Eleven
The other djinn had been sent home to be with their Chosen. Fatima sat on one of the velvet-upholstered couches in the living room of the home she shared with Adam, the fateful note still clutched in one hand, even though she couldn’t read a word of it.
“Who do you know who could have written this?”
“I’m not sure.” Malik had found himself too full of nervous energy to sit down, and so he stood by the room’s marble fireplace, staring grimly out into the backyard. Off to one side, a fountain played, bright water splashing in the sunlight, and yet he still thought he had never looked upon a drearier scene. “There are many of us who can read and write the old languages. If you are hoping to narrow this down to a small group of suspects, I fear you will be disappointed.”
“But still,
