The Golem's Eye

the glowing white lines of a high-strength nexus beyond the window. The magicians had arrived. They'd sealed us in.
    The cat wheeled around, seeking another exit. Finding none.
    Bloody magicians.
    A boiling cloud of darkness filled the doorway.
    The cat hunched down defensively, pressing itself against the floor. Behind it, rain drummed against the windowpanes.
    For a moment neither cat nor darkness moved. Then something small and white erupted from the cloud, shooting across the room: the crocodile head of Sobek, ripped from its shoulders. The cat sprang aside. The head crashed through the window, fizzing as it struck the nexus. Hot rain drove in through the hole, steaming from its contact with the barrier; with it came a sudden draught. The tapestries and sheets of fabric on the walls fluttered outward.
    Footsteps. An approaching darkness that swelled to fill the room. 
    The cat slunk back into a corner, pressing itself as small as it would go. Any moment now, that eye would see me....
    Another gust of rain: the edges of the tapestries flicked up. An idea formed.
    Not a very good one, but I wasn't fussy right then.
    The cat leaped at the nearest hanging fabric, a fragile piece, possibly from America, showing squareish humans amid a sea of stylized corn. It scrabbled its way to the top, where careful cords attached it to the wall. A flash of claw—the fabric was free. Instantly, the wind caught it; it blew outward into the room, colliding with something in the midst of the black cloud.
    The cat was already on the next tapestry, slashing it loose. Then the next. In a moment, half a dozen sheets of fabric had been whipped into the center of the room, where they danced palely like ghosts amid the wind and driving rain.
    The creature in the cloud had ripped the first sheet away, but now another was blown upon it. From all sides, fragments of material dipped and spun, confusing the creature, obscuring its view. I sensed the great arms flailing, the giant legs blundering back and forth within the confines of the room.
    While it was thus occupied, I aimed to creep elsewhere.
    This was easier said than done, as the black cloud now seemed to fill the room, and I didn't want to bump into the death-bringing body within it. So I went cautiously, hugging the walls.
    I'd made it about halfway to the door when the creature, evidently reaching a peak of frustration, lost all sense of perspective. There was a sudden pounding of feet and a great blow struck against the left-hand wall. Plaster dropped from above and a cloud of dust and debris fell into the room to join the general whirl of wind, rain, and antique fabrics.
    On the second blow, the wall collapsed, and with it the entire ceiling.
    For a split second, the cat was motionless, eyes wide, then it curled into a protective ball.
    An instant later, a dozen tons of stone, brick, cement, steel, and assorted masonry crashed down directly upon me, burying the room.

17
     
    Nathaniel
     
    The small man gave an apologetic smile. "We have removed most of the rubble, madam," he said, "and have so far found nothing."
    Jessica Whitwell's voice was cold and calm. "Nothing, Shubit? You realize what you are telling me is quite impossible. I think someone is shirking."
    "I humbly believe that not to be so, madam." He certainly seemed humble enough right then, standing with his bandy legs slightly bent, his head bowed, his cap scrunched tightly in his hands. Only the fact that he was standing in the center of a pentacle revealed his demonic nature. That and his left foot—a black bear's tufted paw poking out from his trousers—which from oversight or caprice he had neglected to transform.
    Nathaniel regarded the djinni balefully and tapped his fingers together in what he hoped was a brooding and quizzical manner. He was sitting in a high-backed easy chair of studded green leather, one of several arranged around the pentacle in an elegant circle. He had deliberately adopted the same pose as Ms. Whitwell— straight-backed, legs crossed, elbows resting on the arms of the chair—in an attempt to replicate her air of powerful resolve. He had an uncomfortable feeling it did not begin to disguise his terror. He kept his voice as level as he could. "You must search every cranny of the ruins," he said. "My demon must be there."
    The small man cast him a single look with his bright green eyes, but otherwise ignored him. Jessica Whitwell spoke: "Your demon might well have been destroyed, John,"