“Seen enough angels,” Fatma replied. Siti grunted her agreement. The case where they’d met this past summer had involved an angel named Maker, who went very, very wrong. They both tried not to talk about that too much.
Siti stopped near the end of a small alley, facing a shop with two doors. One was labeled in black calligraphy as an apothecary, bushels of dried leaves and pungent herbs decorating its front. The worn wood of the other was painted with a great eye of celestial blue surrounded by gold stars and red candles. At its top was etched in white: HOUSE OF THE LADY OF STARS.
Opening the door set off ringing chimes as they walked into a faded blue room. A lone old woman sat at a table, pushing pieces across a game board, an empty chair her opponent. At hearing them enter, she looked up to mouth silent greetings—waving a hand up and down for quiet.
Half the rectangular space was cordoned off by a curtain of red and black beads, behind which sat three figures at a table. One was Merira, in a black sebleh decorated with stars, and a long headscarf draped in coins and red pom-poms. The persons opposite her wore green dresses cut in a mix of Parisian and Cairene styles—so common these days—their faces hidden by veils. Upper-class women, come seeking a fortune-teller in a back alley of the Khan. The three spoke in hushed tones: something about an ailing father, a dirigible shipping magnate, and an inheritance.
Whatever Merira revealed didn’t appear to go over well, and the pair took to loud bickering. After several failed attempts at intervention, Merira let out a frustrated shout. A gust of wind rattled the curtain and swayed the gilded gas lamps on their chains. Fatma clutched her bowler in the gale. Siti yawned, examining her fingernails. The old woman’s clothing whipped about, but she never looked up from her game.
The wind died away, but it had the intended effect. The two rich women stopped their quarreling, eyes fixed on Merira, who silenced one of their protests with a quick “Tut!” When both finally took their leave, they left an obscene amount of money along with their gratitude.
Merira emerged looking wearied, but at seeing Siti and Fatma put on a bright smile, greeting them with kisses. The priestess affected a matronly air, accentuated by age, a set of doting eyes, and plump cheeks. That was all a role, however, like acting the fortune-teller. Fatma knew better. Behind those ever-smiling lips was a shrewd mind that knew all the workings of this city—both in the light and the shadows.
“Your clientele has gone up a notch,” Fatma noted.
Merira rolled her eyes. “Even the wealthy want to know their fortunes. And the bills must be paid.” She laid down the generous stack of notes on the table beside the old woman. “And thank you, Minya, your timely display stopped me from throttling those two!”
The space above the empty chair rippled, and an inhumanly tall woman appeared, with marbled aquamarine skin and bright jade eyes. Her ephemeral body was as transparent as her sheer dress, which billowed as if caught in a breeze. A Jann. One of the elemental djinn. That explained things. The Jann moved a piece on the board, causing the old woman to exclaim and bite her hand.
“Peace be upon you, Agent Fatma,” the djinn greeted, voice echoing. “It is pleasant to see you again, despite the circumstances.”
“And upon you peace, Minya,” Fatma replied. The Jann was a devotee to Hathor. Djinn, after all, could be of any religion, or none at all. She turned to Merira, who had removed the headdress and was now applying black kohl on the honey-hued skin beneath her eyes. “I’m guessing the ‘circumstances’ have to do with last night? You have information?”
“Not just me. Come.” The priestess led them past another curtain of beads, these gold and blue, to a narrow hallway and then a door. A quick set of patterned knocks gained them entrance, and the three stepped into the Temple of Hathor.
Lit by bright lanterns, it was furnished with mahogany tables and cushioned chairs. Colorful wall murals depicted gods with the heads of animals, or wearing divine crowns. At the temple’s center stood a black granite statue of a seated woman, curving horns adorning her head with a disc in their center. Hathor. The Lady of Stars. The venerated goddess of old Egypt, reduced to a small group of faithful in the backstreets of Khan-el-Khalili.
Those who opted to follow these forgotten gods did so in secret. Though the Ministry wasn’t sure of their numbers, it was guessed to be in the thousands—and growing. There was only one occupant of the temple today: a young woman in diaphanous white robes. She bowed to Merira, who pulled off the sebleh to reveal a gold pleated dress. The young woman took the garment, helping the priestess into her layered wig. Siti had gone her own way, stopping to pray at a second granite statue—this one a woman with a lioness’s head. Hathor, made over as the Mistress of Vengeance and Lady of War—the goddess Sekhmet.
Fatma observed from a distance. She wasn’t intolerant. But she believed in God, and that the Prophet—peace be upon him—was His messenger. Even after all she’d seen in this line of work, this was still strange. When Siti finished praying, she walked over, and Fatma shifted beneath those knowing eyes. They tried their best not to talk religion.
“Merira went
