A sign with faded letters in Arabic and English reads RESIDENCE OFBAMBAHAIKAL.
“Your great-great-great-grandmother,” Khalto Safa said.
“Wow.” I stared at the sign. “That’s a lot of ‘greats.’ “
Khalto Safa stayed silent, so I pressed on. “We don’t really have those links at home. Our roots don’t stretch too deep in Ward yet.”
“At home?” Khalto Safa repeated, puzzled. An ear-splitting screech of metal shook the car’s frame as the gates eased open.
A mansion torn from the pages of an old fable loomed above us. Ivory balconies wrapped around the second story of the villa, held up by looming white pillars. Stained glass windows glittered high behind them. To our right, a family of date trees rustled above a vast, overgrown garden. Neglect mottled the pillars and peeled the paint around the parapets, but there was no mistaking the house’s mightiness. In a neighborhood of dust and bones, the Haikal villa was a vein of glory, thriving through El Agamy.
Entranced, I unclipped my seat belt, sticking my head out the window as far as it would go. The scent of overripe dates and pool bleach wafted over me just as something cold touched my cheek.
It fanned into the distinct shape of a hand. A scream flattened in my throat, leaking out of me in a trembling hiss.
I turned my head.
The little girl from the road leaned out of the back window, her sallow little face inches from mine.
Imshee.
She never moved her mouth, but the order rang as clearly as if it had been whispered into my ear.
Leave.
The girl disappeared as soon as the gates closed behind us.
“Welcome to the Haikal villa.” Khalto Safa’s voice washed over me as though from a distance. “Welcome home.”
Jesse stands, barely an outline in the dark. “Follow me.”
I keep my gaze trained away from the shifting shadows behind him. “Where are we going?”
“Downstairs.” He only gets a step to the door before I shoot to my feet and grab his arm. “What? Isn’t downstairs where the mortuary is?”
A long pause. Jesse pries my fingers from his arm. “Stay close.”
Silence cloaks the house, muffling the sound of my panicked breath. Mr. Talbot hasn’t come home yet, but who knows when he might be back?
The stairs groan as we descend. When we reach the first floor, I come to a halt, rubbing the heel of my hand against my chest. “Does your dad own a defibrillator?”
Jesse leans against the banister and treats me to his signature eye-roll. “Who would he use it on? The corpses?”
“I hope you keep your sense of humor when I have a heart attack in about, oh, ten minutes.”
Jesse sighs, shifting to the head of the stairs leading into the mortuary. “Come on, Mansour. I know you and your friends have gossiped about what’s at the bottom of the Talbot house. Don’t you want to finally find out?”
I pause, caught. “We don’t gossip.” Much. “We exchange pertinent social information.”
He grins, his lips a vicious slash in the dark. “Consider this another piece of pertinent social information.”
Before I can cobble together another protest, Jesse disappears down the stairs.
I linger next to the head of the narrow tunnel of stairs. Sweat beads along my forehead. The prospect of following him fills me with dread, but I can’t stay up here alone.
My damp palm finds the banister and holds on for dear life. Just a set of stairs. Stairs aren’t scary for anyone above the age of three.
A mocking voice drifts from the stairwell. “Do you need me to come up there and hold your hand?”
