So Rashid told him. Uthman had been right; none of the local establishments, not even the mighty Wal-Mart, was going to stock what he needed to make this creature happy.
Twelve
NASIRI STARED, AS if Uthman had just grown a second head. “The heart of a lion? Have you lost your mind?
Uthman spread his hands. “I only report what the – what Rashid told me. He is apparently quite serious.”
Nasiri looked at the other two men, as for support, but they appeared to be as baffled and dismayed as him. To Uthman he said, “How would one such as Rashid have developed a taste for the hearts of lions? There are no such creatures native to the Land of the Prophet, unless you count Africa – and even there, the Muslim countries are all north of the Sahara. Whatever jungle cats remain on the continent are surely to be found south of the great desert.”
“That is true now, brother,” Uthman said, “but it was not always the case. I did some research on the Internet late last night, and learned that lions could be found throughout the lands of Arabia until about seven hundred years ago. The fossil evidence is very clear, I understand.”
“Your diligence does you credit, brother,” Nasiri said. It did not sound like a compliment. He began drumming the fingers of his right hand softly on the table.
Jawad Tamwar spoke up for the first time since joining the group. “I have an idea, but I do not know if carrying it out is possible.”
Nasiri waved a hand toward him. “Pray proceed, my brother.”
Tamwar looked at Uthman. “You can do magic, brother. You have the ability to make things happen that are not of the physical world.”
Uthman nodded cautiously. “That is true – sometimes.”
“Then can you not... conjure up the heart of a lion to give to our hungry friend?”
The wizard thought briefly, then shook his head. “It is not possible, I fear. Magic cannot create something from where nothing exists – at least, magic as I understand it has no such power.”
After a few moments, Nasiri leaned forward. “All right, then. You say that you cannot conjure something from nothing. What about conjuring something from something else?”
Uthman wiped one hand across his face. “I regret that I am unable to follow your reasoning, my brother.”
“What if you had the heart of, say – a cow? That should be easy to obtain. Could you transform the heart of a cow into the heart of a lion?”
Uthman considered the idea for at least a quarter of a minute. “I cannot say with certainty, my brother, but I think not. Changing the essential nature of a thing...” He shook his head slowly. “It would be very difficult to do, and I have never heard or read of such a spell succeeding. I will, of course, make the attempt, if that is what you wish.”
Nasiri gave a disgusted snort. “No, brother, I would not want you to overtax yourself.”
The insult stung, but Uthman kept his mouth shut. Rebuking Nasiri was a risky business at the best of times – and this was far from the best of times.
The men sat silently for a time, until Rahim spoke up, mildly startling all of them. He made a slight gesture toward Uthman. “With our brother’s magical ability, not long ago we were able to get into a museum, despite its locks, alarms, and... guards.” That last word brought a quick smile to Rahim’s face; Uthman managed to conceal his revulsion, with effort. “Other locations also have locks, and alarms, even guards,” Rahim said.
Eyes narrowing, Nasiri said, “I do not grasp your meaning, brother.” His words contained little of the irritation he had shown toward Uthman. Even Nasiri was careful not to anger Rahim unnecessarily.
Rahim shrugged, as if what he meant was obvious. “There are these places the infidels have, for their amusement. They are called, I believe... zoos.”
Thirteen
QUINCEY MORRIS HAD been pleasantly surprised to find Barry Love behind his desk in the run-down old building on Forty-First Street. The private detective kept office hours that could be described as erratic, at best. Morris once asked Love why he didn’t book appointments in advance, like other detectives. Love had looked at him with a crooked grin. “If I don’t know when I’m gonna be in here, they won’t know either.”
“They?”
“You know – them.”
“Oh, right.” Morris had pretended to understand. “Gotta watch out for them.”
“Exactly.”
Barry Love had been knee-deep in what he called “the weird shit” for a number of years. If there was something not-quite-natural going on in New York City, he always seemed to find himself dragged into it – exorcisms, séances, killer ghosts, Barry had seen it all. He had very few friends – but fortunately for him, among that small number were Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain.
Morris sat down in one of Love’s creaky visitor’s chairs and said, “I was wondering if you knew anything about afreets.”
Love absently scratched his three-day beard stubble. “You mean the species of djinn?”
“Uh-huh.”
“There was a rumor that one of them was driving a cab here in the city, for a while.” Love lit a cigarette with hands made unsteady by too much caffeine. “But that was probably bullshit, and, anyway, it was years ago.”
“The kind of afreet I’m interested in probably wouldn’t be pushing a hack,” Morris said. “If he did, it would most likely explode on him.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Love said. “They’re supposed to be something like fire elementals, aren’t they?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“What’s your interest?”
Morris briefly outlined the problem that the FBI’s unofficial “spook squad” had asked him and Libby to look into.
“I’m glad to hear that you guys are still working together,” Love said. “You and Libby make a good team, but when you came here alone tonight, I kinda wondered.”
“Oh, we still work together,” Morris said. “But Libby couldn’t make it tonight. She has a date.”
Love looked at him for the space of three heartbeats. “And?”
“And nothing. Libby’s busy this evening, that’s all. She has the right to a social life.”
“That last part sounds like a quote,” Love said.
Morris sighed. “I guess it is, at that.”
Love peered at him some more. “You jealous?”
“Libby’s not my girlfriend, podner. You oughta know that. I’m not jealous of anybody.”
Love flicked ashes onto his carpet – not for the first time, judging by the carpet.
“Okay, if you say so. What’s bugging you, then?”
Morris gave him a look.
“You’re about to point out that it’s none of my damn business,” Love told him. “And you’re right, too.” He took a long drag, exhaled and said, “Talk about it or not, my friend. It’s up to you.”
Morris studied the ash-stained carpet for a few seconds before saying, “She’s off having lesbian sex with a demon.”
Love blinked. “Well, that’s something you don’t hear every day. Even I don’t. What’s the part that bothers you – the lesbian sex, or the demon?”
“The demon, of course. Libby’ s sex life is none of my business.”
“Okay.” Another drag, another long exhale. “Libby’s gay?”
“No, she’s bisexual,” Morris said. “As if it’s any of your damn business, either.”
“You’re right – it isn’t.” Love flicked more ashes. “This demon thing kinda bothers me, though.”
“She’s not like the kind of demon you usually deal with, Barry.”
“That right?”
“Ashley was given flesh and sent over to this side in order to thwart one of Hell’s nastier plots.”
Love’s eyebrows went up a little. “Hell was thwarting itself?”
“It’s complicated. There are factions, apparently. One of them didn’t want the plot to succeed, because they figured it would bring on Armageddon, and they might lose.”
/>
“‘Complicated’ is right,” Love said. “Did this have anything to do with the mess you were involved in at the Republican convention last summer?”
“Yeah. Electing Stark was the big plot.”
Barry Love stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and lit another one. “Last I heard, Stark didn’t get to be President. But Ashley’s still here?”
“Yeah,” Morris said. “Apparently the big-deal demon who sent her over has forgotten about her. For now, anyway. It seems there’s a civil war going on in Hell, or something.”
“Couldn’t happen in a nicer place. So, okay – Ashley’s not a predator like most demons, you’re not jealous, and I assume you’re not down on gays –”
“Oh, hell, no.”
“So what do you care if Ashley gets it on with Libby?”
Morris studied the carpet a bit more. “Look, I’ve met Ashley several times. She’s done Libby and me a couple of big favors. I even kind of like her.”
Love looked at him closely. “But?”
“But that’s like saying I like my pet cobra. I can never let myself forget what it really is.”
“Is Libby in this relationship consensually?”
“I don’t know if you can even call it a relationship, but yeah, sure.”
“Libby’s a big girl. I guess she can take care of herself.”
“You know, that sounds like a quote.”
Barry Love laughed a little, but then the cigarette smoke got him coughing. When that was over he said, “I haven’t heard anything about an afreet in a very long time. But maybe some people – and I use the term loosely – I know can be of help. To save time, maybe you should ask them yourself.”
“I would, if I knew who they were,” Morris said.
“Tell you what – there’s a bar a couple of blocks from here, on Forty-Third Street. Place called Strangefellows.”
“Strangefellows? Seriously?”
“Yeah – why? You’ve heard of it?”
“Actually, no. But there’s bar in the U.K. with the same name. It’s in a part of London where not many people go – and some who do go later wish they hadn’t.”
“I know that place, too,” Love said. “It’s in the dark part of town – I mean really dark.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“I know a guy who hangs out there – he’s kind of in the same business as you and me.”
“Messing around with the weird shit?”
“Yeah, that’s John, all right. So, look – meet me in our local Strangefellows, tonight around midnight. Maybe I can put you together with somebody who knows about this afreet.
“I appreciate it, Barry, I really do.” Morris stood up, and the two men shook hands. “See you later tonight, then.”
He was opening the door when Love said, “Quincey.”
Morris turned back. “What?”
“Try not to worry about Libby. She’ll be okay.”
“I hope so, Barry. I really do.”
Fourteen
LIBBY CHASTAIN, BODY damp with sweat, lay back on her queen-size bed and waited for her heartbeat to return to something like normal. When she could speak again, she said, “That was even better than last time, and last time was about the best I’d ever had.”
“See? Told you.” Ashley settled her blonde hair on the pillow next to Libby.
“Where on earth did you learn to do that thing with the flat part of your tongue?”
“It wasn’t anywhere on earth that I learned it, Libby.”
“Oh, right. Sorry – I forgot.”
“No need for apologies. In fact, I regard your forgetting as a positive step.”
“A step toward what?”
“Toward normalizing our relationship,” Ashley said.
“I’m not sure that this relationship – if that’s what it is – could ever be considered ‘normal.’”
Ashley turned her face toward Libby and grinned. “Paranormal, maybe?”
“That sounds a little closer to the mark,” Libby said. “What does Mal Peters think of this paranormal relationship?”
Peters, a former CIA hit man, had been a damned soul in Hell when he’d been given flesh and sent across with Ashley to assassinate demon-possessed Senator Howard Stark. Having apparently been forgotten by the demon who’d sent them, Ashley and Peters now lived together and were, for lack of a better term, lovers.
“Peters doesn’t tell me who I can fuck, Libby. I don’t tell him, either – although I really can’t imagine him wanting another woman, when he’s got me to warm his bed.”
“Not only is she a great fuck, but she’s modest about it, too,” Libby said. “You’re quite the package, Ashley.”
“I know. But if you’re concerned about Peters’s feelings, then I’ll bring him along next time. Your bed looks big enough for three, and Peters is really a pretty good lay for a human. A male human, I mean.”
“I don’t do that kind of stuff,” Libby said, a bit stiffly.
“What kind of stuff, sweetie?”
“Threesomes, foursomes, moresomes.” Libby turned on her side, facing away from Ashley. “People have tried to interest me in that stuff before, but it’s just not my scene.”
“Because that’s not the kind of thing your mother would think a good girl does?” Ashley said quietly.
No response.
“Libby?”
“Yeah, something like that, I guess.”
“Hmmm.” Ashley reached over and gently rested a hand on Libby’s ass, which was still moist from her recent exertions. “Most people would probably say,” she continued, “that a good girl doesn’t eat pussy, either – and certainly not as well as you do, my dear.”
No response again, although Ashley felt Libby’s muscles tense under her hand.
“And according to most definitions of the term,” Ashley said, in that same quiet tone, “I’m fairly sure that a good girl doesn’t fuck demons, either.”
Libby remained silent. Ashley’s hand stayed where it was for a while, and then it went exploring.
“You know the thing about good girls?” Ashley said, her voice a caress to match her hand. “They never get to have any fun.”
After perhaps two minutes, Libby gave vent to a long, low groan. She turned back toward Ashley, who removed her newly-slick hand.
Libby slowly brought her face down toward Ashley’s, until their noses were almost touching. She stared into Ashley’s eyes – not as easy as it sounds, for there was something in those eyes that was not quite human. “Maybe –” The word stuck in Libby’s throat, so she tried again. “Maybe I’m not as good a girl as I thought I was.”
The human form of the demon known as Ashur Badaktu brought her hand around until it rested lightly on the back of Libby’s neck. “No,” she said, in a voice that was almost a growl. “You’re better.”
She pulled Libby’s head down until their lips were first just touching, and soon grinding against each other. Matters proceeded along fairly predictable lines from there.
An hour later, Ashley came out of Libby’s bathroom, still wet from the shower. She walked into the bedroom, drying her hair with a fluffy towel, and saw Libby still lying in bed. “I halfway expected you to join me in there,” she said teasingly.
“I don’t really care for shower sex,” Libby said. “Too cramped. I keep banging my elbow against the wall and stuff.”
“Pity,” Ashley said, and smiled at her. “But if you keep lying there like that, I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be needing another shower before I go.”
Libby pulled a sheet up to cover herself. “Better?”
“Not better,” Ashley said, “but a bit less distracting.” She turned to the mirror and picked up a comb. Looking at Libby’s reflection, she said, “I take it that means you’re not interested in going again. I wouldn’t really mind taking another shower, you know.”
“I’m sure,” Libby said. “But I am, for the moment, sated, thank you very much.” Libby smi
led. “Seriously – thank you very much.”
Ashley touched an index finger to her pursed lips. “Sated,” she said, as if repeating a word she’d never heard before. “Whatever must that be like?”
“Maybe you’ll find out, someday,” Libby said. “In the meantime, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away. I am, after all, a font of knowledge.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” Libby said. “So, do you perchance know anything about afreets?”
Ashley frowned at her reflection. “You mean those genie things?”
“Exactly. Quincey and I may have to go up against one – assuming we can find it.”
“Really? Be sure to wear an asbestos overcoat. Those boys do like to burn things up.”
“So I’ve heard,” Libby said. “Know anything else about them?”
“Well, David once killed an afreet with his sling, I believe.”
Libby frowned at her. “I thought that was Goliath, the Philistine – or are we talking about a different David?”
“Same David, different occasion. His battle with the afreet didn’t make it into the Bible, for some reason – but then, so many inconvenient things didn’t.”
“But this was the same deal as the Goliath story? David flung a stone into its forehead?”
“Similar, but not the same,” Ashley said. She put the comb down and picked up her tube of lipstick. “Instead of a stone, Dave used his sling to fire off the pit of a date. Those things are oval-shaped, you know. Not very aerodynamic. But he carved it down with his knife, to make it fly better. It would seem he did it right.” She shook her head. “That afreet never knew what hit him.”
“Dave? People called him Dave?”
“No – just his family and close friends got to do that.” Ashley smiled into the mirror. “Or the Hebrew equivalent, anyway.”
Libby shook her head in wonderment. “So that’s what I have to do, if confronted with an afreet? Zap it in the forehead with a rounded-off date pit? Seriously?”
“Actually, any kind of pit would probably do the job. The ancient text says, ‘Thou shalt smite the afreet with a fruit stone, thrown with great force and power. Thus shall its life be ended.’ That’s a rough translation, anyway.”
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