by Rainy Kaye
I let go of her and step back to size her up. She's trying to look serious, but her eyes are excited. Sometimes I forget that, despite all of the craziness we have been through, Syd is still a little green. The sneakiest thing she has ever done is crawl out of her bedroom window as a teenager.
“Okay, let's just keep it down,” I say, with way less aggravation than I hoped for. “Did you find anything about your jinn?”
“Not yet, but we're just getting started.” She heads down the hallway, and I trail right after her. “People keep all the good stuff in their bedroom.”
“You mean, all the good stuff happens in the bedroom.”
She halts in a doorway off the hall and grins over her shoulder at me. “What about the bathtub?”
“Mm, that too. You know, the dining room table looks sturdy.” I put my arm around her shoulder and use my other hand to flip on the bedroom light.
A bed with twisted posts to the ceiling fills the middle of the room. A stone partition separates a reading area decorated with wingback chairs, a few small tables, and a Persian rug. Built-in bookcases take up two of the three full walls. Nothing riveting here, either. Syd snaps photos like a runway photographer, anyway.
I grasp her wrist and guide her to face me. We're inches apart, and the scent of coconut tempts me. I hook her around the waist and pull her closer, so she can feel just how much she teases me.
She stuffs her phone into her pant pocket and drapes her arms over my shoulders. Her tongue traces my lips. My hands slide up, under the back of her shirt, and she presses tighter against me.
I really don't want to lay down on anything in this room—or house—but there are other ways. Many other ways. I break apart to pull off her shirt. Then I free one of her breasts and lean down to take it into my mouth.
She moans softly and runs her fingers through the back of my hair. I nudge her back against the wall while moving up to her neck. My hands goes to her pants and tug them, inch by inch, down her hips. She squirms out of her bra and drops it to the floor, then pulls me in for a deep kiss. Her tongue slides into my mouth. My hand reaches for her panties.
From the back of the house, something thuds.
I jolt upright.
Another thud.
I yank the gun from my pocket. Syd scrambles to dress. I step out of the room, into the hall, and sweep both directions. Nothing in sight.
Flat against the wall, I creep down the hallway. In the living room, I squat at the end of the couch and listen.
More thuds. Like things falling over. Or being pushed over.
I glance down the hallway. Syd is peering out the door. I wave her back inside, then pull to my feet and make my way toward the utility room.
Anything over four feet tall is going to be dead in the next few minutes.
Voices carry from around the corner. Lots of voices. Can't make out what they're saying, but there are many more of them than there are of me.
Time for Plan B: retreat.
I turn on my heels and hurry as quietly as I can to the bedroom. Syd opens her mouth, but I shake my head to silence her. She fixes her eyes on the wall, in the direction of the noise.
I tuck the gun into my pocket, then use both hands to close the bedroom door without making more than a click. My breathing halts as I listen. Thuds still issue from the back of the house, but no indication they have heard us. Yet.
I glance over the room for an escape. There's a jarred bathroom door to the side. On the far wall, two large side-by-side windows. Otherwise, we're boxed in.
With a nod at Syd, I cross the room and push back the curtains. The windows are round topped. One piece. They don't open.
They don't. . .open.
I would prefer not to panic in front of Syd. Not only would I lose any cool points, but she will start panicking too—and probably get us shot. So I steady myself and try to act contemplative as I run my fingers over the Georgian bars. In actuality, my brain is calculating how fast we have to run after the intruders hear us breaking out the windows.
Superhumanly, I conclude.
Footsteps pound down the hallway, toward the bedroom.
Syd's eyes widen. She darts next to me, but faces the door head on. Neither of us thought to get her a weapon.
This was supposed to be an easy in-and-out mission. I should have known better. We only have one gun—mine—and there's no less than six people barging through the house. I can take two at a time if they are unarmed. If any of them are packing, I have to take them out one at a time.
Single file.
I scan the room once more for any escape, any hope at all. We could hide in the closet, but that never ends well in the movies. We could scoot under the bed, but that is usually a poor choice too. The only other option is the on-suite bathroom.
I have an idea.
I grab Syd's arm and lead her across the bedroom and into the bathroom. The main area houses a double sink, a large tub, and a standing shower. The shower has frosted glass. I head for it, then a door to the side catches my attention. I turn and shove it open, revealing a private half bath.
I slip inside, tugging Syd along with me, and press the door close without latching it. Syd looks up, skin pale and eyes wide, but she doesn't say anything. I think she's too afraid to speak.
My hand goes for my gun. I used to carry two. I need a new jacket.
Syd watches as I screw the silencer into place.
I lean toward her ear and whisper, “Leave the light off for now. If they find us, the doorway is too narrow for more than one guy at a time.”
She nods, jaw firm.
“If they do push it open, stay behind me.”
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off.
“I mean it.”
Her gaze darts around the room, no doubt taking in how confined we are.
I give her a reassuring shoulder squeeze.
Noise erupts in the next room over: the bedroom. More talking, but I can only catch pieces:
“Check over there—”
“—had in mind.”
And then a slew of cursing followed by a symphony of thumping, banging, and crashing.
Soles squeak on tile, right outside our door.
My breath hitches.
Syd's hand clasps her mouth.
The way these guys are tearing up the place, I have no doubt they will shove open the door any second now.
Syd needs a gun, if we survive this.
That's a pretty big “if” at the moment. My tactical genius of holing up with the toilet is less impressive the more I think about it. Actually, I'm pretty sure the chickens just put themselves into the coop.
God dammit.
I have to get Syd out of here.
Soles squeak by again. More muttering. More thumping.
I try to gauge the distance of the sounds. Definitely moving farther away. Logic says the intruders are venturing deeper inside the house. That means, with enough speed and stealth, we can get the hell out of here without being detected.
Unfortunately, neither speed nor stealth is my forte.
I whisper in Syd's ear, “I'm going out first. Stay close and alert.”
She nods and looks entirely convinced I know what the hell I'm talking about. Probably best not to ruin that illusion.
I take a deep breath and crack open the door, half-expecting someone to be staring back. The room is empty. The lights are on. I step out, gun pointed down but ready to go. The vanity drawers have been pulled and dumped on the floor.
The shower stall is open. Shivers crawl up my arms. Maybe my tactical genius saved our lives in a totally different way than intended.
I slink into the bedroom, almost expecting someone to shout, “Achtung!” like my life has just become Wolfenstein 3D.
All I hear is more rummaging going on in the next room.
Syd stays inches from me as we make our way across the bedroom to the exit. I signal for her to halt, then I lean against the casing and crack the door open to pee
r out.
The path is clear. For the moment. They're still in the other room, which means all they have to do is step back into the hallway and we'll by close enough to smell each other.
Which becomes a bigger probability the more I keep waiting. It doesn't take that long to ransack a room. I can't decide if Syd and I should make a run for it, or if the chance has passed.
Hiding again is a bad idea, though. We were lucky they missed the private bath during their first sweep. No sense pushing our luck.
I step out into the hall and nudge Syd past me. She pivots back and forth, as if uncertain where we're headed. I face the direction of the noise, gun at the ready, and back up one careful step at a time. Each thud or curse makes my heart skip a beat.
They are so close. I want to look at Syd, mouth to her to run. I can't pull my gaze away from the door, the only thing between us and a half-dozen gun barrels. These guys sound too angry to be unarmed.
I shake my head. That doesn't even make sense. Maybe.
I would rather not test my hypothesis.
The doorknob jiggles.
I turn to flee and stumble over Syd. She makes a half-formed yelp. I shove her down the hallway. All hope for stealth is abandoned as we rocket across the living room, through the kitchen, and out the utility room door.
We round to the side of the house. My hands shake as I unlatch the gate, then push Syd through. I follow after. We don't speak—barely even breathe—until we're flooring the car down the freeway.
Finally, Syd glances at me from the passenger seat. “Who the shit were they?”
“Crack heads.” I clear my throat. “I hope.”
“And here you thought the neighbors would hear us.”
“Yeah, if there's one rule to anything, it's that people will never get involved when you actually need them to.”
“Well, there didn't seem to be any clues in that house, either way.” She reaches down to the floorboard, pulls up her binder, and pages through it. “The next one is only about six miles away.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Next one?”
“I told you, there's three places to check out. They're our only leads, unless we can find Ian Cook.”
“And you want to go to the next site. . .now? I might be mistaken, but I think we were just nearly done in by a bunch of hoodlums.”
“Yeah, nearly. We're good.” She rubs my thigh. “You're good.”
Glad to know my acting skills are convincing. I should get an Oscar for that shit.
“Syd, I really don't think—”
“Please, Dim?”
The truth is, if we return to the hotel, I'm not going back out on this quest. And Syd knows it.
“Fine. . .” I say with exaggerated irritation.
Her expression perks up.
There better be some serious scrogging tonight.
She taps on her phone and then passes it to me. “Here's the GPS. It's not far.”
She settles back in her seat, as if that's all there is to the matter. I want to say something—anything, really—but I got nothing.
With a sigh, I follow the GPS toward our next destination. Can't wait to see what tries to kill us there.
The next target's house is one story, with a stone front accent wall and a double garage. Steps carved into the front walk, a small water fountain, and a thin tree.
Modest. I'm not used to that.
The garage door is also already open.
I'm skeptical of this.
Syd saunters into the garage and starts poking around. Tools hang on the wall. Boxes stand in a tower in the corner. No car. Then again, these people are, by all accounts, dead. So there is that.
I cross the garage to the entry door and twist the knob. It's unlocked. Of course it is when I have a small workshop at my disposal.
I turn to where Syd is stooped over black lawn bags, pawing through fabric. “Gonna come with me or take up quilting?”
“Ha.” She drops the fabric and wrinkles her nose. “This stuff smells horrible.”
She's at me in a few quick paces, shoving her hand in my face.
I knock her arm back. “That's disgusting.”
“Yeah, I know.” She frowns down at her hand. “And now it's on me.”
She wipes her palm on her pants and shudders.
I turn my attention back to the house. The door leads straight into an eat-in kitchen. Dirty plates and pots are stacked on the counters. The cabinet underneath the sink is open and tools are strewn across the floor. A tall bucket sits against a near wall, overflowing with empty cans and crumbled paper. Flies buzz around. The smell is almost as horrific as Syd's fabric.
I cover my nose and mouth with my hand as I move farther into the stench. Worn sandals line one wall. A plump roach skitters across the dirty counter.
Syd rolls her eyes. “Over six hundred thousand homeless people in America, and two out of two houses so far are going to waste.”
“We could start a homeless charity instead of tracking jinn,” I say, heading for the dining room. “Better tax breaks, I hear.”
Syd comes up behind me. “What if some of the jinn are homeless?”
“Yeah, I doubt that,” I mutter. “Masters take pretty good care of their pets. Can't exactly go to the store and buy a replacement.”
The dining room has a rickety table piled up with stuff. Bags. Shoes. Wallets. Watches. Briefcases.
“It's like a J.C. Penny blew up,” I say.
Something cracks against the back of my head. I go down to my knees. My vision blacks out.
Syd yells. Something hits me again. Same spot.
Jesus.
I fall face first into the carpet.
My consciousness wiggles back in, but not my sight. The carpet is stiff and scratchy against my face.
Noises issue around me. Yelling and clunking. A fight is taking place. I force myself to my feet as my vision returns.
A scruffy man, heavy stick in hand, is trying to dodge as Syd heaves the merchandise from the table at him. A briefcase catches him in the chest and mouth then thunks to the floor.
He drops the stick.
“Okay, okay!” He puts up his hands in surrender. “Stop damaging shit!”
“Like my head,” I say as consciousness debates parting again.
I open my eyes to find I'm lying on my back on the floor. Syd stands to one side, and the man to the other. They're both peering down at me, scowling.
“Dim?” Syd prods me in the side with her foot. “Stay awake, okay?”
Replying seems like too much effort, so I just stare up at her.
The man says, “Yeah, dude, how many fingers am I holding up?”
I stare a moment longer. Then I make the connection between the stick he is holding at his side again, and the reason my skull feels like it's splitting in half.
I try to sit. Syd leans down to help me up. Not the worst pain I've ever had in my skull, but enough to make my stomach churn. If I puke, I'm doing it on this guy's shoes.
His shoes are tattered, soles breaking off, shoelaces dirty.
I glance up at the table, relieved of half its contents, then back at the man. “You sell knock offs?”
He hesitates.
“Not a cop,” I say, climbing to my feet. I grab a chair to catch my balance. “I don't care. Hell, I don't even know why I'm asking.”
Syd looks at the man. “Do you live here?”
“Why? You own the place?” He glares at each of us in turn. “Friends of Billy?”
I have no idea what I'm supposed to answer to keep him from attacking again. Besides, I got hit hard enough upside the head, I might actually know Billy and just not remember it.
His fingers clench the stick tighter.
“No, no Billy,” I say.
“Well, my wife and I been staying here since Billy. . .left.”
Syd perks up. “You mean, died. Did you know Billy?”
“Nah.” The man shakes his head, and his grip eases a little. “F
riend of his stopped by right after Billy had his accident. I asked him a few questions, is all.”
The man leads us into the living room. It has a tray ceiling, recessed lighting, and a hallway across from the dining room door. The furniture fits right in with the rest of the place, old and dumpy and covered in filth. Pretty sure the blanket spread over the back started out a different color.
He gestures for us to sit. With an apprehensive glance at the stick, I drop to the couch. Dust plumes up around me.
I wave it away. “So what did this friend of Billy's say?”
“Not much.” The man rests the stick against a chair, then leans over and pulls out a drawer on an end table. He shuffles around the contents. “Just said Billy was dead and no one was coming back to this place. All I needed to know.”
He stands straight, cigar in hand, and lights up from a matchbook.
“Oh, so you're a squatter,” I say. “And Billy's friend didn't think to throw you out?”
He takes a puff. I hate the stench of tobacco smoke, but it's definitely one of the more pleasant smells in this place.
“By the time I got all the answers I wanted from Billy's friend, he was good and ready to leave.” The satisfaction on the man's face makes me even more nauseous.
He smiles at me before taking another lingering puff.
I contemplate whether I want to ask what went down. Do I even need to know? Probably not.
The man continues. “Tied him to a chair, slit open his palms in a big X, splashed a little vodka here and there. The old reliable way.”
Everything inside me dies. Nope, didn't need to know. But now I do, and I also know just how casual he is about the whole ordeal.
I swallow hard, trying to compose myself. Been through worse. Way, way worse.
Then I notice his eyes are fixed to the right of me—on Syd.
Anger warms just under my skin. Billy's friend might have been spineless, but I'll give this guy an eviction notice between his eyes. His only saving grace is that I haven't killed yet since returning to the US, and I don't want to start sooner than I have to. I'm no longer invisible to society, or the law.
But if he touches Syd, I have no problems changing that.
