That wasn’t at all reassuring. “Right. You can go now. And close the door behind you.” With a lurch, the Ifrit King flew up higher into the air, followed by the other lords. The force of their great wings buffeted them in hot winds so that the Ifrit she rode had to pull back. As she watched, one by one the fiery giants disappeared into the gaping portal. When the last had gone through, it collapsed in a deafening boom that she was sure must have blown out windows for a mile. She shook her head at the ringing. Had forgotten about that part.
In a short while they were back on the ground. She clambered off the Ifrit, and found Hadia and Siti waiting. Only Siti wasn’t exactly Siti. Superimposed upon her was the larger crimson afterglow of her djinn form. It thrummed, and Fatma suddenly felt she could read everything about the other woman—her emotions, thoughts, even memories. There was a temptation—to reach out and pull just a bit, to get a glimpse. In her thoughts, she heard a voice like a cat laugh.
I’m done, she said hastily. Take your power back.
The laugh turned to a petulant whine, but when Fatma looked down the glowing pattern had been scrubbed from her skin. The ring was again on her finger. Gold once more. She quickly pulled it off—then promptly dropped as her legs gave out.
“You okay?” Siti asked, catching her.
“A little weak.” More like exhausted.
“Glory be to God,” Hadia breathed. “I think we won.”
Fatma gazed around at the rubble, to the wreckage of buildings, cars, and the fires still burning in the near distance—where a water giant was hobbling back to the Nile. They’d won. But at a cost. Closing a fist over the ring, she found Ahmad. He had perched atop a bit of rubble, and was staring intently at her with his crocodilian eyes. Gathering her strength, she walked over to him and held out an open palm.
“Take it,” she said. “Take it wherever you’re going. And bury it. Where no one will find it. Ever.”
Ahmad hesitated, then reached a clawed hand to take the ring. Fatma had already made up her mind to get rid of the thing. Damn those so-called angels. She wasn’t about to put it back in their possession. Neither did she trust it in the hands of the Ministry. As she stifled back the pang of loss that unexpectedly washed over her, she realized she didn’t even trust herself.
Abigail suddenly screamed, flinging herself at Ahmad—heedless now of any danger. She might have had another appendage bitten off, or even a limb, if Hadia hadn’t caught her, pinning an arm behind her back and holding her fast. Still the woman struggled, her blue-green eyes wide and feverish. “It’s mine!” she wailed. “I deserve it! It’s not yours to give away! It’s mine! Mine!”
Ahmad shook his head. “Why do these colonizers always claim what isn’t theirs?”
The Ifrit, who had stood by quietly, rumbled in his throat. “It is the power of the—” He stopped abruptly, his horned head jerking from side to side.
He still couldn’t speak about the Seal, but Fatma understood. Holding it only for a moment had affected her. How long had Abigail wielded it? Weeks?
“You can’t keep it from me!” she shouted. “I can feel it, feel it, feel it! I will go seeking it and it will call to me and I will find it and I will have it again! It belongs to me! To me! To me!”
“I think she means it,” Hadia said worriedly.
Fatma turned to the Ifrit. “Can you make her forget? About … you know.”
His molten eyes narrowed. “Do you … wish this of me?”
She shook her head emphatically. Never that. “Think of it as for your own good.”
The Ifrit contemplated. Turning to Abigail he lifted a clawed hand—touching the barest tip to her forehead. Her babbling cut off and she went taut, before collapsing into Hadia’s arms. Where the Ifrit had touched, a fiery symbol slowly burned itself into the woman’s skin before disappearing. But her jaw had gone slack, and her eyes stared out—blank.
Fatma rounded on the Ifrit in alarm. “What did you do?”
“I made her forget,” he replied.
“How much?”
“All that I could find. All that was her.”
Hadia gasped.
“That’s not what I meant!” Fatma snapped.
The Ifrit’s face contorted in anger. “She made me her servant. I will not risk that again.”
Fatma looked to Siti. “We can’t allow this.”
“Why?” Siti asked, no compassion in her eyes.
Fatma started. “Because … it’s wrong.” She looked back to the Ifrit. “I know what she did to all of you. What she made you do. She deserves justice. But not this. I understand—”
“You understand slavery?” the Ifrit asked.
Fatma wavered at an answer. Her eyes flickered to Ahmad’s closed hand, at what lay buried within. But she knew, even if she could hold the ring again, she wouldn’t use it to place this tormented djinn under her control—even to undo what he’d done. “I thought you were a pacifist,” she managed finally.
The Ifrit turned, spreading his fiery wings. “That is why she still lives.” In a billowing of blistering wind he flew up into the air, and soared away.
Siti placed an arm about her waist, and leaned in to whisper. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not your way. But djinn have their own justice. You’ve done what you could. You’ve saved us from what she unleashed.” Fatma opened her mouth, but the other woman pressed on. “To play with power like that is to tempt the judgment of the gods. Give her your pity if you want, but I won’t have you taking blame for what she brought on herself!”
Fatma gave up, allowing her head to slump upon Siti’s shoulder as weariness claimed her. She stared at Abigail’s open mouth and her eyes that stared out at nothing—dead and empty. The haunting djinn lullaby came to her unbidden.
The Nine Lords are sleeping. Do we want to wake them? Look into
