A Dead Djinn in Cairo (Dead Djinn Universe, #0.1)

by P. Djèlí Clark

“My father is a watchsmith. He gave me this when I left home. Said Cairo was so fast I’d need it to keep time.

“When I was in school in Luxor I would see these photographs of Englishmen and Frenchmen who visited Egypt, before the djinn came. Mostly they were in suits. But sometimes they’d put on a jellabiya and headscarf. I found out they called it ‘going native.’ To look exotic, they said.” “Did they?” Aasim cut in. “Did they what?” “Look exotic.” “No. Just ridiculous.” Aasim snickered. “Anyway, when I bought my first suit, the English tailor asked me why I wanted it. I told him I wanted to look exotic.”

As with djinn, angels didn’t share their names. They instead took on titles that emphasized their purpose.

The modern world loves paperwork.

“You angels. You made this God up. Maybe only a few higher-ups did at first. Then the rest of you believed it. But I think He’s made up all the same.”

Everywhere, gear wheels skipped or seized, losing their perfect precision. That harmonious movement was replaced by a growing discord as time itself lost precision.