz. Like the sultan himself.
