While Javid hated incurring Father’s disapproval, Zahir, who would one day succeed to the throne of Anbar, seemed to relish it, as though his manhood relied on his asserting his will, on defying authority. Javid, younger by five minutes but quicker both mentally and physically, worried that this streak in his brother was more than defiance. There had always been in his twin something ruthless—something dark and indefinable.
“I’ve found the case, Javid. Come.” There followed a click of a latch being opened. “Ahh.”
Zahir’s sigh held pleasure as thick as the velvet protecting the specially lined case that cradled the matching daggers, and despite Javid’s struggle with right and wrong, he was seduced into the attic by the thrill swirling in his belly. He hurried to Zahir’s side, shoved back a hank of unruly raven hair and eyed the weapons, the prize of Grandfather’s treasures. Father had given them to Grandfather on the day of the twins’ birth. One had been forged in Anbar, the hilt shaped like the head of a king cobra, the other forged in America, the hilt shaped like a bald eagle. The daggers represented the equal halves of the twins’ heritage. More than once, the boys had been warned not to touch the dangerous weapons—which made touching them ever more tantalizing.
Zahir fingered the solid gold hilt shaped like the head of a king cobra. Full-carat rubies served as eyes. The twenty-two-inch blades were curved at the tip and honed to razor-keen edges.
“Careful,” Javid cautioned as his brother lifted the bald eagle-headed dagger and presented it to him, hilt first.
Javid gathered the handle in both hands, surprised at the heft, at the surge of something almost electric that undulated from his grip into his flesh, heating his veins as though the weapon possessed the potency of lightning, as though it had imbued him with the power and strength of the eagle. A grin tugged at his mouth, and he lifted his gaze to meet his brother’s.
Zahir’s handsome face was alight with wicked pleasure, and Javid’s guilt at touching the forbidden object dissolved in a soft chuckle. He hoisted the blade chest level and took an offensive stance learned in fencing classes. “I am Khalaf, Sheik of Imad, come to slay the Emir of Anbar and claim his country as my own.”
“I will see your blood ground into the sands, hyena,” Zahir spat, accepting the challenge with a fierce arch of one ebony eyebrow. He raised his dagger, the curved blade glinting in the lamplight as it connected with Javid’s. The ensuing metallic clink echoed in the vast attic, but neither boy feared discovery. The adults had walked into town and would be gone for at least an hour.
The swordplay ensued with exuberance, the boys thrusting and parrying, leaping and sidestepping, kicking up dust as they ducked between antique dressers and tables, their excitement raising their voices.
Javid laughed, danced, light on his feet. Sweat popped across his forehead, beneath his arms, at his groin—and he grew bolder. Confident in his ability to best Zahir as he always bested him in fencing class.
They leaped and dodged and darted dangerously close several times more. But the heavy dagger was not an epee and soon its heft made Javid’s arms ache from the weight. But he would not give up. Or in. Not with victory in sight. For Zahir was also tiring. He could see it on his face. Tasting triumph, he swung at Zahir as Zahir dipped toward him. Too late, he wrenched the blade back. Zahir yelped, dropping his dagger and grabbing his ear. Curses spewed from him.
Javid stood horror-stricken at the injury he’d inflicted on his brother, at the blood seeping between Zahir’s fingers. All the guilt he’d abandoned earlier rushed at him now and the dagger slipped from his hand, clattering to the dusty floor near his feet. “Zahir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Zahir’s furious growl cut off the apology. He lunged. His head rammed into Javid’s gut, punching the wind from him, knocking him off his feet. Javid’s spine smacked the floor. Zahir landed on him, pinning him down.
Blood from Zahir’s wound—not to the ear, but behind it, he realized—dripped onto Javid’s dusty, sweat-smudged T-shirt. He started to apologize again, but the fierce hatred emitting from his brother stilled his tongue.
“You did this on purpose. Your jealousy offends me, Javid. You must always best me. Humiliate me. As though you, and not I, deserve to be the next Emir of Anbar.”
“No—” Javid choked. “Accident.” Stunned at the accusation, he tried bucking Zahir off, but Zahir, in his fury, possessed inhuman strength.
“Well, that will never happen, brother.” Zahir grabbed something off the floor and scooted higher on Javid’s chest, cutting off his intake of air.
Then Javid saw it, the eagle-headed dagger that moments before had been his confederate. Fear shot through him. He wrenched against his twin’s hold. But for once, Zahir was faster. He sliced a small X into Javid’s chest, right over his heart.
Javid’s breath hissed as the pain and his shock gave way to fury. “Let me up, Zahir!” Blood sprang from the wound, wetting the front of his shirt. “We’re even now, brother.”
“Even?” Zahir’s laugh chilled Javid. “I don’t want to be even. Not with you. Not with anyone.”
Pure hatred shone in Zahir’s eyes, a light so clear it was as if a window had opened on his soul. Javid shuddered at what he saw there. “Get off me, Zahir.”
“X marks the spot.” Zahir lifted the eagle-headed dagger high, the ruby eyes as bright as fresh blood. He meant to thrust the blade into Javid’s chest, right through the X he’d sliced there.
“No!” Javid bucked. Twisted. Squirmed. He couldn’t get free. He was going to die.
“Zahir!” Their father’s voice resounded in the murky attic. “What is this madness?”
Zahir scrambled off Javid. “Nothing, Father. We were playing war. Javid lost.” Zahir gathered control of his expression, his manner and voice now contrite, humble—as though he hadn’t meant to kill his brother.
But Javid knew. He shoved up on his elbows, struggling to drag in a deep breath. His ribs felt bruised. The cut on his chest burned. But it was a deeper pain that immobilized him, a wrenching sadness, a sense of great loss, a disjoining of some vital part of himself, as though the dagger had plunged into him and severed the blood cord between himself and his twin.
No apology could heal the wounds inflicted this day.
He and Zahir were no longer allies, but enemies. From here on out, Javid must watch his back.
Chapter One
Chicago—present day
July
“I won’t lie to you, Ms. Mohairbi.” Dr. Elias Forbes’s long face seemed even longer this afternoon, his slanted eyes grayer, as solemn as his tone. He tapped his pen on an open file folder. “Your mother’s condition is deteriorating. The sooner she gets that heart transplant, the better.”
Miah clutched her hands in her lap, reminding herself to breathe. Her mom’s name had been on the national registry for ten months now, but so far no donor had turned up with Lina Mohairbi’s rare blood type. All they could do was wait and pray as precious time, time she might not have to spare, slipped away.
“Should I be preparing for the worst?”
“Well, now, I can’t—”
“Darling, don’t put Dr. Forbes on the spot,” her mom said, interrupting the doctor.
The door to the examining room had opened so silently, Miah blinked seeing her mother standing there. Lina Mohairbi crossed the elaborately appointed office in this exclusive section of Chicago on Lake Shore Drive, touched Miah’s shoulder with affection and settled her tiny frame on the neighboring chair.
As the doctor repeated for Lina what he’d told Miah, Miah considered the pair, thinking it odd that though this man held her well-being in his hands, her mom could not bring