A Master of Djinn: 1 (Dead Djinn Universe)

by P. Djèlí Clark

Fatma looked to find her holding a blunderbuss with a flared muzzle. She’d been carrying that in pieces under her dress this whole time? The gun went off with a terrific boom, tearing through an ash-ghul and sending whole appendages flying. Siti walked forward, reloading and firing as she went. After four shots, there wasn’t much left but a stumbling torso attached to two shattered legs. She swung the weapon like a club, smashing it to dust.

  “Impressive,” the imposter called. “But we have unfinished business.” He reached out with his right hand, pulling his humming blade from nothingness and pointing it at Siti. “I recall putting this through your side. Yet here you are. How is that possible?”

  Siti bared a sharp grin. “I have a lot more surprises.”

  Fatma had her own blade out. “We know what you took from the vaults.”

  The imposter waved the sword tauntingly. “There are no secrets kept from me.”

  “What do you want with it? What are you planning?”

  He raised a finger to the lips of his gold mask in a hushing motion. “The Nine Lords are sleeping,” he whispered.

  Fatma frowned. Nine Lords? What was he going on about now?

  “The Nine Lords are sleeping,” he continued in singsong. “Do we want to wake them? Look into their eyes and they’ll burn your soul away!”

  Fatma gritted her teeth. For once, could villains stop being so damned cryptic?

  Beside her, Siti growled. “Are we going to keep talking, or are we going to do this?” She had donned her claws and was all but dancing with anticipation.

  “Now!” Fatma cried, charging.

  They met the imposter at a sprint. Fatma pressed the attack, parrying the singing blade, then following with her own swings. Siti slashed, her claws raking the sword to send up blistering sparks. Something new drove them, different from that night in the Cemetery. Siti had seen her friends slandered and attacked. Fatma had watched the Ministry burn. The memories fed their determination. This was going to end tonight!

  With a sudden surge of strength Siti went hurtling toward the imposter. Her claws reached inside his guard, tearing through the front of his robes. He lowered his defense and backed away only to take a fast kick to the chest that sent him sprawling. There was an audible grunt as he hit the ground, and the black sword vanished into mist. Siti cried in victory, crouched and readying to leap when he held up a chain mail–covered hand.

  “No!” His word was sharp, like a command.

  And quite unexpectedly, Siti went still.

  The imposter exhaled a surprised breath. “Of course! I thought I sensed it. But I couldn’t be certain. How else could you have survived my blade?”

  Fatma stared at Siti, not understanding. What was happening? The woman just stood there, muscles strained and poised, ready to attack. But she seemed unable to move, like a statue locked in place. Was this some new sorcery? She lifted her own sword and pointed the edge down at the imposter. “Undo whatever you’ve done!” she demanded.

  He laughed. The first time she’d ever heard him do so. And his eyes burned bright. Dangerous. He uttered a word. Something in the djinn tongue. She thought it might have meant “unveil” or “become.” Siti’s eyes turned to Fatma, filled with something she’d never before seen in the woman—fear. Then, she changed.

  It seemed to Fatma that Siti simply vanished. In her place stood a woman whose face still bore some resemblance. But she was taller, unnaturally so, with black skin like liquid ink. Two crimson ram horns curved up from her head into jutting points, and her eyes were those of a cat—bloodred pupils forming vertical slits that sat on beds of iridescent gold. It took a moment for Fatma to make sense of what she was seeing. Though it still made no sense at all. Siti hadn’t become some other woman. She had become a djinn.

  “You did not know.” Fresh mirth tinged the imposter’s voice. “That will make this even sweeter.” He turned to Siti. This time speaking in Arabic. “Kill.”

  Fatma was on the ground before she could think. The air ran from her lungs in a rush as her body was crushed by the weight bearing down on her. Someone was atop her, their knee pressing hard onto her chest, holding her down. She struggled to breathe. But someone had hands about her neck, choking her. Not someone. Siti. It was Siti who was choking her.

  Fatma’s legs kicked frantically, trying to escape this nightmare. But if Siti was stronger before, she was inhuman now. Between the pain Fatma tried to focus, looking into that strange but familiar face—filled with rage and teeth bared, showing sharp long canines. Her gaze swept up to find Siti’s eyes. Djinn eyes. Opening her lips, she struggled to breathe, fighting to call the woman’s name.

  “Siti.”

  The sound was so weak, Fatma barely recognized her own voice. She hoped hearing the name might break the murderous trance that had come over the woman. Cut through whatever power now held her. But there was nothing. She fought for another free breath and tried again.

  “Abla.”

  Still nothing. Not even the barest hint of recognition. As if the woman hadn’t heard. And she remembered now where she’d seen such eyes before. Zagros. This was just how the djinn librarian had looked when he’d tried to kill her. A face like a mask of rage with dead eyes. Lifeless eyes. Like nothing lived behind them.

  Fatma gagged as the breath was squeezed from her. Even as she struggled, there was a competing desire to just let go. To not fight. To let herself drift into a calm sleep. Just for a moment. Her eyelids were now so very heavy. The world grew distant and even the pain dulled to a numb ache that seemed someone else’s concern.

  No! Some stubborn part of her screamed defiance, jolting her into awareness. The world crashed in around her again in a wave of senses. The weight of Siti atop her. The pain. The inability to breathe. In her head, that stubborn voice persisted, urging her on. Fight! it demanded. You’re not going to die here! Like this! Fight for your damned life!

  Fatma forced her eyes back open—and found herself not staring into Siti’s lifeless gaze but instead at a carving of a snarling lioness dangling from what remained of the woman’s gown. Extending a hand she reached out for the silver brooch. It was a measure of her desperation that she even thought this might work. Her fingers grasped the bit of jewelry, ripping it away with the last of her strength and bringing it before those dead djinn eyes.

  “Sekhmet.”

  Her voice was even weaker than before, an almost inaudible croak when she uttered the name of the entombed goddess. But the desperate answer she sought was immediate. Someone else’s eyes suddenly looked out from behind Siti’s gaze. Not dead at all but beyond life. Not ancient but ageless—as if it had seen the stars born and burned away. They stared down with the curiosity of a lioness inspecting a mouse, or the vast fiery desert contemplating the existence of a droplet of rain. Fatma felt as a speck beneath that glare, a mote of dust caught in a raging storm—and she thought she might wither away beneath its intensity, that beat down with the fierceness of a hundred suns. Then as quick as they came, those terrifying eyes vanished, leaving behind djinn eyes. No longer lifeless. No longer empty. And filling with utter horror.

  Siti—or the djinn she had become—yanked her hands from around Fatma’s neck. In one movement she bounded up, stumbling back and away, her body trembling. She shook her head wildly back and forth as if trying to dispel something, before an anguished scream escaped her throat. Unexpectedly a set of broad feathered wings unfurled from her back and spread wide. They beat frantically, lifting her off her feet and into the air. In moments she was high into the sky, soaring away into the night.

  Fatma watched it all, turned on her side, trying to breathe. How long had all of that been? Minutes? Seconds? Lights swam in her head. Once again she had to force herself not to black out. There would be time later to try to put together what had just happened. There would be time later to think after Siti. There would be time later to try to mend the pieces of her life.

  Her eyes instead searched the dark. She found the imposter, standing a
nd watching the skies after Siti, before turning to walk away. Something inside Fatma snarled like an animal. She rose on weakened legs and stumbled forward, grabbing for the first thing she could find. The abandoned blunderbuss. Out of ammunition. But still useful. Breaking into a stuttering run, she got as close to the imposter as possible and let out a shrill whistle. He turned in surprise, and she swung.

  He never saw it coming. Had likely thought her dead. Or incapacitated. His mistake. She heard a satisfied crunch as the gun’s barrel connected solidly. The gold mask cracked on one side, spinning away. He stumbled back, a tumble of black locks flying from beneath his hood—before his face rippled.

  Fatma’s eyes went wide, watching as the man’s dark skin undulated like water. He clutched where he’d been struck, either in pain or to smooth out the distortion. Too late! Dropping the blunderbuss, she reached to grab at a fistful of locks, her other hand going for her janbiya. She only managed to get hold of a strand as he pulled away, the knife slicing down. Something struck her hard, and she went flying, tumbling end over end—before the night erupted in fire.

  The Ifrit.

  It seemed to materialize out of darkness, a living bloodred inferno in the form of a giant, with glowing horns and molten eyes. A torrid wind buffeted the trees and topiaries—turning them all into pyres. Still clutching his face, the imposter scrambled onto the djinn’s waiting back. His mount spread fiery wings and in one leap soared into the sky, bearing its master away.

  Fatma watched them disappear, before limping over to where the gold mask lay. Picking it up, she found the dark lock she’d managed to cut away. Her hands tightened on both as one thought filled her head.

  His face had rippled!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Atop the stage at the Jasmine, a lone trombone player belted out a solo. Frog, as Alfred was better known, hadn’t gotten the sobriquet for his short stature. Or his gravelly voice. But instead for the sounds he forced from his trombone—something between a croak and blare, inspired, he claimed, by the nighttime bayou in his native New Orleans. Tonight, he played a somber tune, with long drawn-out notes as his cheeks puffed and blew.

  The spot was less crowded than usual—a by-product of the unease in the city. The djinn proprietor stood dejectedly among his idle servers, eyes fixed on the door for patrons.

  Well, Fatma thought gloomily, they had her.

  She didn’t remember deciding to come here. Things were a bit fuzzy after the police and palace guards found her among the burning topiaries. She recalled handing over the cracked gold mask and lock of hair to Hadia. Then she’d wandered off, her mind set on one thing—Siti transforming into a djinn. Make that two things. Siti trying to murder her. When she closed her eyes, she saw that inhuman stare—lifeless, as Siti choked the breath from her. She should have felt sick. Angry. Hurt. But she was just numb. In that dazed state, she’d ended up here.

  “You better slow down.”

  Fatma turned to find Benny. His silver cornet sat between them, like a silent customer. He scowled at her cup.

  “You need a real drink to drown your sorrows. Can’t do nothing on sarsaparilla!”

  “With mint leaves and tea,” she muttered.

  He shook his head, glancing her over. “Must have had some night.”

  Fatma looked down at her suit, which bore scorch marks and a tear along one shoulder. She’d lost her bowler too, letting her cropped black curls hang messily.

  “Been a long two weeks, Benny.”

  He threw back a glass. “Work or personal?”

  “Both.” She finished her cocktail and motioned to the bartender for another.

  “Them the worst kind. This have to do with Miss Trouble? You two have a fight?”

  Fatma almost laughed, eyes darting to the door. A part of her wanted Siti to stroll in, wearing some outrageous gown. As if that would make everything that happened tonight disappear?

  “Whenever me and my lady had problems,” Benny related, “seemed like the whole world was on fire. No one or nobody could hurt us the way we hurt each other.”

  Fatma resisted the urge to ask if this lady of his ever transformed into a seven-foot djinn and tried to break his neck.

  “I’d try to remember the good times then,” he said. “Not let this one hump break us. Sure enough, we’d be back together right as rain.”

  “Did your lady ever keep secrets, Benny? About herself?”

  He put a finger to the tip of his nose. It took a moment for Fatma to catch his meaning, until she rubbed her own nose and a bit of soot came off on her fingers.

  “Usually the secrets we keep deep down, ain’t meant to hurt other people,” he said. “Not saying they won’t, but not through intentions. Those deep secrets, we hide away because we’re afraid what other people might think. How they might judge us, if they knew. And nobody’s judgment we scared of more than the one we give our hearts to. Besides, everybody got secrets. Even you, I’m betting.”

  He sat with his drink then, polite enough to leave her to her thoughts as the trombone wailed its lament.

  She walked out of the Jasmine after about an hour. There was only so much sarsaparilla a body could take. Buttoning what was left of her jacket, she made her way through the backstreets near Muhammad Ali Street. Head down, she tucked her cane under one arm and hunched her shoulders, hoping to broadcast that she wanted to be left alone. She especially hoped whoever had taken to following behind her—their heavy footsteps unmistakable in the quiet—would get the hint. Sighing, she stopped under an archway near a set of short steps and spoke in a clear no-nonsense voice.

  “Look, I’ve been having a rough go of it. In the past week I’ve fought ghuls, a sorcerer, a maddened Marid, and stared down an Ifrit. You think you want some of this, then go ahead and try me. Just wanted you to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  There was silence followed by a familiar guttural rumble.

  “Your days have been quite full, agent.”

  Fatma turned around, shoulders slumping. “Evening, Ahmad.”

  The self-proclaimed god of the Cult of Sobek skulked from the shadows. It seemed he’d undergone more changes. He was bulkier, and moved with an odd gait. Beneath his brown robes, she caught snatches of pale gray skin and a protrusion on his face like a muzzle. His penetrating dark green eyes looked more crocodilian than ever. What was the man doing to himself?

  “Evening, Agent Fatma,” he returned in a raspy hiss.

  “Didn’t we talk about you following me around? I thought we agreed it was creepy?”

  He spread his hands apologetically—both now webbed, with black claws.

  “Malesh. I just want to talk.”

  Fatma squatted on the steps, her back to the archway. She didn’t feel like going home yet anyway. “So talk.”

  Ahmad squatted opposite her, though he seemed to have a rough time at it. He pulled out a Nefertari, his inhuman face asking, Do you mind? She waved her consent. He made an elaborate show with the silver scarab lighter before taking a drag and cocking his head. “Are you well, agent?”

  “Do I look that bad?”

  His green eyes studied her. “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean to say, you don’t seem yourself. I see beyond flesh and bone to spirit. Yours looks … wounded. I am here, if you need someone. To listen, I mean.”

  She stared at him. He thought she wanted to unburden her problems on him? A man who thought he was an ancient god and was now disfiguring himself? What gave him the nerve?

  “You want to know what’s wounding my spirit?” she asked hotly. “Fine! I’ll tell it all to you, until you choke!” That’s precisely what she did. She told him about the fruitless quest of her case. Of the attack on the Ministry. Of what had happened tonight. And about Siti. Of those lifeless eyes that sought her death. When she was done, she felt wrung out. But at least she wasn’t numb.

  “That…” Ahmad began. He cleared his throat. “I thought you were going to tell m
e about your self-doubts or maybe about some interpersonal conflicts with your coworkers. I wasn’t quite expecting so much. You do have problems!”

  “You’ve been a great comfort,” she told him wryly.

  “I’m sorry all of this has happened to you, agent.” He offered his cigarette.

  Fatma hesitated, then accepted, taking a long pull. The tobacco smoke swirled in her nostrils, reaching her tongue—and she gagged. She could probably count the times she’d ever smoked a cigarette on one hand. But this was by far the worst. “This is awful. It tastes like…”

  “Stale feet?” he suggested.

  “Why do you smoke them if they’re so bad?”

  “They don’t call it a habit for nothing.”

  She handed back the Nefertari. “Did you know? About Siti?”

  He shook his head. “Though I myself am no stranger to … transformation. I hope the two of you can find a path forward. I am also no stranger to love and loss.”

  His words struck her, as they always managed to do. She fought to rise above her own problems and grief, imagining the pain he carried. “I haven’t given up on the case, Ahmad. I’m going to find this imposter. I’m going to bring him in. Your … Nephthys will receive justice.”

  His reptilian eyes searched her. Whatever he saw there appeared to bring satisfaction.

  “Justice comes for the wicked in time. The scales of Thoth demand it.” He came to his feet, dropping the spent cigarette and stamping it out. “Thank you, agent.”

  “For what?”

  “For trying. For deciding that Nephthys mattered.”

  He turned to walk away.

  “Wait,” Fatma called. He swiveled his head around, fixing her with green baleful eyes. She searched them, trying to see if there was anyone else—anything else—staring back at her. “You really believe there’s a”—she fumbled at the word—“god, living inside you?”

  “A bit of a god. A drop, to an ocean.” He squinted curiously. “And what is it, agent, that you have seen this night?”

  Fatma fidgeted at the question, unnerved by his odd perception. She didn’t answer, instead posing another query. “What’s happening to you now, is it your choice? Or something being done to you, by your”—she fumbled again—“god?”