The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,219

He inhaled, catching the smoky scent of blood as he struggled to free himself.

His blood. Creator, no. Dara closed his eyes, reaching out, but there was nothing.

He’d lost his hold on the conjured blood beasts. Suleiman’s eye, there’d been half a dozen. Karkadann and zahhak and rukh. They were mindless, destructive things when they escaped his control, a lesson he’d learned early in his training with the ifrit. And now they were wild at the side of his warriors and Manizheh.

Swearing under his breath, Dara tried to wrench free but only succeeded in shaking the debris nearest him and making his body ache worse.

Embrace what you are, you fool. The brief moments he’d spent in his other form had been an instant balm. Dara needed that power.

The fire sparked in his blood, flushing through his skin. His senses sharpened, claws and fangs sprouting. He touched the crumbling bricks above his head, and they exploded into dust.

He climbed out far more slowly than he liked, his body stiff and the pain still present. It was a frightening reminder: Dara was strong but not invincible. He finally hauled himself out of the ruin, coughing on dust and trying to catch his breath.

An arrow tore through his arm. Dara yelped in surprise, hissing as his hand flew to the wound.

The arrow jutting out of it was one of his own.

A second one flitted past his face, and Dara jerked back just before it went through his eye. He flung himself behind a ruined piece of masonry, peering through the rubble.

Muntadhir al Qahtani was shooting at him with his own bow.

Dara spat in outrage. How dare that lecherous, dishonorable wretch—

An arrow flew at his hiding spot.

Dara ducked, cursing out loud. Had he not struck Muntadhir with the zulfiqar? And since when did some sand fly know how to handle a Daeva bow that way?

Gritting his teeth, Dara broke the fletch off the arrow in his arm and then yanked it out, biting back a grunt of pain. His fiery skin closed over the wound, leaving a black scar like a line of charcoal. That it healed was a small relief, but Dara tipped his arrows in iron, and he’d just had a very necessary reminder of the limits of his body. He didn’t want to learn what would happen if Muntadhir managed to catch him somewhere more vulnerable than his arm.

Why don’t you try shooting in the dark, djinn? Dara pressed his hands to the pile of debris, urging the wood to burst into flame. It burned dark, the oily paints and ancient masonry sending up a choking wall of thick, black smoke that Dara directed toward the emir.

He waited until he heard coughing and then shot to his feet, staying low as he charged. Muntadhir sent another arrow spinning in his direction, but Dara ducked and was wrenching the bow from the other man’s hands before he could shoot a second. He used it to backhand the emir across the face, sending him to the floor.

Dara was on him the next second. He banished the smoke. The front of Muntadhir’s dishdasha was ripped open and his stomach bloodied, the dark green lines and cracking ash around the wound grisly confirmation that Dara had indeed struck him with the zulfiqar.

Nahri and Alizayd were nowhere to be seen. “Where are they?” Dara demanded. “Your brother and the Banu Nahida?”

Muntadhir spat in his face. “Fuck you, Scourge.”

Dara put a knee against Muntadhir’s wound, and the emir gasped. “WHERE ARE THEY?”

Tears were rolling down the other man’s face, but Dara had to give him his due—he held his tongue even as his eyes blazed in pain.

Dara thought fast. Nahri and Alizayd were clever. Where would they go?

“Suleiman’s seal,” he whispered. Dara immediately drew away his knee, remembering his mission. “Is that where they went? Where is it?”

“In hell,” Muntadhir choked out. “Why don’t you go look for it? You must be a frequent visitor.”

It took all of Dara’s self-control not to throttle the other man. He needed Muntadhir’s help. And Qahtani or not, Muntadhir had stayed behind with a painful, fatal wound so his little brother and wife could escape.

He leaned closer to Muntadhir. “Your people have lost; I will be catching up with your brother either way. Tell me how to retrieve Suleiman’s seal and Alizayd dies quickly. Painlessly. On my honor.”

Muntadhir laughed. “You have no honor. You brought an ifrit into our city. There are Geziri children who should be lighting fireworks now lying dead