Master of None

by Sonya Bateman

  “What are you staring at?” the stranger snapped.

  “Maybe I asked the wrong questions. What the hell are you?”

  “I am furious. Now take me to your home.”

  “Sure. Follow me.” I headed back into the garage. Time for a reality check. If this guy expected to rip off what I’d lifted for Trevor, he was in for a disappointing haul. Robbing me for his trouble wouldn’t line his pockets much, either. He’d get more out of a McDonald’s cash register. But if he really wanted my ancient Ford junker, it was all his.

  The stranger hesitated and followed me inside. “What are you doing? You cannot live in this building.”

  “No, I don’t.” I stopped behind my thug-tossed car. “Right there. Home sweet home. Only I think I’ve just been evicted.”

  “You live in your car.”

  “Not anymore. Trevor bugged it, and I . . . misplaced my scanner, so I can’t find the chip.”

  “Why, you idiotic, incompetent—” The stranger pressed his lips over whatever he’d been ready to say. “This is ridiculous. Why did it have to be you? How could you possibly . . . you are a thief. Not even a good thief.”

  “Hey. I’m an excellent thief.” I had the distinct feeling the stranger was talking to himself, but I had to defend my honor—such as it was. “Just not very lucky.”

  The stranger’s eyes narrowed. “Do you plan to continue your larcenous career, or are you actually going to do something with your life at some point?”

  What was with the insults? The guy had told Skids he needed me. Maybe he really thought he did. I decided to try a different approach and propped myself casually against the car, as if I wasn’t afraid for my life. “I’m not answering any more of your questions until you start answering mine.”

  “I am not interested in humoring you, thief.”

  “Okay. I guess we’re through, then.” I straightened and approached the scattered pile of stuff Trevor’s thugs had left behind. Some of it looked salvageable. They’d even missed a few stacks of cash. Idiots. They’d smashed my cell phone. That didn’t bother me as much as the mangled remains of my scrambler and the twisted-beyond-salvation lock jock. I couldn’t see calling anyone in the near future, but I suspected I’d have to boost a ride. I pocketed everything that appeared intact and deliberately avoided looking in the stranger’s direction.

  “We are not through.” The stranger spoke just behind me. I didn’t turn. “I have business with you, and I’ll see it carried out.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “You will cooperate. Did you forget what happened to your quick-tempered friend?”

  The cool front seemed to be working. I picked up the last remaining item—the wire spool, slightly bent—and slipped it into a pocket of the windbreaker. Straightening slowly for effect, I flashed a wry smile. “First, Skids is no friend of mine. I suspect you know that. And second, I didn’t forget. But if you did that to Skids, it won’t happen to me.”

  “I would not be so certain of that,” the stranger growled.

  “I would.” My smile stayed put. “You need me. Remember?”

  A flush suffused the stranger’s face. He didn’t correct me.

  “That’s what I thought. The way I figure it, you’re the one who has to cooperate with me. So start cooperating, or I’m dust.”

  “You would be, if I had my way.” The stranger’s tone took on a silken edge that held more threat than his barbs. “Very well, Gavyn Donatti. What do you want?”

  “Answers. Who are you?”

  “You may call me Ian.”

  “Is that your name?”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough.” The people in my world didn’t always use their real names. Skids’s mom sure as hell hadn’t named him after underwear stains. Probably wasn’t what Skids had in mind when he took the handle, either, but I thought it suited him.

  I let the name thing pass and stared at Ian’s chest. The wounds still glistened red, their edges puckered and drawn. He shouldn’t be standing—couldn’t be—but I’d learned to believe what my eyes told me, no matter how impossible it seemed. “How do you know my name?”

  “From the telephone book.”

  “Nice try. I’m not listed.”

  “I know because it is my business to know. I cannot explain further.”

  “Fine. I have a more important question, anyway.” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer, but I had a feeling it was a need-to-know kind of thing. “What are you?”

  Ian hesitated. He stared at me, as if he was trying to gauge my capacity to handle the news. A few insane ideas flashed through my head: werewolf, vampire, figment of my imagination. I would’ve preferred the latter. At last, he said, “I am djinn.”

  “You’re digi-what? Can you say that in English?”

  “A djinn, you blithering idiot. What you Americans call genies.” Ian managed to infuse the word with more contempt than he’d shown for me, a feat that couldn’t have been easy.

  I laughed. “Seriously. What are you?”

  Ian extended an arm and waved long and slender fingers at my dilapidated coupe. A spot of gleaming chrome burst on the front bumper and spread to become glossy turquoise along the body. Within seconds, a sleek two-door sports car—no brand I’d ever seen and no logo or name to identify it—stood in place of my former heap.

  “I am djinn,” Ian repeated.

  I shut the flytrap that had replaced my mouth, surprised I wasn’t drooling. “Right. Digie-inn. Got it.”

  “Imbecile! Just call me Ian. Surely you can pronounce that, at least.”

  “Sure,” I said, not really listening to him anymore. I wandered to the car and ran a hand along the smooth roof. Cool, solid metal. My hand didn’t go through it, and the paint didn’t rub off. Okay, so maybe this Ian guy really had turned my rustbucket into a . . . whatever this was. Cinderella never had it so good. All she got was a lousy coach and breakable shoes. Maybe my luck actually was starting to turn. What could be luckier than having a digie . . . a genie . . . an Ian on my side? Or at least saving my ass from Trevor’s thugs and giving me sweet wheels. “So, Ian,” I said, without taking my attention from the car in case it disappeared. “Why do you need me?”

  Ian didn’t answer.

  I turned. The self-professed djinn’s fierce glare had become almost feral. I had to admit, I was impressed with Ian’s restraint. Not even Trevor hated me this much. “If you’re not going to answer me, I’ll just leave. And you can find somebody else to get whatever it is you want.”

  “I cannot do that. It must be you.”

  “Why?” I leaned back and propped my elbows on the car’s low roof. Still there. Hot damn. “What’s so special about me?”

  “You—” Ian snapped his mouth closed. The intensity of the hatred in his eyes flared to inferno proportions for an instant. At last, he said through gritted teeth, “You are my master, Gavyn Donatti. And I must serve you until your life’s purpose has been realized. But—and heed me well, thief—I will not enjoy it in the least. And if you attempt to humiliate me, or do anything stupid while I am around, you will regret that I ever found you. I despise you, and I am not your friend. Understand?”

  I managed a small nod. Maybe having a djinn wasn’t so lucky, after all.

  IF I THOUGHT TOO HARD ABOUT THIS, I WAS PRETTY sure I’d lose my mind. I couldn’t dismiss the fact that the man—the creature next to me—was real. Not when I was driving the evidence.

  At least I’d found the bug stuck to the frame under the passenger side, so I wouldn’t have to worry about Trevor’s thugs for a while. If they were even still trying to find me after Ian’s little Superman act back there. Which I doubted. The look on Skids’s face had said Trevor wasn’t paying him enough for this shit.

  I pulled onto something resembling a main road and headed south. No idea where I’d end up, but the farther from Trevor, the better. Ian sat silently fuming in the passenger seat. When I couldn’t stand the quiet anymore, I said, “We’d bet
ter talk.”

  “I would rather not.”

  “Tough. There’s a few things we have to sort out if we’re going to be stuck together.”

  Ian sank further into the seat. “Must you remind me of that?”

  “First, you’ve got to stop calling me by my full name.” I ignored the sulking and concentrated on bland details that wouldn’t strain my brain. “It sounds weird, and people will get curious.”

  Ian’s lip curled. “What would you have me call you, then . . . master?”

  “Not that.” I shuddered. If words could kill, I’d be laid out right now. “Just Gavyn, or Donatti. Take your pick.”

  “Fine. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Wear a shirt. And how long are you going to bleed? You can’t go around all bloody and exposed. People wear shirts under vests, you know.”

  “I am djinn, not people. And I hate shirts.”

  “Christ, you’re a surly bastard.” My jaw clenched hard enough to sink my teeth into my gums. I stared through the windshield and entertained the notion of ramming his side of the car into a tree. “Is there anything you don’t hate?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to dress like a person. Sorry.” A sign ahead proclaimed GENOA—25 MILES. FOOD—LODGING—BEER.That sounded good. Especially the beer part. “Maybe we should head there. Listen, do you need a doctor or something?”

  “Gods, no. Your doctors would panic if they examined me.”

  “You’re still bleeding.”

  Ian glanced down at his chest. “Yes.”

  “Okay, then.” I concentrated on the road. “Look, I’m going to pull off in this Genoa place. We can grab a room for the night, and in the morning—what exactly are we doing, again?”

  “Must we stop? I want to be rid of you.”

  “That makes two of us. But I’m people, remember? I need food, sleep, shit like that. If you don’t want to tell me what you’re planning, fine. Surprise me. But we’re stopping for the night.”

  Ian frowned. “What I am planning is not that simple. I cannot just lay it out step by step. I have to serve you until your life’s purpose has been realized, and then I can go home.” The word home emerged on a longing sigh.

  I almost sympathized with him for a minute. If I had a home, I’d want to go there, too.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “So, what’s my life’s purpose?”

  “I do not know.”

  “That’s great. Neither do I.” The road entered a sharp and unexpected curve. I gripped the wheel tighter and eased off the gas. Damn, it was dark in the country. No streetlights, no city glow, and I hadn’t seen another car for miles. “How does this work? You serving me, I mean.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The warning note in Ian’s voice gave me pause. I chose my words with care. “Well, I have to admit, I don’t know much about djinn. Okay, I don’t know anything. Do I get three wishes?”

  Ian muttered something that included television and idiotic. “No wishes,” he said. “If you need or desire something, I will attempt to fulfill that need or desire . . . in a way I see fit.”

  “Oh, good.” Wasn’t there a story about magic backfiring? Something about an animal . . . a monkey. The Monkey’s Paw. An old couple wished for money, and their son was killed in a horrible accident, for which they were compensated. I wouldn’t put it past this djinn to try something like that. Be careful what you wish for . . . you just might get it. “So, should I just ask for what I want?”

  “You can try.”

  “You’re not making this easy.”

  “I do not intend to make things easy.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Look, you want to go home, right?”

  “Yes,” Ian snarled.

  “Don’t you think this situation would be easier and done faster if you cooperated? If you didn’t have to put up with my stupid questions, we’d avoid all this dancing around each other. Just be straight with me.”

  “Fine.” Ian seemed to relax. A little.

  I grinned. Time to push some buttons. “I’m thirsty.”

  “How fortunate, then, that our destination has beer.” Ian pointed to a sign indicating ten miles to Genoa.

  “Aren’t you going to fulfill my desire?”

  “Idiot. If we were close to a lake, I would throw you in.” Ian straightened in his seat and glared. “We do not use magic for trifles. My power is a disruptive force, not a . . . a parlor trick.”

  “Okay. No disruptions. Got it.” I tapped the steering wheel and made a mental note to strike the frivolity button. “Speaking of disruptions, you’re a big walking one. And I don’t think that bleeding is going to stop. Have you ever been shot before?”

  “No.” Ian made a face. “If I had, I would have known how painful it is.”

  “We’re going to have to do something about that. There has to be someone . . . let me think a minute.” I knew all about avoiding hospitals. In my profession, I couldn’t exactly show up at the ER with most of the injuries I received in the line of duty. They always wanted explanations. Had to be someone in the area I could contact, preferably someone not associated with Trevor.

  Oh, damn. She wasn’t going to be happy to hear from me.

  “Here’s the plan.” I tried to sound more convinced than I felt. “We’ll check in, and I’ll get in touch with Jazz. She’ll patch you up. Might even bring you some real clothes.”

  If she doesn’t kill me first.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lodging in Genoa consisted of a squat, sagging one-story motel painted what used to be pink, with a row of nine doors that I assumed led to eight rooms and an office. The Wandering Inn. How bloody charming. I pulled into the deserted lot and parked as far as possible from the only door not bearing a hand-carved wooden number, hoping the owner was a vampire. Otherwise, whoever ran this backwoods place would have no reason to be around to rent a room at this time of night.

  I cut the engine and unfastened my seatbelt. “You stay here. If they see you, there’ll be trouble. I’ll be back in a few minutes, all right?”

  Ian nodded. His skin had paled considerably, and his hands lay fisted in his lap.

  “You look like hell. Are you gonna make it?”

  “I will be fine. Go.”

  I slid out and started across the lot, less than assured about the djinn’s condition. What would I do if Ian died on me? Scratch that—not happening. The guy was a magical creature or something. Had to take more than a few bullets to kill him. I hoped.

  A light above the office door snapped on when I got close. Something at the window shifted. I caught the impression of a face peering out. At least someone was awake, but whoever it was probably didn’t have a happy reason for monitoring the parking lot at midnight. I reached the door, and before I could knock, it opened.

  A double-barreled shotgun greeted me. I damn near laughed. How many people were going to try to shoot me tonight?

  “Didn’t think I was serious, didja?” A gravelly voice rolled from the shadows inside the door. “I toldja you punks ain’t gettin’ me out. Toldja I’d blast you if you came back. I already talked to the sheriff, and he said if I hadda shoot, go for it.”

  “Uh . . .” I cleared my throat. “I just wanted a room.”

  A pause. “You ain’t with that Trevor fella?”

  Trevor? Shit. Just my luck that the only motel for a hundred miles was a target for Trevor’s “real estate” endeavors. I should have done what Ian wanted and kept driving. Too late now—neither of us was in any shape to head back out. “No. Never heard of the guy.” I managed to sound normal.

  The shotgun stayed in place for a moment and finally lowered. A light flickered on inside, revealing the gun’s owner. Sixties, salt-and-pepper hair, sun-weathered skin, and a solid build just beginning to soften around the edges. The aging Marine look.

  I felt sorry for him. No one stood up to Trevor’s thugs for long. If the bastard wanted something, he got it—one way or another. A
nd it looked as if he’d get this place over the owner’s dead body.

  “Hmph. Thought that was his car.” The old man pushed past me and stepped out into the lot, his finger still resting on the trigger. He peered at the sleek blue car. I wondered if he’d notice the fine craftsmanship that made the thing stand out like a clown at a funeral. Finally, he said, “Got another guy with you. You a faggot?”

  So that was it. He didn’t want any degenerates fouling his upstanding establishment. “Uh, no. He’s my . . . brother.” Damn it, Donatti, don’t hesitate. “We had a convention up in Auburn. We were gonna drive through the night, get home tomorrow. But the bastard got sloshed on me at the after party, and I’m too beat to keep going.”

  The old man grunted. “Yeah, my brother’s a lazy asshole, too. Room’s two hundred a night for double occupancy. You can take number eight, since you’re already parked there. You want it?”

  “We’ll take it.” As if there was another choice . Two hundred seemed a bit steep for a middle-of-nowhere dive, but the old man probably figured me for loaded, considering the car. Good thing I’d kept the cash handy. I dug in a pocket and produced two hundreds. “Since this is a cash transaction, I don’t have to sign anything, right?”

  Damn. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You ain’t doin’ anything illegal, are ya?”

  “Nope.” Technically, it was the truth. I wasn’t stealing anything at the moment, sure as hell not from here, and saving my own ass wasn’t against the law. “Just keeping out of the spotlight.”

  Nodding, the old man took the bills and pocketed them. “Hang on. I’ll get your key.” He tromped back inside and returned a moment later without the shotgun. Instead, he carried a key fastened on the end of a sanded wooden oval and a six-pack of Busch Light dripping with condensation. “Ain’t got an ice machine, but there’s a mini-fridge in the room. Beds’re made. Cable’s out, but you can probably get a couple local channels, weather and crap.”