Fatma looked up to the ash-ghul still standing over them. The three duplicates held up their left arms—each now curiously devoid of a hand—as their bodies slowly dissolved. Legs, torsos, and even clothing evaporated to black ash finer than sand, all carried away on the night wind without a whisper of their passing. She and Siti exchanged a glance before helping each other to their feet and limping through the milling crowd of djinn. They stopped short of where Abigail had gone to her knees, still screaming and cradling her injury.
“I’m guessing that hurts,” Siti said.
Fatma looked past the woman—who was no longer a threat—and instead searched for Ahmad. The transformation he’d undergone these past weeks had allowed him to easily blend in with the djinn—unaffected by the ring’s power. How long had he been here, she wondered. Biding his time, awaiting his vengeance. Of course, there were more pressing matters than either Abigail or Ahmad. Her eyes lifted to where the Nine Ifrit Lords yet loomed, no longer bowed, their fiery gazes appraising.
“Why are they still here?” She motioned to the portal. “And why is that still open?” When they’d last undone the Clock of Worlds, the doorway it opened had closed. This one, however, remained—a gaping wound in the night.
“I have a feeling this isn’t over,” Siti murmured
Get out of a hole and you fall down a slope, Fatma heard her mother tut.
Pulling out her badge she held it up, clearing her throat to shout. “Great Lords! I am Agent Fatma with the Egyptian Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities!” The djinn on the rooftop went quiet, turning to look at her. Above, the Ifrit appeared to take notice as well. “Allow me to extend my deepest apologies for your summoning against your will and sovereignty! This action was neither sanctioned nor condoned by my government, and is in direct violation of our statutes, laws, and criminal codes on the ethical use of magic! As we now have the matter under control and the perpetrator in hand, we invite you to please return to your realm with sincere regrets for this inconvenience!”
There. That had been by the book. Even polite.
The Ifrit King observed her with a searing eye, and she tried not to flinch beneath its heat.
“You are a talkative mortal,” he rumbled, then turned away as if she didn’t exist at all.
“Djinn of this realm!” he bellowed. “For millennia, we have slumbered. Deep within the worlds within worlds of the Kaf. Now, we are awakened. And we find ourselves … displeased.” A flinch rippled through the crowd, like children being scolded. “How is it that djinn walk a world ruled by mortals? How has a mortal come to hold power over our kind? Power enough to bind even we—the lords of djinn? Where are the children of our blood and fire to give answer?”
As if summoned, several blazing forms flew to land just before the Ifrit King. Fatma was pulled back by Siti, as one touched down with force enough to shake the palace. The Ifrit they’d twice before encountered—rid of saddle and reins. He stood far larger than his companions, and yet was dwarfed by the Ifrit Lords—a mere bonfire to their inferno.
“O Great Lords,” he rumbled, his fiery wings bent in submission. “I would give answer.”
“Speak, then,” the Ifrit King allowed. A look of annoyance marred his face. “But make this one cease that irritating noise!”
He was referring to Abigail, who had not stopped screaming. The big Ifrit turned to the mistress who once saddled him, and reached out to graze her injured arm. Screams turned to shrieks as the bloodied stump cauterized, sending up the sickly smell of burned flesh. Abigail’s eyes rolled back and she swooned, then promptly fell flat on her face. Fainted. In earnest this time, it appeared.
The big Ifrit turned back to his king. “I made my home in a desert of this world, away from djinn who now dwell among mortals. There I remained, until I was called by this one.” He snarled at Abigail’s prone form. “She bound me, harnessed me as one would a beast! She set my brothers and sisters to toil! She bid us tell her of you, forced us to wake you from your slumber!”
The Ifrit King’s expression compressed—the sun itself grown angry. Behind him, the remaining eight lords murmured their discontent. “You are Ifrit! Those created first from smokeless fire! You are meant to rule over djinn! Yet you hide yourself away. You allow a mortal to bind you!” His head shook in disgust. “This cannot stand.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Siti said. Fatma didn’t either.
The Ifrit King drew himself up. “A mortal may have summoned us, but good will come even from such perversion. We Nine Lords have returned, to once more rule over all djinn. We claim this world, and we shall lead you in the coming war to make it your own. So that you might once again know glory and bring honor to your blood!”
He paused magnanimously, as if expecting a cheer. But there was only uneasy quiet. Not a djinn spoke, many sharing alarmed glances.
“I don’t buy it!” someone shouted. Fatma started, realizing it was Siti. She stepped forward, tall in her djinn form, yet smaller than most here. Above, the Ifrit King squinted.
“You do not … buy … it?”
“That you once led djinn to glory or whatever,” Siti replied. “From what I hear, you just enslaved djinn. Had them fight your endless wars.”
“To prove who is most deserving,” another Ifrit Lord rumbled. “We are the superior—”
Siti barked a laugh that cut the giant Ifrit off. “Mortals already play this game. About some people being superior and meant to rule over others. That’s what she believes.” She gestured to Abigail, who remained quite unconscious. “How are you any different?”
The Ifrit King’s eyes lowered to slits. “You compare us to mortals?” He looked her over anew. “Half-blood. Your sire was djinn.”
“I prefer double-blood. And the djinn who ‘sired’ me was hardly superior.”
“Still, you are djinn-touched. Even if lesser, you may share in the coming glory.”
“How gracious. But you can keep your glory.”
The Ifrit King shook his head. “Impudence. When we yet held sway, such disobedience would be repaid a thousand times by pain.” He looked out on the other djinn. “We will have no more impertinence! We are lords of djinn! First among our kind! And you will bow!” The rounded head of his mace roared into flames, as if he’d torn a star from the heavens. Beneath him the many djinn cowered. One by one, they began to bow.
Fatma watched with dismay. Along the rooftop and in the streets below, djinn of every kind and class, all prostrated before these Nine Lords—driven by some primal fear.
Almost all.
Her eyes fell on a figure near the back of the palace roof. A djinn with the reddish-brown head of an onager and the straight twisting horns of a gazelle. The Ifrit King took notice as well and leveled his mace menacingly. “You will bow.”
“I have decided I will not.” The onager-headed djinn spoke in an elderly woman’s voice. “I am too old to bow. It hurts my bones. Even if I could, I would not bow to you.”
Flames danced along the Ifrit King’s brow. “More impudence.”
The onager-headed djinn shrugged. “Call it what you will. But I did not like being enslaved by her.” She motioned a crooked cane toward Abigail. “I do not now want to be enslaved by you. I like my freedom. Will I exchange one set of chains for another?”
“We will lead you to glory!” the Ifrit King insisted. “Place you above these mortals!”
The elder djinn chuckled. “Glory? Is that what I’m missing?” She snorted through her white muzzle. “I live among mortals. They can be annoying, true. But also remarkable. They visit me at Eid al-Fitr. And I make their children Eid kahk. Oh! Children! They are the most delightful of mortals!”
“Glory is yours to—” the Ifrit King began.
“I heard you the first several times,” the old djinn interrupted, waving her cane. “I don’t want glory. I just want to go home. This world you want to create, of war and fire. It doesn’t sound like glory to me. It soun
ds like hell.”
The Ifrit King’s face drew tight. He looked to the big Ifrit. “Put an end to this insolence! Show them the penance for not obeying their lords!”
The Ifrit on the rooftop turned toward the disobedient elder djinn. Fatma felt Siti tense, readying to fight. She gripped her own sword—what little good it would do against a being of flames five times her size. He stared at the onager-headed djinn for moment, then surprisingly, his broad shoulders sagged.
“I cannot,” he spoke. Then added hastily, “O Great Lords.”
The Ifrit King’s fiery eyes widened. “More insolence? From even you?”
The big Ifrit shook his head. “O Great Lord, you must understand, I did not seek solace without reason. All of we Ifrit, upon coming to this world, sought out places where we could be alone. Together, we found the blood fire coming over us, urging us to burn, to set all about us aflame. But alone, we could live with our thoughts. Dwell on the purpose of our existence.” He looked up, daring to meet the baleful gaze of the hovering giant. “It is called philosophy.”
The Ifrit King frowned. “Phil-o-so-phy?”
The big Ifrit nodded briskly. “A means to interrogate the nature of existence and our place within it. The more I thought, the more I began to understand myself. To know that I was created for more than just drowning my enemies in flames. I began reading many great works by mortals and other djinn. That is how I discovered, I am a pacifist.”
Fatma blinked. The Nine Lords seemed equally puzzled. They murmured among themselves before one asked, “What is this? Pa-ci-fist?”
“One who does not commit violence upon others,” the big Ifrit explained.
“He has sworn not to cause harm,” one of the other lesser Ifrit added, this one with a woman’s voice. “Which is why what this mortal made him do was so terrible.”
The big Ifrit looked down, and for the first time Fatma saw things in his eyes she’d missed before—pain. Perhaps even guilt.
“Are you another spouter of this phil-o-so-phy?” the Ifrit King asked with disgust.
“Oh no,” the female Ifrit answered. “I’m a sculptor.”
“She’s very good!” the big Ifrit put in. “She makes beautiful landscapes of rocks and sand!” The other lesser Ifrit all agreed, causing their companion to look down sheepishly. “We’ve told her she should display her art. But she’s an introvert, and we want to respect that.”
The Ifrit King looked as flummoxed as Fatma. Did the Ministry truly understand these creatures at all?
“I will not bow to you either,” another voice spoke. This one was a cobalt-blue Marid that shared the rooftop. He raised up from where he knelt. “We were not the ones who summoned you here. We have not asked for your return. I only kneel to my creator.”
He was joined by another djinn, this one a water Jann. “We will not be slaves!” Several others rose, all shouting their defiance with the same words. That seemed to break the dam. The whole rooftop stood, chanting, “We will not be slaves! We will not be slaves!” It was picked up on the streets, turning into a mass protest of shouts and raised fists. The Nine Lords stared in disbelief. Fatma didn’t think they were used to the word “no.”
Finally, the Ifrit King held up his fiery mace and bellowed, “Silence!”
Quiet came, but not one djinn returned to their knees. There were clenched fists now and steely glares. Fatma could feel the magic and tension filling the air, thick currents that tickled the hairs on her skin. This was a prelude to battle, between djinn and the lords that once ruled them. The resulting destruction was something she didn’t want to contemplate.
“O Great Lords!” she called, stepping forward again. “The djinn of this world have made their choice! You claim to want to lead them, to better their lives. Would you now go to war with them? Shed their blood? To what end?”
The Ifrit King’s gaze returned to her, and a rumbling emanated from deep in his throat. It wasn’t until the grin broke out across his fiery face that she realized he was laughing.
“To what end, mortal?” His voice rose to a thunder. “Hear me, wretched djinn! Traitors to your blood! You would stand against your lords? Those who would lead you to greatness? If you will not bow willingly, you will be forced to bend—or break!”
Angry cries and growls rose up. Fatma tried again to be heard above the din. But it was no use. The same djinn that had moments ago been cowed, now stood determined not to back down. So, it seemed, did the Nine Lords.
“Insolent children!” the Ifrit King snarled, his crown ablaze. He lifted his great mace to the heavens, and it amazingly grew, so that he could now heft it in two clawed hands. “If it is battle you seek for dominion of this realm, you shall have it. Let there be war!”
With a great swing, he brought down his mace, striking the side of Abdeen Palace a terrific blow. The building shook, the force of the impact rattling Fatma. She was thrown off her feet as the rooftop heaved, a groaning going up as if the palace were screaming its pain. She tried to stand, hoping to run—but the ground suddenly gave way. Then it was gone, and she was falling amid fire and crumbling stone, plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Fatma was falling. Amid stone and fire.
No.
Not falling. Had fallen. Fell.
And now—
She spasmed—arms flailing, remembering what it was to fall. Grabbing at open air. Terrified at finding only emptiness. Or at least she tried. Something held her arms firm. Rough and heavy. Her legs too. So that she could barely move. And oh did she hurt! She forced her eyes open to darkness and stinging flecks of dust. Jumbled memories flittered through her head and she wrangled them into coherence.
The Ifrit King. Abdeen Palace. Collapsing. Falling.
She’d survived. The bruises she felt were proof enough. The roughness that held her fast was stone. The rubble of the destroyed palace. She’d survived, but was now buried beneath it.
Calm deduction gave way to panic. She was buried! How deep? She imagined a hill of debris, under which no one would find her. She struggled to move again, with little result.
Her mother’s voice came, not lecturing but soothing, cutting through the panic. Every problem has a solution, it assured. You will find a way out of this. She heeded the advice, willing herself calm. As calm as you could be entombed beneath a collapsed building. Her vision slowly adjusting, she looked around again. Broken stone. Dust. Something soft brushed her cheek. Cloth? Hair? No. Fluffier than hair. Feathers!
Now she could feel more than stone. Warmth—given off by a body. A very large body.
Siti! Her mind flooded with new memories. The palace crumbling. Someone catching her. Flapping wings trying to escape the avalanche. But too much and—
Siti had saved her. Shielded her. She could feel the other woman’s breathing, hear the rise and fall of inhalation. But it was faint. Frightfully faint.
“Siti.” Her first call was barely audible. She worked saliva onto her tongue and tried again. “Siti.” This time a croak. Two more croaks, then an answer.
“Who’s there? Is someone there?”
Fatma knew that voice. Decidedly not Siti. She gritted her teeth to say the name.
“Abigail.”
“Yes! It’s me! Who—?”
“Agent Fatma.”
Quiet.
“How did you survive the fall?”
Abigail took a moment to respond. “Your half-djinn.”
So Siti had saved the woman too. There’s a surprise. Rolling thunder echoed from somewhere above, setting the rubble about them to tremble. Abigail squealed.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Fatma said, irked at the question. “I’m in here with you.”
“I’ve heard it twice already! From outside … I think there’s fighting.”
Fatma glanced up, as if expecting to see through stone. A second rolling boom. Debris shifted and creaked, spilling dust. Beside her, Siti’s breaths became a hoarse r
attle.
“Abigail! Can you make out anything? Can you see outside?”
Silence.
“Abigail!”
“I don’t know. It’s all just—wait.”
“Wait what?”
More silence.
“Abigail!” She was going to throttle the woman if she didn’t answer faster.
“I see something. But not near me. I think it’s by you.”
“What?” Fatma bent her head back, craning to see above. There! A hole! She could even feel air on her temple. There was a chance. Working more saliva onto her tongue, she shouted. “Help! Is anyone there? Help!”
Nothing. After three more attempts, her throat went dry. Maybe there was no one up there, she considered darkly. A shrill shriek and a loud whooshing came, and she strained to make out anything through the small space.
“That’s that, then,” Abigail sighed. “If we die here, I want you to know I forgive you.”
Fatma tried to whip her head around. As it was, she only returned a strangled, “What?”
“I said I forgive you. I think it’s important to say, at the end.”
“You forgive me? You forgive me?”
“There’s no need to raise your voice. I’m trying to have a moment with you.”
“Keep your moment!” Fatma spat.
Abigail tsked. “You people can be so hot-blooded. Is it the heat?”
When Fatma didn’t answer she went on.
“I’d think you’d be more understanding. After all, I’m the one missing a hand. I was so close! Then you ruined it all. I’m assuming after I passed out, things went poorly? If you’d just let me keep the ring, none of this would have happened. In a way, this is your fault.”
“You’re insane,” Fatma snapped.
Abigail huffed. “Why do people like using that word, ‘insane’? Or ‘crazy’? Or ‘out of her mind’? Because I’m of the fairer sex? If I were a man, would you doubt my sanity?”
Fatma sighed inwardly, hating to admit the woman was right. She had an aunt who suffered a mental illness. Nothing remotely dangerous about her at all. And Fatma hated when anyone called her things like “crazy” or “insane.”
A Master of Djinn Page 37
