Thirty-Two

 

The guards took an eternity to carry all the cushions out of the tent, or so it seemed, before they set up a bedroll big enough for a bridal couple.

Two men rolled the former sheikh in the blood-soaked carpet beneath him, then lifted the grisly bundle between them.

"Wait!" A third man made them set their burden down and open it.

By all that was holy, why? Philemon wanted to scream.

The third man pulled the knife from the sheikh's breast, wiped the bloodied blade on his own robes, then held it out to Philemon. "Your blade, Honoured Sheikh."

It was a pledge of fealty, however informal, and Philemon had accepted enough in his time as Prince of Tasnim to know not to refuse. Gingerly, he took the knife and nodded.

It was a small blade to have taken the life of such a large man. Small and delicately curved, yet the blade was wickedly sharp. The hilt was worn from use, any sharp edges softened by the grip of how many hands? A dagger passed down through generations of desert people, until being buried in the guts of some insignificant sheikh. A dagger whose owner would surely return for such a valuable weapon.

Philemon looked up. The men were gone, leaving him alone with Anahita. He dropped the dagger where the bloodied carpet had once lay. It sliced into the sand and stood, hilt deep, as though it would murder the whole desert next.

Philemon shivered. He had to do something before the dagger's owner returned and tried to use it on Anahita, too.

"You're a fool, Philemon the frog," Anahita said, rising to her feet. "You should have stayed out of this."

Philemon seized her shoulders. "How could I? The whole camp could talk of nothing but how they would kill you and your husband on your wedding night. He could have killed you! And he'll be back, once he realises he left his knife behind. What in heaven's name made you blame his death on me? The real killer is out there, and it's only a matter of time before he claims leadership over this squalid camp for killing the last leader. What do you think he'll do to me for trying to claim his kill? Or you?"

Anahita tossed her head and met his eyes. "What else was I to do? They should have taken you into custody, and the moment you left this excuse for a boudoir – " she kicked one of the cushions that the men had missed " – the moment you left, you'd turn back into a frog, and escape. In the chaos that ensued, my men and I would be able to escape unseen. By the time they remembered us, we would be well on our way!" Her eyes narrowed. "Now, take your hands off me, or I will turn you into a eunuch like Haidar and Asad."

The shiver of steel touched his groin.

"Do your bits grow back when you turn back into a frog?" she asked.

Philemon released her, stumbling back. His eyes went to the knife, but it had vanished from the sand, as if it had never been.

She twisted the silky belt slung across her hips, and sheathed the knife. Another twist and the belt was back in place, an innocuous-seeming string of bells that hid a deadly secret.

"You killed him," Philemon whispered, not wanting to believe it. "What did he ever do to you?"

Anahita shrugged, a smile twisting her lips. "Nothing. I saw to that. That disgusting old man will never steal another woman from her husband again, or attack my father's people. On the morrow, or the next day, my men will find an excuse to slip away with me, and we will return home. I am a woman of my word – you may come home with us. But no one can ever know what I did here tonight. Or I will use one of my blades on you."

Philemon choked. "One of your blades? You have more?" He stared at her. She wore little more than the belt, and smaller versions of it at her wrists and ankles. Why, she was practically naked! Philemon averted his eyes. "How many more?" he asked, trying not the think of her smooth, curved flesh.

"Seven," she said. "Seven more."

He stared at her in horror. Her face, not the rest of her. "Seven?" His mouth was suddenly dry. For all he'd travelled with her, he barely knew this barbarian princess. He should have listened to her. Should have stayed in the waterskin, just like she'd said. Then he wouldn't know any of this, and he'd be blissfully ignorant that the woman he'd fallen in love with was some sort of demon. "Of course. Forgive me for worrying about your safety. You can take care of yourself, I see now." He turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

"Please don't go."

His foot hovered above the sand – sand that should be saturated with her bridegroom's blood – but Philemon hesitated to put it down on what was, to him, another man's grave. A man he had wished gone only hours before.

"I'm only doing what you asked me to. Returning to where I belong, to wait until we leave."

"Wait until morning. Please. It's my wedding night. I should not be alone." There was an edge of desperation in her voice – or did he imagine it?

"Then perhaps you should not have killed your husband. He could have warmed your bed. I...cannot." Because, heaven help him, he wanted her. Never mind the knives or that she'd killed a man or pinned the crime on him. If he shared her bed tonight, he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off her.

She lifted her chin. "I had no choice. Do you think I like killing? My first husband deserved his fate, a dozen times over, but I had no grudge against this one until today. But I swore an oath, and my father heard me do it. So he sends me to be his assassin, in the name of peace. He keeps his hands clean, yet mine are awash in blood. As always, on my wedding night. Such is my fate."

"It is not the fate you deserve. If you were my bride, your wedding night would be glorious, as it should be. I swear it."

She stared at him – it was her turn to be shocked.

Philemon wished he hadn't said it. To admit his weakness in front of her...why, she could stab him in the heart without needing any of her seven blades.

"Normally, my men would take me away – the hysterical bride – to calm me down, and when the nightmares invade my sleep, we are too far from the camp for anyone to hear my screams. But tonight you were here, and you made me stay. Why are you here, Philemon?"

She hadn't called him a frog. He took it as encouragement, however tiny it might be. "Because I couldn't let them kill you with him. Even let you witness what they intended to do to him. You deserve better. A wedding night to remember, for the right reasons, not the wrong ones."

She laughed softly. "I remember all my wedding nights, especially the first. I've survived five husbands, and five wedding nights I would give anything to forget."

"Let me make it up to you. Tonight." The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them. And yet...now they were out, he had nothing left to lose. "Give me one night, I beg you. From now until dawn. I will finish what we started last night with that exquisite kiss. If I cannot deliver what I promise – a wedding night like you deserve, filled with the pleasure such a lovely princess deserves – then do what you will with me. Carve me up and feed me to your falcon." He spread his arms wide and closed his eyes.