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“Zafira?”
Yasmine was perched against the low bed, worry scrunching her delicate features. She scooted forward and wrapped Zafira in a hug, wary of her bandages. She’s not afraid of me. Perhaps it was all a terrible dream, and she hadn’t split her caliph in two.
“They said the ifrit nearly had you, too. The guards could barely look at Ayman.”
Not a dream, then. The Lion felt less of a monster, compared to what she’d done. Her and Yasmine’s fight felt as insignificant as when they were twelve and they’d fought over her being gifted a dress Zafira had always wanted.
She went stiff as the words struck. “Ifrit?”
“The one that killed the caliph,” Yasmine explained sadly.
Zafira was just about to open her mouth when something moved by the wall.
Nasir sat up and held her gaze. Play along, he insisted with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
How? she wanted to ask him, knowing what had happened to Yasmine and Misk because of a truth withheld. But the alternative was worse, wasn’t it? Calling herself a murderer, the very thing Yasmine had accused her of being.
Her guilt was a cruel thing, laughing at her as she upheld the lie.
“It was brutal,” she whispered against Yasmine’s hair, and screwed her eyes closed. That, at least, was no lie. It was brutal. She was brutal.
Her skull pounded from the tension grinding her teeth. The blood had been cleaned from her palm. The vial, drained of the si’lah blood she’d traded Baba’s dagger to attain, was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was the Jawarat. The thought was enough: Hunger opened its jaws, eliciting a shivering need in her limbs. Breathe. Her vision swam red and white, blurring as she tried to focus on Yasmine. The orange blossom of her hair, her gentle but fierce hold.
Zafira had steeled herself against the Jawarat’s chaos and its need to control her. She had been prepared. But it hadn’t been doing either of those when it had spurred her to the caliph’s door—not directly. It had been trying to atone. To make up for leaving her.
Sweet snow, what is this madness?
Yasmine pulled away, her gaze cast downward. “For once, I was relieved Misk isn’t here. In danger.”
Typical Yasmine, never thinking of herself.
But he wouldn’t have been in danger, would he? Zafira would never have hurt him. Would I?
Her friend recovered with a dramatic roll of her eyes in Nasir’s direction. “Your prince is here.”
Zafira searched her face, gratified by the acceptance she found. The apology. The indecent twinkle that said she liked what she saw very daama much, making Zafira look away shyly.
She had always marveled at the endless ways in which people met one another halfway. The offering of peace was as near as they’d go to an apology, she knew, for when people were close they rarely needed to use words.
She smiled, a tentative lift of her lips with a thousand apologies in between. For Deen. For what I’ve done.
Yasmine smiled back, wistful. I know, her look said, though she could never know the extent of Zafira’s deeds. “He sat in that corner for half the night and wouldn’t leave, even when I promised to keep you safe.”
A maddening laugh bubbled up Zafira’s throat. Safe. The world needed to be kept safe from her, not her from it.
“I can hear you,” Nasir drawled.
“Hashashins,” Yasmine muttered. “Perhaps you shouldn’t try so hard to listen all the time.” Then she straightened, remembering who he was. “Kha—uh, apologies, Sultani.”
Nasir said something, and Yasmine replied. Words passed between them, but Zafira heard the sickening hollow of the caliph’s bones being split in two. She heard the guards who had come to save his life screaming as they were rent in half.
“—wake Lana?” Yasmine poked her. “Zafira?”
Zafira found herself shaking her head. Yasmine pressed the back of her hand to Zafira’s brow and pursed her lips.
“I’ll return later. Rest, hmm?”
