In an all-out bash. This one had party horns and confetti cannons, and dancing boys as well as girls. One of the latter came up and tried to dance with us, despite the fact that Louis-Cesare hadn’t put me down yet. He was pretty impressive, with a bare chest glistening with sweaty muscles, dark brown eyes with long, thick lashes, and a blindingly white smile.
His dance moves weren’t bad, either.
“You know, I’m starting to see what you mean about art,” I told Louis-Cesare, who grimaced and jumped to another roof.
And almost landed in the middle of a troop of six male dancers, who were doing an amazing tanoura. The Egyptian folk dance had also been performed at the reception given on our arrival, but that one had been staid and solemn by comparison. These guys were really going for it, with multicolored skirts flinging out like whirling dervishes’, and including a huge top skirt that they brought up their bodies and over their heads, manipulating it like a great umbrella to mirror the movements of the skirts below.
And because they were vampires, they were spinning so fast that the sound of their clothes snapping and their feet scraping across the concrete rooftop made almost as much noise as the musicians. They streamed around us, the throbbing beat and flowing colors sweeping us up into the madness for a heady second, and confusing my already spinning head. Then they were gone, whirling off to another part of the roof, leaving Louis-Cesare and I looking at each other, breathless and laughing.
Until I spied the food.
Vampires don’t technically need to eat, and the younger ones don’t even have working taste buds, meaning that their parties often times don’t include food. At best, I’d been hoping for a lackluster buffet with some wilted lettuce and maybe a few pasta salads that hadn’t gone off yet. But that . . . was not what I got.
Hassani’s people had devised a street vendor type of set up, the kind sometimes seen at big Indian weddings where there are a ton of people to feed with different preferences. Here that meant happy little booths scattered about everywhere, draped with bunting or shiny fringe or topped by balloons, and each with a different specialty. I guessed the idea was to promote circulation, with people who wanted to eat being encouraged to make the rounds.
I was encouraged.
Especially when the spicy scents from the closest booth drifted over, and my stomach woke up to complain that I’d eaten practically nothing for twenty-four hours. That was a rare event in the life of a dhampir. We have revved up metabolisms that help promote healing and give us added power in fights, but they come with a price: we’re hungry all the time, with our stomachs making regular, strident demands. Whatever Maha had done to calm down my system while she healed it had also banished hunger—until right now.
“Put me down,” I told Louis-Cesare, my mouth watering. As soon as he complied, I ran to the nearest booth and—yes! I’d thought so.
The vendor was passing out plates of ta’meya, an Egyptian version of falafel made with fava beans instead of chickpeas. But that didn’t tell the whole story, not by half. Onion, garlic, leek and parsley were added to the mix, giving it a vibrant green color, while coriander, cayenne, cumin and paprika spiced it up before it was made into little balls and fried.
It was always delicious, but after a day with no nourishment, the pillowy soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside, hot and spicy bundles were almost literally heaven.
“Don’t fill up,” Louis-Cesare warned me. “Look what’s next.”
He nodded at something further down the roof and, sure enough, another little booth smelled even better. I hurried over, still stuffing my face with ta’meya, and then just stood there in something approaching awe. Because this one had shawarma, with a huge tower of lamb and another of chicken, their fat caps sizzling and dripping mouth-watering flavor all down the already highly spiced meat.
I had one of each kind, in two huge stuffed pita breads with tahini and roasted vegetables. And while I was working on those, we passed a fatteh vendor giving out plates of an ancient Egyptian feast food. The fried crispy flatbread was piled high with rice, meat, and veggies, and all doused in a sensational buttery, garlicy, vinegary tomato sauce.
“Oh,” I said, pointing with a pita.
“I’ll get a tray,” Louis-Cesare said dryly.
And damned if he didn’t find one somewhere. I was too busy jumping to the next roof to see where, because there was a vendor with bamia over there, a delicious okra stew with chunks of beef, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and spices. There was also a guy with kofta—spicy meatballs with a yogurt dip—and another with mahshi—peppers, zucchini, eggplants and cabbage leaves stuffed with lamb and rice and tomato sauce, and spiced with cinnamon and herbs, which sounds nasty but tastes divine.
“Your tray,” Louis-Cesare said, coming up behind me and proffering a shiny brass version, which was good because my hands were full. And we hadn’t even made it to the desserts yet.
But they were coming up. I could see a vendor on the next roof with zalabya, fried doughballs in sweet syrup, kind of like Egyptian doughnut holes. And another further on who I was pretty sure had Om Ali, the best damned dessert in a city of great desserts. It had layers of puff pastry soaked in milk and mixed with nuts, raisins, coconut and sugar. The whole thing was then baked and served with warm cream and garnished with more nuts, usually pistachios and almonds. It was basically Egyptian bread pudding, and was rivalled only by one I’d had in New Orleans once with a caramel whisky sauce.
“Oh,” I said, my eyes getting wide. I started that way, but was too late. Hassani wanted to speak to us as well, it seemed, and he’d sent a delegation to find us.
I only knew that because Louis-Cesare shouted it at me as we were swept up by a laughing, chattering, and carousing throng. I found myself grabbed under the arms and taken on a wild ride across a number of rooftops, so quickly that I barely had a chance to realize what was going on. And when we hit down, I suddenly had a bunch of people I didn’t know hugging me and laughing and taking selfies.
Whatever reservations Hassani’s court had had about us, they appeared to have disappeared. Somebody put a new drink into my hand, and somebody else plopped a flower crown onto my head, a popular accessory tonight as half the crowd seemed to be wearing them. I supposed it was a nod to the ancient Egyptian practice at festivals, or maybe it was just because.
There was a lot of just because going on.
And not only with the locals. I stared around, dizzy and wondering where my food was. But before I could ask, Louis-Cesare was borne away by a troop of guys dressed in harem pants and tasseled vests.
“Wait,” I said.
The crowd did not wait.
Instead, I was borne over to a bier with a table and a pergola, with some yellow draperies fluttering overhead which were so narrow that they basically just striped the stars. Hassani was reclining on a chaise, this time in a more comfortable looking outfit of a galabeya in unbleached cotton, with a pale blue caftan over the top. His only concession to the festivities was a flower crown, which had fallen to a jaunty angle over one ear, and a goblet of something in his hand.
He waved me up and up I went, mourning my lost tray, only to find it deposited on a low table in front of our chaises before I even sat down. My mood perked up. The consul saw and laughed.