The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,11

sounds of pursuing feet or angry threats. Could she have lost him?

She leaned against the cool stone, trying to catch her breath and wishing desperately for her dagger—not that her puny blade would offer much protection against the excessively armed man hunting her.

I can’t stay here. But Nahri could see nothing but tombs in front of her and had no idea how to get back to the streets. She gritted her teeth, trying to muster up some courage.

Please, God . . . or whoever is listening, she prayed. Just get me out of this, and I swear I’ll ask Yaqub for a bridegroom tomorrow. And I’ll never do another zar. She took a hesitant step.

An arrow whistled through the air.

Nahri shrieked as it sliced across her temple. She staggered forward and reached for her head, her fingers immediately sticky with blood.

The cold voice spoke. “Stop where you are or the next one goes through your throat.”

She froze, her hand still pressed against her wound. The blood was already clotting, but she didn’t want to give the creature an excuse to put another hole in her.

“Turn around.”

She swallowed back her fear and turned, keeping her hands still and her eyes on the ground. “Pl-please don’t kill me,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”

The man—or whatever he was—sucked in his breath, a noise like an extinguished coal. “You . . . you’re human,” he whispered. “How do you know Divasti? How can you even hear me?”

“I . . .” Nahri paused, startled to finally learn the name of the language she’d known since childhood. Divasti.

“Look at me.” He moved closer, the air between them growing warm with the smell of burnt citrus.

Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it in her ears. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

His face was covered like a desert traveler, but even if it had been visible, she doubted she would have seen anything but his eyes. Greener than emeralds, they were almost too bright to look into directly.

His eyes narrowed. He pushed back her headscarf, and Nahri flinched as he touched her right ear. His fingertips were so hot that even his brief press was enough to scald her skin.

“Shafit,” he said softly, but unlike his other words, the term remained incomprehensible in her mind. “Move your hand, girl. Let me see your face.”

He pushed her hand away before she could comply. By now, the blood had clotted. Exposed to the air, her wound itched; she knew the skin was stitching back together before his eyes.

He leaped back, nearly crashing into the opposite wall. “Suleiman’s eye!” He looked her up and down again, sniffing the air like a dog. “How . . . how did you do that?” he demanded. His bright eyes flashed. “Is this some sort of trick? A trap?”

“No!” She held her hands up, praying she looked innocent. “No trick, no trap, I swear!”

“Your voice . . . you are the one who called me.” He raised his sword and laid the curved blade against her neck, soft as a lover’s hand. “How? Who are you working for?”

Nahri’s stomach tied itself into a tight knot. She swallowed, resisting the urge to jerk back from the blade at her throat—no doubt such a motion would end poorly.

She thought fast. “You know . . . there was this other girl here. I bet she called you.” She pointed down the opposite lane with one finger, trying to force some confidence into her voice. “She went that way.”

“Liar!” he hissed, and the cold blade pressed closer. “Do you think I don’t recognize your voice?”

Nahri panicked. She was normally good under pressure, but she had little practice outwitting enraged fire spirits. “I’m sorry! I-I just sang a song . . . I didn’t mean to . . . ow!” she cried as he pressed the blade harder, nicking her neck.

He pulled it away and then brought it to his face, studying the smear of red blood on the blade’s metal surface. He sniffed it, pressing it close against his face covering.

“Oh, God . . .” Nahri’s stomach turned. Yaqub was right; she’d tangled with magic she didn’t understand and now was going to pay for it. “Please . . . just make it quick.” She tried to steady herself. “If you’re going to eat me—”

“Eat you?” He made a disgusted sound. “The smell of your blood alone is enough to put me off eating for a month.” He dropped the