Page 67 of The Moon's Fury
They stopped at ahennastall next, where Layna selected a design from the artist’s book. She sat down, presenting her palms. Thehennaartist used a small cone filled with earthy, brown paste to paint the design onto her hands. The young woman snuck a glance at him, then whispered something to Layna. With the clamor of the crowd, he couldn’t make it out. Layna whispered back, and the woman nodded, continuing her work. She finished quickly, and Zarian paid her.
The crowd swelled, growing louder, wilder, and he itched to leave. His gaze never settled, constantly searching for threats, for shadows that didn’t belong.
“Let’s head out soon?” he murmured in Layna’s ear. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, and her smile rivaled the sun.
His stupid heart forgot how to beat.
“But the firebreather! We can’t leave before that.”
And so, they continued exploring the festival. He purchased freshqatayefand fed it to her while herhennadried, then she had another glass of wine. When the anxiety in his mind threatened to overwhelm him, another gong finally rang out.
A man, clad in black leather pants and a dark, sleeveless vest, strode to the center of the circle. His skin was slick, coated in some type of oil. The crowd held a collective breath as fast-paced drums began to play—the man danced in time with them, his movements sharp and quick. The music sped up, and so did he. He danced as if he were fighting an unseen opponent, jabs and flying kicks that had the crowd clapping and whooping.
The dancer pulled a flask from his belt, tipped it back, and exhaled—a plume of fire roared into the night. Layna gasped beside him, the sound swallowed by the crowd’s thunderous cheers.
He barely spared the firebreather another glance. Instead, his attention lingered on her—the gleam in her eyes, locked onto the performer’s every movement, lips parted in awe. Whatever trick the man performed next must have been truly extraordinary, because her eyes went impossibly wide, and her mouth fell open in pure wonder.
She turned to him, breathless. “Did you see that?”
Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze back to the firebreather in time to see flames dancing along the length of the man’s arms. The slick oil coating his skin must both feed the fire and protect him from its heat.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the performance was over. Clasping Layna’s hand, they escaped the bustling crowd.
His breathing eased as they headed back to the inn, though not by much. The streets were deserted, most of the city still at the festival. Still, he remained alert, every step tense with caution.
He quickened his pace, hoping trouble wouldn’t find them.
They were about halfway to the inn when it did.
30
Ayounggirldartedoutof the alley, no more than seven or eight. She was thin, cheekbones protruding, chin-length black hair matted and stringy. Her clothes were tattered and worn, and a fresh bruise marred her cheek.
But it was her eyes that pierced his heart.
Frightened, angry eyes, so much like the boy from years ago.
Eyes thieved of their innocence far too soon.
The girl glanced between them, hesitating.
She made a decision.
“Sahiba!Sahiba, come quick! They are hurting my mother!” she cried, darting back into the alley, a tiny blur.
Layna tried to follow, but he held her hand fast.
“Wait—”
“She needs help!”
Before he could answer, she yanked her hand away and ran down the alley.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
