The spot was less crowded than usual—a by-product of the unease in the city. The djinn proprietor stood dejectedly among his idle servers, eyes fixed on the door for patrons.
Well, Fatma thought gloomily, they had her.
She didn’t remember deciding to come here. Things were a bit fuzzy after the police and palace guards found her among the burning topiaries. She recalled handing over the cracked gold mask and lock of hair to Hadia. Then she’d wandered off, her mind set on one thing—Siti transforming into a djinn. Make that two things. Siti trying to murder her. When she closed her eyes, she saw that inhuman stare—lifeless, as Siti choked the breath from her. She should have felt sick. Angry. Hurt. But she was just numb. In that dazed state, she’d ended up here.
“You better slow down.”
Fatma turned to find Benny. His silver cornet sat between them, like a silent customer. He scowled at her cup.
“You need a real drink to drown your sorrows. Can’t do nothing on sarsaparilla!”
“With mint leaves and tea,” she muttered.
He shook his head, glancing her over. “Must have had some night.”
Fatma looked down at her suit, which bore scorch marks and a tear along one shoulder. She’d lost her bowler too, letting her cropped black curls hang messily.
“Been a long two weeks, Benny.”
He threw back a glass. “Work or personal?”
“Both.” She finished her cocktail and motioned to the bartender for another.
“Them the worst kind. This have to do with Miss Trouble? You two have a fight?”
Fatma almost laughed, eyes darting to the door. A part of her wanted Siti to stroll in, wearing some outrageous gown. As if that would make everything that happened tonight disappear?
“Whenever me and my lady had problems,” Benny related, “seemed like the whole world was on fire. No one or nobody could hurt us the way we hurt each other.”
Fatma resisted the urge to ask if this lady of his ever transformed into a seven-foot djinn and tried to break his neck.
“I’d try to remember the good times then,” he said. “Not let this one hump break us. Sure enough, we’d be back together right as rain.”
“Did your lady ever keep secrets, Benny? About herself?”
He put a finger to the tip of his nose. It took a moment for Fatma to catch his meaning, until she rubbed her own nose and a bit of soot came off on her fingers.
“Usually the secrets we keep deep down, ain’t meant to hurt other people,” he said. “Not saying they won’t, but not through intentions. Those deep secrets, we hide away because we’re afraid what other people might think. How they might judge us, if they knew. And nobody’s judgment we scared of more than the one we give our hearts to. Besides, everybody got secrets. Even you, I’m betting.”
He sat with his drink then, polite enough to leave her to her thoughts as the trombone wailed its lament.
She walked out of the Jasmine after about an hour. There was only so much sarsaparilla a body could take. Buttoning what was left of her jacket, she made her way through the backstreets near Muhammad Ali Street. Head down, she tucked her cane under one arm and hunched her shoulders, hoping to broadcast that she wanted to be left alone. She especially hoped whoever had taken to following behind her—their heavy footsteps unmistakable in the quiet—would get the hint. Sighing, she stopped under an archway near a set of short steps and spoke in a clear no-nonsense voice.
“Look, I’ve been having a rough go of it. In the past week I’ve fought ghuls, a sorcerer, a maddened Marid, and stared down an Ifrit. You think you want some of this, then go ahead and try me. Just wanted you to know what you’re getting yourself into.”
There was silence followed by a familiar guttural rumble.
“Your days have been quite full, agent.”
Fatma turned around, shoulders slumping. “Evening, Ahmad.”
The self-proclaimed god of the Cult of Sobek skulked from the shadows. It seemed he’d undergone more changes. He was bulkier, and moved with an odd gait. Beneath his brown robes, she caught snatches of pale gray skin and a protrusion on his face like a muzzle. His penetrating dark green eyes looked more crocodilian than ever. What was the man doing to himself?
“Evening, Agent Fatma,” he returned in a raspy hiss.
“Didn’t we talk about you following me around? I thought we agreed it was creepy?”
He spread his hands apologetically—both now webbed, with black claws.
“Malesh. I just want to talk.”
Fatma squatted on the steps, her back to the archway. She didn’t feel like going home yet anyway. “So talk.”
Ahmad squatted opposite her, though he seemed to have a rough time at it. He pulled out a Nefertari, his inhuman face asking, Do you mind? She waved her consent. He made an elaborate show with the silver scarab lighter before taking a drag and cocking his head. “Are you well, agent?”
“Do I look that bad?”
His green eyes studied her. “Yes.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean to say, you don’t seem yourself. I see beyond flesh and bone to spirit. Yours looks … wounded. I am here, if you need someone. To listen, I mean.”
She stared at him. He thought she wanted to unburden her problems on him? A man who thought he was an ancient god and was now disfiguring himself? What gave him the nerve?
“You want to know what’s wounding my spirit?” she asked hotly. “Fine! I’ll tell it all to you, until you choke!” That’s precisely what she did. She told him about the fruitless quest of her case. Of the attack on the Ministry. Of what had happened tonight. And about Siti. Of those lifeless eyes that sought her death. When she was done, she felt wrung out. But at least she wasn’t numb.
“That…” Ahmad began. He cleared his throat. “I thought you were going to tell me about your self-doubts or maybe about some interpersonal conflicts with your coworkers. I wasn’t quite expecting so much. You do have problems!”
“You’ve
