Lounging casually in a high-backed Moroccan chair of dark wood and cream-colored cushions—her chair—was a woman. Dressed in a loose-fitting one-piece black fabric, she sat with her legs crossed. Sharp dark eyes stared out from an almost perfectly oval face, the hair atop her head cut close to the scalp except for a curly tuft in the front. Each finger on the woman’s gloved hands was capped by curled points of sharp silver, which casually stroked the fur of the cat in her lap.
Before Fatma could speak, the woman gently deposited Ramses on a cushion. The cat mewed in discontent, but only blinked his yellow eyes once before curling into a silver ball. Rising, the black-clad woman walked forward—her padded feet soundless on the wood floor. Her gait was sauntering, almost intentionally lazy. Yet she seemed to move remarkably fast, reaching to tower over Fatma in quick strides. Her gaze dropped down to the half-drawn pistol.
“Plan on shooting me, agent?” she purred. “Where’s that knife you always carry around?”
Fatma eased her grip and released a held breath. “Didn’t wear it tonight. Had an undercover case. Would have stood out.”
The woman gave a throaty laugh from her slender neck, running a silver claw under Fatma’s chin and down the length of her tie. “As if you don’t stand out in these little suits.” She took firm hold of the tie, wrapping it about her fingers and pulling until the two touched—and Fatma couldn’t tell which of their hearts she felt pounding. “And I do so love these little suits.”
Then in that quick way she leaned down and gave Fatma a kiss.
It wasn’t a hard kiss, but it was a hungry one. The kind that spoke of need and want, of things long denied and yearned for. Fatma at first held back, her senses momentarily overwhelmed, her own lips and tongue awkward and out of step. But that hunger was in her too. It fast stirred awake, full of craving, playfully seeking the right tempo until it fell into rhythm.
When their lips parted, Fatma’s head was swimming. The air felt electric, and she drew in breaths to refill her lungs. “Siti.” She spoke between heavy breaths. “What are you doing here?”
Siti smiled a lioness’s smile, blinking a set of curving eyelashes, and Fatma felt her insides flutter. “I think that’s rather obvious.” She loosened Fatma’s tie and somehow began unbuttoning her shirt with those curled claws.
“Mahmoud didn’t say I had any visitors.”
Siti’s dark face wrinkled as she worked Fatma out of her jacket. “That bewab is nice—but too nosy. You wouldn’t want him telling the neighbors about your late-night visits from some infidel woman, would you?”
“Then how—?” Fatma broke off the question to discard her jacket as Siti started up on the waistcoat. Her eyes caught the cotton curtains of her balcony, flapping in the night breeze. “Do you ever use a door?”
“Not if I can help it.”
A playful push pinned Fatma against a wall. It always amazed her how strong Siti was. Not that she was doing much resisting. A set of claws ran across the nape of her neck, setting off shivers. She let them travel up, drawing softly through her black curls.
“Your hair needs washing.”
“And you cut yours. When did you get back? I haven’t seen you in months.”
“Miss me?” Siti pouted.
Fatma wrapped her arms about Siti’s waist, relishing the familiar feel—and pulled her close.
Siti grinned, dark eyes flashing. “I’ll take that as a yes!”
“You know, I planned to come home and go to sleep. I was very tired.”
“Oh? Still tired?”
Fatma answered with a kiss, and decided she wasn’t so tired after all.
* * *
Sometime later, Fatma found herself seated on her bed among red-gold cushions and matching damask sheets. Dressed in a plain white gallabiyah, she leaned back against Siti, who combed through her still-damp hair.
“If you don’t keep your scalp oiled, it’s going to get dry in this heat.”
“I have a barber,” Fatma replied.
Siti tsked, pouring oil onto her curls and then massaging it in with nimble fingers. Fatma sighed, content, breathing in the faint nutty sweetness. This might have been one of the things she missed the most.
“What is that?” she murmured.
“An oil my mother and aunts taught me. Helps keep the hair healthy.”
“What’s in it?”
“A little of this and that—old Nubian secret. We don’t share it with outsiders.”
Fatma twisted her head around to Siti, who was in one of her gallabiyahs. The crimson garment was entirely too small and fit her more like a shirt. But she wore it like it had been tailored for her. “I think I’m entitled to know. My father says we might have a Nubian ancestor, some great-great-great-grandmother or something.”
Siti rolled her eyes, turning Fatma’s head back around. “You’re just a Sa’idi with pretty lips. Get back to me when you’re sure. Aay!”
Fatma turned to find Ramses had hopped onto Siti’s shoulder, gripping with his claws.
“That hurts!” She shooed him off, and he jumped down to the bed. “You’re certain he isn’t a djinn? Half the cats in Cairo are probably djinn, you know…”
Fatma laughed, tracing a hand along the underside of Siti’s bent right leg while eyeing the left. They were long, like all her limbs—as if she’d been stretched out. Well-toned too, so that Fatma could feel the muscle beneath. She considered herself reasonably fit. But next to Siti, she felt like she could spend more time in the gymnasium.
“It’s good to see you, Siti.” Then more softly. “But what are you doing back?”
“Hmm? In Cairo? Or your bed?”
Both actually. Fatma had met her the past summer, on a case. What started as a few dinners fast blossomed into … whatever this was. It had been giddy and new and wonderful. Then it ended with the summer, and Siti went off to do … whatever it was she did. A few letters came, postmarked from Luxor, Qena, Kom Ombo. Fatma fell back into the frenzied life of a Ministry agent, telling herself it had just been a fling. Now, Siti was back. And all the giddiness with her.
She sat up, turning around. Might as well be direct. “Guessing this isn’t just a social visit. Or you’d have worn something a little more casual.” She gestured to where the black outfit lay discarded, silver claws piled atop.
Siti stared back, impassive, eyes hard as black stone. Something gave, and she sighed. “I got back to Cairo by airship today. And yes, I was sent to deliver a message. From the temple.”
The temple. That was the other thing about Siti. She was an adherent of the old religion. Pledged to Hathor, the goddess of love and beauty once worshipped in a long-gone Egypt. An infidel, without question. Hadia’s “idolater” wormed into her head, and she shook it off.
“What’s the message, then?” she asked, cooler than intended. It didn’t matter if she had come here partly on business—did it?
Siti frowned at the tone. “It’s about what happened tonight in Giza.”
That was unexpected. “How do you even know about that? It’s barely been a few hours.” Her eyes narrowed as understanding dawned. “You have a policeman who belongs to one of your … temples.”
“Why do you think it’s just one?” Siti asked. “Anyway, two of the victims were followers. I didn’t know them well. They were from other temples. But word is out about the way they died. We might have information. Figured you’re the best person to approach.”
Naturally. Fatma was one of the few authorities in contact with them. “What kind of information? Are you involved in this?”
“Me? No! I just got here. I don’t know much of anything, except that this Worthington—the one they call the English Basha—had dealings with the temples. You’ll have to ask Merira more. She wants to meet, tomorrow.”
Merira. A priestess of the local Temple of Hathor who seemed to know the oddest things. “We’ll meet, then, tomorrow. Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Siti leaned forward and k
issed her, gentle but filled with warmth enough to keep back the coldness swirling in Fatma’s thoughts. She fell into it even as the woman pulled away.
“I missed you these past months,” Siti said, seeming to read what lay behind Fatma’s eyes. “I did plan on coming here, message or no. It’s all I could think about. It’s all I’ve thought about for so long.” Lying down, she put her head onto Fatma’s lap and curled in close. “For the rest of the night, promise me we’ll stop talking about murders, and investigations, and whatever’s happening out there. Just for tonight, let’s forget about the world. And just be here.”
Fatma ran a hand along the thin covering of hair on Siti’s scalp, playing with the tuft in front between her fingers. She could do that. The world, after all, would be waiting.
It was the sound of the muezzin calling Fajr that stirred her awake.
Fatma blinked to adjust to the dark room. A nearby clock read just past 5:00 a.m. Shifting, she reached out to find empty space. She lifted up and looked about but found herself alone. Her gaze drifted to the balcony, where a breeze blew in from the predawn morning.
Siti had opted for her usual exit, it appeared.
Like old times. There was even a folded note on the pillow. Guiltily—knowing she would not be getting up in time for prayer—Fatma lay back down and closed her eyes. Ramses purred in her lap, and she curled around him, trying to ignore the emptiness beside her.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Morning, Uncle.”
“A morning of roses, Captain,” Mahmoud returned. “Is that a new one?”
She glanced down at her ensemble: a dark forest-green suit with thin magenta stripes and matching waistcoat. She’d paired it with a fuchsia tie showing hints of purple, over a soft white shirt. “Been hiding in the dresser. Felt like being a bit … bold.”
The bewab raised bushy eyebrows, holding open the door. “You seem lighter this morning, Captain. God is great to send you good dreams and sleep.”
“You could say that.” Stepping outside she flicked the brim of her bowler and bid him farewell. The truth was she felt remarkably rested—though she’d only slept a few hours. She hadn’t felt like this since the summer, after spending time with … Siti.
A smile touched her lips, and when she stopped to get her shoes shined, the little man in a white gallabiyah and turban eyed her, curious. She hid her flustered face behind a newspaper as a hand drifted to her jacket pocket—patting Siti’s note, an invitation to breakfast.
Hopping a street trolley she found it packed with commuters—factory women in telltale light blue dresses and hijabs; businessmen in suits of Turkish fit and red tarbooshes; government clerks wearing kaftans over crisp white buttoned-up gallabiyahs, complete with shirt collars in the ministerial fashion. A goat-headed djinn in a tweed jacket and pants sat reading a newspaper, the long hair on his chin moving as he chewed absently. Catching the headline, Fatma hastily checked her own.
Shocking Death of the English Basha was the lead story, with condolences from the business community, a statement by the government vowing the peace summit would go on, and the ensuing investigation. Nothing about flames that burned only flesh, a corpse with its head on backward, or a mysterious man in a gold mask. The rest of the front page included speculation on the growing closeness between the German kaiser and the Ottoman sultan, the usual worries of war, and a write-up on another daring heist by the Forty Leopards. Maybe Aasim had managed to keep the press in the dark after all.
She tucked the paper away and hopped off the trolley at a backed-up intersection. Cairo’s infamous traffic had struck again: an accident involving a sleek silver automobile and a donkey-drawn wagon overturned with melons. The two drivers stood yelling, pointing and wagging forefingers in the air. The donkey ignored both, trying to pick up a melon with its teeth.
Fatma headed off the main street, winding through back roads to her destination. Makka was a sleepy-looking Nubian eatery to the unsuspecting but had grown a loyal crowd. Every table was full, and chairs barely left space to weave between. The décor mimicked a traditional Nubian house, with yellow window frames on blue walls and floors of green-and-brown tiles.
She was barely inside before a white-haired man gave her a boisterous welcome. Uncle Tawfik, the owner’s son. He peppered her with questions. Why hadn’t he seen her in so long? How was her family? Didn’t she want to see his mother? She was herded to the kitchens—where scents of cumin and garlic wafted through the air. Tawfik’s sisters were no less effusive and querying. She endured them, until she was placed before the proprietor of Makka, Madame Aziza—a sibling of Siti’s grandmother. The stately matron sat in a chair like some Meroitic queen surveying her realm. She returned Fatma’s greetings and looked out from beneath a more traditional black hijab.
“A nice cane,” she rasped, tapping the floor with a wooden staff. “But I like mine better. Come to see my niece?”
“Siti—I mean Abla—asked me to meet her here.” Fatma was so accustomed to the nickname, she sometimes forgot to use Siti’s given name.
“Abla. That one can’t stay in one place. Like a wind blowing this way and that. Too much of her father in her.”
Fatma didn’t reply. Siti rarely spoke of her father—whom she hadn’t known. It had been some kind of scandal, from what little Fatma understood.
“There was a story in my village,” Madame Aziza went on, “of a woman who was as light as a feather. She was like that wind—and her husband couldn’t keep her in one place. So he recited poetry, and she would settle down long enough to listen. Can you recite poetry?”
Fatma opened her mouth, trying to think of an answer—and was rescued by Siti’s arrival down a set of steps. She’d exchanged the outfit of her nighttime jaunts to something more her usual style—a Nubian dress of gold and green prints tied up near her knees, over a pair of snug white breeches tucked into tall brown boots. She started up a whirlwind of chatter while tying on a red hijab, before taking Fatma’s arm.
“Yalla! If we don’t get out now, they’ll have me waiting tables all morning!”
Fatma managed some farewells as she was all but pulled from the kitchen. “Your aunt, what does she know … about us, I mean?”
“Auntie Aziza? She’s ninety. I doubt her senses are all there.”
Fatma peeked back over her shoulder, meeting that watchful gaze. They weren’t giving the old woman enough credit.
“I thought we were having breakfast?”
Siti shook her head. “No time. Merira wants to meet now.”
Now? Fatma had hoped to sit and talk. Eyeing a bowl of ful reminded her she was also hungry. “I need to eat something.”
Siti answered by taking two bundles from Uncle Tawfik, handing one to Fatma. Fresh-baked kabed, stuffed with what looked like mish. Siti was already biting into the bread and cheese, eating heartily. Fatma grumbled slightly; she would have preferred the bean stew. They walked to the main road where the accident was clearing up, and Siti waved down a wheeled carriage. Fatma fell into a cushioned seat just as they lurched off.
“I already signed up for the late day shift,” Siti complained. She usually stayed at her aunt’s restaurant when in Cairo, working tables. “My lazy cousin thinks I will take her shift too?” She sighed, then looked apologetic. “Malesh. I haven’t even told you good morning properly.” Her fingers ran down Fatma’s tie. “Or complimented this gorgeous suit!”
“It’s fine,” Fatma answered, finishing her meal. “Whenever I go home my aunts put me straight to work. Last time, I was swept into my cousin’s wedding.”
Siti made a face. “Try a Nubian wedding. They can last about a week. And the henna…”
“Not too much different. I have an aunt who does all the henna. But I’ve been her helper for as long as I can remember. Think she always thought I’d been an apprentice. Anyway, we spent half a night working on the bride.”
Siti reached to wipe a bit of mish from Fatma’s lips. “You’ll have to practice on me.” She win
ked, turning to look out the carriage. “Has this city grown since I was gone?”
Fatma followed her gaze to where the morning sun beat down on Cairo—a mix of towering modern buildings and factories. Newer ones went up by the day, their steel girders like bones awaiting skin, amid streets crammed with carriages, trolleys, steam cars, and more. The skyline was no less busy, traveled by speeding tram cars that left crackling electric bolts in their wake. Even higher, a blue airship hovered like a skyborne whale—six propellers pushing it toward the horizon.
“Thanks ya Jahiz,” they both said on cue. And meant it.
The carriage made its way into Old Cairo. Here, the roads were narrower and covered in paving stones. On either side loomed masjid and architecture spanning Cairo’s ages—from the Fatimids to the Ottomans.
Siti signaled for the carriage to stop, insisting on paying the fare. They stepped out along a busy thoroughfare at Al-Hussein square and followed the crowds toward a stone gate showing spandrels adorned with geometric designs. On the other side was the market of Khan-el-Khalili.
The open-air souk had been built over the centuries with no rhyme or reason to its layout. Storefronts with colorful doors lined narrow streets, outnumbered only by stalls that took up every space: coffeehouses and machinist kiosks, bookshops and alchemical fragrance peddlers, boutiques of silk and shelves stacked with boilerplate parts. Vendors shouted into the morning, while others enticed passersby with whispered promises. Amid the haggling, a hundred scents—perfumes, spices, and sizzling meats—dizzied the senses.
“Now this I missed,” Siti said, strutting the souk with confidence. She led Fatma around giant cylinders for aeronautic motors and past young men shouldering high-pressure steam urns who poured tea into fine porcelain cups. “You can get just about anything in this place. Do you know, there’s supposedly an angel somewhere down here? They say she grants miracles.”
Fatma ducked under hanging brass lanterns before turning down another passageway. An angel? In the Khan? Angels had appeared sometime after the djinn. Or rather, beings calling themselves angels. The Coptic Church ruled they couldn’t be angels, insisting all such divinities resided in heaven with God. The ulama was equally skeptical, insisting true angels had no free will. The enigmatic creatures were not elucidating on matters either way. That one of them would take up residence in the souk was bizarre. Then again, what about them wasn’t?
A Master of Djinn Page 6