Master of None

by Sonya Bateman

  I snagged his piece from limp fingers and foraged for the Browning. I hoped the blow had only knocked him out. I’d leave killing him to Trevor. Sometimes my morals really interfered with the job. Kind of pathetic, if I thought about it too hard. When it came to stealing, I’d break the law six ways to Sunday, but murder, now, that was a crime.

  Going through his pockets was second nature. Toss the wallet, didn’t need it. Crunch the cell. If he woke up, he could thumb his way to call for a pickup and execution. I would’ve kept it, but I knew Trevor would be able to track it. Don’t even try to figure out why Pope carried a travel-sized lube tube and the barrel of a mechanical pencil.

  I kept the spare cartridge and the butterfly blade with the cross etched in the handle. Felt good to be armed properly again. I’d leave him the string of mint-flavored condoms, though.

  With no idea how long he’d be out, I had to immobilize him. I dragged him to the base of a slender tree, positioned his arms on either side of the trunk, and took off his shoes and socks. They stank like last week’s dinner left on the counter. I knotted the socks together end to end and used them to bind his wrists on the far side of the tree. Not satisfied, I repeated the process with his shoelaces.

  As I lashed the end of a lace to a thick root arching up from the ground, twigs snapped, and vegetation crunched in the distance with foot-stepping regularity. I pushed away the faint hope that the sound had come from Ian and ducked behind a fat pine.

  If this was the “we” Pope had mentioned, I might have to injure my morals.

  The footsteps stopped somewhere in the vicinity of Pope’s trussed form. I waited for an indication of who owned the brush-cracking feet. When it came, I experienced a figurative desire to kill her for being dumber than me.

  “Guess I won’t need this after all.”

  I stumbled out and glared at Jazz, who’d armed herself with a big stick and Cyrus with a little one. “You were supposed to stay hidden. What if something happened to him?” Or you? I couldn’t vocalize that part. She’d never welcomed protectiveness, and I wasn’t ready to proclaim a feeling I didn’t understand.

  “Relax, Donatti. I knew you had it under control. Just had to make sure your compassionate streak didn’t limit you to giving this asshole a stern lecture, instead of knocking him the hell out.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Put the damned stick down, will ya?” I handed her piece over and watched Cyrus poke at the ground, as if he was prospecting for treasure. “I take it there were only two.”

  “Yeah. But they didn’t bring a wolf.” Jazz looked at me, her expression perfectly calm—the closest I’d ever seen her to fear. “This piece of trash said something about your dog. If you don’t mind my asking . . . what the hell is going on?”

  I frowned. If Stupid was my middle name, Pragmatic was hers. She’d no sooner believe in magic than she would don a pink dress and take high tea with the queen. “You know, I have no idea what he meant,” I said, going for casual and probably scoring a ten on the bullshit meter. “I don’t have a dog.”

  “No. But apparently, you have a wolf. Or had one, at least.”

  “Uh, right. About that . . .” I trailed off, glanced around, and my stomach took a dive. “Where’s Cyrus?”

  Jazz whirled. “Cy? No, don’t go over there!”

  She ran off, and I spotted the kid at the edge of the clearing where Ian and Harmon lay. Cyrus moved with determination toward the wolf, head cocked, stick abandoned in favor of this new discovery. I dragged after them as fast as I could manage and reached the clearing to see Cyrus burble something that sounded like doggie and stroke the wolf ’s massive head.

  At his touch, Ian glowed.

  “Oh, my God.” Jazz bent, snatched the startled boy around the waist, and yanked him back. Cyrus turned a quizzical glance to his mother, who stared at the changing form on the ground as if she’d burst into flames if she looked away. “Donatti,” she whispered. “What . . .”

  I couldn’t suppress a grin of relief. “Like I said before. It’s Ian.”

  The light seemed to run off him like rainwater. Ian, unharmed once again, sat up slowly and blinked at his audience. “I assume you have taken care of the other one, then. Partner .”

  “I think we can drop the partner bit,” I said.

  Jazz backed away. Cyrus squirmed in her arms, but she tightened her grip. “How the fuck did you do that? Sorry, Cy. Don’t say fuck. Was it a costume? Secret government technology? I never thought you were really a magician. . .”

  Oh, boy. I glanced at Ian, who didn’t look too pleased with me, and wondered what I’d done now. “Uh. Can we tell her?”

  Ian nodded.

  “You know what? I don’t want to know. Just get me the hell out of Freaksville.”

  “You have to know.” I moved toward her. She backed up another step, maintaining a lock around an increasingly struggling Cyrus. “Trevor does want him—so he can get to me. You’ve got to understand what we’re facing so you can help me protect him.” I was spitballing, but it sounded good. Unfortunately, it also sounded like the truth.

  Jazz paled, appearing on the verge of a slump. “All right,” she said flatly. “What do I have to understand?”

  “Ian is . . . well, he’s not exactly human. He’s a djinn.”

  “A djinn.” Her lips pursed, and her body relaxed. Cyrus, sensing freedom, slid to the ground and headed for Ian. Jazz didn’t try to stop him. She’d apparently decided we weren’t dangerous, just nuts. “That’s fascinating. I’m actually a unicorn. Lemme guess, Donatti. You’re a fairy prince, right?”

  “Come on, Jazz. I’m serious.” I turned to Ian. Cyrus had reached him and stood tugging on his coat. “Can’t you magic something so she’ll believe it?”

  Ian reached down and almost absently scooped up the kid, who promptly snuggled into the crook of his arm and popped in a thumb. “I told you before—”

  “Yeah, I know. No trifles. Christ, this is ridiculous.” A sharp twinge in my leg reminded me that I had a rather untrifling need. “Think you could fix the bullet hole before I bleed to death?”

  “That little scratch? It is hardly necessary.”

  “Ian . . .”

  “Fine.” Ian held his free hand out and murmured something. After a minute, blessed normalcy returned to my calf.

  “Give it a rest.” Jazz folded her arms and glowered. “If he could just fix you up like that, why did you call me to patch him after . . . wait a minute.” Her eyes widened, and she seemed to notice the unbroken skin of his chest for the first time. Her mouth opened in silence.

  “At the time, I did not have enough power to transform myself,” Ian replied. “It is the only healing method available to djinn in this realm.” A small smile played on his lips, and his gaze met mine.

  “That’s not funny, Ian. I’d better have a human leg under here.” I went down on a knee and used the knife I’d relieved Pope of to cut the shirt strips free. A small, ragged hole still adorned my jeans. I tugged them up and found my own undamaged leg attached to my knee.

  Ian chuckled. “Relax, thief. I said it was available to djinn, not humans.”

  Jazz sat down hard on the ground. “You are serious.” Her voice came out small and awed, like a kid finding Santa in the living room on Christmas Eve. She shook herself and grew solemn. “What does Trevor have to do with this?”

  I crossed to her, offered a hand, and helped her up. “He knows about them. The djinn, I mean. He . . . has one in his basement.”

  A pained look crossed Ian’s face. He said nothing.

  “Wait a minute. Trevor has a djinn on his payroll?”

  “I don’t think Trevor’s djinn volunteered for the position.” I shuddered at the recollection of Shamil’s tortured body and his plea for release. The questions I hadn’t asked in the basement returned to demand attention—but first, I had one that had formed more recently. “Ian. Why didn’t you get up until Cyrus touched you?”

  “I would hav
e recovered sooner, if you had bothered to concern yourself with my condition.” The anger he displayed broke Richter-scale records. “It is far more difficult to transform from the wolf state, but I can amplify my power through proximity, and especially contact, with—” He broke off and looked at Cyrus, who’d just about fallen asleep against him. Poor kid had to be exhausted. “Blast it. Why did it have to be you?”

  I knew he meant me. Though I was tempted to adopt Jazz’s don’t-wanna-know philosophy, my traitorous mouth had other ideas. “Contact with what?”

  Ian’s jaw clenched. He raised his head, and his eyes blistered me.

  “With my descendants.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I could have sworn Ian had said descendants. Of course, that was impossible. So I asked him to repeat himself—and he said it again.

  “Around here, descendant means direct relative,” I told him. “What does it mean on your planet?”

  “The same,” he said. “I like it no more than you, and I would appreciate it if you would stop playing the fool.”

  “But . . . Ian, this isn’t funny. If you’re gonna mess with me, at least try to come up with something remotely believable.”

  “Do you really think I would claim you as a descendant if it were not true?”

  That made sense. Nothing else did, though. “So you’re telling me that I’m a djinn? Why can’t I transform into a wolf or fly or turn rustbuckets into slick cars?”

  “Idiot. You are not djinn. You are descended from one of the bloodlines I created with humans.”

  “Right. You and humans.” He couldn’t even stand talking to us. I wasn’t about to believe he’d slept with a human woman. “Just how many bloodlines did you create?”

  “Dozens.”

  “Jesus.” The ground looked awfully inviting. Sit down, take a load off, hop a train back to the real world, where I was just a thief with lousy luck and not some distant relative of a djinn. “Sorry, Ian, but I don’t buy it. I think you got your wires crossed somewhere. I’m just a regular guy.”

  Ian cocked an eyebrow. “Have you ever hidden in plain sight and not been found?”

  “Yeah. It’s called concealment. Thieves have to be good at that.”

  “In your case, it is called invisibility. The one trait that is invariably passed through djinn blood. You are not merely hiding. You are invisible to others.”

  Jazz cleared her throat. “He might have a point there, Houdini. You can disappear when you want to.”

  “Oh, so you’re on his side now?” I threw up my hands. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right, and I’m your descendant. When did you start planting this human garden of yours?”

  “I do not know that I should explain much of this to you. Your human mind may not be able to process—”

  “Try me.”

  A strange look shadowed Ian’s features. “Four hundred years ago. Give or take a decade.”

  For an instant, I thought Ian had been right. Something in my head tried to shut down and refuse the offered information. I forced it open. “All right. If you created dozens of bloodlines back in the Stone Age, shouldn’t you have a few hundred descendants running around by now? I mean, why me?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Oh, come on. You hate me. Why can’t you go bother some other descendant?”

  A moan drifted from the direction in which I’d left Pope. Ian stared at me. “You did not kill him?”

  “No. I’m not a murderer.” Not yet, anyway. “Maybe we should get out of here before we continue this enlightening conversation.”

  Jazz frowned. “I’d say we could take my van, but those assholes shot the hell out of it. It’ll kind of stand out on the road. Besides, once Trevor realizes they aren’t coming back, he’ll look for it.”

  “Ian,” I said. “Can you . . .”

  The djinn nodded and approached Jazz. “Take the child. Is your vehicle close?”

  “More or less.” Jazz arranged Cyrus against her like a forward-facing backpack. The boy stirred a bit but remained asleep. “What are you going to do to my van?”

  I nudged her. “Remember that car I had at the motel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It used to be an ’89 Ford Escort.”

  “Oh.” Jazz offered Ian a weak, incredulous smile. “Can you do a Kia Sorento? I’ve always wanted one of those.”

  There was no hint of sarcasm in her tone. She’d accepted the bizarre truth. I would have been relieved at having one problem solved—if there hadn’t been a thousand more to go.

  THE NEW, IMPROVED VAN WAS NO SORENTO, BUT IT CAME CLOSE.

  Jazz had somewhat graciously agreed to let me drive—if gracious meant threatening me with bodily harm if anything happened to her van. I was just glad she’d brought clothes for Ian that he didn’t need, since my shirt had been sacrificed for a tourniquet. I didn’t like driving around half-naked.

  She’d given me her sister’s address, just north of Auburn. We had to get Cyrus somewhere safe, and I hoped the thugs hadn’t keyed into Molly yet. Jazz had been home with Cyrus when they hauled her in to Trevor. If we made her sister’s place soon, we might be able to grab a few hours of sleep before making any monumental decisions. Jazz lay on the backseat with Cyrus, getting an early start.

  Ian sat in the passenger seat and entertained me with his jackass impersonation.

  “Okay, look,” I said when he refused to respond for the hundredth time. “Whatever this life-purpose thing is supposed to be, it has to include me staying alive, which obviously goes against Trevor’s plans. That means Trevor has to factor in here somewhere. And you know something about him that I don’t.”

  “How observant of you.”

  “So, if you tell me what you know, maybe we’d get closer to figuring out how to solve this problem and get rid of the bastard.”

  Ian shook his head. “What I know has nothing to do with you, thief. It is a concern of the djinn.”

  “What about Shamil? Is it his concern? Because I think he’d be glad to see Trevor gone.”

  “I will take care of Shamil.” Ian practically vibrated with suppressed rage. “Do not speak to me of him. You know nothing.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know jack.” I gripped the wheel and forced even breaths. “And if you can’t see why that’s a problem, you must’ve eaten a bowl of stupid for breakfast.”

  Ian closed his eyes. “No good has ever come of our cooperation with humans.”

  I wanted to feel offended, but the pain in his statement came through clear as crystal. He spoke from experience. And having seen what Trevor had done to his friend, it wasn’t a stretch to understand why he’d get that impression. The bastard in me wanted to tell him tough shit, the world ain’t fair, take your lumps and move on . . . a lesson I’d learned the direct way.

  Unfortunately, the rest of me insisted on feeling sorry for him.

  “All right, maybe that’s true,” I told him. “Maybe cooperating with me won’t change a damned thing. But I can promise that I won’t make things worse—at least, not intentionally. I trust you. God knows why, but I do. And you’re going to have to trust me.”

  A long pause followed. At last, Ian said, “Trevor is working with a djinn.”

  “Uh, yeah. I saw that. You going to tell me something I don’t know?”

  “Not Shamil.” Ian scrubbed a hand down his face. “The blood is the bond. Direct human descendants are most powerful, but any human containing djinn blood can be used to amplify power. Even if the containment is temporary.” His features twisted in pure fury. “Trevor is keeping Shamil merely to supply him with djinn blood, in order to prime himself for another djinn to work through.”

  Bile scalded my throat. “You mean he drinks his blood?”

  Ian nodded stiffly. “The one who uses him is of the Morai, the snake clan. The banished. They are not permitted to return to the djinn realm.”

  “Why not?”

  He sent me a look that suggested I was as dumb a
s a bag of marbles. “They are banished. Do you not know this word? It means—”

  “I know what banished means.”

  “Then why did you ask why they cannot return?”

  I forced back a surge of annoyance. “I mean, what did they do?”

  “They are evil. Bent on power and destruction.”

  “That’s it? They’re banished because they’re evil?” If humans practiced that policy, we wouldn’t have to worry about Trevor right now.

  Ian’s mouth twisted down. “It is enough.”

  His tone said he’d already told me more than he wanted to. I knew it wasn’t even approaching enough, but I decided to leave it alone for now. “I take it Shamil isn’t one of them. The Morai, I mean.”

  “Shamil is Bahari.”

  “Let me guess. The wolf clan.”

  “No. Hawk. The wolf clan—my clan—is Dehbei.” His voice caught, and he turned away.

  I drove in silence for a few minutes. Trying to make sense of this felt like absorbing a steel plate with my brain. It was incompatible, and it made my head hurt. Trevor had gone from garden-variety psychotic fence to blood-sucking overlord with an evil snake djinn at his disposal. Fantastic. Even as a regular guy, he was untouchable. To have a shot at the bastard, we’d have to take the snake out of the picture.

  We’d passed Auburn proper. I slowed and turned onto Route 5, hoping to make the next six or seven miles fast. My body begged for rest. I didn’t know how much longer I could fight the urge to close my eyes, just for a minute, despite the knowledge that the van would end up intimately acquainted with a tree if I succumbed. “Ian,” I said slowly. “How do you kill a djinn?”

  Ian shot me a dagger gaze. “Excuse me?”

  “I just figured if we could snuff the snake dude, it’d leave Trevor open.” I flashed a brief smile. “Christ, did you think I wanted to bump you off ?”

  “The idea crossed my mind,” Ian muttered. “Besides, I thought you were not a murderer.”