“We’re clear!” Siti called.
They were still surrounded by djinn. But these didn’t seem to have gotten Abigail’s commands. Their eyes were fixated on their mistress, who no longer shouted, instead standing with her hand extended. Her well-coiffed hair looked ready to come undone, and a sheen of sweat covered her face as she concentrated.
“She looks vulnerable. We should hit her now!”
“Not with that in the way.” Siti motioned to the ash-ghul, who watched them blankly.
“We need to draw it off somehow.”
“On it,” Siti said. She lifted her rifle, taking aim and firing. Abigail flinched at the shot meant for her, even as the ash-ghul moved in a blur to deflect it. She glared down, sparing a moment to call out a command. The swirling black cloud that was the ash-ghul turned and streamed toward them.
“That worked,” Siti said. In a shift, she was the djinn. As the ash-ghul coalesced, dropping before her, she struck out—hitting the thing so hard it broke apart into black dust that scattered across the rooftop. “Go take care of Abbie. I’ll hold this thing.”
Fatma looked to Siti with worry. “You going to be okay? Like this?”
Siti grinned, though the smile looked strained. “She’s too distracted. Plus, the goddess walks with me. Go! Wait!” Fatma was surprised to find herself swept up into a deep kiss. Her body went taut as a torrent jolted through her—as if someone were impossibly pouring half the Nile into a bottle. When their lips parted, her breath caught.
“What was that?” she asked dazedly as her feet touched the ground again.
Siti winked. “A gift. Think of it like I just charged your batteries.” Her face twisted into a snarl as the newly reformed ash-ghul rose up, duplicating itself. “Now go!”
Fatma went. Her body tingled, and it seemed she was filled with renewed vigor. Sliding past the last few djinn she reached the platform steps and bounded up, taking two at a time. Someone jumped down to stop her. Percival Montgomery. She sidestepped him easily, delivering a solid knuckle to the jaw that snapped his head back. He crumpled to the platform, and she smiled. That felt good! She felt good!
The Edginton sisters cried out a warning, and Abigail turned just as Fatma drew her sword and swung. The woman managed to avoid the blade, but it cut close enough to make her face blanch.
“You seem determined to get in my way,” she seethed. “Since, like a child, you’re intent on being heard.” She reached into the air, and a black humming blade appeared in her good hand.
Fatma smiled wider. And attacked.
Abigail was a skilled swordswoman. But Fatma had two things going for her. Abigail was tired, the toll of drawing so much of the ring’s power. She, on the other hand, was fueled by a gift of djinn magic. Her feet danced as she pressed the advantage, forcing her opponent to block and step back lively. She marveled at the ease with which she predicted intended maneuvers, countering them smoothly. She could see the clear exhaustion on Abigail’s face, her breath coming in shallow bursts.
Looking for a way to end this, Fatma pretended to stumble. Abigail grabbed for the victory, extending in a stabbing motion. Coming out of the feint, Fatma went low, the tip of her blade slicing through the dress and finding the thigh. The woman scrambled back with a shriek, holding her injured leg.
“That was for Siti.”
Abigail’s face darkened. “I don’t have time for this!” She motioned with the ring that burned bright. “To me!” From the rooftop, a mass of djinn surged upward. Fatma raised her sword, thinking they meant to attack. Instead, they formed a protective shield around their mistress.
“You want someone to fight?” Abigail sneered from behind the mass of bodies. “Here, then. Test your mettle!” She waved her ring hand again, and one of the Ifrit working on the Clock of Worlds broke from the metal giant, plunging down to land heavily on the steps before Fatma.
The creature stood a good nine feet—not to mention its body was made of living fire. It pulled a burning red blade from nothingness—and swung down. Fatma managed to raise her own in time to meet it. The force of the blow pushed her to one knee as gouts of flame leaped from the Ifrit’s weapon. And still it bore down. Her eyes met its own—empty molten pools—and she knew that blazing edge would reach her eventually.
A roar sounded suddenly, like a lioness’s. The Ifrit screamed as claws raked its arm, then its chest, spitting out fiery blood. It turned to meet a flurry of more claws and beating wings. Siti! The woman bared her teeth as the flaming djinn bellowed, lifting the burning sword above its head in a two-handed grip. A blade appeared in answer in her hand—a thing of glittering silver. When the two met, the collision was blinding.
Abigail observed the melee, still clutching her injured leg. She shouted again, and a second Ifrit, followed by a third, swooped down. Fatma watched in panic as the three fiery forms descended on Siti. The woman bristled, her crimson-on-gold eyes glaring, wings wide, and the silver sword raised high. Fatma had never seen anything so beautiful!
Siti held her own. But she was still a half-djinn, facing three Ifrit who rained down blows with their scorching blades like ironworkers. She was fast reduced to a desperate defense. Her swings grew weaker, barely blocking probing attacks as she spun to keep eyes on all three. They circled her like hyenas working to tire their prey.
Fatma raised her own sword, meaning to jump into the fray—even if she wouldn’t last long. Before she could move, one of the Ifrit lunged, driving its sword through an opening in Siti’s labored defenses. The scorching
