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No. Her hands closed around the heart. The heart the Sisters had entrusted to them. To him. The ifrits’ clawed hands dug into his skin.
“Aya, please,” Altair begged. She ignored him, tongue between her teeth in concentration.
And there was a moment like a sigh when the pulsing organ was fitted into place.
Altair’s sob was soundless. The Lion’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to acclimate. Aya’s hands were steeped in red and black, magic aiding her along, connecting arteries and valves with sickening precision.
But she was not yet finished.
And Altair was not yet dead.
He emptied his mind, wiped away the pain, and collected what remained of his strength. But even if he could break free, he had no access to a weapon. He couldn’t blast her with a beam of light because of the daama shackles. He couldn’t stab her with a scalpel, too far out of reach.
No—he would wring her neck with his bare hands.
He wrenched forward and fell to his knees with a force that rattled his teeth. The ifrit chittered. The Lion’s eyes flashed. Aya pressed the back of a bloody hand to her mouth at the sudden ruckus.
“Aya, my sweet,” the Lion prodded gently, an edge to his voice, “finish what you’ve started.”
A crackling stave came rushing for Altair’s stomach. He twisted away, slamming the weight of his shackle into the ifrit’s chest. A second stave rammed into the wall behind Altair’s head, and he wrapped his fingers around a scrawny throat until the ifrit ran away shrieking.
The other two ifrit dug their claws into his arm, drawing blood, and
Altair yanked them off with a hiss, needing an extra moment to orient his one-eyed self. Forget Aya. The Lion was supine on the bedroll. He lunged, stumbling back from a sudden blast of shadow.
Magic.
The Lion’s sigh was a sated sound. Beneath Aya’s sure fingers, his skin knitted itself back together again, beads of black blood streaking his golden skin.
“Such zeal, Altair,” he rasped. “Did you really presume I would lie here without precaution?”
Altair didn’t waste time with a retort. He scrambled toward Aya, prepared to pull her away, when terror froze him in place.
Blood poured from her mouth. She coughed, looking at the spray of blood in her hand in dismay. The scalpel was lodged just beneath her breast, the Lion releasing it from his grip.
“The irony,” he said with a soft laugh. And then he stood, swaying as his newfound power countered the loss of blood. “What was it that Benyamin used to say?”
The price of dum sihr is always great.
Aya fell into Altair’s arms with a surprised oof. How many times had she lain just like this?
She lifted red fingers to his face. Her pink abaya was drenched in blood, both hers and the Lion’s. “Did I do well, sadiqi?”
No, sweet Aya. Twisted Aya. Beloved Aya, who had ruined everything.
“Shh, don’t speak.” He was angry with her—so terribly angry—but the despondence was greater. “Heal it.” His hand shook as he reached for hers, dragging her prone fingers to her breast. “Aya. Heal yourself.”
She didn’t move. “You must know.” Her breath wavered. “I never stopped loving you. I tried, but the pain was too much.”
He felt it then. That box in which he had stored every dark thing of his past swelling too heavy, too big for his soul. Pain rent the latches that kept it shut. It flooded him, tearing one single sob from his throat, hoarse and aching.
“An empty life is a fate worse than death,” she whispered.
The words sank bitter and desolate before the light vanished from her eyes.
The Lion hummed softly.
“Chain him up,” he commanded, and turned to leave as ifrit flooded the room.
