Fatma didn’t like this. Not a bit. But so much was at stake. And Siti was right about one thing—there was no time to debate. “Make it clean,” she said finally.
Siti nodded and went to one knee, pressing the butt of the rifle up against her shoulder and peering through the lenses. “You might have the high ground,” she murmured, “but I have the goddess.” Her finger hovered over the trigger.
“Don’t hit any of the djinn!” Fatma whispered.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a clear shot. But this might be messy.”
Fatma steeled herself. She hoped she could handle messy.
Siti began to whisper, and it took a moment to realize it was a prayer. “Praise you, Lady of All Powers, Eye of Ra, Bright One who thrusts back the darkness. I open my heart to you. My hands. My eyes. My heart is blameless. Make my aim true so that I might smite the enemies of our Father.”
The crack of the rifle filled up the night. Abigail’s words cut off sharply, and a black cloud blurred in front of her like a veil. The bullet met it and shattered. Victor screamed, clutching his bloodied shoulder where shrapnel had struck him and falling to the platform floor. In a blur, the black cloud resolved into a familiar figure. The ash-ghul.
Siti cursed. “I thought I’d finished that thing!”
She readied to take aim again. Too late. Abigail was looking out onto the rooftop. She spotted them easily amid the mass of immortals and shouted something at the top of her lungs. Fatma felt her blood run cold, as all about, sets of djinn eyes turned to regard them—empty and dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Fatma dodged the meaty hand of a rotund four-armed djinn. Not just rotund, almost perfectly round—a scaly sphere with more limbs than were necessary, and a wide mouth. She struck the djinn with her cane square between the eyes, and it staggered back. Beside her, Siti sent a djinn with a single yellow horn stumbling into several others, using their own weight against them.
“This is getting annoying,” she growled, jumping up to kick a djinn in the face.
“Better than—” Fatma gasped in freezing cold as she passed right through a churning wind Jann. “Keep pushing!” she chattered.
Siti had been right. Abigail was spread too thin. At first, they’d feared they would be overcome by djinn. Surprisingly they turned out to be less of a threat. Oh, they were still massive and monstrous. But they fought sluggishly. And clumsily. Some only reached for them once, before returning to their stupor. Still, it was keeping them tied up and allowing more time for the Clock of Worlds to be completed. Their best bet was to keep pushing forward and reach the platform.
“We’re clear!” Siti called.
They were still surrounded by djinn. But these didn’t seem to have gotten Abigail’s commands. Their eyes were fixated on their mistress, who no longer shouted, instead standing with her hand extended. Her well-coiffed hair looked ready to come undone, and a sheen of sweat covered her face as she concentrated.
“She looks vulnerable. We should hit her now!”
“Not with that in the way.” Siti motioned to the ash-ghul, who watched them blankly.
“We need to draw it off somehow.”
“On it,” Siti said. She lifted her rifle, taking aim and firing. Abigail flinched at the shot meant for her, even as the ash-ghul moved in a blur to deflect it. She glared down, sparing a moment to call out a command. The swirling black cloud that was the ash-ghul turned and streamed toward them.
“That worked,” Siti said. In a shift, she was the djinn. As the ash-ghul coalesced, dropping before her, she struck out—hitting the thing so hard it broke apart into black dust that scattered across the rooftop. “Go take care of Abbie. I’ll hold this thing.”
Fatma looked to Siti with worry. “You going to be okay? Like this?”
Siti grinned, though the smile looked strained. “She’s too distracted. Plus, the goddess walks with me. Go! Wait!” Fatma was surprised to find herself swept up into a deep kiss. Her body went taut as a torrent jolted through her—as if someone were impossibly pouring half the Nile into a bottle. When their lips parted, her breath caught.
“What was that?” she asked dazedly as her feet touched the ground again.
Siti winked. “A gift. Think of it like I just charged your batteries.” Her face twisted into a snarl as the newly reformed ash-ghul rose up, duplicating itself. “Now go!”
Fatma went. Her body tingled, and it seemed she was filled with renewed vigor. Sliding past the last few djinn she reached the platform steps and bounded up, taking two at a time. Someone jumped down to stop her. Percival Montgomery. She sidestepped him easily, delivering a solid knuckle to the jaw that snapped his head back. He crumpled to the platform, and she smiled. That felt good! She felt good!
The Edginton sisters cried out a warning, and Abigail turned just as Fatma drew her sword and swung. The woman managed to avoid the blade, but it cut close enough to make her face blanch.
“You seem determined to get in my way,” she seethed. “Since, like a child, you’re intent on being heard.” She reached into the air, and a black humming blade appeared in her good hand.
Fatma smiled wider. And attacked.
Abigail was a skilled swordswoman. But Fatma had two things going for her. Abigail was tired, the toll of drawing so much of the ring’s power. She, on the other hand, was fueled by a gift of djinn magic. Her feet danced as she pressed the advantage, forcing her opponent to block and step back lively. She marveled at the ease with which she predicted intended maneuvers, countering them smoothly. She could see the clear exhaustion on Abigail’s face, her breath coming in shallow bursts.
Looking for a way to end this, Fatma pretended to stumble. Abigail grabbed for the victory, extending in a stabbing motion. Coming out of the feint, Fatma went low, the tip of her blade slicing through the dress and finding the thigh. The woman scrambled back with a shriek, holding her injured leg.
“That was for Siti.”
Abigail’s face darkened. “I don’t have time for this!” She motioned with the ring that burned bright. “To me!” From the rooftop, a mass of djinn surged upward. Fatma raised her sword, thinking they meant to attack. Instead, they formed a protective shield around their mistress.
“You want someone to fight?” Abigail sneered from behind the mass of bodies. “Here, then. Test your mettle!” She waved her ring hand again, and one of the Ifrit working on the Clock of Worlds broke from the metal giant, plunging down to land heavily on the steps before Fatma.
The creature stood a good nine feet—not to mention its body was made of living fire. It pulled a burning red blade from nothingness—and swung down. Fatma managed to raise her own in time to meet it. The force of the blow pushed her to one knee as gouts of flame leaped from the Ifrit’s weapon. And still it bore down. Her eyes met its own—empty molten pools—and she knew that blazing edge would reach her eventually.
A roar sounded suddenly, like a lioness’s. The Ifrit screamed as claws raked its arm, then its chest, spitting out fiery blood. It turned to meet a flurry of more claws and beating wings. Siti! The woman bared her teeth as the flaming djinn bellowed, lifting the burning sword above its head in a two-handed grip. A blade appeared in answer in her hand—a thing of glittering silver. When the two met, the collision was blinding.
Abigail observed the melee, still clutching her injured leg. She shouted again, and a second Ifrit, followed by a third, swooped down. Fatma watched in panic as the three fiery forms descended on Siti. The woman bristled, her crimson-on-gold eyes glaring, wings wide, and the silver sword raised high. Fatma had never seen anything so beautiful!
Siti held her own. But she was still a half-djinn, facing three Ifrit who rained down blows with their scorching blades like ironworkers. She was fast reduced to a desperate defense. Her swings grew weaker, barely blocking probing attacks as she spun to keep eyes on all three. They circled her like hyenas working to tire their prey.
Fatma raised her own sword, meaning to jump into
the fray—even if she wouldn’t last long. Before she could move, one of the Ifrit lunged, driving its sword through an opening in Siti’s labored defenses. The scorching blade pushed through her shoulder, burying deep. The scream she loosed tore at Fatma’s heart. She watched as Siti collapsed to her knees—the shining sword vanishing from her grip.
A second Ifrit stalked forward, blade raised for the killing blow. Fatma bounded down the steps, ready to throw herself at the creature. But it suddenly stayed its hand. Abigail was ordering it back to its work. She was ordering them all back. Fatma reached Siti as the three Ifrit turned away at their mistress’s bidding.
“It burns!” Siti’s face contorted in pain. “Everywhere burns!”
Fatma looked to the wound. It should have been cauterized. Yet it seemed both burned and bleeding. She reached to stanch the flow, only to pull back singed fingers. The blood was hot to the touch—boiling, poisoned by the Ifrit weapon.
“Why aren’t you healing?”
Siti’s only answer was another scream as wisps of smoke rose from her body.
Fatma’s mind raced. That exhilaration still flowed through her, and she could feel it at the tips of her fingers—fast healing even the singeing they’d taken. She was holding some of Siti’s magic. Enough perhaps, to keep her from healing. If she could just give it back …
She bent down, pressing their lips together. The rushing torrent that had filled her to bursting drained away—half the Nile returning. When she pulled back, she fought to stay upright. It felt like she’d been running miles! Her fingers traced gingerly at Siti’s wound. Not fully healed. But the skin had closed, and she was no longer hot to the touch.
“What did you do?” Siti grunted, sitting up.
“Returned your battery charge,” Fatma managed with a smile. Her brief euphoria evaporated as she looked up to find three figures standing over them like guards. The ash-ghul.
“He’s always coming back,” Siti grumbled.
Fatma gripped her sword. She was exhausted and would probably pitch forward on her wobbly legs. But if this thing wanted a fight, she’d give her best.
A sudden creaking turned her attention back to the platform. It was coming from the mechanical djinn. No, not the automaton, but the machine of overlapping gears nestled into its open chest. They were turning, the teeth of the wheels meshing together. They moved slow at first but soon sped up: all spinning and fitting together, to work in a perfect harmony.
The sight left her cold. The Clock of Worlds had been rebuilt. And it was working.
“She’s done it!” Siti whispered. Her crimson eyes stared. Not at the spinning gears. Or at Abigail, who was shouting in triumph. But at a hole of darkness high above the head of the mechanical djinn—like someone had cut into the fabric of reality.
When they’d last seen the machine intact, it had opened such a door to a dark watery place—from which came a horror of limbs and tentacles. This hole was also dark, so that it stood out even in the night sky. But it didn’t look like water. Instead, it reminded Fatma of a heat haze—and she imagined that on the other side lay a realm of scorching and unrelenting fire. A stillness gripped the air. Even Abigail grew quiet—at what emerged from that darkness and into the world.
“God the Merciful,” Fatma whispered.
They were Ifrit. That much was plain. Only unlike any she’d ever seen.
Ifrit more resembled living infernos than creatures of flesh. But these were beyond that. Their bodies were liquid flame that roiled—a bright blood orange like the spewing fissures of a volcano. The heat of them shimmered the air, so hot she could feel its sting. And they were far bigger than any djinn she had ever seen. Their great size made it impossible for them to even stand on the rooftop of the palace. Instead they hovered above—if mountains of churning molten rock could be said to hover. Nine in all.
“Who has called us to this place?” one thundered. “Who has awakened us from our great sleep?” He was the largest among them—with curving horns that shone white like heated iron. A gold circlet crowned his head, a blazing diadem in its center like a small star. Fatma reasoned that if these were Ifrit Lords, this one must be their king. His breath was fire, and flames danced in the air before him. She understood his djinn language plainly—as if he spoke every tongue at once.
Abigail, undaunted, called out, her voice enhanced by magic. “Ifrit Lords! I’m the one who summoned you!” She held up her hand, displaying the ring. “You may call me the Master of Djinn! You may call me your mistress! Come before me now and kneel!”
The Ifrit King gazed down and Fatma could read the incredulity that crossed that immortal face. He pulled a great mace of iron and flame into existence and lowered to just above the rooftop—sending the djinn beneath scattering. Abigail descended from the platform, sparing them a gloating smile. Megalomaniacs always needed an audience. The woman stopped before the hovering Ifrit and lifted her hand again.
“Kneel!” she demanded.
The Ifrit King snarled. “A mortal has summoned us? A mortal seeks to command us?”
“I hold power over you!” She tightened her fist, and the ring burned. “I command you, and you will command my armies. You will be lords again! And I will be your mistress! Now—kneel!”
Fatma held her breath, certain this terrible being would cast the woman into fiery oblivion. Perhaps incinerate them all in his fury. Instead, the djinn’s head began to lower. The anger on his face turned to shock. It looked as if his body were being pulled against his will, constrained by invisible chains.
“Kneel!” Abigail cried. “Kneel to me!”
The Ifrit King’s roar shattered the night, and he thrashed furiously. Abigail stumbled, the leash momentarily slipped from her grasp. Her face knotted in determination, and Fatma could see perspiration beading down her temples as she fought for control.
“My gods,” Siti said. “She’s going to get us all killed!”
Just then something went taut in Abigail’s grip. “Kneel!” she screamed, her face red with rage. To their shock, the Ifrit King did just that—kneeling in the air and bowing his horned head.
“I am yours to command,” his hoary voice came, then with contempt so vile it seemed it might melt the very air, “Mistress of Djinn.”
“No,” Siti breathed.
A long silence followed, only broken by Abigail’s slow laughter. It grew louder as she basked in her triumph. She held up her hand, displaying the ring for all to see.
“Al-Jahiz may have changed the world. But I will remake it in a new image! In my image! Speak my name! Speak it!”
“The Mistress of Djinn,” the bowed Ifrit King proclaimed. The other Ifrit Lords descended to kneel beside him, repeating the title. Along the rooftop and in the streets below, djinn called out the same words, “The Mistress of Djinn,” until all else was lost in the din.
Fatma sat back. They had failed. All about them, djinn began falling to their knees, soon to become her great army. Well, not all.
One still stood. He curiously kept moving closer to Abigail. It might have been easy to miss with everything else going on. But he was the only one behaving differently, steadily inching his way into the circle that now surrounded his mistress. More noticeable, he was wearing brown robes with his head covered.
Something tugged at Fatma. A sense of familiarity. Even the way he walked was familiar—with an odd gait. It was only when he had gotten right beside Abigail that he threw back his hood and she gaped.
The man had changed even more since their last encounter. Though he stood on two feet, he looked more like a crocodile than anything else. His pale-gray skin was as leathery and rough as the water-bound reptile, and he had a crocodile’s long snout—with teeth that showed even when his mouth was closed. But it was those dark green eyes, brimming with vengeance, that helped her put a name to him. That was no djinn. That was …
“Ahmad?” Siti asked confounded.
What happened next had to be seen to be believed.
> CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
One moment, Ahmad, head priest of the Cult of Sobek, the claimed living embodiment of the ancient Nile god on Earth, stood glaring venomously at the Mistress of Djinn. The next he was lunging, his crocodile mouth yawning wide, and flashing white sharp teeth.
Two words escaped him in a screaming hiss: “For Nephthys!”
Abigail was so engrossed in her rejoicing she barely seemed to hear him. As it was, when those jaws snapped down on her extended hand—the one bearing the Seal of Sulayman—she never saw it coming.
Fatma watched, stunned, as Ahmad’s long crocodilian head whipped about. There was a terrible wrenching as he pulled away, with Abigail’s hand clamped between his teeth.
It was over so quick she didn’t seem to register what had happened. She stumbled back, staring down at the place her hand had been—now only a bloodied stump. Her face frowned in confusion. Slowly, she turned a sickly color. When her mouth opened, it was to draw in a large gulp of air—before releasing a bloodcurdling scream.
Pandemonium erupted.
Along the rooftop, djinn broke from their trance, ceasing their chants as life refilled empty eyes. Many looked about bemused, and their murmurs could be heard amid Abigail’s unending screams. On the iron djinn, Ifrit loosed from their bonds tore through the giant’s mechanical frame to reclaim their freedom—sending fragments of steel flying. The towering monstrosity rocked precariously, as the magic holding it together was undone and the flames on the horned head snuffed out. A great grinding went up as it severed from the neck, bouncing off a shoulder before tumbling away. The machine body followed, fracturing before their eyes.
The four humans still atop the platform were sent clambering for safety. The Edginton sisters were the first to jump, landing ungracefully on the rooftop and rolling into a heap of splayed legs. Percival followed, leaving Victor to fend for himself. Holding his injured shoulder, he leaped off just as the platform, the Clock of Worlds, and what was left of the mechanical giant plummeted to the palace courtyard in a set of thunderous crashes.
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