“You realize we’re both wearing the same thing from last time?” she asked. “When we went to confront the rogue angel. You had on that exact combination. I had on this.”
Fatma looked down to her suit—light gray, with a matching vest, chartreuse tie, and a red-on-white pin-striped shirt. She remembered now. Siti in the same brown boots, tan breeches, and kaftan. That was oddly coincidental. “Is this some kind of djinn thing?”
“Don’t ask me.” Siti winked. “I’m only half.” Then she changed.
Even though Fatma expected it, the transformation was still startling. In Siti’s place—no, she corrected herself. This was Siti too. A tall djinn with black glistening skin and deep red curving horns. She gazed down with those crimson-on-gold feline eyes.
“How do you feel?” Fatma asked tentatively.
Siti’s jaw tightened, and her head shook from side to side. “Like I want her to be quiet,” she growled. “But I’m alright, praise the goddess.” A set of black-and-red wings unfurled from her back. “Let’s go shut her up.” Fatma couldn’t stifle the slight yelp as strong arms wrapped about her and she was hoisted into the air.
The immediate sensation sent her stomach into a lurch as the world turned sideways—so that she couldn’t tell which way was up. When she got her bearings again she saw they were soaring above the crowd of djinn, rising higher as Siti’s flapping wings sounded with the wind whooshing in her ears. They cleared the rooftop and set down amid the swelling ranks of djinn.
Siti let go of Fatma, who stumbled to her feet. Flying was never her strong suit. None of the djinn about them spared a glance. Their faces were blank with those haunting empty eyes as they stood swaying in place. Fatma and Siti turned toward the mechanical djinn. The platform Abigail stood upon was built like a dais, with a set of steps leading down to the rooftop. Her coconspirators stood just behind her—Victor, Bethany, Darlene, and Percy. Their backs were turned, watching the Ifrit that studiously worked fitting together plates on the Clock of Worlds.
“It’s almost done,” Fatma noted. “Wait, where are you going?” She reached out to grab Siti, who was stepping forward. She turned to fix her with djinn eyes that had gone dull. “Siti! Listen to me, not her! Change back! Siti!” There was a sudden recognition and, in an instant, she returned to human form.
“Malesh,” Siti muttered in apology, looking embarrassed. She took in the scene in front of them. “You’re right, that clock is near finished. When it goes operational, the Nine Lords will come through. And all these djinn will turn into their dutiful soldiers. Well, her soldiers.”
“We could storm those steps. Take her on directly.”
Siti looked up at Abigail, whose sickly white hand was clearly visible—along with the ring. “I have a better idea.” She pulled the long rifle from her back.
Fatma started at the realization of what was being suggested.
“Last I checked,” Siti said, reading her face, “the Ministry issues guns.”
“For self-defense,” Fatma countered. “Not assassination.”
“It’s still self-defense. Assassination is just how it happens.” Fatma opened her mouth to protest, but Siti plowed on. “We don’t have time to debate the ethics. All I know is that one bullet will make that ring of hers useless, free all these djinn, and stop that machine. From where I stand, that’s the greater good.”
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
