Bracing, she put up an arm as the ghul landed atop her, tumbling them both to the floor. It took all her strength, as she lay flat, to keep her palms against the thing’s neck, to stop those snapping teeth from reaching her. The stink of its breath—rot and death—nearly choked her, but she strained against it. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of her janbiya coming in to end the creature. Hadia! Unfortunately, the ghul saw it too. It turned at the last moment, and the knife missed its temple, instead going through its jaw.
The ghul shrieked, flinging back from atop Fatma as it gripped the knife lodged sideways in its mouth. Bullets struck its flank. Onsi. The short man was firing. But he had terrible aim, his shots hitting mostly in the body. He was empty in moments and had done little but slow it. Fatma scrambled to her feet, fumbling to get bullets into her own gun.
But Hadia was already moving. In something Fatma would not have believed had she not seen it, the woman leaped onto the ghul’s back, putting an arm around its neck and clinging there. Pulling the knife free from the thing’s jaw, she turned it over in her hand and drove the blade up through its chin. That wasn’t enough to kill it, but the janbiya had managed to lock its jaw, and it now clawed at its mouth in confusion. Hopping off its back, Hadia walked around, eyes searching for the right spot, then delivered a swift kick to the hilt—sending it home. The ghul’s body went stiff, then dropped, landing on its face.
Quiet descended as they surveyed the carnage. After a moment the door to Amir’s office cracked open. The director peeked out, then opened it fully. He was holding a pistol, and behind him were frightened-looking men and women, mostly office staff. “Got them all?” he asked matter-of-factly.
Fatma nodded, helping Hamed to his feet. The ghul had almost struck him unconscious and he was just recovering. She handed him over to someone else, her mind already on their second task. “The man in the gold mask. He’s heading for the vault. I need to get down there.”
Amir took in what she was saying. “Right. Take some men with you. We have to get everyone else out. You might have heard, there could be a bomb.”
“If you don’t mind, director, Agent Hadia would be fine.” She looked to where the woman was turning over the dead ghul, retrieving the janbiya, now covered in black blood.
“No, that’s alright,” Hadia called back. With a grunt, she yanked the knife free. “I’ll help clear the building. Take care of any more of these things. You—” She waved the bloodied blade at two agents armed with black truncheons. “Help her out. And make sure you watch her back!”
The two men regarded her oddly, but—perhaps it was the bloodied knife—didn’t argue. Fatma gave her a look of unspoken thanks, then sped for the stairs, not slowing for the men following. What if she was already too late? What if the imposter had made his way to the vault and gotten whatever he came for? I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light. She sped up her strides.
When she reached the library, she had the presence of mind to stop at the entrance. The two agents emerged soon after, black truncheons at the ready, and she motioned at them to keep quiet. The way both were huffing, you’d think they were the ones who’d just fought a pack of ghuls. Pulling her gun, she took the lead, and led them inside.
The library was dark, even more than other parts of the building. There was a silence to the emptiness that made her uneasy. Not that it was ever a noisy place. Zagros made sure of that. But not to hear the absent cough, the sound of pages turning, or books being set down, made it feel almost lifeless. And she’d had her fill of dead things today.
Every few steps she stopped at the edge of shelves, prepared to meet whatever may come. In the distance came a steady familiar ticking accompanied by spinning gears and the low thrumming whoosh of a swinging cable. The great clock timepiece had been a gift to the library, and operated separate from the building. Its pendulum hadn’t been affected by the power outage and kept up its rhythm. Behind it lay the Ministry’s vault—which secured items of immeasurable importance. She ought to know. She’d help put some in there.
Her eyes adjusted as they drew closer, and she made out the pendulum—a giant bob like a golden sun disc inscribed with geometric patterns. She squinted, trying to glimpse the door to the vault between the swings of the cable. But a shadow blocked it. She stopped, holding up a hand. Someone was there. Someone big, in long purple robes of velvet embroidered in white that stood out even in the dark. They turned, and Fatma released a breath, lowering her gun.
Zagros.
The djinn librarian struck his usual regal pose, that half-lidded gaze staring down at her from behind a pair of silver spectacles. He held the biggest book she’d ever seen, thick with pages and covers that looked made of gold. If he still stood guard at the vault, that meant they weren’t too late. Maybe the imposter had tried and learned the hard way not to tangle with a centuries-old Marid.
“Zagros!” she called in a low voice. “You don’t know how happy I am to see—”
Her words broke off as someone stepped from behind the djinn. Her breath caught. The man in the gold mask! He stared at her with those intense burning eyes, before tilting his head up to whisper in Zagros’s ear. The librarian listened silently.
Fatma tried to make sense of what was happening. Now that the djinn had moved, she
