“What are you doing?” she cried in alarm.
The usually composed librarian drew himself up, a low rumble emanating from his thick throat in what she realized was a growl. His jaws suddenly opened wide—baring tusks long as her forearm—and he roared! The sound shook the empty library. The only thing that came close to matching it were his feet thundering on the floor as he ran toward them.
Fatma had seen some nasty brawls involving Marid djinn before. Like watching giants battle. She’d often compared Zagros to a rhinoceros. But as he bore down on them, his golden horns bent low, she knew no rhino could look this frightening.
She recovered from her initial shock in time to throw herself to the side. Her two escorts weren’t so fortunate and took the brunt of the djinn’s charge. He swung that hefty tome like a battering ram, knocking both men from his path before they could bring their truncheons to bear. Fatma didn’t stop to see where they landed. She was running, turning down a corridor to seek shelter between a set of shelves. The maddened djinn gave chase, squeezing his bulk between aisles, splintering wood and sending books flying as his claws reached to grab her. She managed to break free of the corridor, with him plowing after in pursuit—sending pieces of shelf raining.
Fatma leaped, sliding across a wooden table, just as the djinn brought the heavy book down. There was a sharp crack, and the table buckled, one of its legs snapping as it toppled. She barely made it down another corridor, turned a corner, and crouched down to hide. Her heart pounded, her mind now on survival. There was no time to question why the normally prudish Marid librarian was unmistakably trying to kill her. She just needed to get out of this alive!
From where she huddled, she could still see the imposter. He was leaving, strolling casually from the library as the ash-ghul and its duplicates followed with their arms laden. He caught a glimpse of her where she hid, and put a chain-mail finger to his lips for quiet. The sight made her buzz with anger, and for a moment, all thoughts of self-preservation fled. Until a shadow came to loom above, and she looked up to see the djinn’s lavender-skinned face contorted in senseless rage—his roar setting the tiny bells on his tusks tingling.
She rolled, narrowly missing a fist that sent stone chips flying from the floor. Reaching her feet, she ran back the way she’d come, toward the vault—throwing down chairs and books and whatever else to slow the murderous djinn. She could lock herself in if need be. But a swiftly closing roar told her she wouldn’t make it.
She almost ran past the thing on the floor just ahead—long and black. One of the truncheons! She scooped it up, not stopping her stride. New plan! She banked toward a set of tables that had been tossed on their side. Setting herself up behind them and bracing her back against the wood, she cranked the lever on the truncheon to its highest setting and listened for the low humming whine. Above her, two giant hands gripped the table’s edge, and the djinn’s horned head soon appeared, golden eyes wide on her. Eyes that despite their brightness looked dead inside. He opened his mouth to roar, but she didn’t give him a chance—stabbing the underside of his neck with the bulbous end of the truncheon.
Blue bolts crackled, lighting up the dark. The librarian howled. The truncheons were made to handle creatures like djinn. At this setting, it would kill a human. It should have at least incapacitated a Marid. But he fought, digging his claws into the table and pressing toward her, mouth gaping, so that hot saliva splattered her hands. She didn’t stop, even as she was forced down by the weight of him, her back pushed against the flat of the table. At this rate, he might just crush her outright. Then, mercifully, his push slackened. He seemed to grow sluggish before his eyes rolled back. He rose up to his feet, stood a moment, then fell with a tremendous crash.
Fatma lifted up, peeking over the table edge. Zagros lay on his back, chest heaving. Alive, but unconscious. She staggered up, forcing her mind to refocus on her earlier goal.
The man in the gold mask.
She picked up her pace, running for the stairs. Or tried. Somewhere along the away she’d hurt her leg. And all she could manage was a jogging limp. She spied the two downed agents rising shakily to their feet and called for them to follow. Reaching the stairs, she took just a few steps up—before a deafening boom shook everything. Her hands gripped the railing, holding tight as the building swayed. Thick billowing dust rolled over her. She choked in it, and realized she couldn’t hear herself coughing, because her ears were ringing.
The bomb.
Two figures were quickly at her side. The other agents. Together, the three of them climbed the stairs. When they reached the top, the door was already open—blown off its hinges.
The foyer of the Ministry was unrecognizable. Beneath a haze of dust, the floor was strewn with masonry and shards that crunched under their feet. Meaty pale-gray bodies lay everywhere, charred and torn to pieces. Fatma now understood. The explosives had been inside the ghuls. The ones massed under the dome. She walked around twisted giant iron gears and dented orbs, and it took a moment to recognize what they were. Her eyes went upward. The storm had passed, leaving behind a clearing blue sky. She could see it plain—because the bits of machinery littering the ground had been the building’s brain. All that was left was
