. . . Across the Aswan Road and ahead, clouds of green wasps swarmed. Lohengrin's armor gleamed white and cold as he charged toward the enemy, and just behind the German ace, Sekhmet had taken Fortune once more. The great lioness roared and flame spouted from her mouth as she leapt into the fray, claws tearing at the ranks of the caliphate. Kate, farther back, flung rocks that struck the Caliph's soldiers like missiles.

  . . . and there wasn't time to see more, as Rustbelt and Bubbles, with Michael close behind, were suddenly in the midst of fighting themselves. Rustbelt's massive arms swung like pistons, as those nearest him retreated with curses in Arabic. Michael swung around Rustbelt's left; a soldier fired at him, the burst hitting the center of his vest. The tremendous impact drove Michael to the ground. The soldier stood over him, and he was too dazed to react. He saw the muzzle pointed at his face . . .

  . . . but a bubble the size of a orange wafted past above him, and the soldier went tumbling back in a spray of blood. Michael stared at the body for moment before pushing himself up, bruised and sore but intact, the vest hanging from a few shreds of bandages. "Thanks, Bubbles!" he shouted, but he couldn't see her anywhere. The followers of the Living Gods were flowing past him, charging into the fray, and it was suddenly hand-to-hand combat. A bayonet-tipped rifle emerged from the crush, stabbing at him. It was all he saw, but Michael managed to grab the muzzle. He pulled with all his strength. A man came flying from the press around him, and Michael flung the man screaming back into his own people. There were weapons on the sand, and Michael picked up four of them with his lowest hands . . .

  . . . "DB!" he heard Rustbelt call, and saw the ace swarmed with soldiers, like a praying mantis beset with fire ants. Michael ran toward him, firing his quartet of AK-47s without bothering to aim, feeling the furious kick of the automatic weapons as they bucked in his hands. Bullets sparked against Rustbelt's body, and whined as they caromed away, but bodies were falling from him as well. Rustbelt rose with a groan and a cry and shook off the rest.

  He pounded the last few of the soldiers heavily into the sand, leaving red craters. Michael looked away, trying to gain his bearings again.

  They were in a valley between low dunes. The wind devil of Simoon scoured the top of the dune ahead of them. He didn't know where Bubbles or the rest of the followers of the Living Gods had gone. "Come on, fella," Rustbelt said, "we're done here." He lumbered up the dune with Michael struggling after him. The sand dragged at his feet and filled his sneakers, clinging to his sweating body and chafing at the belt of his jeans. He was bleeding; the bandages wrapped around his wounded arm were soaked, and there was a long, ugly gash on his right side between his top and middle arm, the blood mixed with gritty sand. Michael hadn't felt the bayonet that had left that mark, but now he felt the pain and the stitch in his side.

  Rustbelt reached the top of the dune. He stopped, and Michael heard the ace grunt.

  "Shit." Michael saw the issue as he scrambled up next to Rustbelt. For the moment, they were alone in an oasis of relative calm. The main force of the army was focused on the road snaking through the landscape a quarter mile to their left, on the east bank, north of the dam. There, smoke rose from the twisted hulks of personnel carriers and tanks. The troops of the caliphate and the armed jokers of the Living Gods were engaged in a fierce firefight. In the midst of it, in the smear of the tracer rounds and the explosions from mortars, the aces of both sides had come together.

  The banner of the Djinn waved, bloody and threatening. Around him, the armies swarmed, but the Djinn stood untouched, a tower in the midst of the plain, his hands lifted to the sky as if in praise. The followers of the Living Gods were running away from him in wild retreat, firing their weapons over their shoulders to no effect. Even from this distance, Michael could feel the tinge of fear radiating from the ace. Uncertainty burned in his stomach. This would be a quick and brutal assault. The Caliph intended to take the High Dam and end this, and the Djinn was going to make certain that the job was accomplished swiftly.

  Michael didn't see any way to stop it. The Djinn dwarfed everyone, and the fear he produced was spreading outward in a wide crescent in front of him. Tawaret was among those fleeing, running over her own people in her panic. Michael watched the Djinn reach down and pluck a trio of jokers from the running troops behind Tawaret. His fist squeezed, and he flung the broken bodies at the Living God and her priests, chortling in his bass voice.

  "If we only had Ana," Bubbles said, and Michael started to see her standing next to him. "We'd see how that bastard likes being buried under a hundred feet of sand." Rustbelt grunted in answer.

  But they didn't have Ana. They didn't have King Cobalt or Hardhat or Holy Roller. They didn't have the hundreds of jokers who had died yesterday. Those who were still standing were exhausted and injured, and there would be no Peregrine to call "Cut!" when it was obvious they had lost.

  The wind devil of Simoon raged to the Djinn's left flank, her sands tossing tanks as if they were toys, her fierce winds ripping flesh from bone and leaving skeletons on the sand in her wake. The funnel cloud bent toward the Djinn and he opened his arms as if to welcome her, unmoving. "No!" Michael heard Lohengrin's cry even from where he stood. "Simoon, don't!" But she ignored the warning. The tornado tossed aside the Djinn's guards. Her funnel touched his outstretched hand and he roared as if in pain, snatching his hand back as blood rained on his troops. Simoon curled her winds toward him; they whipped the Djinn's robes, they lashed his face and body and he retreated a step back. For a moment Michael felt hope. But he braced himself in the sand, reaching for her again, this time with both hands as if he were grasping something hidden in the twisting column of the tornado. The winds abruptly ceased to howl and sand fell like rain; the Djinn's massive hands were flayed and bleeding, but in them was Aliyah, naked. They could see her mouth open in a scream. "Bubbles—" Michael said. "Can you . . . ?"

  "I can't," she said. "Not while he's holding her." Michael could see Kate with a stone in her hand, evidently with the same doubt in her mind. Lohengrin called challenge and Sekhmet roared, but the Djinn's huge fingers closed over Aliyah's head and shoulders, around her hips. With a grimace, the Djinn twisted his hands as if he were snapping a dry twig.

  "Oh God," someone said, and Michael didn't know if it was Bubbles or Rusty or himself.

  The Djinn tossed the halves of Aliyah's corpse to either side, trailing gore. He laughed. New skin slid over his wounded hands, as if painted on by an invisible brush. He pointed at the cluster of Sekhmet, Kate, Lohengrin, and Sobek. He took a stride toward them that covered yards.

  Rusty started to lumber down the dune toward the others. Bubbles and Michael followed, stumbling through the sand. They were going to be too late, Michael knew. Already he could feel the fear clogging his throat and making each step more of an effort.

  Lohengrin ran toward the Djinn, armor gleaming and sword shining; Sekhmet roared, flames jetting from the lioness's mouth; Kate brought her arm back and flung stones at the giant ace; Sobek, crocodile mouth gaping, snarled as he advanced, his finger holding down the trigger of the AK-47 he held; a clot of wasps arrowed toward the Djinn.

  "Hurry!" Rustbelt shouted over his shoulder as they ran. He stumbled, over-balanced and went rolling down the slope of the dune. Michael and Bubbles slid through the sand behind him.

  The Djinn took another step and was within arm's reach of Fortune's group. Shadows played around him even in the brilliant sunlight, as if he were surrounded by unseen figures; he loomed over them like a god. Sekhmet was slapped down in midleap; Kate's stones went careening away; Sobek was down, bleeding from a head wound; a puff of breath from the Djinn banished the wasps. The giant reached toward Lohengrin, ready to pluck him from the sand. "Deus Volt!" they heard the German ace cry, and Lohengrin's sword slashed at the hand that curled around him—two massive fingers fell like tree trunks to the sand. The Djinn roared, and the sound drowned out everything else. His other hand came down and struck Lohengrin open-handed. The ace went flying, slamming hard into a disabled tank.

  The glow of ghost steel faded. Where there'd been a warrior drawn from myths and legends, a pudgy blond boy now sprawled, unconscious.

  "Fuck." Michael spat out the word along with a mouthful of sand. They'd reached the bottom of the dune. Bubbles was helping Rusty to his feet. "Hit me!" she shouted at him, at Michael. "Hit me now!"

  Ahead, Kate and Sekhmet were the only two still standing. Kate reached into her bag of stones; Sekhmet roared defiance. The followers of the Living Gods were fleeing the confrontation, while the Djinn's elite guard spread out around the giant once more. Between Michael and Kate, there was little but open sand. "Come on," Michael said, as Rusty slammed a fisted hand into Bubbles's stomach. "We gotta get there."

  They ran. As they did, Sekhmet roared once more, the sound louder even than the Djinn's laughter. Fortune bounded in one leap toward the Djinn; Michael saw Kate shout at him—"No!"—and desperately begin to fling stones. The Djinn stood calmly. Shadows pulsed; his figure shimmered. Kate's stones slid harmlessly through and past the Djinn.

  And Fortune: the lioness of Sekhmet leapt toward the Djinn, and he rushed forward to embrace the Living God. He was too slow this time. Sekhmet twisted in midair, slipping past his maimed hand. She slashed at his bearded face with her claws, ripping a quartet of bloody lines down his cheeks. Strips of flesh curled back from the wounds. The flames from her mouth set his beard afire.

  The Djinn pulled her from his face as more flesh tore. He held Sekhmet in one hand; his fingers tightening around her body. The lioness screamed, an awful shrill of torment. The flames gushing from her mouth went to smoke as he threw her hard to the ground.

  The lioness fell, but it was Fortune, naked and unprotected, who lay crumpled on the sand. The Djinn crouched and picked him up again, a smile twisting under his dark beard, his cheek bloodied and torn. As he held him tendrils of smoky vapor began to curl from the scarab imbedded in Fortune's forehead toward the Djinn, wreathing around his body and sinking into his flesh. Fortune screamed in his hands, wordless and horrible. Kate, weeping, flung stones.

  Michael, Rustbelt, and Bubbles were fifty yards away. It might as well have been as many miles. Rustbelt bellowed; the Djinn glanced in their direction. Michael felt as helpless as he had the night he'd seen Kate and Fortune on the television set in Rome. As helpless as he'd felt during the first challenge when none of them knew how to work together, as outmatched as he'd been when Golden Boy tossed him aside as if he were a child.

  "If the Djinn touches you, you are lost. He will slay you and drink your powers."

  But if they didn't have to touch him at all . . .

  "I'm pretending it's the Djinn's head. . . ."

  Michael blinked, fighting the despair flowing from the Djinn. He tore away the remnants of the Kevlar from his chest. "Rusty, you gotta go after that fucker—make him pay attention to you somehow, just don't let him touch you; Bubbles, can you keep him distracted, too, maybe put him off balance, the way you did Golden Boy?"

  "And what are you gonna do?" Bubbles asked.

  "Play," Michael answered. Grimacing as aching muscles protested, he began to tap on his body with his open hands, playing on himself as if he were a set of living congas—softly at first, then louder and harder. The sound welled out from him, unfocused, echoing from the ruins of houses along the road and the ramparts of the High Dam. The Djinn turned, noticing him as his dark eyes narrowed. Michael tightened the throats of his neck, forcing the sound of the drumming into a narrow pattern, all of it aimed toward the Djinn. The Djinn grimaced as waves of percussion hammered at him. He seemed to stagger a step backward, but that was all. The wispy shadows continued to flow darkly from the screaming Fortune toward him . . .

  . . . as Rustbelt charged blindly at him; as Kate redoubled her efforts; as Klaus shook his head groggily and rose, clad again in Lohengrin's ghost steel. They were not going to be enough, Michael knew. The shadows faded and Fortune's screams fell to whimpers as the Djinn laughed.

  . . . a torrent of bubbles broke over the Djinn, crashing down on him, the impact sending his guards tumbling, as well as Rustbelt and Lohengrin. Michael struck his body harder than he ever had, as he forced his multiple throats to close even more tightly so that his own skull ached with the sound—he forced his vocal cords to contract yet further, as he imagined the bones of the Djinn's skull vibrating and shaking, rattling in the fleshy envelope that held them and slamming the brain against its bone prison, again and again and again.

  The Djinn screamed a shrill, high cry. He dropped Fortune's body and clapped his hands over his ears; thick, bright blood poured from his nose and mouth. He sank to his knees. Shadows whirled chaotically around him, a hundred smoky figures of those he'd consumed. Michael continued to drum, to pound at the man with sonic fists. The Djinn wailed. His head shivered, a frantic quivering that rendered his features blurred and unfocused. Blood gushed from his mouth and into his dark beard. The violent motions of his head sent droplets splattering everywhere.

  His eyes rolled back. The shadows around the Djinn fled. He collapsed, a stricken tower, crushing his guards beneath him.

  The fear that had held them all evaporated in the same moment. The guards, those still standing, gaped at their stricken commander—now just a man laying on the sand, swaddled in yards of cloth that no longer fit his entirely normal stature. A breath later, they fled, pursued by the Living Gods' followers, who had turned with a desperate hope rising in them.

  Kate was staring at the fallen Djinn. Then her gaze moved to Michael, his hands now down at his side. In his mind, he saw the way she would smile, how the realization would dawn on her face, how she would run desperately and gratefully to him.

  She did run. She sprinted to Fortune and sank down alongside him, cradling him in her arms as they gathered around her: Lohengrin, Bubbles, Rustbelt. Several of Hive's wasps quivered on Lohengrin's shoulder. "He's really hurt," Kate said, her voice breaking slightly. "Help me. Help me get him away from here."

  Lohengrin moved, kneeling to help her pick up the moaning, half-conscious Fortune. "No," Michael called to the ace. His throat openings ached and the words grated. "I'll get him for her."

  He lifted Fortune in his many arms. With Kate alongside him, stroking Fortune's bloodied hair and crooning encouragement, he walked from the battlefield with the rest of the injured, his own great wound invisible.

  Dark of the Moon

  Melinda M. Snodgrass

  SOMEWHERE OFF TO HER right gunfire erupted.

  Anywhere else in the world people would flee that sound, but here in Baghdad it was just one theme in the symphony of celebration. The sharp chattering of a machine gun set a high-pitched counterpoint to the deep bass booms of rockets. A shower of golden sparks hung in the night sky, and edged the needle-like spires of minarets like a benediction. The sparks seemed to fall in slow motion. The light from the fireworks briefly lit the faces of the crowd. Men whirled and danced. Tears glinted on their cheeks, and their mouths stretched wide as they chanted for their Caliph.

  Kamal Farag Aziz, the new president of Egypt, had come to Baghdad to submit himself to the Caliph and make his nation one with Syria, Palestine, Iraq, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, under the restored caliphate. In Cairo, Baghdad, Damascus, East Jerusalem, and Mecca, the masses celebrated. In Lebanon, Qatar, and Kuwait, the leaders of the few remaining sovereign Arab states were shivering.

  Lilith pulled the edge of her shimagh across her nose and mouth. Partly it was to disguise the fact she was a woman, but it also kept the dust, raised by thousands of shuffling, stamping feet, from choking her. Only in Iraq could you smell the rich, moist tang of water and reeds, chew on grit, and endure nighttime temperatures in the high nineties. Her robe clung to her body, and she felt a trickle of sweat inching its maddening way down her spine. When Saddam had lived in the palace the acres surrounding the building had been given over to lush gardens. The Caliph had chosen not to take water from Iraqi farmers, and allowed the gardens to die.

  From her vantage point near the palace wall Lilith could see the looming bulk of the palace. The white marble walls were washed in a kaleidoscope of colors as the fireworks display continued. A man dressed in snowy white robes and keffiyeh stepped out onto a third-floor balcony. He paced, rested his hands on the carved balustrade, peered down into the crowd, paced again, and vanished back into the room.

  Idiot, Lilith thought. Get yourself killed by a stray bullet.

  She waited until one particularly spectacular fireworks display lit the sky and every head craned back in that particular kind of amazement unique to yokels. Then she swept the folds of her dishdasha and jalabiya around her body and felt that strange, internal snap, as the surface beneath her sandals changed from dirt over concrete to less dirt over polished marble.

  Prince Siraj gaped at her. He was handsome, but his smooth round face and the bulge of a belly against his robes showed the dangers of sufficient food for a Bedouin. No matter that the royal house of Jordan had been out of the desert for four generations. Two thousand years of subsistence living was bred deep in the bone, and it whispered constantly that this meal might be the last for a long, long time.

  "Are—" He coughed and tried again. "—are you the one Noel sent?"

  "You better hope so." Lilith stepped into the room. A breeze off the Tigris stirred the white fabric of the mosquito netting that swaddled the bed. An elaborate mosaic of multicolored stone covered the floor. It depicted King Nebuchadnezar hunting waterfowl in the rushes. But of course, Saddam had been a secularist. Lilith wondered how long until the Islamic purity patrols of the Caliph would destroy this art.