Page 17 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

T he day of the festival arrived—the hottest day of the year—celebrating the solstice of the summer months.

She found herself pacing the cramped length of her room. Her parents tried to convince her to attend, if only for a short while, and she’d refused outright.

But his honeyed words kept flitting through her restless mind.

Let me make this right.

Could things ever be right? Loneliness had become her only companion, its cold fingers always resting on her neck, an oppressive, inescapable weight.

Perhaps it was this loneliness that had her don her finest clothing—a flowy, white dress that reached her knees, the breeze caressing her skin through lace panels skimming her sides. Her mother had made it for her the summer prior.

Her fearful footsteps were slow, hesitant as she walked to the town square.

Still, she kept her back upright.

A giant bonfire raged in the center, surrounded by her neighbors.

Eyes and whispers followed her as she searched for her parents between the stalls. The village folk, her community that had all but exiled her, gave her a wide berth. Brows furrowed, she searched for him next.

She found neither.

Her footsteps pulled her toward the large fire, the flames undulating in a mesmerizing dance. She stared into the welcoming flames, as if they might fill the cold hollow inside her so that she might never be alone again.

The whispers around her grew louder, sentient things that tore at her heart.

“Saahira,” they called her, voices twisted with hate.

A crowd had gathered behind her. How long had the raging bonfire held her in its thrall? He was at the forefront, deceiving, everchanging eyes filled with disdain.

“Saahira! Saahira! Saahira!”

Her wild eyes searched for her parents, scanning the crowd, shouting their names.

But they didn’t answer.

She tried to push past the crowd, but they caged her in, tightening around her like a noose, shepherding her closer to the fire.

She didn’t know who threw the first stone. Only that it struck true.

It bounced off her shoulder—and didn’t even hurt—except for the searing pain in her heart.

A second stone followed, one that did hurt. They rained down on her in a shower of hate and fear and ignorance, until she fell to the ground, bleeding from more places than she could count.

Despair clawed at her heart, her lungs, until she couldn’t breathe. Until she couldn’t think. Their cries grew louder, and she knew the volley of stones only halted while they searched for more.

They would see her dead, this night.

Her despair slowly morphed into a fearsome rage, burning through her veins, filling her heart with fury.

The wild bonfire suddenly went out, not even a glowing ember left burning. The townsfolk went silent, wide eyes panicked in the dark.

“Saahira,” they breathed, this time with fear.

Flames exploded from her, lighting up the sky.

They rode for hours.

As soon as the city walls disappeared from view, Zarian changed directions, swiftly guiding Najoom east toward the coast. Thirty minutes later, he changed directions again.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her lips close to his ear.

“Janta.” His eyes were constantly scanning every horizon, but the desert remained seamless, undisturbed by any movement save Najoom’s thudding hooves. “I have a safehouse there. Then, Sendouk.”

“How long will it take?” Shivering in the cool, desert night, she pressed closer against him, greedy for the heat he radiated like a furnace.

“A little over three days to Janta.” He glanced back. “Are you thirsty?”

She hummed, not having noticed the dryness in her throat until he’d asked. Zarian transferred the reins into one large hand, then dug out a canteen from his pack. Layna grabbed it, tipping her head back and taking a deep swig. She handed it back, watching as he replaced it in his pack.

“You don’t want any?”

“I’m all right. We’ll need it tomorrow in the heat.”

“Are you—” Zarian pressed a lingering kiss to her palm.

“I’m sure.”

The night wore on, and Zarian slowed Najoom to a canter to allow the horse some respite.

Her eyelids grew heavy as sleep found her.

She was bound beneath a bloodred sky, the moon concealing the sun, watching in horror as a dagger plunged into Zarian’s neck. Sorrow and grief tore at her heart, piercing it with sharp claws of despair.

Angry, bright light barreled down, blinding her. Her eyes fell on Zarian’s lifeless body, and something inside her cracked.

The wind carried sounds of war to her ears, of violence approaching her city. She took a running start, closed her eyes, and jumped—

Her stomach lurched as she fell, body plummeting toward the ground. Time seemed to slow, the sands rising to meet her, powerful, black legs thundering, threatening to trample her.

She held her breath, clenching her eyes shut, braced for pain.

But a bruising grip on her arm stopped her fall. Najoom whinnied angrily, stumbling as Layna slammed into his side, Zarian’s tight hold the only thing keeping her from meeting the ground.

“Whoa! Easy, Naj! Easy!” Zarian called, struggling to slow Najoom to a stop with one hand. Layna clawed at his cloak, hands finally finding purchase as she dangled from the horse’s side.

The large, black stallion stopped, furiously pawing the ground, kicking up clouds of sand. Zarian gently lowered her to the ground, then quickly dismounted.

“Are you all right?” he asked, worry etched on his face. He ran his hands over her hair, down across her neck, before spinning her around and checking her back for injuries.

“I’m fine,” Layna rasped, her breath escaping in pants. “I must have dozed off.” Her mind raced, trying to hold onto the fragments of her dream. It had felt so vivid, so real, but now it drifted out of reach.

Zarian traced his thumb across her cheek, worried hazel eyes scanning her face. “Ride in front.” He stepped back, and Layna stroked a hand over Najoom’s mane in apology, but the temperamental stallion snorted and moved away.

“He hates me,” Layna sighed as Zarian hoisted her onto the saddle, then swiftly climbed up behind her.

Zarian only chuckled, a deep rumbling in his chest that vibrated against her back. He kissed the top of her head and urged Najoom onward. Layna leaned back into his chest, letting the rhythmic motions lull her to sleep once more.

“Layna,” he whispered.

No response. Najoom ambled along, his pace slow and relaxed.

“Layna,” he tried again, but she only groaned and tried to burrow further into his neck.

Sweat dripped down his back. The leather of his baldric was meant for covert activities under the light of the moon. Now, in the blistering sun, it was suffocating, but he didn’t dare remove it.

“Layna,” he called, louder this time.

Her body tensed against him, and he knew she was awake. He had draped his cloak over her face so she’d sleep longer even with daylight beating down on them.

She slowly tugged off the cloak and immediately squinted against the glaring sun. With a groan, she buried her face into his neck again. He chuckled, gently stroking her back. Like him, she was sweating, her damp tunic sticking to her skin.

“We’re near an outpost. You’ll have to put the niqab back on,” he said, voice laced with apology. She pulled back, and he watched, mesmerized, as her chocolate brown eyes slowly adjusted to the bright light.

She tied the gauzy, black fabric behind her head, concealing her face once more. “Where are we?” she asked, her voice rough with sleep.

“Near the village of Samdan.” It was a small Alzahran village, well-known for its textiles. As Najoom trotted forward, a small grassy oasis came into view, home to a ramshackle wooden structure.

Bolts of fabric hung from beams nailed to the front of the structure, bright splotches of red and cerulean and gold against the sandy sea. He brought Najoom to a stop at the edge of the oasis.

He dismounted and firmly patted Najoom’s side, bidding him to behave. Wrapping his cloak around himself, he drew his scarf up over the lower half of his face.

With one final glance at Layna, he approached the worn structure. The front was open, a long counter stretching across. Behind it was a middle-aged man, perhaps his father’s age.

Guilt raked its sharp nails over his conscience, but Zarian brushed it aside. His father had made his choices.

And now, so had he.

The merchant’s skin was deeply tanned, and he wore a long, flowing thobe, a hallmark of Samdan craftsmanship. He smiled wide, revealing more gaps than teeth.

“Morning, sahib !” he greeted. “What can I offer you? Water? Food? Maybe some silks? I just received a new shipment, the finest in all the continent!” Though the man addressed him, his beady eyes were fixed over Zarian’s shoulder.

Zarian stepped to the side, blocking his view, and the man met his steely gaze. “Half a kilo each of dried mirsham fruit, nuts, and dates. Mirsham juice if you have it.” He paused, raking a hand through his hair. “And do you have any pastries?”

“Of course, sahib ! Fresh basbousa and qatayef . My daughter made them just this morning. Right away, sahib .” The man turned and rummaged under the counter, pulling out several small sacks.

He busied himself gathering the items Zarian had requested.

“What about fresh mirsham fruit?” he called over his shoulder as he scooped dates into a sack.

Zarian eyed the overripe fruit in a bowl on the counter.

It had seen better days. “No, thank you.” He cast a quick glance back.

Najoom seemed to be behaving. When he turned, the man was once again staring at Layna.

Though she was covered from head to toe, the merchant’s vile, hungry gaze trailed over her form, as if trying to undress her with his eyes.

His fingers flexed as hot anger simmered in his belly. He contemplated bashing the man’s head into the counter.

No . No, they couldn’t draw attention to themselves.

Zarian rapped his knuckles loudly on the counter, and the man jerked, tearing his attention away from Layna. He dropped his eyes to the counter, packing the pastries in another sack.

“Have you had any trouble with bandits?” Zarian asked gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No, sahib .” The man shook his head. “Ever since the Moon Queen slayed the Zephyrian soldiers, the bandits have been quiet. They avoid the open desert.” He turned to Zarian, voice rife with fearful awe.

“My brother-in-law witnessed it with his own eyes! The Moon Queen turned into a giant sand snake, hundreds of leagues long, and swallowed the entire army whole!”

Zarian raised a brow.

The man busied himself again with the food, tying strings to secure the sacks. Slowly, his eyes lifted, falling on Layna again.

Like lightning, Zarian reached out and clamped his hand around the man’s face, yanking him clear across the counter. “Look at her again,” he growled, “And I will cut your eyes from your skull and feed them to my horse.” He roughly shoved the man back.

The man stumbled, nearly crashing into crates stacked on the ground. “My apologies, sahib !” he stammered.

The merchant kept his gaze lowered, not daring to look up again as he passed over the sacks. Coins clattered against the wooden counter as Zarian tossed them down.

He stalked back to Najoom.

“Everything all right?” Layna asked. He couldn’t see her eyebrows but knew they were knit together.

“Yes.”

Zarian stuffed the burlap sacks into his pack and mounted Najoom, spurring him into a canter. He glanced back at the outpost—the man was staring again.

He resisted the urge to fling a throwing star into his eye.

He pushed Najoom hard, keeping a breakneck pace until they reached a cluster of massive boulders.

There, they finally dismounted. Layna sank into the shade, her back resting against the stone, watching as he tended to the horse.

He tilted a canteen to Najoom’s mouth. The horse drained it in greedy gulps, and he let him finish all of it, frowning at the spilled drops soaking the sand.

They had one partial canteen and some mirsham juice left between the three of them. It would be tight, but if he limited his intake to the bare minimum, they’d make it to Janta. With a sigh, he set some food out for Najoom and sat beside Layna who was munching on the qatayef .

Her bright smile when she’d opened the sack had almost melted his fury at the merchant.

Almost.

She handed him a piece of basbousa , and he took a bite. It was stale, at least two days old. Fucking lying merchant.

Layna didn’t seem to mind, though. She offered him the canteen, and he allowed himself one shallow sip.

“What happened with the merchant?” she asked, reaching into the sack of dates. His lips pressed into a hard line. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

He heaved a sigh. “I didn’t like how he was looking at you.”

The corner of her mouth twitched.

“We shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves.”

“We shouldn’t,” Zarian agreed. “If I were a better man, maybe I could control my temper. But I can’t. Especially not when it comes to you.” Her gaze softened, and she covered his hand with her own.

There was so much he wanted to say to her, apologies desperate to be voiced after their fight.

Moons, she had to flee her home in the night because of him.

Later .

There would be time later. Right now, he needed to get her to safety.

Mounting Najoom, they rode off into the desert.