No sooner had she spoken than Siti’s eyes flew open. In a blur she was in human form—sputtering and coughing. She looked around befuddled before reaching into her mouth to pull out the stone. “Who put a rock down my throat?” she wheezed.
Fatma breathed in relief, squeezing Siti’s hand tight.
Amina took the stone back, handing it off to the Qareen—who promptly swallowed it. “The gris-gris was needed to draw you back to your human self. Your djinn side needs healing.”
“No.” Siti attempted to stand. “I need to be able to fight—”
“Half-djinn are common enough in my country,” Amina insisted, pushing her back down with a firm hand. “The old great King Samanguru was claimed to be a half immortal, able to supposedly transform into a whirlwind and call forth an army of ants.”
“You have a hidden army of ants you want to tell me about?” Fatma asked lightly, unable to hold back the giddiness at seeing Siti conscious and speaking again.
The woman scowled up at Amina. “What’s your point?”
“That I’m familiar enough with your kind to know how to treat you. Make do with this mortal body. Let your djinn side rest.” She looked to Fatma and Abigail. “As for you two.”
There were no stones for them. Amina only laid her hands on their skin, and Fatma felt her body fill with warmth, her bruises and aches dulling.
“How wonderful,” Abigail mused, gingerly touching the skin where a gash had closed on her forehead. “Healer, could you do something about…” She lifted the stump of her hand hopefully. Amina began to inspect the injury, but Jenne let out a sharp hiss.
“Your voice,” the Qareen spoke, silver eyes flashing and scent now bitter. “Jenne remembers the Mistress of Djinn. In our head. Calling. Insisting”
Amina dropped Abigail’s wrist in alarm. “The imposter!”
Wilhelm’s eyes widened. “An Englishwoman! Behind all these troubles? Is that not interesting, Yakov?” He inspected Abigail anew, and Fatma thought his smile hid traces of admiration.
There was a loud booming from the battle, and all eyes turned in its direction—where dazzling lights and sheets of flame lit up the night.
“If we ever do have a war,” Wilhelm declared, “I only hope it is as glorious!”
“Not today,” Amina snapped, standing. She turned to Fatma, eyes curious. “You never told me precisely which agency you worked for. But finding you here, it must be one that deals with … all this. Sometime, we’ll have to meet again, and maybe you’ll tell me more about your government job. But now, there are others in the rubble to find. I pray you’re able to stop this evil, agent. Trust in God.”
Lifting the hem of her gallabiyah, she hurried off, her two attendants following. Fatma watched them disappear into the dust haze—a West African princess, the German kaiser, and a Russian general, wandering the broken Abdeen Palace on this very strange night in Cairo.
Siti took a moment to struggle to her feet, standing but unsteady. “Tell me we have a plan.”
Fatma turned to find her eyes locked on the battle of immortals. “The plan was to not let this happen.” They cupped their ears as a thunderclap rang out from some djinn magic.
“They’ll destroy the city if we don’t stop them.”
“You can’t stop them,” Abigail put in. She’d come to stand beside them, bedraggled but still managing to sound haughty. “I held them. These Nine Lords. For a brief glorious moment. It was like trying to hold a star.” She turned to Siti. “Thank you for saving me. Quite gracious of you.”
Siti cut the woman a murderous glare and one of her feline smiles. “Nothing gracious about it. I almost shot you in the face, remember? Djinn have long memories. Hold even longer grudges. And you went and burned yourself into our memories. The life you’re about to lead, the feeling of being hunted, always looking over your shoulder, unable to escape djinn who can enter even your dreams. I wasn’t about to have you miss all that—Abbie.”
For once, Abigail truly looked ashen.
Siti turned away, then frowned. “Is someone calling you?”
Fatma listened. Someone was calling her name. Shouting it. She searched the dark to find the source. Making her way toward them was Hadia! She came at a run, or as well as she could through the rubble. Her clothes and face were smudged in dust, but she still looked a sight better than they did. When she reached them she clutched Fatma in an embrace.
“Alḥamdulillāh! They said the palace had fallen! I thought were you under it!”
Fatma didn’t bother to say that, in fact, she had been. “How did you get here?”
“Onsi got one of the police wagons working! We sped all the way!” Her gaze flicked to Abigail, then her missing hand. “Guessing I missed a few things?”
Fatma caught her up, watching her jaw go slack.
“The Nine Ifrit Lords!” Hadia gazed at the fiery giants wreaking havoc on the city. “Inspector Aasim came with us. He’s briefed the police and Ministry. They say the king’s going to call out the army—”
She hadn’t finished before the ground shook in a tremor. It stopped. Then shook again. And again. In succession. Fatma was set to ask what now, when she saw it.
Another giant strode the streets of Cairo. This one made not of fire but something dark and rippling. Water! It stood as tall as the Ifrit Lords, shaped like a slender man, with legs capable of great strides and arms that hung past where knees should have been. Its liquid body swirled and crashed in upon itself, setting off unending waves and eddies.
“What new horror is this?” Hadia whispered.
“Not a horror,” Siti said in wonder. “This is Jann work!”
Jann? Fatma had read texts claiming the most ancient Marid once dwelled deep beneath the seas. But even they had not been able to so manipulate the elements—not on such a scale.
“Where did they even get all that water?” Hadia asked.
“The Nile,” Fatma reasoned. “Where else?”
As they watched, the Ifrit Lords turned at
