“Siti.”
The sound was so weak, Fatma barely recognized her own voice. She hoped hearing the name might break the murderous trance that had come over the woman. Cut through whatever power now held her. But there was nothing. She fought for another free breath and tried again.
“Abla.”
Still nothing. Not even the barest hint of recognition. As if the woman hadn’t heard. And she remembered now where she’d seen such eyes before. Zagros. This was just how the djinn librarian had looked when he’d tried to kill her. A face like a mask of rage with dead eyes. Lifeless eyes. Like nothing lived behind them.
Fatma gagged as the breath was squeezed from her. Even as she struggled, there was a competing desire to just let go. To not fight. To let herself drift into a calm sleep. Just for a moment. Her eyelids were now so very heavy. The world grew distant and even the pain dulled to a numb ache that seemed someone else’s concern.
No! Some stubborn part of her screamed defiance, jolting her into awareness. The world crashed in around her again in a wave of senses. The weight of Siti atop her. The pain. The inability to breathe. In her head, that stubborn voice persisted, urging her on. Fight! it demanded. You’re not going to die here! Like this! Fight for your damned life!
Fatma forced her eyes back open—and found herself not staring into Siti’s lifeless gaze but instead at a carving of a snarling lioness dangling from what remained of the woman’s gown. Extending a hand she reached out for the silver brooch. It was a measure of her desperation that she even thought this might work. Her fingers grasped the bit of jewelry, ripping it away with the last of her strength and bringing it before those dead djinn eyes.
“Sekhmet.”
Her voice was even weaker than before, an almost inaudible croak when she uttered the name of the entombed goddess. But the desperate answer she sought was immediate. Someone else’s eyes suddenly looked out from behind Siti’s gaze. Not dead at all but beyond life. Not ancient but ageless—as if it had seen the stars born and burned away. They stared down with the curiosity of a lioness inspecting a mouse, or the vast fiery desert contemplating the existence of a droplet of rain. Fatma felt as a speck beneath that glare, a mote of dust caught in a raging storm—and she thought she might wither away beneath its intensity, that beat down with the fierceness of a hundred suns. Then as quick as they came, those terrifying eyes vanished, leaving behind djinn eyes. No longer lifeless. No longer empty. And filling with utter horror.
Siti—or the djinn she had become—yanked her hands from around Fatma’s neck. In one movement she bounded up, stumbling back and away, her body trembling. She shook her head wildly back and forth as if trying to dispel something, before an anguished scream escaped her throat. Unexpectedly a set of broad feathered wings unfurled from her back and spread wide. They beat frantically, lifting her off her feet and into the air. In moments she was high into the sky, soaring away into the night.
Fatma watched it all, turned on her side, trying to breathe. How long had all of that been? Minutes? Seconds? Lights swam in her head. Once again she had to force herself not to black out. There would be time later to try to put together what had just happened. There would be time later to think after Siti. There would be time later to try to mend the pieces of her life.
Her eyes instead searched the dark. She found the imposter, standing and watching the skies after Siti, before turning to walk away. Something inside Fatma snarled like an animal. She rose on weakened legs and stumbled forward, grabbing for the first thing she could find. The abandoned blunderbuss. Out of ammunition. But still useful. Breaking into a stuttering run, she got as close to the imposter as possible and let out a shrill whistle. He turned in surprise, and she swung.
He never saw it coming. Had likely thought her dead. Or incapacitated. His mistake. She heard a satisfied crunch as the gun’s barrel connected solidly. The gold mask cracked on one side, spinning away. He stumbled back, a tumble of black locks flying from beneath his hood—before his face rippled.
Fatma’s eyes went wide, watching as the man’s dark skin undulated like water. He clutched where he’d been struck, either in pain or to smooth out the distortion. Too late! Dropping the blunderbuss, she reached to grab at a fistful of locks, her other hand going for her janbiya. She only managed to get hold of a strand as he pulled away, the knife slicing down. Something struck her hard, and she went flying, tumbling end over end—before the night erupted in fire.
The Ifrit.
It seemed to materialize out of darkness, a living bloodred inferno in the form of a giant, with glowing horns and molten eyes. A torrid wind buffeted the trees and topiaries—turning them all into pyres. Still clutching his face, the imposter scrambled onto the djinn’s waiting back. His mount spread fiery wings and in one leap soared into the sky, bearing its master away.
Fatma watched them disappear, before limping over to where the gold mask lay. Picking it up, she found the dark lock she’d managed to cut away. Her hands tightened on both as one thought filled her head.
His face had rippled!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Atop the stage at the Jasmine, a lone trombone player belted out a solo. Frog, as Alfred was better known, hadn’t gotten the sobriquet for his short stature. Or his gravelly voice. But instead for the sounds he forced from his trombone—something between a croak and blare, inspired, he claimed, by the nighttime bayou in his native New Orleans. Tonight, he played a somber tune, with long drawn-out notes as his
