The boilerplate eunuch at the Abyssinian coffee shop set down two white porcelain cups before leaving in a whir of spinning gears. Fatma took her own, a strong floral Ethiopian blend, which was fast edging out the more traditional Turkish varieties in the city. She took a sip. Just right—one spoon of coffee, one of sugar, with just enough foam. The shop was more a café than a traditional ahwa, boasting modern amenities and a modern clientele. It also stayed open all night, and she came here often at the end of a shift to unwind.
At least, that was the usual routine.
Fatma rested her cup to sift through the papers in the folder in front of her. She’d shared an awkward and silent ride from Giza looking them over—at least three times. Either that, or be forced to actually have a conversation. Now, she spoke aloud as she read. “Hadia Abdel Hafez. Twenty-four years old. Born into a middle-class family in Alexandria. Studied comparative theological alchemy at university there. Graduated top of your class.” She paused, looking up. “Spent two years teaching at the Egyptian College for Girls in America?”
Hadia, who sat with hands wrapped around her cup of black mint tea, perked up beneath her coat—looking relieved to finally be talking. Fatma had almost forgotten what the Ministry’s uniforms for women looked like, since she’d long opted out of wearing one. There was also that sky-blue headscarf that so blatantly stood out. Patterned or colored hijabs were still frowned upon by more traditional or rural Egyptians, even here in Cairo. She obviously wanted it known she was a thoroughly modern woman. “I thought the queen’s mission might let me put my degree to good use,” she answered.
Fatma arched an eyebrow. “They’re not too fond of alchemy in America.”
“The mission is in New York—Harlem. Worked with immigrants in Brooklyn too—Roma, Sicilians, Jews. All people suspected of bringing in ‘foreign customs.’” She wrinkled a bold nose in distaste.
No need to explain. America’s anti-magic edicts were infamous. “Returned to Egypt and accepted into the Ministry Academy on your first attempt. Graduated in the 1912 class and was assigned to the Alexandria office. But now you’re here. In Cairo. As my … partner.” Fatma closed the folder, sliding it back across the table. “Not every day a new partner arrives, at a crime scene, carrying her résumé.”
Spots of color bloomed on Hadia’s beige cheeks, and her fingers fidgeted around the folder’s edges. “Director Amir intended we meet tomorrow. But I was already up late at the Ministry when I got word of the case. So I took a carriage over and decided to introduce myself. And maybe now, thinking about it, that wasn’t the best idea…”
Fatma let her trail into silence. The Ministry had been pushing for agents to take on partners. She’d managed to wriggle her way out of it. Everyone knew she worked alone. Amir certainly did. Likely he’d planned to spring this on her tomorrow, once everything was official.
“Agent Hadia.” The woman perked up, her dark brown eyes at attention. “I think there’s been some mistake. I didn’t request a partner. Nothing personal, I just work alone. I’m sure they can pair you with someone else. There’s an investigator in the Alexandria office—Agent Samia. One of the first women in the Ministry. I’ll put in a letter if you like.” There. She even managed a sympathetic face. No need to be cruel.
Hadia stared, mulling something before setting her tea down. “I was told you might not take to having a partner right away. I was given an assignment with Agent Samia on graduation. Turned it down. Told her I wanted to work with you.”
Fatma stopped mid-sip. “You turned down working with Agent Samia? To her face?” Agent Samia was one of the most imposing women she’d ever met. You just didn’t say no to her.
“She wished me God’s good fortune. And here I am.”
“But why work with me? I don’t have anywhere near Samia’s experience.”
Hadia looked incredulous. “Why work with the youngest agent to graduate from the academy—at twenty? Who was assigned to the Cairo office? Who made it to special investigator in just two years? Whose cases are now required reading at the academy?”
Fatma grunted. This was what notoriety got you.
“I thought you’d like to know that I didn’t waste my trip to the Worthington estate tonight.” Hadia pulled out another folder, opening and setting it on the table. Fatma’s eyes rounded. Sketches of the crime scene!
“How did you—?”
“I have a cousin on the force.” She grinned, showing off a slight overbite.
Fatma leaned forward, flipping through the sheets. Aasim would have sent her information on all this by tomorrow. But he was particularly stingy about his sketches.
“Never seen burns like these,” Hadia remarked. “Some kind of alchemical agent?”
“Too controlled,” Fatma muttered. “There’s magic at work.”
“I thought this was interesting.” Hadia lifted one sketch out. It was of the woman. Her fingers traced the broad collar and earrings. “This was an idolater, wasn’t it?”
Fatma looked up, eyes narrowing. Good catch. The arrival of djinn and magic pouring back into the world had impacted people’s faiths in strange ways. It was inevitable a few would go seeking Egypt’s oldest religions, whose memory was etched into the very landscape.
“What do you know about them?” Fatma asked.
“More than the police. I don’t think they’ve caught on yet.”
Not yet. Aasim and his people believed the adherents of the old religions a small group of heretics. They wouldn’t be looking for them at the mansion of a British lord.
“From the banner,” Hadia went on, “Lord Worthington looks to have been in some kind of cult. Maybe the idolater was their priestess. There was a man with his head turned backward. Some kind of sacrifice? I’ve heard—”
Fatma closed the folder, cutting her off. “First thing they should have taught you at the academy is not to take rumors you hear on the streets as fact. I haven’t had any cases of ‘idolaters’ twisting people’s heads about. So maybe we wait until we have some evidence before starting up about human sacrifices.”
Hadia’s face colored. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking aloud.”
Fatma reached into her jacket for her pocket watch. Already past two. She stood up. “It’s late, Agent Hadia. Not a proper time to think clearly. Let’s get some sleep and pick up on this in the morning.” And, hopefully, get you reassigned.
“Of course.” She gathered up her things and stood in turn. “I’m honored to be working with you, Agent Fatma.” And the two parted ways.
Fatma could have taken a carriage. But the walk home from the coffee shop wasn’t far. Besides, she needed to clear her head. She wasn’t certain why Hadia’s words had been so irksome. She’d heard similar things a thousand times. It was why she didn’t mention it to Aasim. Maybe she was smarting at being assigned a partner without a say in the matter.
Or maybe you’re taking out your weariness on some starry-eyed recruit. Bully. She could hear her mother’s chiding: “Well, look at the big investigator. Her face is to the ground.”
Fatma turned the corner to her building: a twelve-story high-rise of tan stone, with Neo-Pharaonic columns along the sides and rounded like a turret in the front. Outside broad black doors worked with gold stood an older man with receding graying hair. At seeing him, she smoothed the annoyance from her face. Every apartment in downtown Cairo had its own bewab—porters, doormen, and general watchers of all things. This one had no problem offering unsolicited advice, and could read faces with uncanny accuracy.
“Uncle Mahmoud,” she greeted, walking up with taps of her cane.
The man fixed her with a look that could have come from the sphinx. His sharp eyes seemed to weigh and judge her on a scale, before his red-brown face broke into a smile.
“Captain,” he replied, using the nickname he’d given her—on account of the suits. His Sa’idi accent didn’t hold a hint of Cairene. With that long gallabiyah and sandals he could have stepped right out of her village. “Wallahi, the Ministry is keeping you out later and later these past nights.”
“It comes with the job, Uncle.”
The bewab shook his head. “And you don’t even come home to sleep in the afternoon like a civilized person, always going like one of those trams.” He gestured at the network of cables that crossed the city’s skyline. “Wallahi, that’s no good for the circulation!”
She wanted to ask when it was he slept—given he seemed to be out here at all times. But that was rude. Instead, she tapped her chest and bowed in thanks. “I’ll take the advice.”
That appeared to satisfy him, and he opened the doors. “See? You listen to an old man like me. Some arrive here and forget all decency, wallahi. But you are a good Sa’idi, with proper manners. In our head and heart, we must always remember we are Sa’idi. Wake up healthy.” She returned the same and walked into the lobby, ignoring her letter box and stepping into a lift.
“Ninth floor,” she commanded a waiting boilerplate eunuch. Leaning back, she felt the day’s toll take hold as they rose. By the time she got out, she was trudging along and thinking fondly of her bed.
Opening her apartment door, she found the inside dark. By memory, she hung her bowler on a wall hook by a leafy plant. Fumbling, she searched for the lever to the gas lamp. The building owner had been promising to move to alchemical lighting, or even electricity. But so far, she hadn’t seen any work started, despite the small fortune she paid for the place. A few quick pumps lit up the dim space—enough to at least see.
“Ramses?” She thrust her cane into a rack. Where was that cat? Mahmoud came in to feed him and would have said if he’d gone missing. She unbuttoned her jacket. “Ramses? I know it’s late, but don’t be angry.”
“Oh?” a voice purred. “And what does Ramses get when you find him?”
Fatma tensed, spinning on her heels and reaching instinctively for the janbiya at her waist—only to find the blade wasn’t there. Damn. Her other hand clutched at her service pistol, still nestled in the holster. She got it halfway out before stopping dead at the sight before her.
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 kissed 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.