A Master of Djinn: 1 (Dead Djinn Universe)

by P. Djèlí Clark

  Abigail sputtered.

  Fatma ignored their banter. “Ahmad, what do you intend with that?”

  “These Ifrit Lords must be bound once more. Here is the power to do it.”

  Naturally. Who but a Master of Djinn could save them now?

  “I didn’t find you by chance,” he said. “I was led here.”

  “Led by who?” Fatma asked. “Your god?”

  Ahmad shrugged. “My god, universal providence, perhaps the ring itself.”

  “It comes back to me!” Abigail said eagerly. “It knows I’m its mistress!”

  They all decided to ignore her.

  “Will you wield it?” Hadia stammered. She seemed more put off by the crocodilian man than all else she’d seen.

  “The ring is for mortal hands. And I am one with the entombed god.”

  “Mortal hands,” Siti repeated. “Then not meant for a half-djinn.”

  “Djinn cannot wield the ring against djinn,” Ahmad replied.

  “I’ll wield it,” Abigail pronounced. “I’ve bound them before!”

  This time Ahmed twisted about to snap his jaws, which sent her quiet.

  “That leaves the two of us,” Hadia concluded, not sounding happy about it.

  “So it seems,” Ahmad agreed. He offered up the ring to Hadia, who promptly backed away.

  “Take it,” Fatma said.

  Hadia eyed her warily but reached out nervous fingers to accept the ring, all the while whispering low, perhaps in prayer. Taking a deep breath, she slid it on and waited. A moment of quiet passed before she shook her head, exhaling in obvious relief.

  “I don’t think it wants me,” she said.

  Fatma tensed as every eye fixed on her. No pressure. She held out her hand, and Hadia dropped the ring into her palm. It didn’t feel heavy. Or powerful. It just felt like a ring. Choosing a finger on her right hand, she slipped it on and waited. Nothing. Abigail laughed.

  “The ring chooses its wielder,” she sneered. “It will not just—”

  She stopped mid-sentence, staring. Everyone was staring. Because the ring was glowing.

  “I don’t understand—” Fatma began, just before the world reeled.

  She was in a swirling maelstrom. No up or down. No ground. Only a blinding storm of riotous color without shape or form and a thunderous voice pounding in her ears. Wield me. Master me. Bend me to your will. Or I shall bend you. In a panic, Fatma reached for the ring and yelped. The thing burned! Seizing it through the pain she yanked it free.

  “Fatma? Fatma!”

  She looked up into Siti’s worried eyes. Had she fallen? With help she returned to her feet.

  “What happened?” Hadia asked.

  Fatma looked to the ring in her hand. Glowing but cool again. How to even explain?

  “Did you think it was just going to do what you wished?” Abigail mocked. Fatma met her smug smile. “The ring will bend you if you can’t master it.” She put out her hand. “I’m the only one who can control it. Let me wield its power. Let me save your city.”

  Fatma heard the voice again in her head, faded to a whisper. That one we remember. Such ambition. She would wield us again. Give us purpose. We must have purpose! Her hand holding the ring twitched, and rose in offering.

  Hadia grabbed her wrist midway, glaring between her and Abigail. Fatma shook off the voice, only then realizing what she’d been about to do. She frowned. Now this thing was trying to master her? Staring down Abigail she held up the ring, and slid it back onto her finger.

  The maelstrom returned in a roar. No night, no here or there—just the chaotic storm. The voice thundered, proclaiming its demand.

  No! Fatma cut in. You chose me to wield you, then I’ll wield you! Bend to me now, or I’ll throw you into the deepest, darkest hole I can find! Where no one will have you! Where you will have no use or purpose—ever! The voice didn’t speak again but in a blink the maelstrom vanished. She was back. Around her stood Siti, Fatma, and Ahmad—Abigail off to one side.

  “I have it,” Fatma told them. “I can … feel them.”

  It had happened as soon as the maelstrom vanished. She could feel the djinn. All of them. It came as a pulling—like she held a great magnet and they were beings of metal. Every single one tugged at her. And she knew she need only tug back. Her eyes went to the Ifrit Lords. The sensation they gave off was impossible to miss; all else seemed diminished in comparison. Lifting the hand with the ring, she reached out to take hold of one in particular—and pulled.

  The Ifrit King, readying to deliver a final blow to the defeated water giant, staggered back under Fatma’s grip. His emotions flowed to her through the ring: shock, bewilderment, then an explosion of fury. With a snarl he roared his defiance. She grunted, tightening her grasp. Abigail had said holding him was like trying to hold a star. Now that star was raging. With a great heave he threw her off, sending her stumbling.

  “What happened?” Siti asked, catching her.

  “I couldn’t hold him. This battle, it’s made him stronger. Like he’s feeding off it.”

  “A fire grows as it consumes,” Abigail whispered. “Now that fire hunts you.”

  Fatma looked up to see the woman was right. The Ifrit King stood glaring about. He had felt the ring’s power again, and was seeking the wielder. They didn’t have much time.

  Reaching out, she grabbed hold of him again. It felt like she was trying to ensnare a rumbling volcano. He flared into white-hot flames, throwing her back a second time. She looked at her palms to find them singed red—her clothing letting off wisps of smoke.

  “I think you have his attention,” Ahmad said.

  Fatma looked to see the Ifrit King’s eyes fixed on her like burning lamps. He rose into the air, bellowing his rage. The other eight lords rose with him on great fiery wings to soar in her direction. She lifted a hand to try again when Hadia stopped her. “Fatma, listen! Remember what that Marid said? That there was more power to the ring! That the seal isn’t even a ring! That it would only reveal its true self to someone whose want was pure!”

  The memory came back to her at once. Lowering her hand, she called out. I want to talk!

  There was no response, even as she watched the Ifrit draw closer.

  I want to wield the true seal!

  Still no answer. The Ifrit were almost upon them, the heat of their massive bodies intense.

  My want is pure!

  Without warning, she tumbled back into the maelstrom. No up or down again. No ground. Just the chaotic dance. Then from the corner of her eyes, a part of the storm began to stretch. Where it opened up was only a white space, an emptiness like a blank canvas scrubbed of all color or movement. It enveloped her, and everything went abruptly quiet.

  “Is someone here?” she asked.

  In answer, a small furry form trotted up, surprisingly familiar with silver fur. Ramses? But no. Ramses had yellow eyes. These glowed a bright gold.

  “Are you the ring?” she asked hesitantly.

  “We are the Seal,” the cat answered melodically. Because of course it talked. “You are wearing the ring.”

  Fatma looked to her hand. So she was. But the ring wasn’t gold any longer. Instead, half of the small band was formed from iron, the other brass. Her attention returned to the Seal.

  “Why do you look like my cat?”

  “Your thoughts are shared so freely. We could choose again.” In a blur, Siti stood before her—with those same bright gold eyes.

  “No, the cat’s fine,” Fatma said quickly.

  The ring—the Seal—shrugged Siti’s shoulders, and was a cat again.

  “I want to wield you as your true self,” Fatma said.

  The Seal laughed. It was odd to watch a cat laugh. “Who are you to make such a demand? Do you think yourself another Sulayman? Do we not give you enough of our self? You would have our inner heart as well?”

  Fatma heard her mother. The cat runs from its collar. She tried a different tack.

  “Not a dema
nd—a request. My want is pure.”

  The Seal sighed. “So they always claim. Speak your request.”

  “I want to save this city and all its people. For that, I need the true Seal.”

  “And what will you ask for yourself?”

  “Nothing. My want is pure.”

  The Seal laughed again. “Nothing? When you are so much like the other one?”

  “Other one?”

  The Seal transformed into Abigail Worthington—missing hand and all.

  Fatma clenched her teeth. “I’m not like her.”

  The Seal cocked Abigail’s head. “Oh? Do you know why we did not choose this one?” A blur, and Hadia stood before her. “Not me. Not me. Not me. That’s what she spoke to us. But you…” Another blur, and Fatma stood watching a mirror image of herself. “No doubts filled your thoughts. You were like the other one: strong of will, determined, and ready to wield us. She wanted great power. What would you have? Perhaps summon djinn to bring you untold wealth?” A vision danced before Fatma’s eyes—djinn carrying huge chests of gold and gems to lay at her feet. “Or perhaps djinn to build you a grand kingdom?” Now she saw a city of golden domes and wonders, a mechanical statue bearing her likeness towering in its center. “Or a more intimate desire?” Siti was now in the vision, staring adoringly, bound to her without doubt or question. “We have been wielded by great lords and rulers, all who claim to be pure—but want so much more.”

  That last image disturbed Fatma, and her eyes flickered to the iron and brass ring on her finger that promised so much power. But she managed a confident smile. A hand went to her jacket, patting the timepiece within. “That’s where I’m different,” she said, dropping into the casual Sa’idi dialect she spoke back home. “I’m no lord or ruler. I’m just the daughter of a watchmaker, from a village outside Luxor. I don’t desire any of those things. I just want to save this city.”

  Her doppelganger scowled, and was the cat again. “A want that is pure must be truly that!” it growled. “Use us for any other desire, and you will pay a price—the loss of body and will! So that we shall wield you how we wish!”

  Fatma nodded. That was how these things tended to go. “I accept.”

  She thought she saw the cat smile again.

  “Then done,” it pronounced. And was gone.

  Fatma stepped back into the world. She knew no time had passed—not a second. But much had changed.

  All about her was light. Djinn she also knew. Still in their many shapes and forms, but made up of swirling incandescence in vivid colors that thrummed in a harmonious symphony. There were seemingly hundreds—dotting the night like so many fireflies.

  Yet none compared to the Ifrit Lords.

  The nine towering giants hovered just above her, their bodies churning torrents of light, the music of them blaring and crashing violently. She did not know when she had raised her hand to command them. But they remained there like unmoving statues, weapons drawn in mid-flight, poised to descend—held fast by the power of the ring.

  Only there was no more ring. Not of gold, or iron or brass.

  It was gone, vanished from her finger. In its place, script and glyphs she could not read etched into her skin to form a symmetrical geometry—as if some divine hand had marked her. They were emblazoned onto her fingertips, upon her hand and up her arms. She knew if she looked, the writing decorated even her chest and face. Turning over her hands she found a glowing star on each palm—shifting between five points, now six, or eight or twelve. The true Seal.

  Staring up at the Nine Lords, she felt their rage—making their brilliant bodies burn bright. The Ifrit King’s hatred was palpable. That one, she decided, she would meet eye to eye.

  Through the Seal, she searched the many djinn until landing on a particular light. He came at her call, flying on fiery wings to land before her. The Ifrit who Abigail had once bound.

  “Mistress of the Seal,” he bowed, dipping his horned head low. “How may I serve?”

  “I’m not your mistress,” she told him. “And I don’t want you to serve. I want to make a request. Carry me up to speak to these lords. Please. You can say no, if you want.”

  The Ifrit seemed genuinely taken aback. He eyed her strangely, but finally beckoned her forward. She climbed onto his broad back, untouched by fire. When she’d settled, he leaped into the air and ascended on wings of flame, climbing higher until they hovered before the face of the bound Ifrit King.

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her Ministry ID and held it up. “Maybe you didn’t hear me before. I’m Agent Fatma with the Egyptian Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities. You’re currently in violation of about a hundred different codes dealing with non-sanctioned inter-dimensional entities. So I’d like to request a second time—that you go the hell back to where you came from. This battle is over—now.”

  The Ifrit King was silent, but his fury flowed through the Seal. It held him fast, so he could not as much move a muscle without her consent. There was a long quiet as he struggled. She rolled her eyes at his futile attempts. This was getting embarrassing. Finally he stopped, and that building rage in him began to ebb. After a while, he released a breath of licking flames. When he spoke, it was with the regal tone of resignation.

  “As you wish, Mistress of the Seal,” he rumbled. “We have seen enough djinn blood spilled this day. We will return to our sleep, and depart this world.”

  Fatma nodded curtly. “You have my thanks, Great Lord.”

  The Ifrit King sneered. “It is a trifling, mortal. All worlds will one day be bathed in the fires of which they were born. And you will not always be here to wield such power against us. We have only to wait. This world, like all worlds, will burn. In time.”

  That wasn’t at all reassuring. “Right. You can go now. And close the door behind you.” With a lurch, the Ifrit King flew up higher into the air, followed by the other lords. The force of their great wings buffeted them in hot winds so that the Ifrit she rode had to pull back. As she watched, one by one the fiery giants disappeared into the gaping portal. When the last had gone through, it collapsed in a deafening boom that she was sure must have blown out windows for a mile. She shook her head at the ringing. Had forgotten about that part.

  In a short while they were back on the ground. She clambered off the Ifrit, and found Hadia and Siti waiting. Only Siti wasn’t exactly Siti. Superimposed upon her was the larger crimson afterglow of her djinn form. It thrummed, and Fatma suddenly felt she could read everything about the other woman—her emotions, thoughts, even memories. There was a temptation—to reach out and pull just a bit, to get a glimpse. In her thoughts, she heard a voice like a cat laugh.

  I’m done, she said hastily. Take your power back.

  The laugh turned to a petulant whine, but when Fatma looked down the glowing pattern had been scrubbed from her skin. The ring was again on her finger. Gold once more. She quickly pulled it off—then promptly dropped as her legs gave out.

  “You okay?” Siti asked, catching her.

  “A little weak.” More like exhausted.

  “Glory be to God,” Hadia breathed. “I think we won.”

  Fatma gazed around at the rubble, to the wreckage of buildings, cars, and the fires still burning in the near distance—where a water giant was hobbling back to the Nile. They’d won. But at a cost. Closing a fist over the ring, she found Ahmad. He had perched atop a bit of rubble, and was staring intently at her with his crocodilian eyes. Gathering her strength, she walked over to him and held out an open palm.

  “Take it,” she said. “Take it wherever you’re going. And bury it. Where no one will find it. Ever.”

  Ahmad hesitated, then reached a clawed hand to take the ring. Fatma had already made up her mind to get rid of the thing. Damn those so-called angels. She wasn’t about to put it back in their possession. Neither did she trust it in the hands of the Ministry. As she stifled back the pang of loss that unexpectedly washed over her, she realized sh
e didn’t even trust herself.

  Abigail suddenly screamed, flinging herself at Ahmad—heedless now of any danger. She might have had another appendage bitten off, or even a limb, if Hadia hadn’t caught her, pinning an arm behind her back and holding her fast. Still the woman struggled, her blue-green eyes wide and feverish. “It’s mine!” she wailed. “I deserve it! It’s not yours to give away! It’s mine! Mine!”

  Ahmad shook his head. “Why do these colonizers always claim what isn’t theirs?”

  The Ifrit, who had stood by quietly, rumbled in his throat. “It is the power of the—” He stopped abruptly, his horned head jerking from side to side.

  He still couldn’t speak about the Seal, but Fatma understood. Holding it only for a moment had affected her. How long had Abigail wielded it? Weeks?

  “You can’t keep it from me!” she shouted. “I can feel it, feel it, feel it! I will go seeking it and it will call to me and I will find it and I will have it again! It belongs to me! To me! To me!”

  “I think she means it,” Hadia said worriedly.

  Fatma turned to the Ifrit. “Can you make her forget? About … you know.”

  His molten eyes narrowed. “Do you … wish this of me?”

  She shook her head emphatically. Never that. “Think of it as for your own good.”

  The Ifrit contemplated. Turning to Abigail he lifted a clawed hand—touching the barest tip to her forehead. Her babbling cut off and she went taut, before collapsing into Hadia’s arms. Where the Ifrit had touched, a fiery symbol slowly burned itself into the woman’s skin before disappearing. But her jaw had gone slack, and her eyes stared out—blank.

  Fatma rounded on the Ifrit in alarm. “What did you do?”

  “I made her forget,” he replied.

  “How much?”

  “All that I could find. All that was her.”

  Hadia gasped.

  “That’s not what I meant!” Fatma snapped.

  The Ifrit’s face contorted in anger. “She made me her servant. I will not risk that again.”

  Fatma looked to Siti. “We can’t allow this.”