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She swallowed her gasp and gritted her teeth. Deen’s throat would never bob again. Because of him. Because of this murderer beneath her.
The trees of the oasis waited with bated breath. But Zafira’s entire focus honed on the gleaming metal against his throat.
Don’t be an equal to the ones who hurt. Deen’s words, when Zafira had taken it upon herself to challenge the yellow-toothed boy who had broken Deen’s nose during a game of kura years and years ago.
Zafira stared into those gray eyes, and the ashes inside them scattered beneath her stare. She lifted the blade.
Not a flicker of surprise shone on his scarred face. Zafira swallowed her scream with a growl.
“Three things. Wahid, don’t touch me. Ithnayn, don’t look at me. Thalatha, don’t even think about me.” Zafira stood, relishing his hiss of pain as she dug her knees into his legs just for good measure.
He rose and mock-saluted her with two fingers across his brow. “As you wish.”
She ran her gaze across the others before pinning him with a look of ice. “If wishes came true, you’d be dead.”
CHAPTER 48
Nasir still felt the cool kiss of metal against his neck, like the phantom of a burn.
The last time a woman, or anyone for that matter, held a blade against his neck, Nasir had been in training. After that, after his mother ensured he was no more than a whisper in the dark, no one could get close. But the Huntress had no training. That wildness took hold of her, jarring his calm, and she tripped him like they were children in a daama schoolyard.
His neck might have still felt the kiss of metal, but the rest of him felt the heat of shame.
“Akhh, I love when a good sparring session ends with … other things.” Altair grinned when the Huntress handed his scimitar back without a word.
“What now?” Kifah asked. The hilt of a knife danced across her knuckles, and her gold cuff shone like a beacon in the sun. “Shall the rest of us begin dueling to our deaths?”
“No more dueling.” Benyamin sighed like an exasperated mother. His gaze kept darting to their surroundings, where the world had darkened a shade further, despite it being no later than noon.
“Yes, listen to our beloved safi. If we kill one another now, who will we use as bait when the ifrit come knocking?” Altair exclaimed.
“You, maybe?” the Huntress asked as she straightened her clothes. Nasir wondered if he imagined the barest hint of color on her face. “You’re big enough to keep them busy for a while.”
Altair adjusted his turban, a gleam in his eyes. “I’m big enough to keep anyone busy for a while.”
Nasir gagged and Kifah sputtered. The Huntress merely looked confused at their reactions. Cloistered.
Benyamin gave Altair a look but let the remark slide. “We need to start moving.”
“We’re not going anywhere, safi,” the Huntress said, steel in her voice.
He turned to her. “You say it like I’m vermin.”
“Maybe you are.” She shrugged and Kifah barked a laugh.
He looked incredulous. “Your people would be bowing before me.”
“My people also have snow for brains. What of it?” she retorted. “We’re not leaving until I have answers.”
Benyamin nodded. “Soon, dearest Demenhune. The trees bend close, and the shadows have a master. We will converse when the time is right.”
She shivered at his words, and the others fell silent. Sharr seemed to grow even more ominous.
Somehow, Nasir knew this master was not the Silver Witch, and it certainly was not Ghameq, for his father’s reach could not extend this far. This master had created fear on Altair’s face that night in the tavern.
This master made Sharr into the monster that it was.
The Huntress disappeared into the palm trees after a murmur from Benyamin, who stepped after her, beckoning with a quick “Yalla, zumra.”
