The hunter toppled with a gasp, red bubbling at his lips.
Immediately after, a pair of hunters came at Ahmed from either side of the diwan in a pincer movement. The wali sidestepped one man and lunged to catch the other’s wrist midstab. There was a moment of shock as the hunter tried to free himself. But he was too slow.
Ahmed threw him into his fellow, and the two collapsed in a heap. The wali stepped hard on one man’s back, eliciting a crack so loud it could be heard over the yelling, and then he leaned down and, in one swift motion, slid a dagger out from his sleeve and plunged it into the other man’s throat.
Mazen watched the massacre unfold like a stunned spectator, barely breathing as Ahmed cut down hunter after hunter. He watched bones snap, bodies break, blood splatter, and all he could do was blink back panicked tears. If Ahmed turned on him, he would not be able to run.
But the wali had eyes only for the men who faced him like warriors. The next opponent he confronted was the youngest Mazen had seen yet: a boy with determination sparking in his round, frightened eyes. The boy and Ahmed faced each other over a corpse.
The boy struck first. Ahmed parried. Their blades connected, slid, and clashed in midair.
There was a moment—Mazen’s heart beat with frantic hope—when the boy managed to catch Ahmed off guard and push him away. Ahmed stumbled as the boy raised his blade.
The corpse beneath them shuddered.
Mazen shot to his feet and yelled, “Watch out!”
Too late.
The corpse gripped the ankle of its still-living companion and pulled. The boy fell. Ahmed was prepared—he caught the youth in the chest with a purloined blade. By the time the boy hit the ground, his eyes were glazed over.
Mazen crumpled against the wall, shaking with terror as an eerie silence washed over the diwan. The wali’s eyes slid over him as he turned toward the remaining six hunters surrounding him in a broken half circle. At the sight of his bloodstained face, they stepped back, weapons drawn like shields.
A twisted smile creased Ahmed’s lips as he reached down and plucked a sword from one of the corpses. “What’s wrong? I thought hunters did not fear death. Will none of you face me?”
When no one rose to meet his challenge, the wali snorted and snapped his fingers. Like puppets yanked up by invisible strings, the corpses on the ground shambled to their feet, eyes glazed and unfocused. “Fine, then. I will force you to look death in the eyes.”
The undead surged forward, and the hunters retreated into the forest. Mazen was numb—so numb that when Ahmed faced him, his legs would not move. Dread had frozen his limbs.
“I thought you were brave,” said the jinn wearing Ahmed’s skin. “But you’re a coward like the rest of them, aren’t you?” He stepped forward.
Move, Mazen commanded his body. Move, move! But it refused to obey him.
Ahmed pulled his blade back—and froze as the sound of crackling fire suddenly filled the diwan. Loulie al-Nazari had regained her footing. She stood behind them, holding up a dagger. A dagger that was, conspicuously, on fire. She stepped forward, and Mazen saw the fire from her blade reflected in her eyes. “I don’t know how you dug your claws into him, but the wali does not belong to you. Leave him be.”
“He does now.” Ahmed matched the merchant’s steps. When she sidestepped, he moved in the opposite direction, so that they were circling each other.
“Leave him now, or I’ll carve you out of him,” she hissed.
Ahmed blinked. Laughed. “Foolish girl. You cannot exorcise me with fire.”
The merchant shot forward like an arrow, embers trailing in her wake. Ahmed caught her dagger with his sword. But though he stopped her blade, he could not deflect the fire, which spat and hissed and stretched toward him. He drew back with a growl as it scorched his wrist.
“You might be immune to fire, but humans are not.”
“You would hurt the man you want to save?” Ahmed laughed. The sound was high pitched, almost desperate. “You humans truly are heartless.”
“No more heartless than a jinn who does not let the dead rest.”
The skirmish became a blur, a cacophony of metal shrieks. Ahmed was the superior fighter, but the merchant had fire. It burned brighter with each strike, and then it burst. Ahmed pulled back quickly enough to avoid the center of the blast, but the hem of his sleeve was burning so fiercely he had no choice but to lower his sword and focus on putting it out.
Instinctively, Mazen reached for his shadow on the wall and draped it over his head as the wali drew closer. Out of sight, he finally relaxed enough to retreat. He noticed two things as he inched away. First, that though Ahmed’s sleeve was aflame, his skin was unburned. It was as the merchant had said: Magic fire distinguishes friend from foe.