by Kelly Meding
Mom, bless her, seemed more resigned than angry. She also appeared on the verge of ordering me back to bed. Which she didn’t, which was a relief.
Less of a relief was when Dad broke apart from her and crooked his finger at me. I trailed him into the living room, away from the cluster of people.
“I know a sidhe who is sensitive to black magic,” he said softly. “If she has sensed anything, she won’t give it up lightly.”
A sidhe—worse than a djinn when it came to collecting owed debts. “How does she bargain?”
“As many do, for what is most valuable.”
Memories. The sidhe care little for money, and even less for sex. They traded in precious goods, and for most sentient creatures, that meant memories and magic. Djinn magic was almost as distasteful to the sidhe as to vampires, so it would be memories. Or a favor at a later date, which was also possible, though less likely.
“If she has information that leads us to the necromancer,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “then I will bargain the cost once the necro is killed.”
He shook his head. “Shiloh, I didn’t intend—”
“Yeah, I know, but this is my case, my team, my problem. I’m glad to see you, but Mom really shouldn’t have called you.”
“You’re facing someone of unknown power here.”
“Exactly why I don’t want you and Mom involved any further than you have been. Please, Dad, do this for me. I’ll bargain with the sidhe if, and only if, the information helps us.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line and for the briefest moment, he looked old. Not just older than his outward thirty-five, but ancient. A flicker of the weight he carried from his eight hundred years of existence—everything he’d seen, everyone he’d known, and all of the magic he had cast. He knew the power of memories. As an earth djinn, his were one-hundred-fifty proof compared to my own wine cooler-level memories.
“I’ll take it to her,” he finally said. “She may not agree.”
“She’ll agree. I know how rare half djinns are.”
My self-awareness was not making him any happier. “You are as stubborn as your mother.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant as one. And you are overlooking another obvious clue.”
I stared, waiting for more. He didn’t give it, and I realized it was for the same reason he’d tapped his head in the basement. As a djinn, he was required to offer assistance only to those who bound him to the Rules of Wishing, or with whom he’d struck a bargain. Djinn didn’t work for free, and they couldn’t interfere in human affairs without such a bargain—even if it was their daughter. He could hint, infer, and make gestures, but he couldn’t tell me point-blank what I needed to know.
As I ran through everything I knew about the case so far, he grew impatient and lifted my right arm by the elbow. I stared at my bandaged hand. The fingers were almost back to normal size and color, and the poison hadn’t oozed through this layer of—oh. Oh!
“The spider,” I said. It was so obvious I wanted to slap myself. “It was used twice, once as a snare and once as a curse for breaking a blood oath. We need to know who has dark power over spiders.”
Dad grinned. “That’s my girl. Watch your back.”
“I will.”
He closed his eyes, tilted his head upward, and concentrated. The air shimmered, and then he was gone in a thunderclap of sound and faint odor of dried leaves. I envied him the ability to teleport, and often wished I’d inherited the gift.
I turned and nearly plowed into Jaxon.
“I think this is the first time I’ve seen your dad since that day in Denver,” he said.
“He doesn’t have a lot of time to stop over for dinner. And he may have a lead.”
“You and your dad look the same age.”
“Gee, I didn’t know I look like I’m eight centuries old.”
His eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Wow. That’s old.”
“He’s a djinn, Jaxon. They aren’t immortal, but they usually live for a millennium or so.”
“So he’s up there among the powerful.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I understood my dad’s status, and I totally got the reverence with which the oldest, most powerful of magical creatures were discussed. Especially coming from a skin-walker, whose ability to shift into his spirit animal is dependent upon inherited power and execution of the walker’s chant. It isn’t an ability they are born with. A skin-walker is chosen by their spirit animal during a ritual performed on the child’s tenth birthday. In order to shift, the child must kill the spirit animal, drink its blood, and carve out a piece of its skin or feathers. Once upon a time, the piece of the animal was worn in a pouch around the neck. Nowadays it’s surgically grafted to the child so it can never be stolen.
Jaxon’s patch of deer skin is on his neck, barely hidden by his hair. He used to love it when I rubbed it during sex. Made him blow like an atomic bomb . . .
Okay, not going there.
No sexy thoughts about Jaxon, because the jerk had just reminded me how weak my human side made me. I’d never be a quarter as powerful as my father and didn’t like having it rubbed in my face, unintentionally or not. I had enough neuroses.
“What do you know about spiders?” I asked.
“Uh, they eat mosquitoes and make sticky webs?”
I thumped him on the chest. “Magical spiders, dumb ass.”
“Outside of Arachne, not much. Last rumor had her sunny side up in the Riviera.”
Yes, the Arachne. Greek weaver of great designs cursed by the goddess Athena, because Arachne’s fabrics always won the Pantheon’s equivalent of the State Fair blue ribbon. Whoever first coined the phrase “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” likely based it on those early Greek goddesses. They were petty as hell about everything, especially beauty.
Arachne’s curse was lifted about three thousand years ago, when Athena went batshit over Zeus’s latest fling with Helen of Troy (yes that Helen, and no, some men never change) and was imprisoned in Hades for a few dozen millennia until she cooled off. As the mother of all spiders, Arachne maintains a sort-of control over her children. She views death-via-spider-venom as a worthy offering to her greatness and is rumored to honor those sacrifices by gifting artistic ability to children. I don’t know if it’s true, but the notion that da Vinci’s paintings exist because some other Italian croaked from a spider bite makes me giggle.
She was also so full of her own self-importance, I doubted she’d lift a perfectly polished fingernail to help anyone else.
“I can research that,” Mom said. I hadn’t seen her creep up behind Jaxon, and now she stepped out from behind him. “If you teach me how to use your computer, I can look up spiders while you, um, go question people.”
There are reasons my mother is awesome, and moments like this are among them. “That’s a great idea,” I said.
“I’ll get you set up, Elspeth,” Jaxon said. “Everything’s voice activated . . .” He continued explaining as he led her back into the dining room.
Novak and Kathleen were poring over several printed sheets of paper, hopefully comparing the suspects by relative location and ease of travel. Judging only by the area codes, the two unknown suspects were semi-local. I’d likely score those two, since it was too risky trying to take Tennyson on an airplane, and our helicopter didn’t have solar shielding.
Speaking of Tennyson . . .
I didn’t see him, not in the living room, kitchen, or conference room. Had he wandered back upstairs? Downstairs? Certainly not outdoors. It was mid-afternoon and high-crisp time for vamps. I closed my eyes and tried something new—I felt for him. Sought those odd waves of temperature and scent I’d experienced ever since we’d shared blood. I didn’t expect it to work.
It did.
A sense of frigid spice lured me toward the stairs, not unlike what I imagined a frozen chili pepper might taste like. Cold always came with emotions
like anxiety and pain, but this was colder than either of those and coupled with the heat of a terrible peppery bite. The whole thing was giving me a headache.
I found Tennyson sitting at the top of the stairs, feet braced on the first step down so his knees were drawn up close to his chest. His long arms hugged those legs, hands clenched so tightly around his forearms that his knuckles were white. He stared at nothing in particular, his eyes glowing red with faint specks of blue, mouth drawn tight. He didn’t move as I approached, and the cold pepper sensation grew stronger. Even without our connection, I could sense his distress.
I sat next to him on the top step, leaving a few inches of air between us. He didn’t move or acknowledge me. “Tennyson?” I asked softly.
His red eyes flared brightly a moment, then settled back to an intense crimson. He didn’t blink.
I licked my lips. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“He’s torturing them.” Tennyson’s voice cut like a scalpel, white-hot with fury, although barely audible.
My stomach quaked; I didn’t have to ask who was being tortured. He could sense his missing vampires again. Someone was allowing it. I kept my voice steady, firm. “Can you tell who’s doing it?”
“Silver nails have been driven through their eyes. They cannot see, only feel. I cannot hear a voice, only vicious laughter and screams of anguish. Four are gone. The others will follow.”
Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. Crying over vampires I didn’t know. My dad would be thrilled. But no, I wasn’t crying for them. I cried for Tennyson, a vampire I did know, and for the undisguised suffering in his voice and body language. I cried for a man who felt his children dying.
Saying I was sorry sounded stupid—a generic platitude he wouldn’t have appreciated under the best of circumstances. “Can you, um, use this connection to locate them?”
His head turned a few degrees in my direction. A pink tear squeezed from his visible eye, marking a flesh-colored path down his pale cheek. “The emotions are overwhelming. Their fear and agony is . . . difficult to overcome.”
No kidding. If what I felt was only a fraction of his experience, I didn’t know how he was so calm. Then again, vampire. If he could focus past the suffering of his people, maybe he could hear or sense a clue. Something to help us identify the location, or even the person torturing them. Only I couldn’t use my magic to productively assist Tennyson unless he made a wish. Wishing, unfortunately, tied me to him by the Rules of Wishing.
Djinn can be summoned via specific spells, and most djinn will only respond to them. Because of their more volatile nature ice djinn have been known to appear when the right emotional cocktail is applied to a verbalized wish. The emotional cocktail usually consists of equal parts vengeance and rage.
Being half djinn, I can’t be summoned by those spells. However, if someone knows what I am and knows the words to bind me to the Rules of Wishing, I must obey them. It’s happened four times in my life—three because I allowed it in order to help someone. The fourth . . . not so much.
Current problem staring me in the face: I can’t speak the binding words out loud. No djinn can. If Tennyson didn’t know them, then the plan failed. Downside to this plan succeeding: being bound to Tennyson for two more wishes. Not only magically, but I’d also need to maintain a level of physical proximity to him or I’d experience literal, physical pain by stretching our magical tether too far.
Hellfire. I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips. The binding wouldn’t even work with a vampire. The same cosmic rules that prevented me from speaking the words also prevented our cousin race from doing the same. Sort of a universal tit for tat, since our little quirks (my Quarrel, for instance) don’t work on vamps. Unless . . . .
Can you hear my thoughts, Tennyson?
He blinked and turned his head a few more degrees, still not attempting to look directly at me. Red light from his eyes washed over my skin. Yes, I can.
I flinched. This was going to give me another migraine. I think I can help you off-load some of the emotion you’re feeling so you can dig deeper and seek clues as to your vampires’ whereabouts.
How?
I need you to wish me to do so.
Vampires cannot—
Yeah, I know, you can’t speak the binding words out loud. Try speaking them like this, telepathically.
He quieted. The thunder of his voice coalesced into a steady hammering behind my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose, grateful for the brief respite.
Why would you bind yourself to me, Shiloh?
Because whoever has your vampires has Vincent. They killed Julius. They’re responsible for this entire mess. We need every lead we can get.
The red glow flickered as he blinked again. Are you certain you want me to do this?
Yes. My lack of hesitation must have cemented his decision.
Shiloh Harrison, child of Iblis, I bind thy magic as my servant three times over, and bind myself according to thy terms.
A tremor raced down my spine from neck to butt, spreading goose bumps across my shoulders and ribs. Warmth filled my chest as though I’d just sucked down hot tea. Magic tingled between us like bolts of static electricity. The faint odor of ozone tingled my nostrils and was soon overpowered by the taste of blood. My entire body shuddered, as though attempting to repel its magical connection to a vampire. Then it was over.
The impression of a rope, thick as my pinkie finger and made of glimmering gold, ran from my mind to Tennyson’s. Not a physical rope, and it wasn’t one I could actually see. Rather, I sensed it. The tether binding my magic to his wishes.
A splash of fear chilled me. We’d gotten around the limits of vampire/djinn magic. What if he used this loophole to circumvent the Rules of Magic?
Rule number one: we cannot alter a person’s heart or existing physical condition. Or, in simpler words, I can’t cast a love spell or heal someone who’s dying. I can’t cure cancer, I can’t mend a broken bone, and I can’t prevent a heroic fireman with third-degree burns over eighty percent of his body from succumbing to an agonizing death. We can only change the condition of inanimate objects, or affect the mind of a person, like what I did with Tennyson.
Rule number two: the magical expenditure of the second wish cannot exceed the first wish. It prevented wishers from going overboard on subsequent wishes once they realized just how powerful a djinn’s magic is. It comes in handy when one of us is accidentally summoned. The wisher wants to test our abilities, so he asks for something small, unobtrusive, like turning his coffee table from oak to granite (true story). It means the rest of the wishes can’t be any more complicated than that. Pisses people off royally, but it’s really their own stupidity, no?
Rule number three is one I rarely get to see the effects of in person. It states that the magic will return to the wisher threefold. So if some joker makes a selfish wish—I’ve heard stories of people wishing coworkers would lose their jobs, or wishing an ex-spouse into bad financial luck—it’ll come back to bite them in the ass. Three times as badly.
“Why are you so afraid, Shiloh? Did it work?” Tennyson’s strained voice was less intrusive than his telepathic one, but it still cut into my headache and left my temples throbbing. He shifted to face me. The single tear had dried into a dark track, and lines of stress and strain bracketed his mouth. Those red headlights fixed on me.
“It worked, and I’m fine.” Hopefully he was out of my head for a while, too. “Okay, make your first wish.”
“Wish?” Novak’s voice boomed up the stairs. “What under heaven are you doing to her, Vampire?”
Chapter 14
Bless it all. “Novak, go away a minute,” I said.
He thundered toward us. “Not a chance. What do you mean ‘wish’?”
I stood up and descended until I ran into Novak. Three steps down, the huge incubus was still at eye level with me. He snorted like a raging bull. I spread my hands out, doing what I could to block his path. “Novak, go back downstairs and giv
e me a minute.”
“Forget it.” Fury blazed in his dark eyes and his wide nostrils flared. “You djinn never say the word wish out loud, so this isn’t nothing, Shi. What did he make you do?”
“He didn’t make me do anything. This could get us some answers.”
“By binding yourself to that bloodsucker? Did you forget what happened with Kress?”
My fist ached and his head had jerked sideways before I registered punching Novak in the mouth. Dark blood flowed from his split lip, down over bared teeth. I was shaking head to toe, far beyond anger now. “Use that against me again,” I said, “and I’ll find a way to banish you back to Hell where you can’t hide from the unfallen incubi.”
He snarled again, but kept silent. I didn’t know if I could actually manage my threat, but it shut him up and made him back off. I’d never threatened Novak in such a way, but my experience with Kress had been traumatizing for any number of reasons, and he knew better than to throw it back in my face.
“Just . . .” I took a deep breath. Exhaled. “Give me a few minutes, okay? Tennyson can sense his missing vampires again, and we may be able to get some indication of who’s holding them.”
Novak glared. “If you get killed, I’m not paying for your funeral.” Coming from him, it was as good as a solicitation of luck.
“Please keep everyone downstairs.”
“Will there be screaming involved?”
“I hope not.”
“Good, ’cuz if Jaxon finds out he’ll drive those antlers of his right through the vampire’s heart.”
“Do not tell Jaxon what’s going on. Please.” Because Jaxon probably would do exactly what Novak said.
He continued glowering, but he did nod once, so I took that as the end of our argument and turned around. Tennyson was gone. Again.
I took the stairs two at a time and followed the pull of our bond to my bedroom. He hadn’t shut the door. I did after I stepped inside. He stood near the window, heavy curtains drawn shut against the afternoon sun, his head bowed. Both hands were clenched in tight fists. The room was absolutely frigid with his grief.
