We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

“I said, drop your rida’.”

She weighed the odds of the man killing her from behind. A dastardly move, but not one she could discount a Sarasin from doing. He had, after all, nearly killed her before Deen—

No, if she was going to die, she wanted to see who had stolen Deen from Arawiya too soon.

She turned and dropped her hood.

There were two of them. Both young. Smoky kohl framed their eyes, and Zafira dimly thought of how highly Yasmine would approve. The larger was fairer and prettier, with the sun-kissed skin of Arawiya and an amused twist to his mouth. His turban was carefully mussed around his head, stray strands of deep gold peeking out. A patch of blood stained his right shoulder, hastily wrapped cloth marking a fresh injury, and a jewel-studded jambiya sat against one muscled thigh, his sirwal an opulent hue of purple.

The other man was leaner, power rippling from the sharp cut of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. The hair dusting his forehead was as dark as the shadows weaving the island, his skin the deeper olive of the men who had ambushed her. A black-and-gray-checkered keffiyah circled his head, fringe whispering at his neck.

He wore a suit that she hadn’t seen the likes of before, surprisingly void of weapons, though that was likely the point of it: to look unsuspecting. A scar slashed the right side of his face, from his forehead to the top of his cheek—it was a surprise his right eye was still intact.

His eyes. They were a tumultuous gray like the dead ashes of a fire, adrift on a cold wind. He was the one with an arrow leveled at her heart, eyebrows lifted in surprise.

It was new, to be assessed by a man when she was a woman. She was so used to people looking at her shadowed figure that she nearly folded into herself. But she felt the ghost of Deen’s fingers at her chin, and she straightened, allowing herself a smirk as the Sarasin struggled for words.

“You’re a girl.”

CHAPTER 32

Nasir doubted his father knew the renowned Demenhune Hunter was a girl. He didn’t think Ghameq would

even care what the Hunter was.

“And you’re a murderer,” she retorted without missing a beat. Her words were shaped with the rugged lilt of Demenhur. She lifted her chin and met his gaze without a care for the arrow pointed at her.

She was tall and broad-shouldered, both features that would have helped her facade of masculinity. She carried two satchels, her sirwal tucked into supple boots, leather sheaths hoisted on either leg. Her loose qamis was cinched with a sash of black, obscured by her cloak when she dropped her fist.

He had met Demenhune before, but none like her. Everything about her was harsh, from her cheekbones and the cut of her lips to the point of her nose and the starkness of the dark hair crowned in a hurried plait around her head. A profile of angles, a study of ice. Even her gaze was hard to hold, pale blue shards, cold and unfeeling, fringed with lashes that feathered her pale cheeks.

She slid her gaze to Altair and then back to him, raising her slender eyebrows. “Go on.”

Even her voice was ice. He lowered the bow, and her eyebrows flew even higher.

“Don’t stop now,” she said. “You were aiming for me earlier, weren’t you? Take your shot, jaban. I won’t flinch.”

Nasir’s grip tightened at the word “coward.”

“He changed his mind,” Altair announced, striding up to her. Nasir pursed his lips as Altair plastered on the smile that usually melted the women he acquainted. “Altair al-Badawi.”

Silence. She slid her gaze to Altair again. It was a careful slide, a cold, deliberate shift. Anger pulsed her jaw, sorrow weighted her features.

“Does that work?” she asked flatly. The wind howled, throwing stray strands of hair across her face.

“Hmm?”

“Stepping too close and pulling that harebrained smile. Does it work?”

Nasir bit down a snort.

But Altair recovered as quickly as always. “Sometimes. But you’re one of a kind, aren’t you, Huntress?”

She stiffened at the word and stepped back toward the blackened corpse of the ifrit. Nasir wasn’t sure an arrow to the chest would kill an ifrit, but he wasn’t about to warn her that the creature might still be alive.

Her. The Hunter was a girl.

“Do you want us to bump noses and be the best of friends now? After you killed”—she choked off, unsure how to label the relationship between her and the man who had stared after her with wanting she clearly hadn’t reciprocated—“my best friend?”