Fatma had no intention of letting them get close. She took aim. Beside her, Siti pulled hard at the bottom of her dress—tearing it away to reveal white breeches fitted into boots. Strapped to her legs were metal pieces which she pried off and began fitting together. Fatma waited until the two ash-ghuls were close enough to hit in the dark—and fired.
She’d learned two things that night in the Cemetery. The more divided the creature was, the weaker its duplicates. Also, what you did to one affected the other. Her bullet struck the one on the left, and it shrieked, bleeding black ash. Its doppelganger jerked, spilling ash from the same wound. She fired again, just at the one. Each mark hit home, slowing their advance.
“Here!” Siti stepped up. “Let me try.”
Fatma looked to find her holding a blunderbuss with a flared muzzle. She’d been carrying that in pieces under her dress this whole time? The gun went off with a terrific boom, tearing through an ash-ghul and sending whole appendages flying. Siti walked forward, reloading and firing as she went. After four shots, there wasn’t much left but a stumbling torso attached to two shattered legs. She swung the weapon like a club, smashing it to dust.
“Impressive,” the imposter called. “But we have unfinished business.” He reached out with his right hand, pulling his humming blade from nothingness and pointing it at Siti. “I recall putting this through your side. Yet here you are. How is that possible?”
Siti bared a sharp grin. “I have a lot more surprises.”
Fatma had her own blade out. “We know what you took from the vaults.”
The imposter waved the sword tauntingly. “There are no secrets kept from me.”
“What do you want with it? What are you planning?”
He raised a finger to the lips of his gold mask in a hushing motion. “The Nine Lords are sleeping,” he whispered.
Fatma frowned. Nine Lords? What was he going on about now?
“The Nine Lords are sleeping,” he continued in singsong. “Do we want to wake them? Look into their eyes and they’ll burn your soul away!”
Fatma gritted her teeth. For once, could villains stop being so damned cryptic?
Beside her, Siti growled. “Are we going to keep talking, or are we going to do this?” She had donned her claws and was all but dancing with anticipation.
“Now!” Fatma cried, charging.
They met the imposter at a sprint. Fatma pressed the attack, parrying the singing blade, then following with her own swings. Siti slashed, her claws raking the sword to send up blistering sparks. Something new drove them, different from that night in the Cemetery. Siti had seen her friends slandered and attacked. Fatma had watched the Ministry burn. The memories fed their determination. This was going to end tonight!
With a sudden surge of strength Siti went hurtling toward the imposter. Her claws reached inside his guard, tearing through the front of his robes. He lowered his defense and backed away only to take a fast kick to the chest that sent him sprawling. There was an audible grunt as he hit the ground, and the black sword vanished into mist. Siti cried in victory, crouched and readying to leap when he held up a chain mail–covered hand.
“No!” His word was sharp, like a command.
And quite unexpectedly, Siti went still.
The imposter exhaled a surprised breath. “Of course! I thought I sensed it. But I couldn’t be certain. How else could you have survived my blade?”
Fatma stared at Siti, not understanding. What was happening? The woman just stood there, muscles strained and poised, ready to attack. But she seemed unable to move, like a statue locked in place. Was this some new sorcery? She lifted her own sword and pointed the edge down at the imposter. “Undo whatever you’ve done!” she demanded.
He laughed. The first time she’d ever heard him do so. And his eyes burned bright. Dangerous. He uttered a word. Something in the djinn tongue. She thought it might have meant “unveil” or “become.” Siti’s eyes turned to Fatma, filled with something she’d never before seen in the woman—fear. Then, she changed.
It seemed to Fatma that Siti simply vanished. In her place stood a woman whose face still bore some resemblance. But she was taller, unnaturally so, with black skin like liquid ink. Two crimson ram horns curved up from her head into jutting points, and her eyes were those of a cat—bloodred pupils forming vertical slits that sat on beds of iridescent gold. It took a moment for Fatma to make sense of what she was seeing. Though it still made no sense at all. Siti hadn’t become some other woman. She had become a djinn.
“You did not know.” Fresh mirth tinged the imposter’s voice. “That will make this even sweeter.” He turned to Siti. This time speaking in Arabic. “Kill.”
Fatma was on the ground before she could think. The air ran from her lungs in a rush as her body was crushed by the weight bearing down on her. Someone was atop her, their knee pressing hard onto her chest, holding her down. She struggled to breathe. But someone had hands about her neck, choking her. Not someone. Siti. It was Siti who was choking her.
Fatma’s legs kicked frantically, trying to escape this nightmare. But if Siti was stronger before, she was inhuman now. Between the pain Fatma tried to focus, looking into that strange but familiar face—filled with rage and teeth bared, showing sharp long canines. Her gaze swept up to find Siti’s eyes. Djinn eyes. Opening her
