“Is there something you wish to discuss with me?” Tariq asked.
“Yes.” Jahandar swallowed. “Yes, there is.” He straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands still. “Are—are you willing to do whatever it takes to save my daughter?”
Tariq’s gaze widened. He took a step forward. “You know I am.”
Jahandar’s eyes shone in the surrounding torchlight.
“Then let me help you.”
SOMEONE WHO KNOWS
IT WAS THE MUTED GROAN OF THE DOOR THAT WOKE her. Shahrzad could recognize it, even in her sleep.
But this time, something was different.
Something was in her room. Something brash and unafraid.
Eyes watched her. Unwanted eyes. Tiny pinpricks ran down the back of her neck, and the blood coursed through her body, ignited by fear.
The hush of footfall nearby forced her to make a sudden decision.
Shahrzad opened her eyes and screamed, filling the darkness with sound and shock. Footsteps rushed at her, and she scrambled across the cushions in an effort to escape. She yanked the gossamer aside, cursing its pointless existence.
Her heart clamored in her chest at the sight of Despina’s door cracking open across the chamber. “Shahrzad?”
Hulking shadows began to move about her room—shadows cloaked in more than night.
Oh, God. Despina!
Shahrzad grabbed the stool next to her bed and screamed again, trying to draw them away from her handmaiden. If Despina could make it past the door of the chamber . . .
When a hand reached for Shahrzad, she swung the stool in its direction.
“Shahrzad!” Despina cried.
“Go!” Shahrzad yelled.
Despina rushed for the double doors as two shadows converged on her. She managed to yank one open and race into the marbled hallways of the palace. A single, terror-fueled word echoed in her wake:
“Jalal!”
The shadows descended on Shahrzad, and one seized her from behind. When it pulled her closer, a pair of angry male eyes glittered at her from above a black mask. She pitched the stool at his head. He caught it with a whispered oath and struck her across the cheek with the back of his hand.
Shahrzad reeled to the marble, her eyes tearing at the burgeoning sting. When another shadow tried to haul her to her feet, she reached out and snatched the cloth off his face. He lifted her by the throat and shoved her against the wall.
“Who are you? What do you want?” She kicked and scratched at him.
More footsteps pounded down the corridors outside her room.
Both doors were shoved aside in doleful protest, revealing a lone figure and the silhouette of a sword.
Khalid.
Her captor began to laugh, low and cruel, as he cinched his hold on her neck.
Khalid did not ask questions. He did not try to negotiate. His shamshir flashed in the darkness, and a shadow near the door fell with a gurgle and a series of sickening thuds. A moment later, Jalal burst across the threshold with the Rajput on his heels.
“Take Khalid out of here!” Jalal shouted to the Rajput.
With a dismissive shove, the Rajput pushed past Jalal and raised his talwar.
Khalid brandished his sword and moved forward. The shadows congregated in his path. There were at least eight of them, including the one pinning her to the wall.
The sound of blades being drawn from their sheaths rippled through the chamber, and the man grasping Shahrzad by the throat pulled her back against him, wrapping a forearm of corded muscle around her neck.
The Rajput engaged the vanguard of shadows, and Khalid and Jalal flanked him on either side. Weapons clashed against one another, metal to metal, and death sliced through the air, leaving behind blood and vengeful wrath.
The shadows were losing.
Shahrzad’s captor began dragging her to the open screens leading to the terrace. His hold loosened, and she managed to twist an arm free. She swung a haphazard fist at his face. It caught him in the jaw, and she spun around to bolt. He lunged at her, snagging a shoulder in one hand and the back of her neck in the other.
“I’ll kill you for that,” he spat in her ear.
“Says a dead man,” she rasped.
“Not just yet.” He slid his hand from her neck into her hair and coiled his fingers through to the roots, positioning her as a shield before him. Shahrzad bit back a gasp as her eyes began to water.
“Khalid Ibn al-Rashid!” he bellowed.
When her vision cleared, Jalal and the Rajput stood a body’s length away, with their weapons at the ready.
Khalid slashed his sword a final time, and the blood of his opponent spewed across his bare chest and face in lines of dark red. Then he crossed the room, his eyes awash with rage, and the silver of his sword dripping crimson.
The marauding shadows were silent and motionless now.
As Khalid stalked closer, the hand in her hair tightened its grasp. Her captor pulled up sharply, and it tore a cry from her lips.
Jalal swore an oath, and the blade of his scimitar gleamed white on a moonbeam.
Khalid halted in his tracks.
Her captor laughed, and it was like stone against metal. With his other hand, he positioned a small dagger to her throat.
“Not a single plea?” he whispered in Shahrzad’s ear.
“I don’t beg,” Shahrzad retorted. “Especially to dead men.”
“And the mighty Caliph of Khorasan?” her captor said into the night. “Does the King of Kings have any pleas?”
Again Khalid stalked toward them in brutal silence, raising his shamshir across his body.