Master of None

by Sonya Bateman

  “I’ll make a few exceptions for Trevor.” A memory throbbed in my head: Trevor selecting tiny pliers, smiling and telling me I could watch while he tortured my son. The son of a bitch deserved worse than death, but death was all I could bring him, and I intended to follow through.

  “So what’s the deal?” I said. “Obviously, bullets don’t work.”

  Ian hesitated. “To destroy a djinn in this realm, you destroy the tether that binds him to it. There is a ritual spell that must be performed.”

  “Tether?” I frowned. “The pendant Trevor wears. That’s Shamil’s tether, right?”

  “It is.”

  “Great. How much you wanna bet he never takes it off?”

  “I am sure he does not. But I must get it somehow.”

  “Far as I know, the only way to get something that belongs to Trevor is over his dead body.” I cursed and slammed on the brakes. I’d almost missed the turn for Molly’s. Easing the van back on track, I added, “So how do we find this other djinn’s tether? What are we looking for, another pendant?”

  “They are not all pendants. Do you not know the story of Aladdin’s lamp?”

  “You’re shitting me. That was for real?”

  “More or less. But I assure you, there were no wishes involved.” Ian shifted and slumped down a few inches. “It will take some effort, and time, but I should be able to locate it. Unfortunately, the Morai is likely to have it in his possession, wherever he is. The best we can hope for is the possibility that Trevor has it somewhere.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’d be a piece of cake, stealing something from Trevor.”

  “A simple matter compared with stealing from a djinn.”

  He had a point.

  I made a token pause at a deserted all-way and continued on a road suddenly swaddled in forest on both sides. “So what’s your tether?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Come on. Even if I knew, I couldn’t do anything with it. There’s some kind of ritual, right? I’m curious. Indulge me.”

  “Gods take you! Leave it, thief.” The edge in his voice could have slit a few throats.

  I shook my head. “So much for trusting me, huh?” It was mostly a joke. I guessed if I had some item that dictated whether I lived or died, I wouldn’t want to go around pointing it out, either. Still, it did sting to think Ian believed I’d use it against him.

  Ian jolted straight. “Stop.”

  “What’s . . .”

  “Stop driving.”

  I hit the brakes. The van lurched and settled back. “Why?”

  “Do you not smell that?”

  I started to say no, but at once I caught the unmistakable pungent sting of smoke. “Shit. Is that coming from the engine?”

  “No.” Ian pointed to the passenger window. “Look.”

  Unease stirred in my gut. I leaned forward and sucked a breath. Ahead, the road curved to the right, and thin ropes of black smoke shuttled through shafts of sunlight in the air like ghostly snakes. “Jesus,” I whispered. “Think there’s a forest fire up there?”

  Ian’s lips compressed. “Keep going, but slowly. We may have to turn back.”

  Nodding, I eased down on the gas and nudged forward. We rounded the bend. Several yards down the road, thick gray-black clouds billowed skyward from a cleared area on the left. My unease plunged into sick fury when I realized the source of the smoke: the smoldering remains of a house. Right where Molly’s place should have been.

  CHAPTER 13

  I glanced in the rearview mirror, relieved that Jazz hadn’t woken yet. How could I tell her this? Sorry, Jazz, but while you were sleeping, we found your sister’s place, and we didn’t stop. Why? Oh, we just weren’t in the mood for barbecue. “Ian, any chance you could tint the windows or something? Like, now?”

  For once, he didn’t question or protest. He gestured, and the glass around us darkened to blue-gray. “You think there might be someone there waiting for us,” he said.

  “Exactly. I’m just going to keep driving. They won’t recognize the vehicle.”

  Ian almost smiled. “You are smarter than I credited you, thief.”

  “Thanks. I think.” I slowed as we passed the smoldering wreck. Anyone would—I knew it wouldn’t look suspicious. Only a few charred and crooked timbers remained upright, marking three of four walls. The rest had been reduced to piles of blackened slabs and ash. They must have doused the place first. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have burned so thoroughly. Had they killed her before they torched it? I squinted, searching the rubble for signs of a body.

  “Donatti? How close are we?”

  Jazz’s voice, thick with sleep, rolled from the backseat and slugged me with regret. Crud. I’d hoped we could somehow skip the part where she saw what was left of the place.

  She hadn’t sat up yet. Maybe she wouldn’t look. Making my way back to normal speed, I glanced at Ian and cleared my throat. He nodded once, but I wasn’t sure whether he was encouraging me or saying You do it. “Jazz,” I said softly. “They’ve been to your sister’s place.”

  “Oh, God. Molly. Is she all right? Why didn’t you tell me when we got there?”

  I couldn’t look back anymore. “We didn’t stop.”

  “Why?”

  No response came to mind. I shook my head.

  “Donatti.” Her voice shook. “Why didn’t you stop?”

  “I . . . there was nothing left to stop for. Shit, Jazz . . . they torched the place.”

  “No.” Jazz whirled and looked out the rear window, as if she expected her sister’s house to be right there waiting. “Go back. Go back! What if she’s still in there?”

  Something inside me broke at the pleading in her tone. My stockpile of reasons to kill Trevor stood at about Empire State Building height. I had to drag the words from my mouth. “She can’t be. It’s burned flat. I’m so sorry . . .”

  With excruciating slowness, she faced forward again. She said nothing.

  The hum of tires on pavement filled the silence. Jazz’s lack of reaction concerned me more than if she’d screamed or cried or threatened to kill someone. Trevor. Possibly me. A sick certainty twisted my stomach. If I were her, I’d blame me. I was the reason Trevor had targeted her in the first place.

  “Jazz?” I croaked. “Are you . . .” I checked the rearview.

  The muzzle of her Browning greeted me. “Turn around and go back. Right fucking now.”

  She’d shoot me. I knew she would. But I still had to try to talk her out of it. “We can’t. They might be hanging around waiting for us to show up.”

  “If they are, they’re dead. Turn the hell around.”

  I sent Ian a do-something look. He didn’t. Teeth clenched, I swerved right and made a sloppy three-point. “We’re going to regret this,” I muttered.

  “You would’ve regretted it more if you’d kept going.” Jazz checked the seatbelt she’d fastened around a still-napping Cyrus. She moved up to the seat behind us and thrust the Browning at Ian, handle first. “Can you give this thing some more kick?”

  “Perhaps.” Ian accepted the weapon. He passed a hand over it, and his eyes closed briefly. The gun’s grip and body thickened. The barrel lengthened. His finished product didn’t resemble any gun brand I’d ever seen, but it looked as if it could punch a hole through steel at a hundred yards. He handed it back to her. “Will this do?”

  “Oh, hell yes. Thank you.”

  My hands tightened on the wheel. Wasn’t that impossible bastard supposed to be helping me? I failed to see how arming Jazz, who’d shifted from protective mother to vengeful hellion, would be useful to anyone. He should’ve done his dog trick and put her back to sleep.

  Smoke came into view first, followed too fast by the pile of blackened debris. Jazz made a small, helpless sound. But she didn’t scream.

  She also didn’t change her mind about searching the devastation for her sister.

  “Pull over.” She crouched, hand on the door, ready to fly. “Donatti, I need you to
stay with Cy. Keep him safe.”

  “No.”

  She glared at me. “He’s your son—”

  “I know. Christ, just listen to me a sec.” I edged off the road, threw the van into park, and took a hard breath. “If you want him safe, Ian should stay. He can protect him better than me. I’m going with you.”

  “I don’t need your help. Cy’s more important.”

  “Damn it, Jazz, you’re important. To me. Cyrus, too. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here and watch you walk into a trap. He’s staying. I’m going. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me.”

  Her brow lifted. “You finished?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” She jerked the door open and stepped out.

  I groaned. “Women. Do any of yours make sense?”

  “No more than yours, I suspect.” Ian smirked and glanced back at the sleeping boy. “You should go. I will protect him.”

  “Thank you.” I jumped out and hustled after Jazz, hoping there wouldn’t be anything to protect him from.

  THE ROOF HAD COLLAPSED AND BURIED EVERYTHING UNDER chunks of charred rafters and melted insulation. Parts of the flooring poked through here and there like jagged wooden teeth. Small reminders that life had been here lay scattered among the broken structure—the corner of a mattress, a snarl of wire hangers, the bare springs of a recliner with shreds of burnt material still clinging to them.

  Jazz picked her way through the wreckage with dogged determination. I wanted to grab her and drag her away before she found what I knew had to be there—her sister’s body, probably in a condition Jazz should never have to see. She might thank me later, but right now, all I’d get for my trouble would be a swift kick to my manhood. Maybe a busted jaw, too.

  I’d take a pass on that experience. Already had my balls bashed enough for this lifetime.

  I followed her, close as I dared. Piles of blackened debris, weak and unstable, made moving a dangerous balancing act. And the smell didn’t help. Sharp traces of whatever accelerant the thugs had used to start the blaze—probably kerosene—edged the heavy black stench of burnt everything. Each breath felt like sucking in a mouthful of tar. Heat rose in visible air shimmers from some of the deeper mounds of rubble, but overall the temperature was bearable.

  They must have hit the place the minute Jazz left Trevor’s. Maybe even before.

  Jazz stopped moving, as if she’d just realized the same thing. But she remained frozen in place for so long that I knew she hadn’t paused to consider the asshole-ness of Trevor. I made my way closer, dreading her discovery, knowing without having to see what had riveted her gaze and sketched rigid shock into every line of her body.

  When I found it, I wanted to unsee it for her. Just take the image and absorb it from her memory, so she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her life with the vision of a bare brown leg and a naked foot jutting at an impossible angle from a snarl of broken things. The idea that the rest of Molly lay mangled beneath made this almost perfect, visible portion somehow more gruesome. More final. Deader than death.

  “That’s not her,” Jazz whispered. “It’s not. Not. M-molly.”

  Her denial kicked me in the gut. I tried to put myself between her and the body, to spare what I could of her witness. “It is her,” I said, as gently as I could manage. “Jazz, you’ve got to accept it. You’ll only feel worse if you don’t.”

  “It’s not.” She almost screamed but seemed to rein herself in with formidable effort. Closing her eyes, she shuddered and swallowed back dry heaves. “She has tattoos. Circlets. Both ankles. That’s not her.”

  I looked again and saw what Jazz couldn’t—or wouldn’t. The heat of the blaze had melted her skin. Rough, uneven texture and discoloration bore evidence that she’d been exposed to air long enough to cool. If I squinted and stared hard enough, I could make out faint traces of ink streaking the ridged shin.

  “Jazz . . .” I turned back to her.

  Devastation stamped her features. She’d noticed.

  “Excuse me.” She made a vague gesture, telling me to get out of her way.

  Though instinct told me to force her away from this horror show before things got worse, I stepped aside. She wobbled across rubble to the forlorn leg, stopped. Knelt, bowed her head.

  “Molly. I’m so sorry . . .”

  She didn’t blame me. She blamed herself.

  Feeling like an unwanted extra, I gave her some distance and scanned the wreckage and the property beyond. A brightly colored child’s swing set, smudged with soot and leaning forward as if the front legs had weakened in the heat, served as a sharp reminder that Cyrus had spent a lot of time here. A large shed sat untouched several yards back, and a good half-acre of trimmed lawn expanded behind the house to dense woods. The shed worried me. Someone could be hiding in there, waiting to see who showed up to investigate. With no neighbors for miles, it might be hours before any cops arrived. Maybe never. No doubt Trevor had influence on the cops around here, too.

  Something unnatural in the distance caught my eye. A flash in the treeline beyond the cleared property. Sunlight on glass.

  They were waiting for us.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jazz.” I started for her, but my foot sank through charred debris. I cleared falling on my face by a few frantic arm flaps. “They’re out there. Come on, we’ve gotta get back to the van.”

  She looked at me and then at the yard. “Where? I don’t see—”

  The distant, unmistakable sound of an engine starting stemmed her words. She stood—and headed the wrong way. Toward the thugs.

  “What are you doing?” I yanked my leg free and clunked after her, but she scrambled lightly over the jumbled wreckage as if she was crossing a parking lot and pulled ahead of me. “The van’s that way.” I pointed back.

  She failed to notice my helpful directions.

  “Murdering bastards.” She whipped out the Ian-modified gun, sailed over the last of the rubble onto clear ground, and took aim at a black Jeep trundling over grass toward us.

  I didn’t waste my breath telling her to stop. I ran, intending to knock her down and drag her back if I had to. Somehow, my usual elephantlike grace failed to slow me this time.

  She still fired before I cleared the house.

  “Are you nuts? You can’t hit—”

  Another blast cut me off. The Jeep lurched, swerved, and almost tipped over before rolling to a stop sidelong in the grass.

  I gave a low whistle. “Nice shot.”

  Jazz didn’t move. I made my way to her, hesitated, and put an arm around her shoulders. Her body vibrated like a power line.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’d better get out of here.”

  “Look,” she whispered.

  The Jeep bounced and rocked. Stopped. The driver’s-side door opened, and a body tumbled out. An arm closed the door. The Jeep backed up, skirted the heap on the grass, and headed for us at a fast clip.

  Behind the advancing vehicle, the body stirred and attempted to rise.

  And Jazz leveled the gun again.

  “No.” I grabbed her arm. “Van. Now. Don’t argue.”

  “Don’t go caveman on me, Donatti. These bastards are meat.”

  Tugging on her was like trying to pull a telephone pole out of the ground. I glared. “Don’t make me carry you back. Because I will.” She’d beat my ass into hamburger for it, too. But I wouldn’t let her get killed—or live to regret being a murderer.

  She must have seen something in my face that convinced her I meant it. Or she’d decided to just plug me instead. Either way, she relented and ran with me. We skirted the wreckage and pounded over brittle brown grass. I couldn’t shake the image of the wounded thug shoved from the Jeep like so much litter. That meant the one Jazz hadn’t hit was a ruthless, coldblooded bastard . . . or knew damned well that Trevor would kill him if he came back empty-handed. Probably both.

  We hadn’t reached the former front of the house when the sharp
stutter of an automatic sprayed the air.

  “Move!” I practically threw her ahead of me. If only one of us survived, I’d rather it was her. I didn’t know how to change a diaper.

  She sprinted and slammed into the van’s side door seconds before I skidded hip-first against the front panel. I raced around the hood, scrambled into the driver’s seat, and made a mental note to teach Ian the finer points of getaway driving. Provided we lived long enough.

  With a quick glance to make sure we still numbered four, I wrenched the gearshift to drive and took off. Navigating the remains of the house must have slowed the remaining thug down, but the bastard still made pavement before we’d gotten out of sight.

  “Everybody buckle in,” I said. “It’s gonna get rough.”

  A four-way stop loomed ahead. I kissed the brake just enough to manage my own seatbelt with one hand and peeled right, deeper into unpopulated area. If I risked heading for straighter roads, he’d have a clear shot. Of course, this meant I’d have to speed through unfamiliar territory.

  Maybe I should’ve let Jazz drive.

  I stomped the accelerator, moving as fast as I dared on the narrow, curving road. Behind us, the Jeep made the turn and picked up speed.

  Ian twisted to look out the back window, then faced forward again with a blank expression. “When I tell you, drive faster.”

  “I’m already going—”

  “Do it. You will only need to continue for a few seconds.”

  “Right.” I’d already hit sixty and either felt or imagined the wheels lifting around the bends. Much faster, and we’d end up rolling the thing. “I hope you’re gonna tell me soon.”

  “Be silent. Drive.”

  I risked a mirror glance. The Jeep couldn’t quite match our speed, but at the rate it was falling behind, it’d take hours to lose him. For an instant, I wondered what in the hell Ian planned to do. Then I decided against asking. I didn’t want to know.

  The answer came when we rounded another curve. A massive tree alongside the road just ahead of us started to lean, and Ian said, “Move.”