“Yes,” Safiyah said. “The women generally do all the fighting, though, and they own the men. So I’m not sure why these are here.”

The men were getting angrier.

Khatijah tried to bluff her way forward. Kept walking. Nyx held her head a little higher. Her hands itched for a blade.

One of the men grabbed Khatijah’s wrist.

She broke it neatly.

That was enough to incite the others.

Twenty or thirty men swamped them at once. Nyx pulled her blade. Safiyah squawked and jumped back the way they had come. Nyx lost sight of her. Nyx cut down the first man who got within reach of her blade and sliced back another one.

Two more came up from behind. She kicked back. Broke someone’s knee. She pulled a dagger. Sliced two more men open. Her hands were slick with blood. She heard Khatijah curse. The men kept coming. A swarm of them, fodder for an endless war…

Like her brothers. Like her squad. Like Eshe.

Like her.

She was so bloody fucking tired. There was no retirement for bel dames, not really. There was no soft, gentle end. No fading away. Just this, always this. Cutting down wave after wave of men. Burying boys in the desert. Death in some black place, alone… like Eshe’s body—a crackling husk in some godfucked desert.

Eshe. She didn’t know whether she wanted to vomit or weep. Neither would do much good. Neither changed anything.

Another man swung a club at her. Nyx countered. Batted it away. Came in with a palm to his nose. The weapon came around again. Nyx pivoted left, not away from the blow but into it. The weapon came crashing down on her skull. Blackness flashed before her vision. Crashing light.

Then, blessed darkness.

37.

Inaya walked further down the hall, dressed in the crimson robe and black cowl of one of God’s Angels. She passed more interrogation rooms, and… other rooms. The Angel who interrogated her told her he didn’t have to torture her. But from the look of the mangled bodies in these rooms, there were many others they saw fit to torture.

She kept moving, searching for a way out. Surely there was more than one way out?

Finally, she came to the end of the hall, and an arched entry. She hesitated. Beyond the doorway was a wide reception room. She stepped through. Turned the corner.

Three figures, dressed as God’s Angels, stood huddled around a fourth person. From the look of the clothing, it was another Angel.

Beyond them, Inaya could see yet another door, half-open—and beyond that—daylight.

She took in the measure of the chamber. It was a stark white room with a large domed ceiling. Lockers ran along the full length of it. She wondered if this was the entrance for the Angels.