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
