Not answering, Fatma instead peered back to the man on the wall. He stood, arms behind his back, drinking in the crowd’s praise. He surveyed them and then looked directly to where she stood. For a moment their gazes locked, and she shuddered. His face was concealed behind a gold mask. Yet even from this distance she could see his eyes—the intensity of them. For a moment the two only stared at each other. Then he held up a hand and pointed down. The silent figure beside him jerked his head as if coming alive—before hurtling from the wall toward the ground below.
She gasped. He should have died from that height—at least four stories. Or broken half the bones in his body. But they landed in a crouch, boots sending up billowing dust.
Fatma blinked. Wait, they? One man jumped from that wall. She was certain. But now there were two! Identical! Wearing the same masks: black and carved in the faces of men. They glanced at one another before stalking forward, lanky bodies moving like jackals.
“Fatma!”
Siti’s warning came just as one of the figures rushed them. Fatma barely had time to bring up her cane, blocking a fist and dancing back as he came at her again. There was a growl, and Siti surged past, aiming for the man. But his companion joined the fray, legs darting kicks she was forced to slap away.
Fatma stumbled as the crowd pulled back from the combatants. The man was fast—unnaturally so. There was no hope in getting her sword out; he never gave her a chance. She was forced to use her cane to block as he pressed the attack. She needed to do something soon or—
In a blur he was in her guard, and a fist connected with her side. There was a flaring lance of pain that would have doubled her over. But she didn’t even have time before he slapped her chest with a flat palm. It felt like being hit by stone. Her feet lifted off the ground, and she landed hard on her back. God! That hurt! Everywhere! Stunned, she looked up to see him slinking forward like a cat after prey. Fumbling for her sword, she got it free just as he descended on her, a fist drawn.
“Keep back! Or—”
Before she could finish, he threw himself on the blade. It slipped through shirt and flesh, burying into his chest. He stopped, inspecting the weapon that had probably punctured a lung. He’d be spitting up blood in that mask soon. Damn! She hadn’t wanted that! He lifted his head up to stare at her with unblinking eyes—black on black with not a hint of white. Then he pushed forward, driving the sword through him. Fatma glared in disbelief. No blood appeared on the silver blade. Instead she thought she saw a fine mist of black, like particles of sand. He pushed closer, until their faces almost touched—staring, with those inhuman eyes.
There was a sharp call, and the man pulled back, black mist forming where a wound should have been. Fatma watched as he moved to his twin, whom Siti had been fighting. The two touched—and in a blink were one. With a terrific leap he flew into the air, landing back atop the wall beside the man in the gold mask. Fatma scrambled to her feet, ignoring her stinging chest to clutch her side and stare up at them. What in all the worlds was going on?
Siti, however, was having none of it.
With a lioness’s roar, she snatched off her wig and flung it up at them. Then she hurled herself at the wall—hanging on by something sharp and metallic. Fatma recognized the gloves with silver claws. Did she take those things everywhere? Growling, she began to climb, still wearing her gown but barefoot now. Ahmad wasn’t the only one gifted with odd magic. Siti carried her own peculiar sorcery: magic that made her faster, stronger. She scaled a third of the bricks in moments, carried up by anger and sheer bullheadedness. Watching her ascent, Fatma wondered if a goddess didn’t reside within the woman. Then the wall erupted into flames.
Fatma reared back as the fire’s glare lit the night, red as blood, its heat on her skin. Siti let go. She should have landed in a broken heap, but managed to drop on all fours—as graceful as a cat. Before either could say a word, the flames vanished. Atop the wall, both figures had vanished as well.
“Cowards!” Siti shouted. “I almost had him!”
“You okay?” Fatma staggered toward her.
Siti flexed a set of smoking claws. “Didn’t even touch me.” Her angry eyes rounded in alarm. “You’re hurt!”
Fatma grunted in pain as the taller woman reached over to support her. “Took a hit to the side. Think he might have—” She let out a breath. It hurt to talk. “Cracked a rib.”
Siti wrapped an arm about her, taking her weight. “They were stronger than they looked.”
Fatma nodded. She recalled the corpse with its head turned around. Inhumanly strong.
“I don’t think they meant to injure you,” Ahmad said. He’d backed off with the crowd during the fight and now returned. He looked over Fatma, reassessing. “Not gravely at least.”
Siti rounded on him. “A lot of good you were! Some help would have been nice!”
The man gave a crocodilian wince. “I thought you were handling things. Besides, I think their intent was to send you a message, nothing more.”
“What message was that?” Siti asked testily.
Ahmad gestured to the wall. The brick was scorched, but in some places the stone remained untouched, leaving script written from top to bottom.
“Okay,” Siti admitted. “That’s a message.”
As Fatma read the words, she felt her teeth clench along with her stomach:
BEHOLD, I AM AL-JAHIZ.
AND I HAVE RETURNED.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Unlike most government offices, the Ministry didn’t close on Fridays. It was
