The Ifrit King. Abdeen Palace. Collapsing. Falling.
She’d survived. The bruises she felt were proof enough. The roughness that held her fast was stone. The rubble of the destroyed palace. She’d survived, but was now buried beneath it.
Calm deduction gave way to panic. She was buried! How deep? She imagined a hill of debris, under which no one would find her. She struggled to move again, with little result.
Her mother’s voice came, not lecturing but soothing, cutting through the panic. Every problem has a solution, it assured. You will find a way out of this. She heeded the advice, willing herself calm. As calm as you could be entombed beneath a collapsed building. Her vision slowly adjusting, she looked around again. Broken stone. Dust. Something soft brushed her cheek. Cloth? Hair? No. Fluffier than hair. Feathers!
Now she could feel more than stone. Warmth—given off by a body. A very large body.
Siti! Her mind flooded with new memories. The palace crumbling. Someone catching her. Flapping wings trying to escape the avalanche. But too much and—
Siti had saved her. Shielded her. She could feel the other woman’s breathing, hear the rise and fall of inhalation. But it was faint. Frightfully faint.
“Siti.” Her first call was barely audible. She worked saliva onto her tongue and tried again. “Siti.” This time a croak. Two more croaks, then an answer.
“Who’s there? Is someone there?”
Fatma knew that voice. Decidedly not Siti. She gritted her teeth to say the name.
“Abigail.”
“Yes! It’s me! Who—?”
“Agent Fatma.”
Quiet.
“How did you survive the fall?”
Abigail took a moment to respond. “Your half-djinn.”
So Siti had saved the woman too. There’s a surprise. Rolling thunder echoed from somewhere above, setting the rubble about them to tremble. Abigail squealed.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Fatma said, irked at the question. “I’m in here with you.”
“I’ve heard it twice already! From outside … I think there’s fighting.”
Fatma glanced up, as if expecting to see through stone. A second rolling boom. Debris shifted and creaked, spilling dust. Beside her, Siti’s breaths became a hoarse rattle.
“Abigail! Can you make out anything? Can you see outside?”
Silence.
“Abigail!”
“I don’t know. It’s all just—wait.”
“Wait what?”
More silence.
“Abigail!” She was going to throttle the woman if she didn’t answer faster.
“I see something. But not near me. I think it’s by you.”
“What?” Fatma bent her head back, craning to see above. There! A hole! She could even feel air on her temple. There was a chance. Working more saliva onto her tongue, she shouted. “Help! Is anyone there? Help!”
Nothing. After three more attempts, her throat went dry. Maybe there was no one up there, she considered darkly. A shrill shriek and a loud whooshing came, and she strained to make out anything through the small space.
“That’s that, then,” Abigail sighed. “If we die here, I want you to know I forgive you.”
Fatma tried to whip her head around. As it was, she only returned a strangled, “What?”
“I said I forgive you. I think it’s important to say, at the end.”
“You forgive me? You forgive me?”
“There’s no need to raise your voice. I’m trying to have a moment with you.”
“Keep your moment!” Fatma spat.
Abigail tsked. “You people can be so hot-blooded. Is it the heat?”
When Fatma didn’t answer she went on.
“I’d think you’d be more understanding. After all, I’m the one missing a hand. I was so close! Then you ruined it all. I’m assuming after I passed out, things went poorly? If you’d just let me keep the ring, none of this would have happened. In a way, this is your fault.”
“You’re insane,” Fatma snapped.
Abigail huffed. “Why do people like using that word, ‘insane’? Or ‘crazy’? Or ‘out of her mind’? Because I’m of the fairer sex? If I were a man, would you doubt my sanity?”
Fatma sighed inwardly, hating to admit the woman was right. She had an aunt who suffered a mental illness. Nothing remotely dangerous about her at all. And Fatma hated when anyone called her things like “crazy” or “insane.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I take that back. You knew exactly what you were doing. That you were going to hurt a lot of people. And you did it anyway. Willfully. There’s nothing wrong with your head. You’re just a monster.”
“Why, thank you, agent,” Abigail said sweetly. “That really means a lot to me. You know, I do think if not for all this unpleasantness between us, we could have been friends.”
That actually made Fatma laugh.
“No, really. I do mean it. We’re alike in a way.”
“I’m not like you.”
“Oh, I disagree. Do you know how delightful it was to match wits with you? I could have had you killed so many times—run you through with my blade, had you incinerated by my Ifrit, set a pack of ghuls to tear you apart. But I kept you alive, and you know why? Because I see something of myself in you. A woman forced to live in a world run by inept men. So much drive and determination. In a way, we share a bond. My dusky sister of the Orient.”
“You can be quiet now,” Fatma suggested.
“Of course, some bonds are closer than others. Like yours with the half-djinn.”
Fatma stiffened. She’d been listening close to Siti’s breaths. They hadn’t grown any stronger. “Don’t talk about her.”
“That night,” Abigail carried on, “when I took control, I caught glimpses of her secrets. The two of you. So, so very close. When she wrapped her hands around your neck, what that must have felt like. Did you understand then what she was? That she carried a beast within? That’s what these djinn are, you know. Beasts. As dangerous as any hound, if not properly muzzled. But once trained, they are oh so useful.”
Fatma tamped down her anger, refusing to engage. Abigail chuckled at the silence and seemed set to begin her torment anew when another sound came.
“Be quiet!” Fatma said, listening. Were
