“I am yours to command,” his hoary voice came, then with contempt so vile it seemed it might melt the very air, “Mistress of Djinn.”
“No,” Siti breathed.
A long silence followed, only broken by Abigail’s slow laughter. It grew louder as she basked in her triumph. She held up her hand, displaying the ring for all to see.
“Al-Jahiz may have changed the world. But I will remake it in a new image! In my image! Speak my name! Speak it!”
“The Mistress of Djinn,” the bowed Ifrit King proclaimed. The other Ifrit Lords descended to kneel beside him, repeating the title. Along the rooftop and in the streets below, djinn called out the same words, “The Mistress of Djinn,” until all else was lost in the din.
Fatma sat back. They had failed. All about them, djinn began falling to their knees, soon to become her great army. Well, not all.
One still stood. He curiously kept moving closer to Abigail. It might have been easy to miss with everything else going on. But he was the only one behaving differently, steadily inching his way into the circle that now surrounded his mistress. More noticeable, he was wearing brown robes with his head covered.
Something tugged at Fatma. A sense of familiarity. Even the way he walked was familiar—with an odd gait. It was only when he had gotten right beside Abigail that he threw back his hood and she gaped.
The man had changed even more since their last encounter. Though he stood on two feet, he looked more like a crocodile than anything else. His pale-gray skin was as leathery and rough as the water-bound reptile, and he had a crocodile’s long snout—with teeth that showed even when his mouth was closed. But it was those dark green eyes, brimming with vengeance, that helped her put a name to him. That was no djinn. That was …
“Ahmad?” Siti asked confounded.
What happened next had to be seen to be believed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
One moment, Ahmad, head priest of the Cult of Sobek, the claimed living embodiment of the ancient Nile god on Earth, stood glaring venomously at the Mistress of Djinn. The next he was lunging, his crocodile mouth yawning wide, and flashing white sharp teeth.
Two words escaped him in a screaming hiss: “For Nephthys!”
Abigail was so engrossed in her rejoicing she barely seemed to hear him. As it was, when those jaws snapped down on her extended hand—the one bearing the Seal of Sulayman—she never saw it coming.
Fatma watched, stunned, as Ahmad’s long crocodilian head whipped about. There was a terrible wrenching as he pulled away, with Abigail’s hand clamped between his teeth.
It was over so quick she didn’t seem to register what had happened. She stumbled back, staring down at the place her hand had been—now only a bloodied stump. Her face frowned in confusion. Slowly, she turned a sickly color. When her mouth opened, it was to draw in a large gulp of air—before releasing a bloodcurdling scream.
Pandemonium erupted.
Along the rooftop, djinn broke from their trance, ceasing their chants as life refilled empty eyes. Many looked about bemused, and their murmurs could be heard amid Abigail’s unending screams. On the iron djinn, Ifrit loosed from their bonds tore through the giant’s mechanical frame to reclaim their freedom—sending fragments of steel flying. The towering monstrosity rocked precariously, as the magic holding it together was undone and the flames on the horned head snuffed out. A great grinding went up as it severed from the neck, bouncing off a shoulder before tumbling away. The machine body followed, fracturing before their eyes.
The four humans still atop the platform were sent clambering for safety. The Edginton sisters were the first to jump, landing ungracefully on the rooftop and rolling into a heap of splayed legs. Percival followed, leaving Victor to fend for himself. Holding his injured shoulder, he leaped off just as the platform, the Clock of Worlds, and what was left of the mechanical giant plummeted to the palace courtyard in a set of thunderous crashes.
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
