Loath as she was to admit it, he was good. Very good. He moved the blade as if it were an extension of his own arm. She couldn’t hope to match him, and he knew it. His main concern was Siti, who was relentless. She was forced to back off as the two drove toward her, rounding the corner of the walkway. Hadia kept her distance but followed, baton held ready.
Fatma stayed on the edge of the fight waiting for an opening. The man couldn’t keep this up. He must have realized as much, because as they reached the rear of the mausoleum, he unexpectedly hopped onto the honeycomb-patterned merlons lining the walls—then jumped away. She ran to peer over the edge to find he’d landed atop a building below. He stood there, sword raised and expectant.
Siti gave a yell and then, before anyone could stop her, leaped from the mausoleum, landing with a roll and coming up on her feet. Fatma moved to follow, but Hadia caught her arm, shaking her head. “That’s impossible!” She was right. Whatever sorcery the imposter held, and whatever strange magic surrounded Siti, she’d break her legs at the attempt—or worse.
They were forced to scale the mausoleum wall to get down, dropping onto a rickety bit of scaffolding. Fatma ran along it, Hadia following close, before jumping across a wide gap to more scaffolding—that shook until she was afraid it might tumble. But the thing held. One more climb down and she could see the building, where the clang of claws meeting steel sounded. Another jump, and she was there. The effort winded her, but she ran straight for the fight, taking up a place at Siti’s side.
“Glad you could make it,” the woman huffed.
Fatma didn’t have breath to waste on words. Together, they pressed the man. His blade still met their attacks, but he gave up ground. Even better, labored breaths now came from behind the gold mask. He’d make a mistake eventually. Tiring fighters often did. She thought she could see it happening, legs almost tripping on themselves, buckling. Siti saw it too and dove to get inside his guard. But suddenly his legs turned sturdy and he balanced low, before his sword inexplicably vanished. A feint! Before Fatma could call a warning the sword rematerialized in the man’s other hand just under Siti’s exposed side. Thrusting, he sent the blade sliding into her ribs before twisting and pulling it back out. Siti gasped as blood spurted, and crumpled.
Fatma rushed to her as the man backed off to watch at a distance. Siti’s breaths came hard, and she clutched at the wound before staring in disbelief at the crimson staining her claws.
“You’re out of this fight!” Fatma told her.
The woman’s protest came out in a cry of pain.
Hadia ran up, kneeling to look Siti over. “Glory be to God! If you’re not spitting up blood, it hopefully missed a lung! But this wound needs stanching!”
“Do it,” Fatma said, her eyes on the imposter, who stood watching—waiting.
“You’re not trying to take him yourself?” Hadia asked, tearing strips from Siti’s garments.
“Something like that,” she answered. Her body ached from all the jumping and fighting. But the heat building behind her eyes made it distant. Standing, she peeled to her waistcoat. She hadn’t bought her gun, but she had her janbiya—a gift from a foreign dignitary during her first months in the Ministry. Her hand drew the double-edged knife from a silver-worked sheath fitted to a broad leather belt. Balancing it in one hand, she held her sword in the other and stepped forward.
“Just you?” the imposter asked. He flicked droplets of blood from his blade.
“Just me.”
They stood staring at each other for a long moment. The gold mask wasn’t carved in any expression—just the visage of a man with down-turned mouth. So it was hard to know what he thought as he eyed her, until he spoke.
“That idolater. She means something to you. Interesting.”
Fatma felt her anger flare. She was going to fight this man. Not to kill. But to maim, and hurt very badly. Her vengeful thoughts were broken by the clang of sirens. She turned to look into the distance, where lamps announced approaching police wagons. Aasim had gotten word out. Called in the whole force.
“It appears we will have to do this another time,” the imposter said. He shouted in a language she couldn’t place. Some djinn tongue.
Four figures scrambled hurriedly onto the rooftop. The men in the black masks. They ignored Fatma, walking toward one another, and it seemed she only blinked before there was just one. He stood in front of the imposter, staring through her and then quite suddenly exploded into billowing black ash, skin and flesh, clothing and all—becoming particles that swirled about in a swarm. The imposter spread his fingers wide, and the cloud drew into his open palm until it was gone. He lowered the hand and stared with eyes that burned anew.
“The great and celebrated Ministry. You think yourselves so grand. With your secrets and petty magics. Do you even understand what you are dealing with?”
There was a blast of wind—hot and fetid, with a burning stench. It washed over Fatma with such force she thought she might choke, and she covered her mouth, gasping.
“I will teach you,” the imposter said. “I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light.”
Without warning, the world behind him erupted into flames.
To Fatma, it looked at first like a wall of bloodred fire. But what she’d mistaken for a wall soon coalesced into another shape: a body like a man formed from an inferno, with a head crowned in curving horns and bright molten eyes. The being stood behind the imposter, a giant thrice his
