Page 90 of Bewitched By the Djinn
He yanks me down, Helen diving to the ground right next to us as a lightning bolt explodes against the nearest tree, sending burning bark and embers scattering over our heads, stinging my exposed skin.
Okay. Not giants.
They emerge from the shadows, living smoke and flames, their skin flickering between red and black and molten gold. There are five of them, circling us like predators.
Definitely freakier than the shadows they manifested back home. And more solid.
I scramble up, heart hammering.
Bennet steps between me and the advancing ifrit. Helen’s hands glow with gathering power.
One of the ifrit lunges.
Bennet meets it head-on. He ducks the first swing of burning flames.
Helen chucks magic at the creature, slicing across its arm, dark liquid sizzling as it drips to the ground. The ifrit hisses, and another rushes in from the side.
Helen throws up a shimmering barrier just in time. The ifrit’s lightning collides with the shield,sending cracks skittering across its surface before the magic disperses. She lets out a strangled breath, sweat beading at her temple.
Bennet distracts them, dodging and parrying like a whirlwind, his limbs a blur. Helen uses his distraction to throw more magic at them, but they recover like it’s nothing, like Bennet and Helen are angry kittens and they are, well, beings of fire and smoke.
And I just stand there.
Shit, shit, shit.How do you fight a thundercloud with fists that have never thrown a punch?
They’re made of fire and smoke and rage. And I’m just a rando human with a magic I can’t use. I’m going to get them killed because I have no idea what I’m doing and never trained as a ninja. I should have taken that self-defense class.
They move closer and closer.
No exits. No options.
I press against Helen, both of us backing up as Bennet stumbles to regain his footing. We’re out of time.
The ifrit raise their hands in unison, fire blooming in their palms, ready to burn us alive.
And then?—
An arrow slices through the air.
It buries itself deep in the ground inches from the lead ifrit’s foot, quivering with the force of its impact. Purple magic smokes from the arrow, and when it comes into contact with the ifrit, they hiss as one.
Another smoking arrow flies. Then another.
The ifrit freeze. Their heads snap toward the trees.
Figures drop from the branches with impossible grace, their faces obscured by scarves and hoods. They move fast, loosing arrows and blades in fluid motions.
One of the ifrit snarls, twisting to launch a lightning bolt, but a shimmering wall of magic absorbs the attack,swallowing the flames before they reach us.
The ifrit hesitate.
More figures step into view, surrounding them.
With a final, frustrated snarl, they vanish in a burst of flame.
The moment stretches, thick with tension.
My breath rasps in my throat as I take in our rescuers—cloaked, weapons drawn, their faces hidden. One of them steps forward, her movements familiar in a way that knocks the breath from my lungs.
