The gamblers roared with rage as they shot to their feet, everything around them falling to shambles.
And their precious game destroyed beyond repair.
All eyes turned on Khalid.
“Holy Hera,” Shahrzad moaned.
With grim resignation, he reached for his shamshir.
“No, you idiot!” Shahrzad gasped. “Run!” She grabbed his hand and spun in the opposite direction, the blood pummeling through her body.
“Get out of the way!” she cried as they dodged past a vendor’s cart, her sandaled feet flying above the dirt. The sound of their pursuers only spurred her faster, especially with Khalid’s broader strides propelling them along the narrow thoroughfare of the souk.
When he yanked her down a small side alleyway, she pulled him back.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” she demanded.
“For once in your life, stop talking and listen.”
“How dare—”
He wrapped his right arm around her and pressed their bodies together in between a shadowed alcove. Then he shoved his index finger onto her lips.
Shahrzad listened as their pursuers ran past the alleyway, still shouting and carrying on in a drunken haze. When the sounds faded away, he removed his finger from her lips.
But it was too late.
Because Shahrzad could feel his heart beating faster.
Just like hers.
“You were saying?” He was so close, his words were more breath than sound.
“How—how dare you say that to me?” she whispered.
His eyes glittered with something akin to amusement.
“How dare I imply you caused this mess?”
“Me? This is not my fault! This is your fault!”
“Mine?”
“You and your temper, Khalid!”
“No. You and your mouth, Shazi.”
“Wrong, you wretched lout!”
“See? That mouth.” He reached up and grazed his thumb across her lips. “That—magnificent mouth.”
Her traitor heart thudded against his, and when she peered up at him through her eyelashes, his hand at the small of her back pulled her impossibly closer.
Don’t kiss me, Khalid. Please . . . don’t.
“They’re here! I’ve found them!”
Khalid grasped her hand in his, and they took off down the alleyway once again.
“We can’t keep running,” he said over his shoulder. “We might have to stand and fight, eventually.”
“I know,” she huffed back.
I need a weapon. I need a bow.
She began scanning everyone in sight for a quiver or a possible bow left strewn against the side of a building, but all she saw was the occasional shimmer of a sword. In the distance, she noticed a burly man with a huge, straightbacked bow across his body, but she knew there was little chance of getting it from him quickly. And it was even less likely that she could draw an arrow on such a large bow.
It seemed a futile exercise.
Until she finally saw a young boy playing with his friends in a back alley.
With a makeshift bow and a quiver of exactly three arrows lashed to his shoulder.
Shahrzad tugged on Khalid’s arm, yanking him farther into the alleyway. She crouched before the boy, lifting the hood of her cloak.
“Can you give me your bow and arrows?” she asked breathlessly.
“What?” he replied in surprise.
“Here.” Shahrzad offered him the five gold dinars in her cloak. A veritable fortune in the eyes of the boy.
“Are you crazy, lady?” the boy said, his mouth agape.
“Will you give them to me?” Shahrzad pleaded.
He passed the weapons to her without a word. She placed the money in his dirty hands and threw the quiver over her shoulder.
Khalid observed this exchange, his eyes tight and his mouth drawn.
“Do you know them, miss?” The boy glanced behind Shahrzad.
Khalid whirled around, unsheathing his shamshir in a single metallic rasp and knocking the black rida’ from his brow.
“Get out of here,” Shahrzad said to the boy and his friends.
The boy nodded and took off, his friends scampering alongside him.
Somehow, the group of men Shahrzad and Khalid had managed to offend numbered seven. Of this seven, three showed signs of obvious injury, while the other four appeared at a loss of pride more than anything else. Not counting money, of course.
And money counted for a lot.
At the sight of Khalid with his sword at the ready, several of them withdrew their own piecemeal weapons.
Without a word, Khalid advanced.
“Gentlemen!” Shahrzad cut him off. “This seems a bit—premature. I believe this whole situation can be attributed to a misunderstanding. Please accept my sincere apologies for our part in the matter. In truth, this is between myself and the . . . gentleman with the questionable manners from earlier.”
“My questionable manners? Why, you shrewish bitch!” The young man stepped forward.
“That’s enough!” Khalid raised his shamshir into the moonlight, its silver edge glistening with menace.
Poised to kill.
“Stop!” Shahrzad’s tone verged on desperation.
“I said, that’s enough, Shazi. I’ve heard enough,” Khalid said with deadly inflection.
“Yes. Let him do as he pleases, Shazi. Seven to one? I like our odds,” the imbecile continued.
You have no idea what you’re saying. The second-best swordsman in Rey will cut you down, one by one. Without hesitation.