War of the Magi: Azrael's Wrath (Book 2) by Joseph Robert Lewis Page A

avail.
    She’s being ignored by the crowd. This is her fear, her prison is her fear of being ignored, overlooked, rejected. So obvious, and so petty. This is pointless.
    She left the amphitheater and moments later found the falconer staring at a poorly made doll in his hand. Samira hesitated beside him for only a moment, and then moved on.
    There’s no telling what that means.
    A few streets farther on she came upon the alchemist Bashir sitting in the middle of the street. The gaunt djinn had folded himself up and wrapped his arms around his knees to peer down at a skull sitting on the ground in front of him. As soon as she saw the skull, Samira backed away.
    The death-worshipping lunatic is exactly what everyone says he is. Obsessed. And perhaps even insane.
    I never should have brought him. No favor is worth having this sort of viper in our midst.
    Samira hurried back to the courtyard where Iyasu remained contemplating the grave beside the silent healer. “I’ve seen them. I have no idea what to do. Maybe if I destroy the city, it will force them to realize what is happening.”
    “I doubt your gift will work here.”
    Frowning, the djinn woman touched the stone wall of the house beside her and for the first time in countless years, nothing happened. Nothing moved. Nothing flowed. She called upon Tevad in her mind, praying more than she had in ages, but still the stone remained unchanged. Her impotence in that moment stunned her.
    “It’s all right. I think I have it,” Iyasu said. “I know whose grave it is.”
    “Whose? Her lover, the falconer?” Samira tried to focus on the conversation to forget the dizzying sensation of helplessness she was feeling.
    “No. If it was Zerai’s grave, it would be decorated with his possessions, and probably some flowers too. Besides, it’s too small.”
    “Then whose grave is it?”
    “It’s mine.” Iyasu stood up. “Years ago when we first met, I saved her. Now she’s afraid that she won’t save me. She’s doubting her skills, her faith, her strength.”
    “You’re sure of that?”
    That doesn’t seem quite right, but I suppose he knows her better than I do.
    The earth began to shift and crack, and the grave erupted gently to allow four slender fingers to shove up into the warm air.
    Samira and Iyasu flinched back and watched in mute fascination as the fingers pulled up a hand, and then an arm from the unmarked grave. The flesh on the arm had shriveled and paled, and the filthy cloth on it hung in shreds, but the face that broke through the crust of the earth was clearly that of the young seer.
    Iyasu nodded once. “Very.”
    As the corpse continued to emerge from its earthen bed, Veneka began to sob. She covered her face with her hands, but remained where she stood.
    “What do we do?” Samira demanded.
    If there are corpses coming to life here, there’s no guessing what horrors are appearing near Bashir and the falconer. And if I can’t use my gifts to defend us…
    “I think I understand now.” Iyasu stepped in front of Veneka, standing between her and the dead incarnation of himself. “Veneka, look at me.”
    The healer continued to cry softly into her hands.
    “Veneka.” Iyasu took her hands and gently pried them from her face.
    “Behind you!” Samira dashed forward as the dead seer stepped away from its grave and lunged at Iyasu’s back. The djinn cleric tackled the filthy corpse to the ground, but it pushed her back, forcing her away no matter how much she tried to hold it down. She tumbled off to one side, but as the dead youth reached for his living counterpart, Samira hurled herself against it again, forcing it farther away. “Hurry!”
    “Veneka, I need you to hear me. I need you to see me.” Iyasu placed his hands on her face, his fingers curled around her cheeks and brows to lift her lids apart. “Look at me, Veneka. Look at Iyasu. He’s alive. He’s very much alive. He didn’t die. You didn’t let him die. You saved him. Iyasu is