Fatma took both mistake and correction in stride. The suit and boyish face threw most people off at first glance. His eyebrows jumped further at her badge. But she was used to that too. Opening the door wide, he bowed slightly and ushered her through.
They stood in a spacious rectangular room that looked to be a parlor. Vintage inlaid silver lamps hung from a high ceiling of dark wood, their light shimmering off the floor—an expanse of white tiles shaped like stars. The walls were decorated with an assortment of antiques: from a vibrant Safavid painting of polo players to a pair of swords in red-brown leather scabbards. They were broken up by four bulbous equidistant archways, and the night steward escorted her through one, down a corridor no less opulent. Colorful carpets lined the walls like tapestries—a Tabriz of red florals, some burgundy Anatolians, a green Bokhara with yellow prints, all alongside delicate lattice mashrabiyas. As she eyed them a faint sound came to her ears. Like the clanging of metal. Then it was gone.
“I regret welcoming you to this house in such a time,” the steward said. “It blemishes the beauty put into its making.”
“How long have you been with the estate, steward Hamza?”
“Since the beginning. Well over ten years now. And I’ve watched Lord Worthington’s house grow into its present magnificence!”
Fatma wasn’t certain she’d call this fairy-tale palace magnificent. But to each their own.
“Were you close to Lord Worthington?”
“A master can only be so close to a servant. But Lord Worthington always treated me with respect. That can be a rare thing.” They stopped at a set of stairs. “The others are gathered above.” He paused, face grave. “Whatever you find in there, it is only a vessel and not the man. We all belong to God. And to Him we must return.”
He departed, leaving Fatma to climb what might have been the longest stairs in the world. By the time she reached the top she wasn’t winded exactly. But close. From somewhere to her left came voices. Wrinkling her nose at a terrible smell, she followed both to their source.
The room she found was missing its doors. One hung by a hinge. The other lay fractured on the floor. She stepped past them, noting the splintered wooden bar, before surveying the rest. The round space was filled with people. Policemen. Identifiable in their khaki jackets and trousers. They bustled beneath an immense brass chandelier, which shone on the grisly scene.
The missive Fatma received had been short and to the point—casualties reported at the Worthington estate; check for supernatural activity. That hardly did it justice. Bodies covered in white sheets were strewn about the marble floor. A quick count gave her almost twenty. More were at a table in the back. That terrible smell was almost overwhelming now. Burning. But worse. Coppery and almost metallic. Like the most unappetizing cooked meat.
She was still taking it all in when a policeman walked up. He looked her age—twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. But he stormed over, chest out and scowling, as if readying to pull his younger sister from a hashish den.
“You! You can’t just walk in here! This is a crime scene!”
“That would explain the dead bodies, then,” she replied.
He blinked dumbly, and she sighed. Wasting good sarcasm was annoying. She flashed her badge, and he squinted from it to her and back again before his eyes rounded.
“It’s you!”
Fatma had come to learn “It’s you” could mean a lot of things. It’s you, the sun-dark Sa’idi from some backwater village. It’s you, the woman who was all but a girl in their eyes that the Ministry had made a special investigator—and assigned to Cairo no less. It’s you, the strange agent who wore Western suits. A few others tended to get less polite. Egypt boasted its modernity. Women attended schools and filled its booming factories. They were teachers and barristers. A few months back, women had even been granted suffrage. There was talk of entering political office. But the presence of women in public life still unnerved many. Someone like her boggled the senses completely.
“Constable! Are you bothering the agent?”
Fatma looked up to a familiar face—a middle-aged man who wore a fancier police jacket with gold epaulets. It fit his tall and thick frame a bit tightly so that his belly preceded him. The young policeman jumped, turning and coming face-to-face with Inspector Aasim Sharif.
Aasim was a member of Cairo’s police force and a liaison with the Ministry. Not a bad sort—a bit vulgar, but amiable enough when not brooding at the inconveniences of the modern world. He’d even gotten comfortable around her. As comfortable as she could expect. He glared at the young policeman from behind a set of thick long graying whiskers. Big overwrought moustaches had fallen out of favor in modern Cairo’s ever-shifting fashion trends, though they still held sway further south, as her uncles could well attest—and among older conservative Cairenes like Aasim. Prideful badges of nostalgia, she supposed. His whiskers always reminded her of some antiquated Janissary, and they twitched in annoyance.
“I asked you a question! Are you bothering the agent?”
“No, inspector! I mean I didn’t know who she was, inspector. I mean—”
He gulped as Aasim scowled deeper.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful. Run to the kitchens and fetch me some coffee.”
The younger man started. “Coffee?”
“Coffee,” Aasim repeated. “Do you not know what that is? Do I need to explain coffee to you? Should I begin reciting a history of coffee? No? Then why are you still here? Yalla!”
With some stammering, the young policeman scurried off.
“You enjoyed that entirely too much,” Fatma accused.
Aasim’s lips set into a smirk. “You know what’s funny? I don’t even like coffee. Tastes like dishwater to me. I do, however, love breaking in new recruits.” He turned to Fatma. “Good evening, agent. You’re looking very”—his eyes took in her suit—“English.”
“This one’s American. From New York.”
“I don’t believe such a place exists.”
She made a face at him. “You have some case here.”
Aasim scratched a shaved chin. “You haven’t seen the worst of it.” He invited her to walk beside him. “Hope we didn’t wake you. But I thought it prudent to call the Ministry.”
“You asked for me personally, of course?”
“Of course. I know how much you enjoy a challenge.”
“I do have a personal life, you know.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe that for one instant either.”
“Well, at least catch me up.”
“We got a call sometime before ten,” he began. “From the estate’s night steward.”
“Hamza. Met him,” Fatma noted.
“Man was a wreck. Came in and found the bodies. Called every station he could screaming about murders. Most here are Giza policemen. But they reached out to Cairo for help. We got here and found all this.”
They stopped before a mass of white sheets that smelled of burning. Or was that the policemen all standing about, puffing on their Nefertari cigarettes? At seeing the inspector they hurriedly put out the thin brown sticks. Aasim detested smoking at his crime scene.
“Twenty-four dead,” he informed her, pulling his glare from the officers.
Twenty-four. Merciful God.
“All burned to death,” he added. “Hoped covering them up would mask the smell.”
“You called the Ministry over a fire?” But even as the words left Fatma’s lips she noticed the obvious. No scorch marks. In fact, no burn marks anywhere.
Aasim handed over a kerchief. “You’ll need this. Stinks like burned hair under there.”
Fatma followed him to one knee as he pulled back the sheet. Even with the kerchief pressed to her nose, the stench was strong. The scorched corpse looked like charred wood, the blackened head with emptied sockets that poured out wisps of smoke. Whoever he’d been, he’d died screaming, his gaping mouth showing soot-stained teeth and bits of gold replacements. Wha
t stood out, however, was his dress: long black robes over a dark gray suit, with white gloves and a black tarboosh still attached—and unscathed.
“Only the flesh is burned,” she murmured.
“Very unusual for fire, don’t you think?” Aasim asked.
Fatma only paid him half attention, her mind running through various controlled conflagrations, of the magical and alchemical varieties: fires that could melt steel, stick to surfaces like oil, or even be shaped into the likenesses of beasts. Fires that consumed flesh but left clothing untouched? That was new. Pulling out a pair of Ministry-issued spectral goggles, she fitted on the copper-plated spectacles and peered through the round green lenses. Magic was everywhere. Not on the clothing. But it clung to the corpse in a faint luminous residue.
“They all like this?” she asked, removing the goggles.
“Every last one. Well, except our friend here.” Aasim gestured to a corpse set apart from the rest. Pulling back the sheet revealed a burned body dressed in the same unblemished clothing. But something was wrong. It took a moment to actually see it.
“His head’s on backward,” she remarked, unable to keep the shock from her voice.
“Don’t see that every day, do you? We were confused too until we turned him over.”
Fatma leaned down to inspect the bizarre corpse.
“His face. There’s no screaming. He didn’t die by fire. This happened before.”
“You have any idea the strength needed to do that to a human body?”
“Can’t say I’ve given it much thought. But I’m guessing inhuman strength?”
Aasim sighed. “Back when my grandfather was a policeman, the most he had to worry about were pocket pickers. Cheaters trying to beat up the market inspector. On an exciting day, maybe a counterfeiter. What do I get? Magically burned bodies and inhuman strength.”
“Not your grandfather’s Cairo,” Fatma retorted.
Aasim grunted his acknowledgment. “Thank ya Jahiz.”
Fatma stood, looking past the shrouded bodies to take in the room itself. For the first time she noticed the ceiling, with its concave underside like a honeycomb. Muqarnas. A Persian style that had flowed to Egypt along trade routes centuries past. The blue walls with gold and green repeating flowers were Persian too—but with hints of Andalusian, and some Arabic calligraphy. The columns running along the sides were Moroccan and inscribed with verses from the Qu’ran. It wasn’t uncommon to see all of these styles in Cairo, given the city’s long history as a crossroads of culture. But like the rest of this house, something about the room’s construction made it appear more a mishmash than anything approaching aesthetic coherence: an outsiders’s valiant but overwrought attempt at authenticity.
There were items on the walls too, under glass boxes. She spied a book, bits of clothing, and more. To the back a white banner hung. Two interlocking pyramids on its front formed a hexagram, displaying an all-seeing eye in its center surrounded by seven small stars. In each corner of the hexagram were signs of the zodiac, with a sun disc placed at its left and a full moon on its right. The odd assemblage was encircled entirely by a fiery serpent devouring its tail. Beneath sat a gold scimitar above a down-turned crescent that ended in fine points. Her eyes flickered to the black tarboosh still worn by the dead man with his head turned backward, bearing the same gold sword and crescent.
“What is this place?” she asked. “Who are these people?”
Aasim shrugged. “Some kind of cult maybe? You know how Occidentals like playing dress-up and pretending they’re ancient mystics. Order of the this … Brotherhood of the that…” He led her to the half-moon table in the back with more bodies. Some slumped where they sat. Others lay on the floor. Aasim stopped at the table’s center, pulling back the sheet to reveal a seated figure in a deep purple robe.
“The one thing we know for certain,” he said, “is that this is Lord Alistair Worthington.” He lifted the dead man’s hand. Fitted onto the smallest blackened finger was a large silver signet ring. The engraving on its flat front was a crest: a shield with a rearing griffin, capped by a knight’s head and an armored arm wielding a sword. Beneath was a singular scripted W.
“This is the Alistair Worthington?”
“The English Basha himself,” Aasim replied.
Fatma was familiar with the moniker, as she was the Worthington name. The Englishman who helped broker the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty, and granted special rights by Egypt’s new government. His money and influence had maintained peace, secured trade, and built up Giza.
“The English Basha, found murdered,” she corrected.
Aasim grimaced. “I was hoping you’d tell me this was just a spell gone wrong.”
Fatma shook her head. “I saw those doors. Someone forced their way in here.” She studied the bodies. “Sent everyone running to the back. The one with the broken neck—maybe he got brave. Tried to fight. The rest, all burned alive.”
Aasim nodded. He’d likely come to same conclusion but was hoping for an easy out.
“Murder. You have any idea how much paperwork this is going to be?”
“Did the English Basha have any enemies?” Fatma asked, ignoring the question.
“Rich people always have enemies. Usually, that’s how they became rich.”
“Wasn’t he supposed to be helping in the king’s peace summit?”
“You mean the one to stop Europeans from launching a fresh crusade against each other? You’re thinking this might be related?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. Why commit a massacre on this scale just to murder one man? No, whoever did this, the time and place was intentional. This scene was meant for everyone to see—like a gory painting. She looked back to the hanging banner. At the very bottom was stitched Quærite veritatem. Seek Truth, if she was translating the Latin right.
“One more thing,” Aasim said. He bent to pull a sheet from a crumpled body on the floor. Burned like the rest, but one thing was different—this victim wore a close-fitting white dress that reached to the ankles. “The only woman in the room,” the inspector remarked.
More than that. A broad collar of colorful stones circled her neck hanging down to her chest. A wesekh—jewelry fallen out of fashion some two thousand years past. She knelt to eye gold earrings peeking beneath a wig of black braids: carvings of a woman with outstretched wings.
“Any more like this?” Fatma asked. “I mean, in … costume?”
Aasim pulled the sheet from another body. This one a man, with the spotted hide of a cheetah slung over his shoulders. And she’d thought this night couldn’t get more bizarre.
“Must have been some party,” Aasim mused.
A very odd one. Her gaze flickered to another body, where a hand protruded from the white covering—as if trying to reach back into the world. She peered closer. A kerchief with a lavender G stitched in cursive was clutched between his charred fingers.
“You think this might be necromancers?” Aasim asked. His moustache gave a nervous twitch. “Maybe an attempt at making ghuls gone wrong?” The man blamed necromancers for everything. Let him tell it, masters of the undead lurked behind every crime. And he hated ghuls. Then again, who didn’t?
“Unlikely,” she answered. “Making ghuls doesn’t include turning corpses combustible.” The very thought of fiery ghuls sent Aasim’s moustache into spasms. “Besides, I didn’t see any takwin under the spectral lens.” Necromancers used a corruption of the alchemical substance to make ghuls. The sorcery she’d seen was something else. “Any witnesses? The night steward?”
Aasim shook his head. “It seems when Lord Worthington has these gatherings he dismisses his human staff. The night steward arrived after the festivities. That left only them.” He motioned to a row of boilerplate eunuchs that stood unmoving, even as people worked around them. Reports claimed some machine-men had achieved sentience—a phenomenon that baffled the Ministry. Didn’t seem to be the case here.
“There is someone, however,” Aasi
m continued. “Lord Worthington’s daughter.”
Fatma turned to him sharply. “Daughter? Why didn’t you mention her before?”
The inspector held up his hands. “She’s been recovering. I’ll take you to her.” They walked from the room and descended the lengthy stairs. “Abigail Delenor Worthington. Seems she arrived home after all this. The night steward found her in the parlor, unconscious. Says she had a run-in with a mysterious character. Maybe a survivor. Or the perpetrator. But it’s better if she explained it. Just, whatever you do, don’t let her speak to you in Arabic.”
“She speaks Arabic?” Fatma asked.
“Not at all. Only she doesn’t seem to know that. We’ve had the night steward translating. But you might do better.”
At the bottom of the stairs they turned down a corridor that ended where two policemen stood guarding a set of doors. At seeing Aasim they pulled them open to allow passage. The room was the clash of architecture that defined the rest of the house. But instead of fine rugs or swords, there were books. Endless books, fitted onto wooden shelves. A library. The books were broken by framed paintings in vivid Orientalist style, many displaying crumbling edifices with noble fellahin or sultans in garish dress. Others were salacious, where barely clothed alabaster women lounged about, waited upon by dark-skinned servants.
There were five people gathered—not counting a boilerplate eunuch with a tray of crystal bottles. Four stood around a modish moss-green Turkish divan with long curving silver legs. It looked made for lounging, but now held a woman who sat propped against a pile of cerulean pillows with mustard tassels. Dressed in a cream gown, she looked in her mid-twenties, slender and long-necked, with dark red tresses that fell about the lace stitching and ribbons at her shoulders. Her tanned features were pronouncedly English—a short pointed nose and an almost heart-shaped face. Abigail Worthington, Fatma presumed. At the moment, a thin and short dark-haired man in a formal evening jacket and gray striped pants knelt bandaging her hand.
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