“What does that do?” she asked.
“Hmm?” Azmuri glanced distractedly. “Oh, that’s the machine that keeps the world going.” At seeing their stunned faces, the djinn smiled. “A joke, agents. Please, come.”
“Is there really such a machine?” Hadia asked, catching up. “Keeping the world going?”
To Fatma’s discomfort, the djinn’s only answer was another silver smile.
They turned down more corridors to finally stop at a set of tall gold doors with more guards. These were djinn, scaled and bearing sharp weapons.
“We’ve arrived, agents,” Azmuri said. “I’ll wait here to escort you back out.”
She spoke to the djinn guards in another tongue, and the two pulled open the doors to allow admittance and reveal what lay inside.
Seated about a wide round table in chairs carved for giants were four angels.
Their clockwork bodies were sculptures of art more than machinery, with gears that ticked like hearts and steel fibers mimicking muscle. Each turned at once to regard them, with four sets of brilliant gazes. Fatma choked back a gasp and instead stepped forward, pulling out her badge and introducing herself. She waited for Hadia to do the same, but the woman just stood stupefied again, staring up into those brilliant eyes. She’d distinctly told her not to do that. She gave Hadia a hard nudge that sent her fumbling to lift her badge. But all that managed to escape her throat was a small “urk.”
“We know who you are, agents,” one of the angels spoke. His voice was a melodic rumble: a beautiful song mingled with thunder. Like all angels he wore a mask with oval cutouts for eyes. This one was made of glittering gold, as if dipped in starlight. It matched his body, wrought of black iron except for the tips of his wings that also shimmered gold. “I am called Leader here.”
Of course he was. As with djinn, angels didn’t share their true names. They instead took on titles related to their purpose. Fatma followed a gesture from one of Leader’s four arms toward two chairs small enough to fit them. She took one, leading a dazed Hadia into another.
“We are still awaiting another of our number,” Leader said. Two of his hands sat folded on the table near a folder that looked far too small for them to handle. Fatma only now noticed there was a fifth giant chair left empty. The angel’s words carried a tinge of annoyance, which seemed to fit his mask—with its flat expression and set lips. “While we wait, perhaps it is best you meet the others.”
“I am Harmony,” another angel greeted warmly. This one had a voice like a woman and wore a mask with a fixed pleasant smile. Her full rounded body was the color of an ever-shifting rainbow, so that no place stayed the same hue.
“I am Discord,” a third stated brusquely. His body was sharp and angular, looking as if you might cut yourself at a touch. It was bone white, down to the wingtip, with not a hint of color. He stared out from behind a scowling black mask.
“I am Defender,” a fourth boomed. He appeared aptly named, with a bulky clockwork body and six thick arms—two more than she saw on most angels. He was silver and crimson, with a mask that looked carved for a hero’s statue.
No sooner had he finished than the gold doors parted and another angel bustled in. Like the others, this one towered at least twelve feet. Four mechanical arms extended from bronze shoulders, while shiny platinum wings tinged by dashes of crimson and gold sat behind a broad back.
At the sight, Fatma felt her body seize up. It was an involuntary thing, which she could no more control than a sneeze or an itch. She was on her feet in an instant, drawing her pistol, heart thumping until the sound filled her ears.
“Maker!” she growled. It should have been impossible. She had seen this angel die—plunge knives into his own flesh in sacrifice. Yet he was here now, alive! She’d recognize that translucent alabaster mask with its permanent faint smirk anywhere. It haunted her nightmares. She didn’t know what a bullet could even do to one of these creatures. But she’d find out.
The angel stopped, cocking a head at the gun—more curious than afraid.
“You are late,” Leader admonished.
“Apologies,” Maker said, surprisingly with a melodic woman’s voice. “I think this mortal wishes to do me harm. Fascinating!”
Leader turned to Fatma, only now noticing her standing there with the gun. Hadia never even broke from her awe.
“Please stop her,” Harmony moaned. “It will make things disagreeable.”
“No,” Discord countered. “I want to see what happens.”
Defender only rumbled his mechanical throat.
“I wanted you here on time so I could explain,” Leader chided. “She believes you to be the other Maker, with whom she had an … unpleasant … experience.”
“Can she not see I am not him?” Maker asked.
“As I have told you on several occasions, mortal perception is limited,” Leader replied.
Fatma listened, the bits of information forcing her to reassess. This Maker spoke with a woman’s voice. Younger too. And talked as if they’d never met. Slowly, the pistol lowered.
“Another Maker?” she asked. “Why?”
“To replace the last Maker,” Leader answered. As if that should explain everything.
Fatma felt her heart slowly return to normal, accepting that this wasn’t the rogue angel after all. She sat down again, putting up her pistol yet too shaken to feel shame at her outburst. Her eyes lingered on Maker, following the angel’s every move.
“Now that we have all arrived,” Leader spoke, “to the matter at hand.” He addressed Fatma.
