“Our great and noble English savior,” Siti remarked wryly.
“Yes, well. That too.”
“I still don’t understand how you’re involved in this,” Fatma said. “If I were creating a group dedicated to al-Jahiz, you people wouldn’t be the first on my list. No offense.”
“We weren’t,” Merira replied. “The Brotherhood were mostly Englishmen—from Worthington’s company. But he became convinced that the key to recovering al-Jahiz’s secrets was to get, how did he put it, ‘the more pure-blood Nilotic type in our ranks, whose minds might work as his.’”
Fatma winced. Merira shrugged.
“He attempted to bring in other Egyptians, wealthy associates. But what few he floated the idea with—Muslims and Copts alike—balked. He even went after some Soudanese.”
Fatma tried to imagine recruiting someone from the Mahdist Revolutionary People’s Republic of Soudan to your occultist brotherhood. Probably have to endure a three-hour rebuttal featuring Sufi writings and two more in Marxist rhetoric.
“Those closest to Lord Worthington warned he would be seen as an outcast if he persisted,” Merira said. “Us on the other hand? We’re long past that.”
“You’re the only ones who would take up his offer.”
“Even a rich man must sometimes eat with beggars,” Ahmad remarked.
That sounded like something her mother would say. The strange man pulled out a packet of Nefertaris, slipped one between his lips, and was prepared to flick a silver scarab beetle lighter before Merira cleared her throat loudly. Taking the hint, he sighed and replaced the cigarette. The high priestess of Hathor narrowed her gaze on Fatma.
“I can see that look on your face, investigator. You think we were being used. Some wealthy Englishman comes along with his nonsense cult mocking our culture, and we don’t even have the dignity to tell him no—like some old-time guide offered to carry bags for a little baksheesh.”
“Not quite that. But you were being used.”
“And we used him back,” Merira retorted. “We demanded a high price for our presence. Our cults can’t keep going like this. Hiding in back rooms. Meeting in secret. Worthington money would help us build and locate an actual temple. A place to worship out in the open, where we won’t be harassed or hounded. Why do you think Siti’s been traveling?”
Fatma’s head swerved to Siti, who didn’t meet her eyes. She looked back to Merira. “I’m not here to lecture you on how to run your temple. But we’re talking about murder. Your people’s involvement is going to get out sooner or later. That’ll bring exposure—and not the kind you want. I don’t need to tell you how quick fingers could get pointed your way.”
Ahmad growled something about senseless bigotry, and Merira’s face tightened.
“Which is why I’m being as open as possible. I will aid you as best as I can. My word, by the goddess.”
“Good,” Fatma said. “So tell me, did this brotherhood have any enemies?”
“I can’t say. We only dealt with them recently.”
“How about the other temples? I’ve heard you have rivalries.”
Merira’s eyes rounded. “Rivalries yes, but for members. Or over interpretations of theology. But murdering two of our own? The high priests and priestesses meet every month for coffee. We hold inter-temple potlucks. Why, Sobek and Set are roommates.”
Fatma looked to Ahmad, who shrugged. “It’s how I met Nephthys. Besides, you know how hard it is to find an affordable one bedroom in central Cairo?” Actually, Fatma did. So she let the issue drop.
“We know about the bodies,” Merira said. “The odd burns. Minya? Your thoughts?”
A strong breeze picked up at mention of the Jann’s name, and she materialized.
Fatma started. Had the djinn been there all this time? “You know something about those burns?”
The Jann’s face creased in thought. It wasn’t exactly a human face—and not just because of the near-transparent marbled skin. Her eyes—equally marbled—were overly large, her mouth too broad and jawline too defined. This was an immortal face that spoke of eternity.
“I did not view the dead myself,” the Jann answered, echoing. “But I have heard it described: a fire that consumes flesh but leaves all else unmarred.” She rippled, as if discomfited. “I cannot be certain, but I sense the touch of my cousins at work.”
The djinn waved long slender fingers over the table. One of the tarot cards slowly turned over to show a sword wreathed in flames.
“They, truly formed, of smokeless fire,” Minya intoned. “The Ifrit.”
Fatma’s breath caught. An Ifrit! One of the other elementals. Beings of flame. They were considered quite volatile and didn’t live among mortals or even other djinn. In fact, no one had actually seen an Ifrit in the forty years since al-Jahiz’s opening of the Kaf. “But why would an Ifrit want to murder Lord Worthington?” she asked.
The Jann whooshed, like wind moving through the branches of a tree. “Perhaps these mortals sought to bargain with an Ifrit. Such attempts have rarely ended … without consequence.”
“Who would be fool enough to try to bargain with an Ifrit?” Siti muttered.
Someone playing at forces he didn’t understand, Fatma thought. One of the greatest problems in their age. And it rarely ended … without consequence.
“One more question. Do you know anything about a masked man in black?”
“What man?” Ahmad asked. A low growl sounded in his throat.
“Lord Worthington’s daughter ran into a man dressed in black last night,” Fatma explained, unnerved at his reaction. “Wearing a gold mask.” Ahmad’s teeth ground together, but he said nothing. Fatma filed that away for later.
Merira shook her head. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you more, investigator.”
“You’ve provided a lot. I’ll do what I can to see you’re not too caught up in all this.”
“You will do all you can to find who has committed this atrocity,” Ahmad said.
Fatma frowned. Was that a request or a demand? “I always solve my cases.”
The man’s dark green eyes stared, as if they could discern truth. “Nephthys didn’t deserve her end,”
