her own blades crossed over his chest to shield him. Lorenzo slumped against her, silent and still.
“Enzo!” Qhora flew down the stairs, her eyes darting from the man falling to the floor to the other man running out the door into the road. The bloodlust in her head and hands screamed at her to run down the assassin and butcher him in the street and bathe her hands in his blood and tear the last screams from his throat. But the icy panic and terror in her heart turned her feet the other way, toward Lorenzo, to his still body now lying in a very small puddle of blood on the carpet. A thin line of smoke rose from the black wound on his chest where his white shirt had been shredded and scorched.
Mirari stepped back from the body, her gloved hands shaking, her clean blades shaking in her hands, her masked face turning slowly from side to side, and an unintelligible whisper on her hidden lips.
Qhora staggered to her husband’s side and fell to her knees, her knives clattering to the floor. She stared at him, unable to breathe, unable to speak, unable to think. A blazing knot of bile rose into her throat as her eyes burned and her hands shook.
“I’ll get him, my lady!” Mirari dashed out the hotel doors into the street.
Qhora didn’t notice her go. She didn’t notice the two dozen people standing around the room, and the upper landing, and the back hallway all staring at her.
She stared at Lorenzo, his pale face even paler than before, his eyes dull, his mouth gaping.
And then she came back to life. She fell forward, wrapped her arms around him, and cradled him to her chest, lifting him as high as she could with her slender arms.
She rocked him back and forth as she whispered, “No, no, no. Enzo? Enzo? Please, no, Enzo? Come on, come back to me. Enzo? Can you hear me?” She sniffled and gasped as she choked out the words to him.
She stroked his face, pushing his black hair away from his dim eyes. Her throat constricted, leaving her barely able to croak, “Enzo? Honey? Baby? Enzo? No, don’t do this, please don’t do this. You can’t go, not now! Not now! Help. I need help.”
Qhora swallowed and found her voice again as she looked up at the people standing over her in shocked silence. “Help me! Please, someone help me! Help me! I need help! Please, HELP ME! I NEED HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME! ”
The people closest to her whispered to each other and backed away. The concierge behind the desk began babbling and gesturing frantically. Several people hurried out the front door.
Qhora closed her eyes and doubled over, squeezing her arms around her husband as tight as she could, praying to her gods and his God and any god or devil that would listen to bring him back to her. She squeezed harder, trying to press her warmth into him, but he already felt horribly cool against her skin.
She shook. She couldn’t stop shaking. Her arms and back and head were all shaking, her jaw was chattering, and tears were pouring down her face. She felt like a ghost torn from her own body, staring at a stranger shaking out of control. The world was broken and she was broken and all she could do was sob and scream.
“ SOMEBODY HELP ME! ”
Chapter 2. Shifrah
As always, the key refused to go into the lock the first two times, at least no more than halfway, but on the third try it went in and turned and the door opened, and Shifrah shoved inside and dropped the basket of groceries on the table. She massaged the sore spot on her arm where the basket had dug into her flesh and she glared as she kicked the door shut.
Stupid Mazigh locks.
There was nothing very perishable in the basket, so she didn’t bother moving it any nearer to the icebox. Instead she kicked off her boots, dropped her dusty white jacket onto the table, and sank onto one of the hard wooden chairs facing the door so she could give Kenan a good, dirty look when he got home. It was the best way to start a fight. He would be caught off guard, as always, and he would say something stupid, as always, and then he’d take her to her favorite cafe and then bring her home so she could wring a little happiness from his body.
It was a good plan. Her Saturday night usual.
“Shifrah Dumah with a basket of fruit?” A male voice chuckled.
Shifrah snatched one of the stilettos from her jacket and whirled to face the man in the shadows. He was sitting in the far corner of the flat, half-hidden by a curtain that was flapping in the evening breeze coming in through the open window. He leaned forward a bit more to let the fading light fall on his face.
“Aker?” Shifrah lowered her knife, but didn’t put it away. “What the hell are you doing in Marrakesh? And how the hell did you find me?”
“I’m here working, and I found you by looking.” He leaned back into the shadows and grunted as he stood up. He stepped forward clutching his arm. “I could use a little help.”
She glanced over him, but saw only the short sword on his hip, which meant nothing. He probably had a dozen weapons on him somewhere. Then again, Aker had always been more confident than prepared. She waved him forward to look at the wound. It was a clean and narrow cut, and not too deep, but deep enough to bleed all over her floor. “My friend will be home soon,” she said. “He shouldn’t see you here.”
“Ah. The jealous type?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Someone I know?”
“No. He’s local. Ex-military, but he’s a contractor now. Mostly bounty-hunting.” She shoved him down into a chair and went looking for her needle and thread. They weren’t tools that saw much use, so it took some rummaging through several drawers and bags to find them. When she came back, Aker had his shirt off. Ragged white scars lined his arms.
Funny. I remember him being a little rounder. Someone’s been training.
Shifrah picked up a small bottle by the sink, opened it, and splashed it casually on his wound.
“Good God!” He bit his lip and grabbed his arm. “What is that?”
“Just vodka. Take a sip. It’ll help.”
He took a drink. “Gods, that’s awful. Ugh. So. When did you lose the eye?”
She pulled a second chair over and began stitching his flesh back together. “A couple years ago in Arafez. But what about you? I didn’t know you were working this far west.”
“I go where the information takes me. There’s sun-steel here. Lots of it.”
“Sun-steel?” She frowned. “Yes, I suppose there is a little. The Mazighs and Espani finally discovered it for themselves two years ago. They call it aetherium. I suppose you came about the huge lump of it that fell into the Strait?”
“Absolutely. The Mazighs have a plan to find it and bring it back up. And I will be there to collect it the moment it comes ashore.”
“If you’re just waiting around for that salvage, then why am I stitching up your arm? Shouldn’t you be lying low?”
He grinned. “Well, you know me. I never could just sit around. Ever since I received my seireiken,” he patted his sword, “I’ve been looking for opportunities to make it stronger.”
Shifrah eyed the sheathed sword. She’d seen them back home from time to time, though they were very rare. And she’d even seen one drawn and used once. “What do you mean, stronger?”
Aker smiled and narrowed his eyes. “When this sword takes a life, the blade burns hotter and deadlier, and I grow stronger as well.”
More of his occult nonsense. Shifrah sighed. “Fine, don’t tell me. As long as you don’t bring any trouble into my house, I don’t care.”
“Nothing to worry about. It wasn’t even a Mazigh. Just an Espani fencer. He was very good, but his espada was no match for my seireiken.”
“You silly boys and your silly toys. You never change.” She finished the last two stitches and tied the end in a tight knot. “There. You’re done. Take it easy and you’ll be fine in a couple weeks.”
He gave her handiwork a brief glance before pulling his shirt back on. “It wasn’t all for fun, you know. This was a two-for-one deal. This fencer had a bit of sun-steel on him as well.” Aker held up a round medallion with the
