“Like an attack,” Fatma finished.
“But who? You don’t think … him?”
The imposter’s words sounded in Fatma’s head. I will make you hurt. “We have to check the building. People could be injured.”
“Or worse.” Hadia swallowed.
Fatma didn’t want to think that out loud. Ghuls were ravenous, and ate anything. She’d seen one chase a butterfly once for almost a mile. People trapped in this building wouldn’t last long. “You remember your training against ghuls?”
“Sort of?”
Fatma frowned. “What does ‘sort of’ mean? Didn’t you train at the Settlement?”
The Settlement had been part of a government project to create new towns in remote places, irrigated by djinn machinery. This one was built in the western desert, east of Dakhla. No one was certain what happened exactly, but the settlers all disappeared within months, and the town was overrun with ghuls. The Ministry cleared it out, declaring it ghul-free. Yet after just a year, it was thick with them again. More tries yielded the same results. A bizarre phenomenon.
“No cadets have gone gardening at the Settlement for two years,” Hadia said. “Gardening” was the euphemism for the yearly culling of ghuls, carried out by academy instructors and trainees. Like a field trip. But with guns, sharp things, and lots of undead. “Not since that one class was nearly overrun and eaten. Didn’t you read about it in the alumni newsletter?”
Fatma shrugged. Who read alumni newsletters? “So how are you ‘sort of’ trained to fight ghuls?”
“Simulations. One group of cadets dressed like ghuls, and chased the rest of us—”
Fatma held up a palm, not wanting to hear any more. Even in the dark, Hadia’s unease was plain. Understandable. Ghuls weren’t to be taken lightly. “You don’t have to come with me. If we’re at the storm’s epicenter, it might be lighter in other parts of the city. Maybe you can find a phone, get help—”
“I’m coming with you,” Hadia cut in. “I’m a Ministry agent. This is what we do.”
The resolve in the woman’s voice, even in the face of her fear, said the matter was settled. Fatma reached to her waist, pulling free the janbiya from its sheath. “Since you’re not fond of guns.”
Hadia accepted the knife, looking quizzical. “What are you doing with a janbiya?”
“Present from a Yemeni dignitary. Ministry did his clan a favor. He thought it a fitting gift for such a brave and ‘pretty young man.’ Didn’t bother to correct him. And kept the knife.”
Hadia balanced the weapon between her hands, testing its weight. “Oh, I like this!”
“I’ll expect that back.” Fatma glanced at the undead above. “Elevator’s out. We’ll have to take the stairs. This way.”
They made it to the stairwell, Fatma taking point with her gun drawn. Making a sign to indicate it was all clear, she led them up. It was darker here than in the foyer, and they slowed at every bend, to avoid running into anyone—or anything—by surprise. Somewhere in the back of her mind lurked the question of how exactly ghuls got into the Ministry. But she tamped it down. Time enough for that later.
They made it to the fourth floor without incident. There’d been more rumbling from the building’s infected brain—but no ghuls, praise God. Fatma felt guilty for not stopping at the other floors. But the people she knew and worked with were up here. She’d see to them first. Just as they reached the door a loud banging came from the other side.
“When we get in, keep low,” she whispered. “Remember ghuls are stronger than us. Fast too, but not very bright. Aim for the head. Got it?” Hadia gave a firm nod, eyes set—one hand on her pistol, the other on the janbiya. Together, they opened the door and stepped inside.
The office was dark—the only light coming dimly from windows where the sandstorm churned. But by now Fatma’s eyes had adjusted. There’d been a struggle here. Papers lay strewn about along with knocked-over chairs. But no people. Hadia tapped her shoulder, pointing to bullet holes in a wall. Must have been some fight.
Crouched low, Fatma led them down a side aisle toward the sound of the banging. Spilled cups of tea and a half-eaten bo’somat indicated people had been taken off guard. But gone where? The banging. That would tell her. As they got closer her nose picked up rotted flesh and earth turned sour. The unmistakable stench of the undead. Snatches of snarls and snapping teeth confirmed it. She was set to turn and warn Hadia when an arm shot out from the other side of a desk—brandishing a pistol. Fatma did the same on instinct, heart hammering. But wait, ghuls didn’t use guns. She made out a face.
Hamed?
The man let out a relieved breath. He was crouched as well, awkward for his big frame, and beckoned them to follow. He led them to where a long table had been turned on its side. Someone else was there, hunched down. Onsi. A smile lit up his round face at seeing Fatma and Hadia. But it vanished at another loud bang. They gathered together, backs to the table.
“Some weather we’re having,” Hamed half joked. Behind them the banging and snarling grew. Fatma needed to see. Turning, she lifted her head just over the edge and peeked out.
Ghuls. Their naked pale-gray bodies were visible in the dim light—misshapen mockeries of men with elongated limbs. She took a quick count. Twelve. No, one more clung to the ceiling, in their unnatural way. A whole pack, then. They massed about Director Amir’s office—some on two legs, others crawling on all fours. One wielded the back of a broken chair, hurling it against the office door. Every bang was followed by muffled cries from the other side. Human cries.
She sat back down. “What happened?”
Hamed’s expression turned dark. “Our friend from Sunday night. In the gold mask.”
Fatma’s hand tightened on her pistol at the confirmation.
“First the power went out when that storm hit,” he related. “Then the ghuls were just here … in our midst. It got crazy.” For the first time Fatma noticed the man’s usually pristine uniform was disheveled and he was missing his tarboosh. “We were fighting hand to hand. Amir got as many as he could into his office, where they’ve been holed up. Onsi and I have been trying to find a way to break them free. Now that you’re here—”
“Where is he?” Fatma more hissed than spoke. “The imposter?”
“He left. With several ghuls and that odd man who can … duplicate himself.”
“The ash-ghul,” Hadia put in.
Hamed eyed her dubiously. “If that’s what we’re going with…”
“Where did they go?” Fatma pressed.
“Don’t know. Said something about dragging our secrets into the light.”
I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light.
Fatma played the words over in her head. Their secrets. Where did the Ministry keep its secrets? “The vault!” she breathed. “He’s heading for the vault!”
“The vault?” Onsi asked. “What would he want there?”
“Whatever it is, we can’t let him have it!” Fatma said.
Another set of bangs came alongside frustrated snarls.
“He can’t open the vault,” Hamed assured. “It’s locked. The building’s systems—”
“—are compromised.” Fatma finished. She related the current situation.
“The entire brain machinery?” Onsi whispered in disbelief. “Covered by ghuls?”
“We’re on our own,” she told them. “We have to protect the vault!”
“The door to Amir’s office won’t hold,” Hamed warned. “A lot of people in there are secretaries and clerks. They’re not armed. If the ghuls get in, it won’t be much of a fight. Two of us going it alone wasn’t looking so good. Four stand a better chance.”
Fatma looked to the stairs longingly. Every minute they spent here gave the imposter more time. But more banging came, followed by cries from Amir’s office. For a moment she was ready to abandon those cries to their fate. She’d hate herself, but she’d do it. A hand fell on her ar
m, and she looked up to see Hadia’s dark brown gaze reading the warring notions within her.
“I think we can do both,” the woman said. Her eyes looked to the ceiling, and everyone followed—tracing a series of thin pipes.
“The sprinkler system?” Hamed asked. “That idea that ghuls won’t cross water is a myth.”
“But they hate it,” Hadia countered. “Get that going, and it’ll be enough to distract them—we put them down quick, get everyone out, then make it to the vault.”
Fatma met her partner’s expectant look, then slowly nodded, warming to the idea. She’d seen ghuls struck by water. It sent them into fits. This could work. Then to the vault. “The sprinkler’s run by the building, but there’s a manual crank near the door. Somebody will have to get to it, quiet. When it’s on, we hit them hard.”
“I’ll loose the sprinklers!” Onsi volunteered. “I can be very quiet.”
Fatma eyed him skeptically, but Hamed agreed. “He’s unnaturally good at it, actually.” He paused, his face going grim. “There’s one other thing. The man in the gold mask. Before he left, he said there was a bomb. Though we don’t know where.”
Fatma swallowed down that bit of news. A bomb. Why not? Could this get any worse? “Then we move fast. Onsi, get going!” He actually gave her a salute, of all things, eyes stern behind his spectacles, then made off. The banging came again. “You two ready?” Hamed and Hadia gave firm nods and thankfully didn’t salute. “Then I’m going up top. Take your shots when you can!” Drawing a deep breath, she rose up, her free hand gripping the table’s edge, and hurled herself over it. She landed with her pistol already raised and let out a shrill whistle.
The ghuls turned as one to regard her with sightless faces. A dozen lips peeled back to bare black gums and teeth that snapped, wrinkling the pale gray skin that sat where eyes did not. The one that had been banging on the door stood in their center, and it stretched a long neck, jaws unhinging to emit a high-pitched shriek. The sound cut off abruptly as a bullet lodged square in its forehead. A croak escaped its throat, before it flopped to the ground, going still.
And that made eleven.
Fatma peered around the smoking pistol barrel to appraise her shot. First rule of dealing with a ghul pack. Establish the leader and take it out. That usually enraged the rest. As expected, they were working themselves up now—snarling and snapping—to do some truly murderous violence. But enraged was better than coordinated. Still, as they launched at her, she wondered what was taking Onsi so damn long!
A deluge of water came in answer as the sprinklers above hissed to life. The ghuls broke their charge, some tripping and sliding on the slick floor, others beating at their heads to deflect the downpour and screeching in panic. One just whimpered and ran about in a circle. They really did hate water!
Fatma took aim and fired into the disarray, counting as she went. Ten now. Nine. New gunshots rang out beside her. Hamed. Eight. Seven. Six. They were down to half. But a few of the creatures collected what sense they had, breaking from their companions and galloping in a mad rush. They zigged and zagged in their run, and Fatma cursed as her bullets glanced off shoulders or went wide. Damn, the things were fast!
In seconds, one of them was in front of her, teeth snapping. She didn’t have time to get off a shot, so she kicked the thing in its chest. The blow would have sent a regular man to his back. But ghuls were strong enough for two men. It only stumbled, snaking out an arm and reaching elongated fingers for her face—when a knife suddenly slashed, severing the limb clean at the elbow. The appendage fell away, smacking the wet floor and transmuting to ash. The ghul turned its head to this new threat and was rewarded with a janbiya—Fatma’s janbiya—pushing straight through where a left eye should have been. Its body dropped like an automaton with an off switch. Hadia pulled the knife free and spun in one motion to slice right through the leg of another ghul, sending it sprawling. She didn’t give it time to get back up, burying the janbiya into the base of its skull up to the hilt.
Fatma looked on appreciatively. Guns were definitely wasted on the woman. No more ghuls were standing. What was left of them lined the floor in still heaps. For reasons never understood, appendages separated from their bodies always turned to ash—but never the bodies. Those were always left for cleanup.
“Think we got them all,” Hamed panted. “I count twelve here.”
“Good work.” Fatma moved to put her pistol away. “Now let’s—”
A snarl came before she could finish, and she looked up in time to see the ghul on the ceiling—that they’d completely forgotten about. It landed in front of Hamed. He lifted his gun, but the thing swatted the weapon away before knocking the man aside. It turned to Fatma, reaching her in a bounding leap. She squeezed the trigger of her pistol—to find it empty. That wasn’t good.
Bracing, she put up an arm as the ghul landed atop her, tumbling them both to the floor. It took all her strength, as she lay flat, to keep her palms against the thing’s neck, to stop those snapping teeth from reaching her. The stink of its breath—rot and death—nearly choked her, but she strained against it. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of her janbiya coming in to end the creature. Hadia! Unfortunately, the ghul saw it too. It turned at the last moment, and the knife missed its temple, instead going through its jaw.
The ghul shrieked, flinging back from atop Fatma as it gripped the knife lodged sideways in its mouth. Bullets struck its flank. Onsi. The short man was firing. But he had terrible aim, his shots hitting mostly in the body. He was empty in moments and had done little but slow it. Fatma scrambled to her feet, fumbling to get bullets into her own gun.
But Hadia was already moving. In something Fatma would not have believed had she not seen it, the woman leaped onto the ghul’s back, putting an arm around its neck and clinging there. Pulling the knife free from the thing’s jaw, she turned it over in her hand and drove the blade up through its chin. That wasn’t enough to kill it, but the janbiya had managed to lock its jaw, and it now clawed at its mouth in confusion. Hopping off its back, Hadia walked around, eyes searching for the right spot, then delivered a swift kick to the hilt—sending it home. The ghul’s body went stiff, then dropped, landing on its face.
Quiet descended as they surveyed the carnage. After a moment the door to Amir’s office cracked open. The director peeked out, then opened it fully. He was holding a pistol, and behind him were frightened-looking men and women, mostly office staff. “Got them all?” he asked matter-of-factly.
Fatma nodded, helping Hamed to his feet. The ghul had almost struck him unconscious and he was just recovering. She handed him over to someone else, her mind already on their second task. “The man in the gold mask. He’s heading for the vault. I need to get down there.”
Amir took in what she was saying. “Right. Take some men with you. We have to get everyone else out. You might have heard, there could be a bomb.”
“If you don’t mind, director, Agent Hadia would be fine.” She looked to where the woman was turning over the dead ghul, retrieving the janbiya, now covered in black blood.
“No, that’s alright,” Hadia called back. With a grunt, she yanked the knife free. “I’ll help clear the building. Take care of any more of these things. You—” She waved the bloodied blade at two agents armed with black truncheons. “Help her out. And make sure you watch her back!”
The two men regarded her oddly, but—perhaps it was the bloodied knife—didn’t argue. Fatma gave her a look of unspoken thanks, then sped for the stairs, not slowing for the men following. What if she was already too late? What if the imposter had made his way to the vault and gotten whatever he came for? I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light. She sped up her strides.
When she reached the library, she had the presence of mind to stop at the entrance. The two agents emerged soon after, black truncheons at the ready, and she motioned at them to keep quiet. The way both were huffing, you’d think they
were the ones who’d just fought a pack of ghuls. Pulling her gun, she took the lead, and led them inside.
The library was dark, even more than other parts of the building. There was a silence to the emptiness that made her uneasy. Not that it was ever a noisy place. Zagros made sure of that. But not to hear the absent cough, the sound of pages turning, or books being set down, made it feel almost lifeless. And she’d had her fill of dead things today.
Every few steps she stopped at the edge of shelves, prepared to meet whatever may come. In the distance came a steady familiar ticking accompanied by spinning gears and the low thrumming whoosh of a swinging cable. The great clock timepiece had been a gift to the library, and operated separate from the building. Its pendulum hadn’t been affected by the power outage and kept up its rhythm. Behind it lay the Ministry’s vault—which secured items of immeasurable importance. She ought to know. She’d help put some in there.
Her eyes adjusted as they drew closer, and she made out the pendulum—a giant bob like a golden sun disc inscribed with geometric patterns. She squinted, trying to glimpse the door to the vault between the swings of the cable. But a shadow blocked it. She stopped, holding up a hand. Someone was there. Someone big, in long purple robes of velvet embroidered in white that stood out even in the dark. They turned, and Fatma released a breath, lowering her gun.
Zagros.
The djinn librarian struck his usual regal pose, that half-lidded gaze staring down at her from behind a pair of silver spectacles. He held the biggest book she’d ever seen, thick with pages and covers that looked made of gold. If he still stood guard at the vault, that meant they weren’t too late. Maybe the imposter had tried and learned the hard way not to tangle with a centuries-old Marid.
“Zagros!” she called in a low voice. “You don’t know how happy I am to see—”
Her words broke off as someone stepped from behind the djinn. Her breath caught. The man in the gold mask! He stared at her with those intense burning eyes, before tilting his head up to whisper in Zagros’s ear. The librarian listened silently.
A Master of Djinn Page 20
