CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fatma watched the shoe fly—a sandal thrown by unseen hands. It fell at an arc and couldn’t cause real injury. But the policeman it struck in the face roared—perhaps more offended than hurt—pushing forward and setting off a chain reaction. Police in the front charged, carried by the momentum of those behind them. When they met the crowd, everything exploded.
Batons lay about backs, arms, and legs. People went down, screaming as they were hit. Some fought. Others ran, police chasing them further into the crowd. The melee spread as new combatants joined the fray. In a flash, they were in a pitched battle.
Fatma dodged a man aiming for her. She jabbed him with the pommel of her cane, forcing him back. Another appeared, this one more agile. Fatma barely missed a fist swung inches from her nose. Then the figure spun and leaped up to smack Aasim flat across the face. He yelped, clutching his cheek, free arm reaching futilely at his attacker, who was already zipping away.
“Was I just slapped by a girl?” he asked, incredulous.
Fatma eyed the lithe figure disappearing into the crowd. It was a girl. Couldn’t be out of her teens, tall with dark skin. But what stood out were her garments—a bright red kaftan and blue Turkish trousers.
“Forty Leopards!” she shouted in warning. “There are Forty Leopards in the crowd!”
Now that she looked, she could spot the lady thieves dispersed through the mayhem—snatching away batons or taking policemen’s legs from under them. Others used slingshots to hurl rocks that knocked men out cold. A few were arranging the disorganized crowd to make strategic hit-and-run attacks along Aasim’s officer line.
“Forty Leopards!” he spat, working his jaw. “Why are they even involved?”
Fatma had no idea. But it only made things worse. Another set of attackers charged, separating her from Aasim. She was left with Hamed, and one other agent, working hard to keep the angry crowd at bay. A sudden alarm went off in her head. Where was Hadia? She spun, finding the woman on her right.
“Get away! Find the back ranks and have them escort you out!”
“There are no back ranks!” Hadia retorted.
“You can’t stay here! You’ll get—”
Fatma’s words were cut off as someone pushed her. She went down, looking up to find a large man looming with a stick. He raised it up to bring down on her—when a fist caught his side. The man squealed, dropping the stick and spinning to his attacker. Hadia. A moment of surprise registered on his face, before he lunged. Fatma watched open-mouthed as the woman coolly evaded his reach. Grabbing his arm, she used his momentum to send him flying—crashing back into his companions. He righted himself and came at her again. This time, she swung up a leg, her boot connecting solidly with his chin. His meaty head snapped back, and he crashed in a heap. His friends looked to his unconscious form, before fleeing after easier pickings.
Hadia offered a hand. “I told you. I can handle myself.”
Fatma was lifted to her feet. She was seriously beginning to question her judgment of character. Above them, the imposter stared impassively at the chaos. At sight of her his gaze lingered. He had donned the mask again, but she could imagine the twisted smile it hid. The thought filled her with fresh anger. She lifted her cane to him and shouted: “I’m coming for you!” He answered with a perfunctory wave of his hand—and the figure at his side came alive, leaping to the ground below.
Fatma pulled back. Damn! She’d forgotten about that one. As before, he landed easily on his feet, as if he hadn’t just jumped from a height of several stories. Before she could blink—there were two. Hadia gasped. But Fatma had seen this trick and come prepared.
“Hamed!”
He ran up, the other agents in tow. “They don’t look so bad.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Fatma warned.
Hamed ordered his men into a semicircle. “There’s still four of us. And only—” He broke off. An agent cursed. The two figures in black had become four.
“You were saying?” Fatma asked.
His answer came in a set of quick commands. His men flipped the levers on their truncheons. There was a humming whine, and the bulbous heads crackled with electricity. It was a Ministry weapon—carrying a battery that produced a powerful jolt. When your job called for confronting supernatural beings often much stronger than humans, you needed an advantage.
In a blur, the four figures were on Hamed and his men. Their billowy breeches flapped as they threw jabs and kicks. Fatma squinted. They seemed slower than the other night. Not by much, but enough to allow the agents to hold their own. Hamed pressed the fight, taking a glancing blow off a shoulder to strike one in the arm. The jolt should have knocked him unconscious. Instead, he shrieked a high-pitched scream—and his right arm fell off. Fatma blinked. No. All their right arms had fallen off, to similar shrieking. She watched as before her eyes, each appendage turned to black ash.
Hamed grinned as the four injured figures slinked back. “Think we found a weak spot. This might go easy after all!”
A ghul! Fatma recalled the black mist from the wound she’d delivered. The man was some kind of ghul. When you cut off a part of the undead, it turned to ash—just like this. But what ghul was this agile? Or could replicate itself? Before she could complete the thought, the ash on the ground stirred. It flew up, attaching at the shoulders of each figure and forming solid regrown arms—down to the black clothing. One of Hamed’s men uttered a prayer.
“Keep them busy!” Fatma said. “I’m going after their master!”
Hadia grabbed her arm. “I’m coming with you!”
It was more statement than question. The woman had even gotten
