He did not know where he was now. A room. Rafters and scrabbling rats. A cellar? A cell?
Then he heard the squealing in his mind, and the jackal-thing’s voice was in his head again.
Listen to Mouw Awa, once called Hadu Nawas, who speaketh for his blessed friend. Thou art an honored guardsman. Begat and born in the Crescent Moon Palace. Thou art sworn in the name of God to defend it. All of those beneath thee shall serve.
Listen to Mouw Awa, who is unseen and unheard by men until he doth strike! Who doth laugh away sword-blade and arrow! Who was remade by the Jackal God and freed from his prison by his blessed friend.
Listen to Mouw Awa and know no hope. Know that none shall save thee. Mouw Awa doth use his powers to sneak and smuggle and kill his blessed friend’s enemies. The fat one, the clean one, the kitten.
The shadow-jackal-man continued to whisper in the guardsman’s mind of blood and bursting lungs. Again he felt hard hands under his armpits. The gaunt man dragged him to the other side of the dark room, where a great black kettle bubbled and hissed and smelled of brimstone, though there was no flame beneath it. The liquid within the kettle looked like molten rubies, and the red glow of it lit the gaunt man’s black-bearded face.
He felt himself being lifted and plunged into the kettle. He felt his skin being scalded. And somewhere he heard the shameful screaming and pleading of a man who had once been strong.
Chapter 7
Zamia Banu Laith Badawi breathed in the scent of her family’s death again. She bolted awake, screaming and growling and reliving that horrible night when she’d found her band.
No, it was just a dream. This is a new night. She was not in the desert. She was lying on a pallet in Doctor Adoulla Makhslood’s townhouse.
But that cruel crypt-scent was still there.
Not just a dream! Out of the corner of her eye, Zamia saw motion. Something lunged at her. Only her Angel-touched reflexes and the years of training with her father saved her. Something—something almost man-shaped—smashed into the pallet where she had lain a breathspace ago.
No! Mouw Awa the manjackal is unseen and unheard by men until he doth strike. But the kitten hath scented him!
The thing before her was shadow-black, save for glowing red eyes. Somehow she heard its words with both her ears and her mind. The creature held a vague shape—something like a jackal walking about on a man’s two legs. But the edges of its outline whipped and wavered like tent flags in the wind.
The reek of her band’s death wafted from the creature. The smell of burnt jackal-hair, and of ancient child-blood. Its eyes. They were a brighter version of what she had seen in her dead bandsmen. And looking at the abomination before her, Zamia knew that it was this thing that had eaten the souls of her band—of her father.
She screamed in fear. The thing lunged at her again, and she barely managed to dodge back from its shadow-wrapped fangs. She shouted.
“RASEED! DOCTOR! ENEMIES!” It came out lioness-loud, louder than any girl’s shout could be, as she took the shape. When she was younger, she had needed to try, over and over again sometimes, to take the shape. But now it came without thinking, in the space of a breath. One moment she was a woman, the next a great golden lioness. One moment a girl’s fear filled her, the next her veins raced with sunlight.
With the claws and fangs and gold coat came confidence. She dodged another lunge and growled at the creature. “Whatever you are, you have murdered the Banu Laith Badawi. I’ll tear out your throat!”
The thing before her made a sickening whine, between a dog’s and a vile man’s. Mouw Awa is alone no more. He hath been found by his blessed friend. And he shall slay the kitten and the fat one and the clean one for his blessed friend. Mouw Awa doth shiver, knowing how salty-sweet will be the kitten’s soul-of-two-tastes!
Hearing this thing’s voice in her head was disturbing, but her father had taught her years ago to pay attention to an enemy’s body rather than their words. Zamia roared again to rouse her allies. Then she leapt at the foul creature before her.
Even as she did so, she tried to understand what this monster was. Could her claws cut a shadow?
Zamia raked out a left paw and found her answer. The foul thing—Mouw Awa, it had called itself—spit and whined and danced back in pain.
The kitten hath cut Mouw Awa! Savage as her father, the cruel cutter of Mouw Awa’s blessed friend!
The sheer speed of the creature as it leapt at her caught Zamia off guard. She managed to stay a half-step ahead of one snap of its maw, then another. But she was tiring already and all signs were that this creature was not. And she was not used to fighting in these cramped conditions.
She scrabbled back and tipped over a small bookstand, which pinned her rear paws. God help me! The creature closed, and its scent threatened to overwhelm her.
A streak of blue flew at the thing that called itself Mouw Awa. Raseed!
The dervish’s sword was out, and he slashed at the creature, drawing its attention away from Zamia. Once, twice, and thrice Raseed’s forked sword cleaved into the thing, but it made no mark.
“Be careful! This thing—it has the stink of my father’s wounds!” Zamia growled. Then she flexed her back legs and shattered the wooden bookstand. Splinters bit into her flesh, but she ignored them.
She watched monster and dervish, looking for an opening. Again Raseed’s sword slashed into Mouw Awa, but the thing just whined and sneered. Mouw Awa’s fangs missed their mark once, then twice. The creature lashed a forearm across the dervish’s chest. Raseed went flying as if he’d been kicked by a horse. Zamia’s heart sank into her stomach.
Out of the corner of her eye, Zamia saw the old man appear on the stairs, shouting. She ignored the Doctor, though, and flew at Mouw Awa.
Neither sword-blade nor prayer doth stop Mouw Awa. He hath smuggled in the spell-makings. He shall savor the twin tastes of lion and child while his blessed friend’s creatures slay the clean one and the fat one.
The creature dodged her strike and threw something at the ground. There was a sound like wind whipping, and suddenly two man-sized sandstorms were boiling in the middle of the room. Then the small storms took shape—arms, legs, fangs.
Merciful God! If the desert dunes were made monsters, they would look like this! The man-shaped things snapped their jaws, showing teeth like jagged rocks. One darted out a forked tongue. No, not a tongue. A pink rock viper. The desert’s deadliest snake.
Zamia saw these creatures come between her and her allies, and that was all of the attention she could spare. The mad, murdering monster before her had earned death, and her only purpose on God’s great earth was to kill it.
She slashed out again and again, but Mouw Awa always seemed a step ahead of her blows. That shadow-wreathed snout seemed to sneer. The kitten doth hiss and spit, but she shall die in the mangling maw of Mouw Awa, once called Hadu Nawas.
The other combatants were to her back now. Behind her she heard shouted scripture, Raseed’s cries, and magical sounds like small thundercracks. It took all of her discipline not to turn from her foe. Something was on fire, and the smoke, along with the creature’s cruel scent, made her gag.
She growled loudly. Her band’s enemies had fled like children from that growl. But Mouw Awa just pressed the attack again, coming close enough that Zamia could feel a strange heat coming from its maw.