An Ifrit.
The djinn roared, causing the very air to ripple in a haze. It bowed down to reveal something tied across its back—a leather harness that somehow didn’t burn, with long encircling straps. The imposter climbed and settled into it, the licking flames not touching him. Pulling on reins looped around the Ifrit’s horns, he stared down at Fatma.
“All of Cairo will speak of what they see here tonight. All of Cairo will know that I am al-Jahiz. And I have returned.”
He spoke another command in that tongue, and great wings of fire sprouted from the Ifrit’s back. It lifted into the air, the hot wind from its flapping bearing down on Fatma, sending her to her knees. From there she stared up, shielding her eyes and watching the fiery djinn soar through the sky, streaking away like a blazing star, and carrying its rider with it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fatma wanted to hit something. To say that the past two and a half days had been terrible didn’t do justice to the meaning of “terrible.” The fallout from Sunday night—“fallout” was another understated word—seemed to arrive by the day.
She’d spent Monday morning in a meetings with Amir, Ministry brass, and representatives from the bureaucracy administering Cairo’s many districts—all demanding reports on what the papers were already calling the Battle of el-Arafa. Scores arrested or hurt. Rights activists charging police heavy-handedness. The police union charging they’d been sent in unprepared. Threats of lawsuits and counter lawsuits. She’d been grilled for hours, then forced to spend more time filing paperwork. In triplicate.
Monday evening was worse. The newspapers officially ended all embargo on the Lord Worthington story, revealing everything they knew about his death and the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz. That turned out to be facts mixed with half-truths. The more sensational penny presses spread salacious stories of indecency, indicting politicians and even insinuating Egypt’s monarchy as coconspirators. The papers had gotten hold of the guest list from that night, publishing every victim’s name—including the two Egyptian dead outed as idolaters.
That paled to the buzz on al-Jahiz, which left el-Arafa and hit every street corner and gossip mill by morning. Fatma had gotten an earful from her bewab. Al-Jahiz had returned! Had she heard the news? Had she been at the Cemetery? Had al-Jahiz truly called down lightning upon the police? Did he and the head of the Forty Leopards really duel atop a mausoleum? She got the same on her way to work. From her shoe shiner to chattering on the trolley. Al-Jahiz—the imposter—was on everyone’s lips.
Then there were the sightings. Scores of witnesses had seen the man ride off on the back of an Ifrit. She was still trying to process that memory in her own head. More outside the Cemetery had seen a fiery something flying across Cairo’s skyline. Now fresh reports were flooding the Ministry and police, of reputed sightings. Al-Jahiz was flying over Bulaq in a chariot pulled by djinn. No, he had been seen over Old Cairo on a rukh. Others claimed he walked the back alleys of the Khan. And he’d reopened secret schools, performing wonders. The words Al-Jahiz Has Returned covered whole walls—alongside claims of the government and monarchy in league with some foreign cabal to reduce the country to a colony. Each time cleaners scoured them away, they reappeared elsewhere. She doubted most believed such fanciful tales. But people whispered about these odd events all the same. Many feared they could only portend some great misfortune or calamity, and there was real concern hysteria might grip the city.
Do you even understand what you are dealing with?
Fatma’s mood darkened as she walked the block to the Ministry. Other than chasing phantom sightings, she had no good leads. They knew now who had killed Lord Worthington. But not much else. Was this imposter just some fanatic? Or was this all a ruse for something bigger? And what kind of sorcery made him master over an Ifrit—riding one of the most powerful and volatile of djinn like some tamed hound! I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light.
The one saving grace was that despite everything, she’d been kept on the case. Amir argued to brass and the city’s administrators that she was still the best hope to solve this. They’d agreed. What choice did they really have? Next week was the peace summit at the king’s palace. There were going to be foreign rulers, dignitaries, and ambassadors in the city. The intent was to project a modern Cairo that could be a broker in world affairs—not a city caught up in fear and hysteria. They wanted this thing out of the papers as soon as possible.
“A moment of your time, agent,” someone called.
Fatma stopped mid-stride, turning to settle on a figure in dark brown robes with frayed ends, his head hidden in a cowl. He stood beneath the awning of a gramophone shop, blending into the shadows. She took him at first for a beggar and fished into her pockets—until he lifted his head. She walked up to grab him by the arm, dragging him to a nearby alley.
“Ahmad! What are you doing here?”
The man pulled from her grip, letting out a stream of cigarette smoke. When he looked directly at her, she almost stepped back. His face had changed further since she’d last seen him. His gray skin looked rougher, with dark splotches—though the front of his neck was pale and smooth, almost rubbery. His nose had vanished completely, replaced with nostril slits on a protrusion that reminded her of a snout. Both his eyes were still green, but his pupils were strange—as if they were elongating.
“I wanted to know,” he rasped, “how you were getting on with the case.”
Who didn’t? Fatma wanted to tell the
