The Supernaturals

by Gene Gant

  Draven eyed the sofa suspiciously.

  “Come on, man.” I tried not to laugh, but a snicker escaped my mouth like a burp. “It’s just a sofa. Honest to Allah. It won’t bite you.”

  Draven flashed me an irritated glance. With a grunt, he dropped himself on the sofa.

  “There. See? Isn’t that better?”

  “No,” Draven snapped grouchily. He looked as if he were going to spit.

  I was thirsty. Without thinking, I raised my right hand a bit and warped a can of strawberry soda from the kitchen refrigerator. (There’s a fridge in my garage, too, for things you don’t find in the average kitchen.) The soda slapped neatly into my open palm. The can’s top dutifully popped itself. I took a long swig.

  Draven stared at the soda with bright amazement.

  “Oh.” I gave myself a mental kick. “Sorry, man. Where are my manners? You want something to drink?”

  “How did you do that? Make that can pop out of nowhere like that?”

  “It didn’t come from nowhere. It came from my fridge. You want one?”

  “Yeah. Go ahead and bring one in for me.” He sat up, eyeing my hands with anticipation. Apparently he wanted to see the trick done again more than he wanted a soda.

  “Sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to get it yourself.” I pointed. “The kitchen’s back there.”

  Draven gave me an angry look. He got up and walked through the dining room into the kitchen. I was afraid he might bolt, so I used my patented MagicVision to spy on him through the walls. He went straight to the fridge, opened it, and frowned. There was nothing inside but a six-pack of soda, minus the one I was now sipping from. He opened the freezer compartment; that was empty except for the cubes of ice in the container below the icemaker. He grabbed a can of soda, shut the fridge door, and then proceeded to open cabinet doors, finding empty shelf after empty shelf. I admire nosiness, a trait I possess in abundance.

  Draven returned to the living room with his soda. “I’ve never seen a kitchen as empty as yours. You don’t even have a plate out there.”

  “That’s because I don’t cook. I’m a fast-food junkie. Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah. No!”

  I smiled. “Okay. Which is it?”

  “No. I’m not hungry.” Draven sat down and opened the soda can. He rubbed a hand across the back of his head. “But I do need some aspirin. The cop who arrested me used my head for batting practice.”

  “There’s a bottle of aspirin in the bathroom at the end of the hall.” I pointed helpfully. “In the drawer under the sink.”

  “Come on, my head is killing me. Can’t you make the aspirin magically appear, like you did with that soda?”

  “Not for you, no. The only person who can command my djinn magic on his—or her—behalf is my master.”

  Draven’s face took on that confused frown again, this time mixed with a good dose of annoyance. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I took another swig of soda and gave him a patient smile. “Some djinn are cursed to serve other beings. I’m one of those djinns. The curse is sort of a… punishment. My soul is trapped in a brass ring, and whoever wears the ring becomes my master. Got it?”

  Draven looked more puzzled than ever. “Somebody made you a slave? To punish you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So… this is your master’s house?”

  “No, it’s my house. The deed’s in my name. I pay property taxes and all that good stuff.”

  “Why would your master let you own a house? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, I don’t have a master right now. My last master met an untimely demise forty-three years ago. When my master dies, the curse hides the brass ring from me so that it can be found by someone else. Until someone else finds the ring and calls on me, I’m free.”

  “Okay, but what does that have to do with you not being able to get me a bottle of aspirin from your bathroom?”

  “You asked me to bring the aspirin to you magically. Only my master can ask me to use djinn magic for him, and you’re not my master. I can use djinn magic anytime, but I can’t use it at anyone else’s request even if I want to, unless that person happens to come into possession of my soul ring.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  I raised my hands helplessly. “Hey, I don’t write the rules. I just trip over them. Of course, you’re a guest in my home, and there’s nothing in the world stopping me from getting up, walking down the hall, and fetching the aspirin for you with my own two hands. Except that I’m too lazy to do it.”

  Draven squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them with his fingers. Apparently, I’d just made his headache worse. Suddenly, he blasted up from the sofa and stomped down the hall with the soda can in his left hand. I watched him rummage through the bathroom drawer until he found the aspirin. He shook three pills into his palm and gulped them down with strawberry soda. Then he stuffed the aspirin bottle and the empty soda can into the drawer and stomped back to the living room, plopping himself onto the sofa again.

  “So you’re, like, a genie,” he said experimentally, picking up the conversation again.

  “‘Genie’ is a very bad translation, and I hate that word. Let’s stick with djinn.”

  “What did you do to get yourself cursed?”

  “I’d rather not say.” I leaned forward, bringing the recliner upright. “Now, let’s talk about you—”

  “No,” Draven said, cutting me off flatly. “You get squat about me until you tell me what I want to know. You used some kind of vampire trick to break me out of jail and make me follow you into your house. Why’d you do that? What do you want from me?”

  I lifted my left shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Who says I want anything from you? Maybe I just wanted to do you a favor. Ever think of that? Maybe I just wanted to make a friend.”

  Draven slammed a fist down on the end table next to the sofa. It exploded, splinters flying all over the room. Some of them actually stuck in the walls like needles. The boom of that blow was still echoing through the house when Draven raised his fist in my direction. “Don’t play with me, man,” he said quietly through his teeth.

  My right eye twitched, a sign of just how badly this guy was getting on my nerves. I produced a very gracious smile. “Seriously, dude. I want to be your friend.”

  “I don’t have friends!”

  “There’s a real news flash,” I mumbled, shaking my head. It felt as if his shout had ruptured one of my eardrums. “Okay, here’s the truth. I brought you here because you’re a Grendel Kid.”

  Draven scowled, and for a second there, it seemed a pretty good bet my coffee table was about to go the way of my end table. “What the hell are you talking about?” he snapped. “I’m a mutant.”

  “No. You’re a descendant of Grendel.”

  Confusion etched across his face again. If that kept up, the creases in his forehead would become permanent. “Who’s Grendel?”

  I could feel the disbelief flash in my eyes. “Tell me you’re kidding. What’d you do, sleep while the rest of your English class read Beowulf? Or do high schools no longer include epic poetry in the curriculum?”

  “I’m in middle school, and I got kicked out of there two months ago, okay? Now stop pissing around and tell me what you’re talking about!”

  “Grendel was a monster who settled, around 700 AD, in the middle of what is now called Denmark. He had this little bad habit of attacking Heorot, the king’s hall, killing and eating the men he found there. That eventually made him an enemy of a powerful warrior named Beowulf, who killed him, but not before Grendel fathered a child. His descendants—I call them Grendel Kids—all bear the same curse handed down from Cain, the world’s first murderer. They’re born looking human, for the most part. But once they kill a person, they turn into big, butt-ugly monsters.”

  Draven shivered so violently the entire sofa vibrated. His face went pale. “Oh God….” He moaned breathlessly, eyes wide with alarm. “That’s it
. That’s why he wants me to do it.”

  “That’s why who wants you to do what?”

  Draven looked me squarely in the eye, his face trembling with rage and fear. “My dad disappeared before I was born. I woke up one night a couple of months ago, and there he was standing at the foot of my bed. He was a ten-foot, hairy monster, hunched over because he was too tall for the ceiling, and I’d never laid eyes on him before, but I recognized him. He told me it was time for me to grow up, that it was time for me to make my first human kill.”

  I nodded. “That’s the way the ritual goes. The descendant is always male, and the father always initiates the son.”

  “I told him no way was I doing anything like that. He came back every night for weeks, demanding that I make a kill, but I wouldn’t do it. So the last time I turned him down, he kidnapped my mom.”

  Uh-oh. This had suddenly become a lot more complicated than I’d expected. “Your father kidnapped your mother?”

  “Yeah. And he says he’s gonna kill her unless I murder somebody before my fifteenth birthday.”

  Three

  “DAMN,” I drawled, the curse flat and full of sympathy. Grendel Kids, once they turn, are cruel, sadistic sons-of-somethings. But kidnapping the mother of your own child was a hit at new depths of depravity, even for a monster. Then again, maybe I was being a bit hasty there with my opinion. A Grendel Kid usually eats the mother of his child once she’s given birth.

  “I’m gonna get her back,” Draven said, his face set like concrete, eyes flaring suddenly with hatred and determination. A vein thick as my thumb popped up in his neck, pulsing so hard I thought it would wriggle right out of his skin. “I’ll turn fifteen in three days. I’m not gonna let that evil bastard kill her. I’m gonna find him, I’m gonna get my mom back, and I’m gonna make him pay for everything he’s done.”

  Looking at Draven, I swore to myself that I would make sure I was at least a continent away if he ever caught up with his daddy.

  He sprang off the sofa, fists clenched. “I gotta track down Jellicoe.” He started pacing, beating at his thighs with his fists. “If that damn cop hadn’t gotten in my way, I would’ve caught him.”

  “Jellicoe is the sprite you were chasing?”

  “Yeah. He’s my dad’s messenger boy. Mom disappeared a month ago. I didn’t have any money to pay the rent, the landlord thought she’d run off, and he was getting ready to turn me over to Child Protective Services, so yesterday I got out of there. But I was afraid to leave the neighborhood because, at that time, I didn’t know what had happened to Mom, and I wanted to hang around in case she came back.”

  I held up a finger, stopping him. “Wait. Not that it would have made any difference knowing what you do now, but did you call the police after your mom went missing?”

  “No.” Draven paused for a moment, giving me a look that indicated I was crazy for even asking. “I didn’t know at first that my dad was behind it, but I always knew there was something unnatural about Mom’s disappearance. I could just feel it.” He resumed pacing and beating up his legs. “After I left, I spent the night in the park up the street from our apartment building, keeping an eye out for her. This morning, I was freaking out, scared as hell, no idea what I was going to do next. And then Jellicoe shows up and drops that message from my dad.”

  I could imagine what happened next. Draven, already frantic after a month with no word from his mom and now homeless to boot, went berserk. He made a grab for the sprite, who managed to slip away, and that drove him completely over the edge.

  “I gotta find Jellicoe,” Draven said again, more to himself this time than to me. “But I got no clue where to even start looking for him.”

  “Moi may be able to help with that.”

  Draven frowned at me. “What?”

  “I can help you find Jellicoe.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t use magic to help me.”

  “I said I can’t use magic at your request, unless you’re my master, which you’re not. Anyway, tracking down Jellicoe won’t require djinn magic. I know a few talented people.” I downed the rest of my soda and sent the empty can warping into the little trash bin under my sink. Then I pulled out my cell phone. “Excuse me a second.”

  I sent a text and then waited patiently. There are magical means of communicating, but to me, texting is more fun.

  The response came in about fifteen seconds.

  GB: No, not busy. What’s up?

  Me: Got a friend who needs a tracker. Can u do?

  GB: Sure. Come on over.

  At that, I hesitated. Then I texted, Can u do it over the phone?

  GB: Works better in person.

  Damn. Now I regretted starting the whole thing. I could have gotten help from some of my other contacts, but that would take time, and the more time passed, the more difficult it would be to find the sprite. Besides that, none of my other contacts were as good at tracking as Inky.

  Me: OK. Be there in a few seconds.

  I looked up as I tucked the phone back in my pocket. Draven was watching me expectantly. “I have a friend who’s going to put us on Jellicoe’s trail. We have to pay him a visit.”

  Draven’s expression shifted into apprehension. He looked nauseated as well. “Not with that warp thing. Can’t we just walk or something?”

  “Yes, we could walk. But my friend lives in Chicago, about a hundred miles away, so it might take us a while.” I stood up, motioning for him to do the same. “We don’t have a lot of time if we want to find the sprite. Come on. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you this time.”

  He stood up reluctantly. I went over and stood next to him. Casually, I threw my arm around him and pulled him close. The muscles in his lean body were powerful and compact, as hard as the rubber in a semi’s tire. “A word of warning,” I said.

  “What?” Draven replied. Apparently, his anxiety had just kicked up a notch, because his voice squeaked.

  “Be careful around my friend, okay?”

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  “Hang on.”

  He grabbed me around the chest with both hands.

  With my left arm, I lifted Draven slightly so his feet were barely touching the floor. I raised my right hand and brought it down in a long chopping motion. White lightning rippled. The passage opened and immediately sucked us in.

  THE GOLD Coast is a historic district in Chicago where a bunch of people with big bucks live. It sits on the city’s Near North Side and is fronted by Lake Shore Drive and, beyond that, the sprawling waters of Lake Michigan. Inky lived there in a luxury condo on the top floor of a ten-story building. Through a streak of black lightning, Draven and I were ejected into Inky’s living room.

  Draven had clamped his hands on to me so tightly his fingers bruised the skin over my ribs. My body’s pretty tough, so that should give you some idea just how strong the kid was. With me holding him, we came to a graceful stop just inches from Inky’s brick and stone fireplace. “You okay?” I whispered to him.

  “Yeah,” he whispered back, nodding.

  I set him down and promptly peeled his hands off me. The living room was quite spacious, a fact that still amazed me because I couldn’t picture anyone, not even Inky, doing much living here. Draven looked around, and I could see the skepticism rise in his face as he took in the furnishings. The French provincial sofas covered in gold-colored suede, the wingback chairs covered in contrasting brown leather, and the highly polished mahogany tables were tasteful but so fragile-looking the average person would be afraid to use them. Which was exactly the point. The furniture was designed not for the comfort and ease of guests, but to highlight the expensive nature of the owner’s tastes. There were plenty of windows, and they were all open, letting the cool spring breezes off the lake waft through the room. At least the place smelled clean and fresh. Most spaces inhabited by teenaged boys reek of sweaty socks and dirty underwear.

  “Ahmad, what’s up?” The easy greeting floated on the air li
ke a rich melody. Inky sauntered barefoot into the living room with his hands tucked in his pockets and a big, friendly smile on his face. To put it bluntly, he was a stunningly beautiful guy. His short, straight hair and deep-set, thickly lashed eyes were as black as India ink. His flawless teeth were as white as a Republican national convention. His lips were full and round, the very epitome of bee-stung. He wore a tight black T-shirt with a V neck so low you could see his perfectly tight pecs and the top ripple of his abs. Speaking of Vs, that was the shape of his upper body, supple and muscular. His black jeans were loose, but there was no mistaking the condition of his long legs, which were just as supple and muscular as the rest of him. His shapely butt was so firm that if he fell on it, he’d bounce right back up. Just a shade over six feet tall, he looked like some star high school running back, a standout from a boy band, and a teen movie idol, all rolled into one. He had the kind of face and body that fashion designers and editors begged to put on ads, runways, and magazine covers. Seriously. I’d seen them beg him.

  Inky turned heads wherever he went. Straight women and gay men of all ages stared at him. Even some straight men and gay females gave him double takes. His beauty was not random. It had a very definite purpose. You see, Inky was a predator, and like all predators, nature had given him a design that optimized his ability to capture prey.

  If your gaydar ever goes on the fritz, just stand next to Inky and keep your eyes open. You can gauge a person’s sexuality pretty accurately just by watching his or her reaction to the guy. Draven, whether he was aware of it or not, was definitely bi, if not completely gay. He went slack all over (but probably experienced the opposite between his legs) when he saw Inky. He stared, his mouth hanging open. His desperation to find his mother, his burgeoning rage at his father—all that stuff seemed to evaporate from his mind, at least for the moment. He was appropriately stunned.

  Draven being taken with Inky wasn’t good. Things don’t usually end well for people who get taken with Inky. You want to know what was even worse? Inky had some sort of a weird reaction to Draven.