Daughter of Gods and Shadows by Jayde Brooks

Sakarabru?”
    He grimaced and glared at one of his healers. “Because I thought I was dying,” he admitted.
    â€œAnd you would want me to bring you back?”
    The Demon studied him. “Would you bring me back, Kifo?”
    He realized right then and there that he was not just Kifo, the little lost Djinn who had been found and thought of as a pet. He was Kifo, the mystic and the maker of soldiers for the Brood Army. He stuck out his chest a little more, drew back his shoulders, and raised his chin. “If I should ever have the opportunity, Lord Sakarabru, yes. I will bring you back.”
    He had brought Sakarabru back and was rebuilding his army because he was loyal to the Demon, and his loyalty was everything. Sakarabru had saved his life. He had been there for Kifo at a time when he was absolutely alone and afraid. Sakarabru had been like a father to him, and for that, Kifo owed him life, for as long as it was in his power to give it to him.

 
    THIS OLD MAN
    â€œOne for three. Bring me. Redeem me. Or die the lamb,” he repeated in a singsong melody. “I found a trinket! A pretty trinket! But it’s not a trinket! Is it?”
    Dave Jensen was an archaeologist, or he had been an archeologist—a decent one. He shuffled through the streets of Norfolk, stumbling, talking out loud to himself and working hard to keep his balance on the swollen and bloodied stumps that used to be feet. He’d walked them down to nothing.
    â€œNothing,” he grunted to himself.
    People crossed the street when they saw him coming, turning up their noses at him or looking down their noses, mumbling things about the way he smelled or complaining about how he looked. But none of them had ever met him. And none of them knew that Dave Jensen had been a decent archaeologist. But that was a long time ago.
    â€œToo long,” he wheezed, disappointed, weighted down by regret and disappointment. If only he hadn’t picked it up. If only he hadn’t closed it up in his hand. If only he hadn’t wrapped his fingers around it.
    Besh-Ba-Gowah. In Apache, it meant “place of metal,” and it was a pueblo, a ruin in a small town just north of Tucson, east of Phoenix, called Globe, Arizona.
    â€œSo damn hot,” he muttered, shaking his head miserably at the memory.
    Dave had been one of the first. Excavation had started in ’35—1935. He would never forget that year, even though he’d forgotten most of the others since then. It was his first dig. Four hundred rooms, maybe more. He’d been assigned a room on the ground level.
    â€œDave,” he said the same way it had been told to him, “this is your quadrant. Yours.” He nodded in agreement, like he did back then.
    It was a proud moment for him. Dave had his own quadrant. The excavation was slow, but it had to be, as they turned up old and rustic tools like stone axes and hoes, obsidian points, minerals, shell jewelry and beads, and wares painted with pictures of birds, animals, and insects.
    It looked like it could’ve belonged there, he supposed. Dave was crouched low in one corner of his room, his quadrant, alone, while everyone else slept. He should’ve been asleep, too, but he just couldn’t …
    â€œSleep,” he said, regrettably.
    She wouldn’t let him sleep. He had heard her calling him for days. But when he looked around at everyone else, they didn’t seem to notice. At first he thought he was just crazy. He thought he was dehydrated and needed to drink more water. The heat was getting to him. And so he ignored her. And he dug. The longer he ignored her, though, the louder her calls became. And the more he dug.
    â€œIt’s late, Dave,” one of his colleagues said to him. “You really should get some rest. Whatever’s under there has been there a long time. Surely it can wait another night.”
    She didn’t call to him with words, but it was more of a