We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

“If I knew, I’d chart a map for you,” Zafira replied.

Nasir smiled and signaled to the hashashins, the familiarity of his missions sinking into his limbs, only this time, he wasn’t following orders. He wasn’t following Zafira because he had to but because he wanted to, and that fed a different sort of power into his veins.

For Altair. He would brave the darkest of dens and the vilest of beasts if it meant hearing the fool’s laugh once more.

“Alia,” he called to one of the hashashins and signaled to the left. “Split across. The rest with me.”

Half the contingent followed Alia’s leap across the alley, dark robes fluttering as they hefted themselves up and down the rooftops rising in various heights. The others trailed Nasir.

They pressed deeper into the city, leaving behind the bustle of the Sultan’s Road and the shine of the Sultan’s Guard. When Zafira paused, Nasir did the same, following her gaze to the end of the alley, which opened to a street, where a house sat behind a stretch of sand among a line of others. It was simply built, tan stone mostly smooth, dresses hung out to dry. He knew of the woman who owned it, or rather, the safi. She employed a number of tailors in the city.

A murmur began in Nasir’s blood, a hum of darkness similar to whenever he neared magic. Not any magic, but dum sihr. Stronger than what Zafira had used moments ago. Movement caught his eye, and the hashashins froze with him.

Men were stationed on the surrounding rooftops, some idling behind screened terraces, others alert with swords against their shoulders.

A calm settled in his bones, and he knew. He would find no clothier safi inside that house.

If Altair were beside him now, he’d find a way to make light of this moment. He’d look back at Nasir and stretch a grin. How much do you want to bet those are not men, but ifrit?

I don’t gamble, Nasir would say, knowing full well Altair didn’t, either.

Oh no. Leave it to you to be the most moral man in Arawiya, brother dearest.

Nasir clenched his jaw. “Spread across.”

He leaped to a minaret and rounded it to the adjacent wall, matching Zafira’s stride until they reached the end of the alley, where a guard was stationed atop the last building. The hashashins halted, slashes of shadow awaiting a command as Nasir crouched at the rooftop’s edge.

The guard strode

from one end to the other, sandals on his feet, dark hair wavy beneath his turban, a mustache thick above his lip. Human in every way, except for the warning in Nasir’s gut.

Nasir dropped, toppling the guard to the dusty rug unfurled across the rooftop. He could tell by the feel of the guard beneath him even before he dragged his blade across his victim’s neck and black blood oozed free like tar in the sun.

Ifrit.

CHAPTER 38

Zafira hadn’t been prepared to hear the final, strangled breaths of the guards. Ifrit, Nasir had said as if in reassurance as he and his hashashins killed them. She closed her eyes as another thud echoed, another fallen soul.

“Khara,” Kifah croaked, and Zafira’s eyes flew open in time to see Nasir leap from the building’s edge, hurtling through the open air of the street. The tips of his boots touched down on a suspended rope, propelling him to the rooftop on the other end. A blade shot out from his gauntlet while he was in midair, and the guard fell before Nasir landed.

Half of his hashashins followed his lead, taking positions where the Lion’s guards previously stood.

The Lion’s guards. The Lion’s hideout.

She was here.

Here.

She closed her fist against the sting in her palm, the reminder of what she had done. Her skin still tingled from where he had held her, her heart still snagged in that moment. Dum sihr dizzied her, raced feverishly through her veins, tugging her forward. Toward this castle of a house sprawling along the crowded street across from them.

It was wide and unsuspecting, windows shaped like eight-pointed stars rimmed in darker clay. The flat roof was furnished with a screen and a silken rug draped to dry, accenting it like a towel over a man’s bare shoulder.

Like your prince’s? Yasmine asked in her head. There was an edge to her friend’s voice, cut from the death of her brother.

Zafira bit her lip, forcing her focus. Somewhere inside that house was Altair, the Jawarat, and the fifth heart, and she intended to find them, the Lion be damned.

Nasir had made his way to the rooftop of the house and watched her now. Waited for her. She ignored the flip of her stomach at his unreadable gaze. How was it that he was there, right there, and they felt leagues apart?