Stifled (Summoned Book 2)

by Rainy Kaye

  The cab door slams.

  “Dim, you really shouldn't be walking—or talking,” Syd says from behind me as the cab speeds off.

  The salesman halts mid-everything and stares at us.

  I don't want to let Syd off the hook so easily, but my ankle is swelling like a puffer fish.

  “Fine,” I say, shooting her a look, “but we're discussing this later.”

  “I can't wait,” she mutters.

  I limp across the lot to the building and turn to look back. Syd has already wandered off with the salesman. I sigh, pushing open the glass door. Cool air greets me and makes me want to grab a blanket and go to sleep.

  Instead, I head to the waiting area and stretch out on the couch with my leg elevated on the arm. No one else is around except a couple of employees and a kid on the other side of the room playing with Legos.

  My ankle is throbbing, yet somehow I will be on another wish—or, test—in the next twenty-four hours. I have to break into a small shop and steal a piece of pottery. A vase, with a lid. Lyle says it will be easy.

  Lyle is a jerk biscuit.

  I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket to text someone to get my mind off Syd and her bullshit. Then I halt. I have only ever willingly texted with one person: Syd.

  A familiar, unwelcomed feeling creeps over me as I put away my phone. I think it's loneliness.

  ***

  The shop is in Whittier, which is less than an hour from Los Angeles. In the evening, I take Syd's latest car, a silver Jetta, and head out. Somewhere around Downey, I realize a red Mazda pickup has been right up on me for a full fifteen minutes playing a game of Monkey See.

  Just to be sure, I get off at the next exit. So does he. I merge at the next on-ramp. And so does he.

  There are so many unsettling things about this, not the least being that I've changed vehicles and they're still picking me out. Whoever is trailing me is doing a pretty good job at keeping tabs on everything. I wouldn't be surprised if they actually do know where I'm staying, and just have a reason not to break into the hotel room.

  I try to sneak a glance at the driver but he's fallen back a few car lengths. Figures. He knows I'm onto him after my little stunt. I can't decide if being in the city this time is a good or bad point. Either way, I need to lose this guy so I can get on with running Lyle's errands. Must be his anniversary.

  I exit the freeway, then take a right. And then three more.

  My phone GPS has a mental breakdown trying to get me to make another loop so I'm back on track. I turn it off. Then I slide onto the freeway and glance into the rear view mirror. No Mazda. I've given the monkey the slip.

  I grin and prod on the radio. Nothing interesting, but I'll make do. Since we have a laptop and Internet at the hotel, it's about time I set this car up with some good music. Syd and I probably have a lot of road time ahead of us still.

  I turn back on the GPS and set it in the cup holder. Twenty more minutes to the address Lyle had provided. Not a clue what the place is, but I'm sure the collection of tools in the backseat will get me in. Hopefully the vase is sitting in plain sight.

  I glance up at the rear view mirror again.

  The red Mazda is tailing me.

  My hand tightens on the steering wheel. I don't know how to shake off someone. Pretty sure I can't stab him in the throat in full daylight, either.

  The only option, as far as I can see, is to outrun him.

  I scan the road ahead. Then I floor it.

  As long as I don't go more than ten over, I should be free from interesting the police. I guess I could report this guy, but I've always been on the other side of the law. Not sure I want to give the police a reason to scrutinize me. Maybe some of my past is lingering, from back when I was the bad guy.

  Maybe I still am the bad guy.

  I cram down the thought and focus on the road. Traffic is pretty congested. I ride up on the car in front of me and cut off the one in the next lane. Then I ride up on the next one. Rinse and repeat.

  I'm sure I just united everyone on this stretch of the 605 in their loathing of me.

  There's a break in the traffic. I stomp the gas. The speedometer ticks to 80 mph. So much for not going more than ten over. I keep pushing it. At 85, I glance behind. The Mazda is gone. I maintain speed for a few more minutes, then drop down.

  The rest of the trip, I check the rear view mirror like a Tourette's tic. The Mazda never makes another appearance.

  Finally, the GPS announces I have arrived. I pull up to the curb in front of a shopping center. My gaze lands on the sign of the storefront next to me.

  Arabizi Pottery Shop.

  I snatch up my phone and check the address again.

  Yep, this is the right place.

  I'm looking for a vase in a pottery store.

  “What fresh hell is this?” I step out onto the sidewalk, wincing against my ankle, and stare at the store.

  It has two big front windows, revealing rows and rows of brightly painted pottery. I count at least dozen vases. Four have lids. I'm sure there are many more inside.

  I will take every single one of them.

  Screw Lyle and his game. I once blew up a lab using homemade thermite. This is Chutes and Ladders.

  I turn back to the car, grab a screwdriver, and head down the sidewalk toward the corner. I'll scope the place out and come back for the bigger tools if I need them.

  At the back of the shopping center sits a small paved lot with a dumpster. There's broken chunks of pottery sitting against the wall, and not much else back here.

  I assess the door. No visible hinges. A keypad lock. Those are a little tricky. Can't really drill them out.

  My gaze drifts to the window near the door. It has an air conditioning unit.

  I smirk and stalk over to it. Nothing like wedging open a window and pretending it's secure.

  Then again, how many people steal pottery?

  I investigate the seam. Just some caulking. The unit might be bolted in, but worth a shot.

  I use the screwdriver to scrape the seam. They might as well have sealed up with bubblegum. Once I've peeled off all the caulking, I back up to kick the unit. I step down too hard. Agony ricochets up my leg.

  I grit my teeth and shift my weight. This ankle is going to be a hassle. Time to try another approach. I pocket the screwdriver and, bracing the knee of my good leg against the wall, shove the air conditioning unit with both hands. It wiggles in its place.

  I push harder. The stucco digs through my jeans. Just when I think the pottery store owners have more commonsense than I gave them credit for, the unit scrapes against the sill. Then it crashes straight inside the room.

  I snap around, hand on the gun in my pocket and using the wall for support. For some reason, I expect all of the back doors of the neighboring shops to burst open. The shops are closed, though.

  I'm golden.

  With a deep breath, I push myself up and over the windowsill into the darkness. I lower to the ground on the other side and take a blind step forward. My leg smacks into something. Pain shoots straight to my teeth. I clamp my jaw and reach forward to see what booby-trap I walked into.

  The air conditioning unit.

  I roll my eyes and work around the unit, limping toward the shadowy wall. My hand braces against a table while I pat the wall with the other to find the light switch. My fingers touch the switch, and the room illuminates with a flickering fluorescent overhead. I blink against the pending headache, turning to appraise the room. It has a small desk with a computer in one corner and cabinets against the opposite wall. Basic office. No vase. Nothing of interest here.

  I open the door and find the next switch. Metal equipment, some squat and round and others kind of like refrigerators, line the right side of the room. A bunch of stands with discs on top and pedals underneath are gathered together in the corner. A long stainless steel table takes up the wall to my left. Several unpainted vases sit underneath the table, but none of them have lids.

>   I make my way to the metal equipment and open an upright one. It has pull-out racks inside, filled with small clay trinkets.

  It's a kiln. Couldn't care less.

  I shut the kiln and pass by the potter's wheels on my way out the far door. When I flip on the light in the next room, my heart flat-lines. Shelves stand floor-to-ceiling, loaded down with bowls and ashtrays and everything anyone could possibly imagine to make out of clay. Racks of mugs and god knows what else fill up the big middle of the room. Vases, some standing to my chest, clutter the rest of the floor space. Even the register is covered in nick-knacks. The sheer amount of colors alone is seizure-inducing.

  And I need to either magically guess which vase Lyle is wanting, or find every one of them to take back to him.

  Those Highlights magazines my father gave me as a kid did not prepare me for this.

  The front glass doors are directly in front of me, and a swinging door is at my right. I head toward it, keenly aware that the path through the store is barely enough room for one person, I have faulty balance due to my ankle, and everything around me is incredibly fragile.

  This is not going to end well. I can only hope the door reveals a room with a stand displaying a lidded vase, light shining from the heavens, and choir singing from an unknown source. Short of that, I have no friggin' clue what to do. This place has a lot of vases. I'm not even sure they will fit in the car. I might need to rent a moving truck.

  The interior door has a chain latch on it, but on my side. So I unlock it and push open the door. No stand or parted heavens, just a dimly lit cafe with a solid front door and a big window. The counter is crowded with a blender and some creamer pots. At least there aren't any clay containers in here.

  A dim hallway leads off to the back of the cafe, but I turn around and lean against the doorframe to size up the pottery shop. None of the floor vases seem to have lids, so I probably can fit all of the candidates into the Jetta after all. Now I just need to find is something to cushion them during travel, and then I can get started on this Easter egg hunt.

  A sound catches my attention. I listen closer.

  Noises from outside. Near the back of the shop.

  Here we go.

  I wind through the labyrinth of pottery and hurry as fast as my stupid ankle will let me to the kiln room and into the office. I crouch down and slink up to the window to peer out over the sill.

  A blue car is parked in the lot, and two men are unloading.

  I duck down, my back to the wall.

  “Comb the whole place,” one of the men says, “and don't leave until you either have him or have proof positive he escaped. We will gift wrap that fuckin' jinn.”

  All the blood rushes to my brain. I guess I had hoped, in the recess of my mind, these people trailing me had nothing to do with the genie bond. I knew better. At least, I should have known better.

  Staying below the window, I shuffle out of the office. Then I push to my feet, painfully, and yank a sizable clay pot from under the table. Outside, car doors slam shut.

  I grind my teeth as I cross the room and take my spot just behind the back door.

  I wait.

  Then I remember the door has a key lock. They probably can't bust it out either. Not easily. And they will see the office window is already open.

  I make a start for the office to head them off. The knob on the back door jiggles. I halt. The door pushes open. I raise the vase. One of the men steps in. The door falls shut as I slam the pot down on his skull.

  He looks up at me, eyes wide. The gun in his hand clatters to the floor. He drops to his knees. I expected to go hand-to-hand with the other guy, but the door remains closed. He must be keeping watch outside.

  I grab the gun off the floor and aim it at the guy in front of me. He still looks stunned.

  “You even think of alerting your buddy out there,” I say, “and I will shoot you in the face, then track down your family and do the same to them, got it?”

  Only the first half of my threat is real, but he doesn't need to know that. He nods, slowly. Either I'm convincing or he's so out of it he would agree to dance in a tutu if asked.

  I shove him so he falls back on his ass, propped against the wall. He blinks a few times. Then he comes back to reality.

  He pushes himself upright. “The hell you—”

  “Shut it,” I snap, keeping my voice down. “I have questions, and you're gonna answer them.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, but it seems to be in thought. Right now, he has no idea if I'm the jinn or just protecting one. I would rather not clarify either way.

  “Who sent you for the jinn?” I try not to move too much. If he sees I have a limp, he might try to be daring.

  He meets my gaze and, in a calm, clear tone, says, “I don't know.”

  “Bullshit.” I keep the gun trained on him. “Someone is paying you. Is it Eileena?”

  “I don't know.”

  “What is the name of the jinn?”

  Maybe this is all a terrible mix up. I can hope.

  He doesn't even flinch when he says, “I don't know.”

  “Well, what exactly do you know?” My voice gives away my impatience, my frustration. I regret it, but I can't take it back now. So I just deepen my scowl and try to look frightening.

  He doesn't seem fazed. “Nothing.”

  I would like to have a better tactic than just waving a gun in his face. I'm sure other people could come up with creative ways to make him talk, but as murderous genies go, I have a pretty weak stomach.

  He gives a bored look and says in a matching tone, “Are you going to shoot me now?”

  Anger erupts inside me. I switch hands with the gun. “Stand up.”

  He shrug and pushes to his feet. I hook him in the chin. He drops right back to the ground.

  I lean over and push him to his back. He's out cold.

  His buddy will check up on him sooner or later. I swap the newly acquired gun with the one I brought along and screw on the silencer. I suspect I'll be breaking my no-murders streak soon.

  With another glance at the unconscious body on the floor, I head for the front shop. I need to grab these vases and skedaddle.

  I start at the register and rake through the clutter, making my way to the shelves. The first lidded vase catches my eye. It's blue and purple and not much larger than a coffee mug. I reach up for it. The pot next to it explodes. I jump back, and my ankle ignites in pain. I spin around, gun raised. The explosion wasn't just the pot.

  It was the front window too.

  I sweep back and forth. I'm alone.

  Another clay pot above me explodes.

  I drop to the ground behind a rack. My heart goes into high-gear.

  A series of pots rupture.

  I am totally not being sniped.

  The next row of pots erupts.

  Holy shit, I am being sniped.

  My gaze darts to the cafe door. The front of the cafe was solid, no glass. I would be out of sight as long as no one is posted for the side window.

  They're obviously not trying to hit me. They are targeting where I am though. If they mean to scare me off task, they're doing a pretty good job of it.

  Lyle can order flowers for his wife. I'm out.

  I tuck the gun in my pocket and mentally tell my ankle to suck it up. I'm going to have to run.

  Still behind the rack, I shift on my feet so I can push off for the cafe door. I take a deep breath to lunge. My head snaps up. I freeze.

  A vase on a shelf against the wall is all but singing to me. It's white, about the size of a cantaloupe, with intricate designs painted in blue and gold.

  It has a lid. It also has another round symbol—a sigil—across the front.

  That's the vase.

  I wipe my hands on my jeans and steel myself for what I'm about to do. Then I launch forward. Pots explode is a line behind me. I grab the vase as I race by, knocking over its shelf-mates. I barrel through the cafe door.

  The sound of
my panting fills my head. I lean forward against the cafe bar, huddling the vase against my stomach. I need to keep moving, but I can't stop gasping.

  The street out front fills up with noises: tires squealing, doors slamming, people talking. I don't need to look. I know it's more of them.

  Whoever they are.

  I scope out the room again. I need some place to hide, except the men out back had said they were combing this place. So I need to escape, except they're in both the front and back now. Going out the side window is too risky. The people out front would likely see me.

  Making them think I went out the side window is a different matter.

  I set the vase on the counter and pull the blender from the outlet. I storm over to the window, raise the blender, and slam it down. The pane rattles. I hit again, harder.

  It shatters.

  I drop the blender and turn for the vase. An idea hits me.

  Without a second thought, I slide my palm across a remaining jagged piece of glass. Pain sears through my hand, up to my elbow. Blood rolls down the window sill.

  There's proof positive, assholes.

  I clutch the vase with my good hand and dive down the back hallway. To the right is a baking area. To the left, a long, narrow dish room. I rip towels from a wall dispenser and keep running.

  Two walk-ins stand to the side. I yank open the first one and pull the door shut behind me.

  My lungs take in the cold air. A pain develops in my ribcage and evolves until I'm hunched over. I stuff the lid of the vase into my jacket pocket so it won't fall off, then lower to the floor.

  Luckily, I'm in the refrigerator unit and not the freezer. I can hang out for a while.

  I inventory the shelves for something useful. Blood drips from my hand as I unwrap a chunk of ham. I use the plastic wrap to tie the towels to the cut in my palm in a makeshift bandage.

  Then, facing the door, I settle the vase next to me, pull out my gun, and wait.

  Since the door swings out, I can't barricade them from coming in. I can only hope the blood on the broken window convinces them I went that-a-way.

  The unit is insulated, so I can't really hear anything going on outside either. I might be able to pick out muffled footsteps if they run heavy enough. Otherwise, I can only lie low.