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
