Fatma stood, tracing fingers along Siti’s new hands, the ones with real claws, trying hard not to remember what they’d done tonight. She moved to Siti’s arms, feeling the taut muscle beneath black smooth scales—each so miniscule it was hard to see where they fit together. She had to go up on her toes to touch the horns, sliding fingertips across the ridges.
Siti hummed low in her throat, tossing her head slightly before staring down with crimson cat eyes that shimmered on gold.
Fatma pulled back. “Did I hurt you?”
“Not that.” Her voice was almost the same, just deeper. “The horns have certain … pleasure spots.”
Pleasure spots? That was new.
“Didn’t you have wings?” Fatma almost jumped back as in answer, two enormous black and red wings unfurled from Siti’s back, their crimson tips brushing the ceiling. For the first time she noticed they matched the tuft of curly hair that sat nestled between the horns on her shaved scalp. Ramses stood on his back legs to swat at her feathers, but they were out of his reach. He jumped up onto the bed, hoping to get at them from a better angle.
Fatma let out a small laugh.
Siti frowned. “What’s funny?”
“You. You’re damned beautiful. Even as a half-djinn, you’re still as beautiful as ever.”
Siti smiled. Touching Fatma’s chin lightly, she bent until their lips met. Definitely electric, Fatma thought, falling into the kiss. She had to will herself to pull away and stepped back, almost stumbling.
“Sorry,” Siti winced. “I said I’d give you time. It’s just … you touched the horn and…”
Fatma caught her breath, shaking off the rush. “I know you said you never did anything to make us happen. But you’re not the first woman I’ve ever kissed. And none leave me dizzy.”
“I was born, in part, of magic,” Siti answered.
“Meaning? That’s how you can do the things you do?”
“It makes me stronger. Faster, more agile. And when I really care about someone, that magic works on them too. Maybe you find you heal faster. Or you wake up rested like you’ve had ten hours of sleep, when it’s actually been two.” There was an awkward pause. “I might also be able to feel or know where you are at any given time.” Fatma’s eyes widened at that, and Siti added hastily, “None of it is meant to deceive you. It can’t make you behave in ways you wouldn’t otherwise. It’s just nothing I can help, any more than I can how I feel about you.”
There was so much she was going to have to reevaluate about these past months, Fatma sighed. Another thought. “How are your clothes still intact?” She motioned to the black outfit Siti still wore—the one she usually did when running about at night. “There’s a lot more of you like this. Not to mention the wings.”
“Half-djinn can’t do a lot of complex magic. Not like full djinn. But shifting our garments so that we’re not ripping out of them and standing around half-naked is pretty standard. Took a while to perfect it, of course. I went through so many clothes when I was younger my mother—aay!”
Ramses had launched from the bed, and now clung to the underside of one of her wings. She transformed back, and he tumbled to the floor in a furry ball of silver. Scooping him up she wagged a scolding finger, which he batted at playfully.
“You’re sure he isn’t a djinn?” Siti asked.
Fatma sat back down, watching them. “We have to stop him. The imposter.”
Siti joined her, Ramses in her lap. “We will.”
The three of them sat there—a Ministry agent, a half-djinn, and a cat (likely), staring out past the balcony to the sleeping city they somehow had to find a way to save.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Abyssinian coffee shop was fairly empty for ten in the morning on a Thursday. But that wasn’t too surprising. The city was beset with fresh new fears once word got out about the peace summit. Cairo’s rumor mill was working overtime: al-Jahiz had descended in a fireball, slaying everyone with his sword; no, he’d soared in on the back of an Ifrit, raining fire; the king had fled the country, and would return with an English army; no, it was the king that slew al-Jahiz with his own sword, and now the Jahiziin sought vengeance.
Fatma read over the morning papers as a boilerplate eunuch delivered coffee, setting down a white porcelain cup with a mechanical “Buna tetu.” The Amharic phrase, literally “Drink coffee,” had joined the lingua franca of Cairo as Ethiopian brews grew more popular. It was now a polite comment and even a greeting among the more modish that frequented coffee shops. A few of that sort were here now, in their telltale black coats and black tarbooshes—the women with stylish black dresses and bright white hijabs. They threw around words like “post Neo-Pharaonic” and “epistemologies of alchemic modernity,” eyes veiled behind dark glasses and lips pulling leisurely at thin cigarettes—perhaps meant to show their defiance to the panic gripping the city.
Or they were just being weird. Good for them either way, Fatma decided.
She turned back to the papers. The summit was still on. Despite last night’s debacle, none of the delegates or leaders had departed—each playing a game of one-upmanship and bravado. The king would have his hands full. Well, that was his problem. She had enough to deal with.
The door opened, and Hadia walked in, taking a seat across from her. They greeted each other good morning and called the boilerplate eunuch over for another order. When the machine-man walked away, Hadia looked Fatma over with a scrutinizing gaze.
“You going to tell me what happened to your neck?”
“No,” Fatma replied, sipping her coffee. She’d not bothered with a scarf, opting for a striped blue shirt with a high collar. But it couldn’t hide everything.
Hadia scowled like a disapproving grandmother. “You look rested. So that’s good.” She squinted. “Even your neck looks better. I can barely see the bruises. How’s that possible?”
Fatma shrugged, a hand rubbing where the soreness had mostly vanished. No way to properly explain having a half-djinn lover. She’d slept soundly too, waking to find her weariness gone and her mind alert. For once, Siti had been there, curled up and asleep on the chair. Sharing a bed right now was awkward. But neither had wanted to spend the night alone.
“After you wandered off,” Hadia continued. Was there a reprimand in her tone? “I didn’t expect to see you this morning. Why’d you leave a message to meet here and not the office?” She took a cup offered by the boilerplate eunuch, tasting it and wrinkling her face before scooping in more sugar.
“We still have a case to solve,” Fatma reminded. “After last night, brass is throwing every resource at hunting down the imposter.”
“So I’ve gathered. There are new agents all over the office. Requesting our files—well, demanding them, really. I spent the last two hours recounting everything we have. Though I think they’d prefer to talk to you.”
“Bet they would,” Fatma grumbled. Likely agents flown in from Alexandria, here to muscle her off her own case. “That’s why we’re not meeting at the office. I have information that I don’t want to share just yet.” She leaned forward, and in a low voice told what she knew. Hadia’s eyebrows climbed with each revelation.
“He can control djinn? How is that even possible?”
“Don’t know,” Fatma answered.
Hadia shook her head in wonder. “And I thought when you explained this Clock of Worlds, that was going to be the worst of it. So an Ifrit as tame as a horse. Zagros trying to kill you. The king’s advisor having his mouth welded shut. All of it, the imposter controlling djinn. How did you even figure this out?”
“Can’t say.” She’d omitted references to Siti, of course. “It’s … complicated.”
Hadia studied her again, those calculating brown eyes shifting to her neck and narrowing.
“Let it go,” Fatma said. “We need to focus. And we’re mostly on our own.”
“You’re thinking if the Ministry gets wind of this, it might cause a panic.”
“I know
and it will. Word hits the streets that this imposter can control djinn, and the city will explode. I also know how brass works. They’re spooked as it is and embarrassed about last night. They’d push to have djinn rounded up—claim it was for public safety.”
Hadia looked horrified. “That’s a bad idea! There are thousands of djinn living in the city. Dozens more passing through at any given moment. Not to mention, most are Egyptian citizens. They have rights. They’re not going to take being rounded up quietly.”
Fatma knew that for certain. “We had to take in a Jann once—an earth elemental. Evacuated a city block to be on the safe side. Contracted two Marid to help us. Got him in the end. But half the block was reduced to rubble. Government tries rounding up a few thousand djinn, and we won’t have to worry about this imposter destroying Cairo. We’ll have done it for him.” She set down her cup. “One other thing…”
“Nine Lords?” Hadia asked incredulous when Fatma finished. “Who burn away souls?” She slapped her palms to her cheeks, shaking her head. “Do you ever have good news?”
She did actually. “Last night when I broke the imposter’s mask, I saw his face.”
“How is that good news? We’ve seen his face. Soudanese. A bit fanatic.”
“Yes, but this time, it rippled.”
Hadia frowned before understanding played out on her face. “An illusion!”
Fatma smiled triumphantly. The moment she’d seen that ripple, she’d known. Of all the miserable things gone wrong last night, that one glimmer sustained her. “He’s a fraud! Hiding behind an illusion!” She leaned in. “Did you notice? Alexander Worthington wasn’t at the summit.”
Hadia nodded slowly. “You really still think he’s the imposter?”
“He’s where our investigation left off.”
“But why disrupt a peace summit his father helped plan?”
Fatma didn’t have an answer. Why disrupt the summit at all? It was one thing to sow chaos in Cairo, but an international meeting of world leaders and dignitaries? That was upping the stakes considerably. Then there was the Clock of Worlds. It still bothered her that the one thing they lacked for this imposter, whoever he might be, was a motive—or an endgame. Still … “Alexander Worthington’s absence at a moment al-Jahiz makes an appearance is at least suspicious,” she noted.
Hadia chewed her lip. “Checked on that. It was one of the things you mentioned last night before disappearing. Turns out Alexander did try to attend, but had car trouble. His driver confirmed it.”
“Convenient,” Fatma huffed.
“There’s more.” Hadia pulled a folder from her satchel, placing it onto the table. “I had some research done on Alexander last week. Results came back this morning.”
Fatma raised an eyebrow. “You mean you did what we were expressly forbidden to do?”
Hadia blushed. “I have a cousin who works in Immigration and Customs. I merely suggested it might be good to look into Alexander Worthington as a foreign national. Standard background review.”
Fatma opened the folder. “I’m really liking your cousins. What am I looking at?”
“Military school records. Turns out Alexander isn’t exactly what he seems—but not in the way you might think. See his graduation?”
Fatma scanned the page. Alexander did attend military school as he claimed. Only his marks were less than stellar. Dismal in fact. “Bottom percentile,” she read. “He barely passed.”
Hadia handed over another sheet. “You know how he went on about serving in India? He spent most of his time game hunting sacred Makara. The one battle he did lead was a disaster. He and his men had to be rescued. My cousin claims his commanding officer wouldn’t stop talking about how useless he was as a captain. Was relieved when he left for Egypt.” She shook her head. “Alexander doesn’t strike me as some great mastermind. More a mediocre Englishman.”
Fatma looked over the file. It seemed the Worthington name, rather than merit, had bought him the rank of officer. She closed the folder, unsure what to make of it. Alexander was still their best lead. He was involved. Somehow.
“You’re not the only one who went digging,” she said. “Contacted a bookie I know about that Illusion djinn Siwa.” Khalid confirmed the djinn was well known among the betting circle—for placing hefty wagers, making fantastic winnings, and then losing it just as fast. “Siwa’s in debt, like we thought. The money wired him went right into paying some of that off—and placing new bets. But it’s a long way from proving anything.”
“So how do we get proof?” Hadia asked.
Fatma finished her cup. “We start with what we have and work from there. Did you get the items I gave you last night to forensics?”
“Dropped them off before I went home. Told the clerk on duty we needed a quick turnaround.”
“Good. Let’s see what they’ve found.” She stood up, adjusting her bowler. “Then we need to have a talk with our librarian.”
* * *
Entering the Ministry after the attack was surreal—like walking in on a patient undergoing surgery. The debris had been cleared, and masons were recasting the emblem—laying down fresh blue quartz where the stone had been chipped away. High above on scaffolding, a blue-skinned djinn with black curling horns barked out commands to a crew of harnessed workers dangling by ropes. They worked fitting together gears under the djinn’s frantic instructions, calls of “Yes, ya bash-mohandes, right away!” ringing out. She heard the djinn architect had cried when he saw the destroyed clockwork brain. Their old building was dead and gone, but he’d construct a new brain to make it live again.
The elevators at least were working, operated for the time by boilerplate eunuchs. She signaled to the machine-man they were headed to the third floor, and watched the doors close, dulling the cacophony of the workers.
“I’m hoping Dr. Hoda can give us some clues,” she told Hadia.
“Dr. Hoda? The chief of forensics is a woman?”
“You didn’t know? Been with the Ministry since the beginning. Kept it quiet, though, so as not to cause a scandal. Was easier when headquarters was stuck out in Bulaq. Ministry tried to keep her there when the new building opened in 1900 and hired a forensic paranormalist to be the public face. Only he wasn’t very good. Agents bypassed him, sending everything to Dr. Hoda. He got upset, I hear, insisted either she’d go or he would.”
“Guess we know how that ended,” Hadia deduced as the doors opened.
Supernatural Forensics took up the third floor—a maze of desks topped by laboratory equipment and gadgets. Men in white coats bustled about, peering through spectral goggles at specimens or taking measurements with calipers. The laboratory had taken damage during the attack, as rampaging ghuls smashed instruments and overturned tables. They were beaten back by Dr. Hoda, who whipped up an alchemical concoction that melted the undead to soupy puddles. You just didn’t mess with her lab.
They found the chief of forensics in a room with darkened windows, sitting before a large glass orb filled with clear liquid being heated under a burner. Dr. Hoda peered at it through an odd contraption covering half her face—with about eight lenses of various sizes, some retracting or extending at the tap of a finger. Her hair was a frizzy gray mass like a halo, with some strands dangling heedlessly close to the open flame. She paid no mind to that, studiously holding a dropper to a spout at the sphere’s top.
“Mind your eyes,” she remarked, not looking to them, and let a tiny globule fall from the dropper. It landed in the clear liquid, which swirled a bright luminescent white, before releasing a sharp burst of light.
Fatma blinked away the sparks dancing in her vision. When she could see again, the air about them had changed, bathed in iridescent swaths that vibrated and hummed. Beside her, Hadia was a silhouette of shifting colors in the shape of a woman. Then with a suddenness everything snapped back to normal.
Dr. Hoda tapped a pen to her chin before scribbling in a notebook. When she finished, she stripped off the contraption ab
out her head, replacing it with a pair of regular glasses. Her eyelids fluttered as she took them in, brown skin wrinkling about prominent cheekbones.
“Agent Fatma. Haven’t seen you in my lab in a while.”
“Good morning, Dr. Hoda. Thought I’d make a personal visit. This is Agent Hadia.”
Dr. Hoda’s black eyes glittered. “A new woman agent? I hadn’t even heard. I should get out more, I suppose. Is that the right thing to say?” She shook Hadia’s hand enthusiastically. “When are they going to see about getting me a woman in here? They keep sending me more men. Pretty little things, but I’ve got maybe five more good years in me before retiring, and I want to leave my lab in capable hands!”
Fatma suspected the doctor was going to be here much longer than five years. They’d probably be wheeling her from the lab straight to her own funeral. “You’ll have to take that up with Director Amir. He seems keen on getting more women into Cairo headquarters.”
“I’ll have a talk with that young man, then.” Dr. Hoda nodded.
Oh, Amir was going to love that. “Agent Hadia dropped off some specimens last night. Hoping you’ve had a chance to look at them?”
Dr. Hoda’s eyes widened, and she hopped up from her chair. “Yes! Yes! You left me quite a project. Come.” She led them out and into another room. Inside was a table atop which sat two familiar items. One was the gold mask. A jagged crack extended where Fatma had struck it, though the etchings still slithered across its surface. The other was the lock of black hair she’d sliced away, its wiry fibers binding it together.
“What do you see?” Dr. Hoda asked.
“A mask?” Fatma answered.
The doctor returned a flat stare. “I’m going to need you to be a bit more observant.”
“A gold mask. With etchings that move across it. Some kind of magic.”
“Better. A gold mask with magic etchings. Pick it up. How does it feel?”
Fatma sighed inwardly and picked up the mask. Was it too much to get a straight answer for once? “A bit heavy. Smooth. Except for this crack running—” She stopped, frowning as her fingers traced the fracture.
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