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Kifah tucked into the shadows between two narrow houses to Zafira’s right. To her left, Aya pressed deeper into her cover, the breeze toying with the soft pink layers of her abaya, Seif at her side. If not for the staff in her hand, Aya would have looked as if she were out for a stroll down the street with a friend. Her words still nagged at Zafira’s conscience, troubling her.
Zafira’s blood raced beneath her skin like a rushing stream as she darted across the street, toward the ledge surrounding the house. Grab, push, jump. Then she would be over, one step closer to the house, one step closer to the Lion, only a window separating her from a forage for the fifth heart. She wasn’t afraid of him, she reminded herself. Not when she knew he wouldn’t harm her and risk losing the Jawarat.
She ducked her head, bow and arrows slung behind her, palms slick with anticipation.
Grab, push, jump. That was the plan.
Until a latch lifted.
“Zafira,” Kifah hissed. “Hide.”
She froze. Her heart was encased in a tomb of ice, but she didn’t move.
“No. He already knows I’m here.” Zafira lifted her chin as the door swung open. The fringe of her shawl fluttered in the breeze, helplessly tugging her to safety. It took everything in her power not to flick her gaze to Nasir on the rooftop. She had lost Baba’s dagger for this mission, for Altair and the heart.
They wouldn’t fail.
The Lion stepped through the archway. He was fitted in mauve and midnight, the bronze of his tattoo catching a ray of the early sun.
“I wondered when you would come to see me.”
Even now, knowing who he was and what he had done, the velvety darkness of his voice struck her, removing her worries and setting her at ease.
“I’ve come for what’s mine,” she replied.
The Lion lifted his brows, knowing she spoke of the Jawarat. “And why do you believe it is yours? Because it speaks to you, understands you in a way your friends cannot?” His lips curled wickedly as he regarded her, the end of his turban rippling. “Do I not understand you as well? Am I yours, azizi?”
Yes, she thought. He was hers. Her companion, her succor, her prey.
He was hers to end. Hers to kill.
She knew by the flash of his gaze, amber and beautiful, that he saw the murder in hers. The temperature careened and sudden clouds raced to hide the sun. She steeled her spine against a quiver of fear. Did the Jawarat revel in his theatrics? Was this what it had wanted from her?
A dark head poked over the ledge of a nearby window. Another door opened a smidge. Curtains parted. Nosy people drawn like bees to honey as a swarm of black crowded around the Lion, filling the expanse of sand with ifrit and shadows.
“Tell your friends there’s no need to hide,” he called. “We are all well acquainted, are we not?”
With a lash of his hand, the wind rose, baying like dogs, bringing a chaos of sand and debris and the sounds of the city. Silver threads glinted from the Lion’s thobe as he addressed the empty road.
“Don’t be shy. Come, fight my kin. Further your deception of triumph.”
Zafira drew her bow and nocked an arrow as darkness flooded like fabric unspooled and swallowed her whole.
CHAPTER 39
The darkness stirred the shadows in his blood. The Lion’s voice echoed through it, low and seductive, and Nasir could only think of Zafira’s laugh that night. Focus. He had two beats to decide: Go to her aid or adhere to the plan?
Disgrace her was the first option, really.
He secured his gauntlet blades and crept to the side of the rooftop. Sand slid beneath his hands as he flipped over the side and gripped the edge on his way down to the second story. He paused at the sound of Zafira’s voice, sharp and unrelenting.
Laa. No distractions. He dropped onto the balcony and stepped to the door. Locked from the inside. He looked to the inconveniently small windows on either side of the balcony with a sigh. Balancing himself atop the iron railing, he stretched to work the latch on one of the windows until it fell open with a satisfying clink.
He threw a glance to the nearest rooftop, where a hashashin waited just out of sight, tensed and ready. A flash of orange reflected off her dark robes, followed by the crackle of flames.
Ifrit had come, staves ready for battle. No sooner had he made the realization than the whiz of an arrow ripped through the din. The snap of a spear. Every vessel in his body begged to go to the zumra, aid them. Oh, how he had changed.
With a slow breath, Nasir leaped into the house.
