Lilith grabbed two more serving women and two of the dancers who were eating in the kitchen. She used them to season the stew of growing confusion. A stitch sent white hot pain up Lilith's side, and her shoulders and back were aching. It hadn't been easy controlling the hysterical, struggling women. She rested against a wall in an alcove and waited for her breathing to slow. She heard a high and querulous tenor voice call out. Abdul the Idiot has taken command. Perfect.
"Lock down all the gates. No. Wait. Not until the military arrives. Turn on all the lights in the gardens."
"That will kill our troops' night vision, my prince," another voice warned.
"Oh, yes. Well, issue night goggles."
"They have night goggles," came another voice.
"Oh, yes, right."
"Shouldn't we stay with your father?" another asked.
Which implies the Caliph has changed location, Lilith thought.
"No. We must find the crusader assassin."
Lilith teleported back to Prince Siraj's room.
He gave a shout of alarm then relaxed when he saw her. "What's happening? Have you done it? I heard gunshots."
"Pandemonium. No. Yes," Lilith said. "How much does the Caliph love Nashwa?"
"A lot."
"Is he a coward?"
"No."
"Thank you." Lilith teleported away, certain now where she would find him.
The Caliph whirled as the pop of displaced air announced her arrival.
In the dimly lit bedroom the green glow that emanated from his body was apparent. His black hair was flecked with gray and his beard had two long streaks of silver that ran from the corners of his mouth. He was dressed in white robes and she could see the line of puckered brown across his throat where a sister's knife had once failed to cut deep enough. Then he had only been the Nur al-Allah, and the restoration of the caliphate had only been a dream.
The Nur's eyes telegraphed the lifting of his pistol. Lilith seized a pot of face powder off Nashwa's dressing table and flung the contents into his face. He jerked his head to the side, and spoiled his aim. But it had been a near thing. Lilith felt the heat from the muzzle flash across her face, and the report set her ears to ringing. There were female screams from beyond the door.
She ran for the bed. As she passed the door she slammed it closed and threw the bolt. It wouldn't hold for long, but she only needed minutes. Jumping, she landed on the mattress and used its spring to increase her speed and the height of the jump. She lashed out with her foot as she arced over the Nur's head, and caught him hard on the jaw. With her trailing foot she kicked his hand and wrist, and felt bones snap.
The second kick had the desired result—he dropped the gun—but it wrecked her trajectory and she fell harder than she'd hoped, onto her hip. Clenching her teeth against the pain, Lilith rolled to her feet and drew a knife from the sheath strapped to her leg. The Nur shook his head, trying to throw off the effects of her first kick.
Lilith rushed forward, but he turned to face her and drew the ceremonial dagger he wore in his leather belt. The hilt might be jewel encrusted, but the blade was all business, and a good deal longer than Lilith's knife. They circled each other in the knife fighter's hunched and forward-leaning stance.
"Who sent you?" His voice was rough, like an old crow. Once it had been liquid velvet and had enthralled thousands.
"The world." Lilith shifted sideways as he made a quick lunge. She slapped aside his hand, and let her knife slide up his arm to cut the tendon above his elbow. The wound made it almost impossible for him to keep hold of the knife. Thundering kicks set the bedroom door to shivering.
"You can kill me, but you cannot destroy what I've built here."
"You're right. But we can own it." She allowed a tinge of her accent to color her perfect Arabic. It had the desired result.
"Infidel! Crusader!" He lunged for her again.
"Don't forget imperialist." She kicked a small ottoman in front of him. It tangled between his feet, and he went crashing to the floor. She let him get to his knees then darted behind him, drove the knife into his chest, and tipped it upward searching for the tough muscle that was his heart. The steel found its mark. Blood, warm and sticky, poured across her hand, and its tangy, sweet scent filled the room.
The bedroom was off-limits to security cameras. She had to find some way to shift blame. Five for one. She remembered the old motto of the Black Dog and his joker terrorists. The Djinn had seen her eyes. Knew she was a wild card.
The door was almost down. "The Black Dog sends his greetings," she shrieked in a high-pitched voice. For an instant the blows on the door stopped, then renewed with increased fervor.
Lilith picked up the Nur's pistol, and teleported away. She needed four more victims. The final misdirection.
3. Jonathan Hive Sells Out
Jonathan Hive
Daniel Abraham
2: JONATHAN HIVE SELLS OUT!
JONATHAN WENT OVER THE release form again, flipping the paper back and forth. The time he'd spent trying to parse memos from Senate campaigns just didn't help much when it came to these West Coast entertainment wonks. The whole point of the exercise, after all, was to get something he could write about. If the first thing he did on day one was sign away his rights, he might as well go fill out an application at Starbucks and be done.
He looked up and down the parking lot. Great silver buses and trucks filled the place, sound equipment and shoulder-mounted cameras making their way to the secular cathedral of Ebbets Field on the backs of scrungy-looking technicians. A folding table had been set up with a tarnished coffee service and a few boxes of donuts. Several of the other prospective contestants were milling around, trying to size each other up.
"Is there a question I can help you with?" the flunky asked through a practiced smile. She was early twenties, long-faced, and mean about the eye. Normal-looking people who lived in the beauty pits of Hollywood too long seemed to get that feral I'm-not-a-supermodel-but-I-might-kill-one look after a while.
"Oh," Jonathan said, whipping out his own smile, "it's just . . . I'm a journalist. I have this blog, and I don't quite know what I can and can't talk about there. If I did get on the show, I couldn't really afford to take however many months just off."
"Of course not," the flunky said, nodding. "This is just the release for the tryouts. If you're chosen for the show, there's a whole other process."
Which didn't even sort of answer Jonathan's question. He smiled wider. They'd just see which of them could nice the other to death.
"That's great," he said, shaking his head. "I just had one or two tiny questions about the wording on this one?"
"Sure," the flunky said. "Anything I can help with. But it is the standard release." Meaning move it, loser, I've got a hundred more like you to get through.
"I'll make it quick. I really appreciate this," Jonathan said. Meaning suck it up, jerk, I can stall you all day if I want to.
The flunky's smile set like concrete. Jonathan killed half an hour niggling at details and posing hypothetical situations. It all came down to the same thing, though: If he wanted in, he'd sign. If he refused . . . well, the field was full of aces who were there for the express purpose of taking his place. He kept up the tennis match of cheerful falsehoods until the flunky's smile started to chip at the edges, but in the end, he signed off.
He sidled over to the coffee and donuts just long enough to confirm that he didn't want anything to do with either, and then a vaguely familiar blond guy with a clipboard rounded them up and led the way across the tarmac and into the entrance of the ballpark. They were divided into ten groups and then each led to a camera and interview setup where a small bank of lights were ready to make him and all the others glow for the camera. Of his group, he got to be the lucky bastard who went first.