"Ah," the woman said, "I'm afraid that service is restricted, and most likely—how shall I put this—beyond your financial resources."
"Please tell Mr. ibn Hakeem that Nadia Nazeer's son-in-law is here."
Jack thought he saw just a flicker of surprise before she smoothed her face and said, "A moment, please." She stood up and gestured towards a red leather chair and a small table with various newspapers scattered around it. "Please have a seat," she said, "this won't take long." Jack sat down and immediately felt like he'd returned to his favorite chair. It was so comfortable he had to remind himself it had not existed thirty seconds ago.
The receptionist returned a minute later with a middle-aged Arab man dressed in the sort of suit whose price Jack could not even try to guess. Of course, he thought, if you control a Djinn tailor you might not have to pay anything. Jack knew of a prince who went through the Seven Trials just to acquire a Djinni who would craft the robe for the prince's coronation. "Jack!" Mr. ibn Hakeem said, and took Jack's right hand in both of his. "It's good to see you. Sandra tells me you've requested one of our higher end services. Come. We will discuss it over tea."
Years ago, Abdullah ibn Hakeem had dated Nadia Nazeer, Jack's mother-in-law. They met at some Arab-American fund-raiser and went out for about a year, until Nadia had seen something, just a hint of something, that was not supposed to exist. Jack had stepped in to help ibn Hakeem cover it up and change Nadia's memories. Ibn Hakeem had ended the relationship, but he'd told Jack not to hesitate if he ever needed a favor.
Jack said, "I'm sorry, sir, I would love tea, but my time is not my own right now."
S. I.'s man in New York looked startled for a moment, though not as much as Sandra, who actually stared at Jack, mouth open, for a few seconds before she composed herself. "Ah," ibn Hakeem said, "everyone is so busy these days. Perhaps when your time returns to you."
"I would like that very much. Thank you."
To Sandra, Mr. ibn Hakeem said, "Please tell Mr. Hakami in Resources that Mr. Shade will be coming down, with my personal request for all assistance." He led Jack to the elevator, or rather elevators, for now a second door had appeared, narrower, with discreet glyphs in the corners. He held it open and Jack stepped into a varnished cedar chamber, with a gold plate that held only one button, marked with a tav, the final letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Jack wondered if the wood came from the Temple—the first one, of course, the real one, built by Solomon and a work crew of Djinn.
He didn't feel the elevator descend but a moment later it opened to reveal a vast room of eight foot high metal cabinets that went back as far as Jack could see, perhaps even across borders between worlds. A small man in shirtsleeves stood before the elevator. He was bald, with a neat mustache. He didn't look Arabic, but not exactly European either. Of course, he might not have been human. He said softly, "Good afternoon, Mr. Shade. My name is Hakami. I am happy to assist you."
"I need a flask."
"Yes, of course." He turned and set off down the central corridor. "This way, please," he said. They rounded various corners, until Jack wasn't sure he could find his way back alone. Finally, they came to a stop before a cabinet that looked exactly the same as all the others, except that the gray metal appeared slightly newer, shinier. "This will do," Hakami said. He smiled at Jack. "You know, I presume, that they come in two sorts, those who accepted the Messenger and those who remained infidels. I am sure Mr. ibn Hakeem would prefer the former for you. Much easier to control. For a beginner, of course." He slid open one of the cabinet's ten or so metal drawers. Inside was what looked like a rectangular steel thermos with a black screw-on cap. He smiled as he lifted it out. "As I am sure you know, Mr. Shade, the smoky glass bottle with the ancient cork has gone out of fashion." He began walking back, and Jack followed.
At the elevator, Hakami somehow produced a clipboard with a sheet of paper and attached pen. "Please," he said. Slight smile. "There are no hidden clauses, I assure you." Jack read the paper which acknowledged his receipt of "Container RS-42," and his acceptance that any unfortunate side effects of his "desired grantings" would be solely his responsibility. Jack took a breath and signed. Hakeem took the clipboard and handed over the container.
It felt warm, and slightly heavier than Jack had expected, but otherwise unremarkable. "You might want to open it outdoors," Hakeem said as he pushed the elevator button. "This is not to imply any danger, or indeed issues of size, but only that clients sometimes mis-speak—from the surprise, you understand—and their first grantings become, well, a bit untidy. Not that such a thing would happen to you, I'm sure."
"Yeah, thanks," Jack said. He was getting a little tired of the guy.
There was still only one button in the elevator, but now when Jack pushed it, it returned him to the lobby. Back in the street, he hailed a cab and took it to the garage where he kept his Altima. As he drove up the West Side Highway he found he kept looking at the clock, and then the flask. 1:45. Only two days, and the first was half over. Maybe he was mistaking a mistake. He had gone to Suleiman International for quick transportation to where he needed to go, but maybe they were what he needed. He went over the meeting with ibn Hakeem again and again, and each time he decided he'd gotten all he could have expected. And who knows, maybe the flask would be enough? But he didn't think so. At least this way he could go get the help he really needed.
Jack continued north as the West Side Highway became the Henry Hudson Parkway. Just past the city line he pulled onto a local road, then a dirt road marked "Private Property." It ended at the edge of a meadow. As Jack stepped onto the grass he felt the crackle of the NYTAS shield that protected the place from nosy hikers, dog walkers, and real estate developers. "Okay," he said to the flask as he set it down on the ground, "let's see what I've got here." He unscrewed the top.
Jack had expected to see great swirls of smoke pour out, but instead he felt a twisting inside him, as if he himself were the one changed. His eyes stung, and he blinked, and when he opened them again, an Egyptian-looking businessman in a pinstripe suit and shiny black shoes, with slicked back hair and manicured hands, stood calmly before him. Slightly taller than Jack, the Djinni raised an eyebrow. "Nice place you have here. Do you know that Dr. Canton brings acolytes here for what he likes to pretend is sex magic?"
Jack just stared at him.
"What?" the Djinni said, "Did you expect a twenty foot tall fellow in a loin cloth with a booming laugh?"
Jack said, "Nah, that's a great movie but I'm no little Indian kid." The looked at each other a moment, then Jack said, "So what happens now? You say you're going to turn me inside out and set me on fire, and then I say I don't believe you could ever fit inside that tiny flask—"
"No, no, we'll just skip to the wishes. I might add, though, that we were never actually that stupid. The routine used to be part of the standard contract—let the clients think they've gotten the better of us—but in recent years, I'm happy to say, Suleiman International has modernized."
"Glad to hear it," Jack said. "Do you have a name?"
"Of course I do. Do you wish to know it?"
Jack laughed. "No thanks. I may not have done this before, but I know the rules. You'll know when I use up any of my wishes. Three of them, right?"
The Djinni pressed his palms together before his heart and bowed his head. "Certainly, effendi."
"How about I call you Archie?"
The Djinni smiled. "An honorable name."
Jack looked him up and down. Was it possible this creature could take on Carol Acker? Would he waste a wish if he tried it?
The Djinni dropped his subservient post and said, "Mr. Shade—my contract indeed requires that I attempt to fulfill whatever you wish. However, even we must know our limits, and your—problem—is older even than the Djinn. I would greatly prefer it that you not waste your opportunity, and that I remain—intact."
"So you know,"
Jack said.
"Of course I know."
"Do you know my plan?" Plan was stretching it.
"No, only your dilemma."
"All right, then. First wish. You ready?"
"Always, effendi."
"I want you to take me to the Old Man of the Woods."
The Djinni smiled. "Ah. This will, of course, require flight. You had best step back."
"Wait," Jack said, "why not just, I don't know, magically transport me?"
"We say teleport these days."
"Teleport. Fine."
"But you did not wish that, effendi. Your wish is my command. As stated. If you prefer, we can consider your ‘take me' wish as granted, and initiate a new—"
"Forget it," Jack said. "Flight it is." He took a few steps back. "Do what you need to do."
The Djinn inclined his head once more, and then grew larger. One moment he was a little taller than Jack, the next he was some thirty feet tall. Jack half expected the Djinni to boom at him like low-level thunder, but the same smooth voice as before said "I apologize for the lack of a pigtail to cling to. I suggest you ride in my pocket, though again, I am sorry I did not think to bring along a Sequoia tree. If you like, you can wish for one—No? Then I suggest you hold onto the flap." He knelt down and held out his palm. Jack climbed on, and a moment later was gently deposited in the jacket's right-hand pocket. The silk lining felt oddly pleasant.
Jack was one of those people who when asked what super-power they would most want, answered "Flying, of course." So when they lifted into the air he stuck his head out to look. But it all went by so fast, trees, houses, whole towns, and the air was so cold, that he quickly sank down again. He did see enough to know they were following the Hudson River north, but that was no surprise, for the one thing anyone knew about the Old Man's house was that he lived near the Canadian border.
Jack wasn't sure how long the journey took, probably no more than fifteen minutes. When he felt the Djinni set down he was so grateful to be out of the cold that he forgot, just for an instant, why he was there. And then it was back, and all he could think about was how much time had passed, and whether he was even making the right choice. The Djinni said, "Effendi, I suggest you emerge before I resume my normal size." Jack lifted himself out of the pocket and jumped onto the giant hand which then set him on the ground.
Jack realized he'd had no idea what he would see when he arrived at the home of l'Homme Ancien de la Bois. If he'd expected anything it might have been some grand Versailles mansion surrounded by elegant guards. Instead, he found a one-story wooden house with a plain porch and a dormered attic. It wasn't exactly a log cabin but it wasn't too far above it. He thought for a moment of the suburban house where the Queen of Eyes lived, and then of the cocktail party Carolien had taken him to at Arthur Canton's two story apartment overlooking the Hudson, with its grand piano and marble statues.
He turned to the Djinni. "I may want my second wish when I'm finished here."
The Djinni inclined his head. "Very good, effendi. And how might I spend my time in the interval?"
"I don't know. Become a tree or something."
"As you wish, Master." He pressed his palms together.
"Bullshit," Jack said quickly. "You know damn well that wasn't a wish. I don't give a fuck what you do."
The Djinni said, "It is a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Shade." And then, with a slight smile, "I don't care what anybody says." Jack laughed but the Djinni had already become a young maple tree.
3.
As Jack walked up the leaf-strewn steps to the plain wooden door he thought how maybe it wasn't too late. He could use wish two to return to Suleiman International, then three to gain temporary access to the Undeniable Voice, and use that to persuade ibn Hakeem to grant him an army of Djinn. But Archie had already told him there were things even the Djinn couldn't fight, so what difference would numbers make?
He knocked on the door. A dry precise voice with a slight French accent said "Come in, Jack." Shade took a breath, turned the knob, and stepped inside. Once again he realized he'd had no idea what to expect, either of its interior or its famous occupant. And once again, it all appeared so ordinary—a comfortable living room with a fireplace and well-worn leather easy chairs, simple lamps, an oak table and chairs, a cabinet with glass doors showing wine and liquor glasses of various sizes, and alongside it two shelves with wine bottles, most without labels. An iPad lay face down on a side table It was the only intrusion of the modern world. Here and there were small glimpses of luxury. A Persian rug of subtle reds and golds lay between the easy chairs. There were two paintings on the walls, Rembrandt's old Jewish couple and Caravaggio's gamblers. Jack assumed they were the originals, and that the Rijksmuseum In Amsterdam, and the Kimball Museum in Fort Worth, were proudly displaying fakes.
As for the Old Man himself, he stood around 5' 10", thin, wearing jeans and an old-fashioned red and black flannel shirt. His high brow and aquiline nose and thin lips struck Jack as very Gallic, perhaps even aristo. He was clean-shaven, and wore his silver hair short and parted on the left. His skin had that look of thin, almost transparent leather that could sometimes be seen in the very old and very rich. His left ring finger displayed a wide gold band with some sigil Jack couldn't place. Is this what he really looks like? thought Jack. Alone in his house? Does this house even exist?
No one knew the actual age of the Old Man of the Woods, but everyone who knew the title also knew what he was—the Grand Master of the Society of the Morning, an ancient order of gangster sorcerers. In their present configuration they began in France in the eighteenth century, and were said to have gained a foothold in the Americas via Benjamin Franklin, though many believed them to have been much older, possibly as old, or even older, than the Travelers themselves, which would make them very old indeed. Jack had no opinion. He only knew that the Travelers Aid Society, and even COLE, were frightened of them. They were said to exert influence, or raw power, at every level, from the demon nano-worlds all the way up to the High Orders of Angelic Light.
Jack knew all this but he knew something else as well. The Old Man of the Woods owed him. When Jack saved the Queen of Eyes he also blocked an attempted coup against the leader of the Society. "Jack," the Old Man said, "it's good to finally meet you." He offered his hand, and Jack knew he had no choice but to shake it. The handshake was firm and dry. It reminded Jack of an ancient parchment he'd once dug up in the Negev Desert.
The Old Man waved Jack to one of the leather chairs. "Would you like a drink?"
"Sure," Jack said.
"Perhaps whiskey. You look like you could use some warming up."
Jack thought of his frigid ride in the Djinni's pocket. Did the Old Man know about that? Probably. "Sounds good," he said.
The Old Man took two tumblers from the cabinet and a dark green bottle from one of the shelves. "Do you want water, or ice? I recommend straight, if you don't mind my saying so."
"Straight is fine," Jack said. The Old Man poured Jack's tumbler a third full and handed it to him. For just an instant Jack hesitated—what was the old story? Never eat or drink anything in the Land of the Dead?—and then took a sip. The taste was dark and smoky, and seemed to permeate his body all at once.
The Old Man smiled. "I assure you, Jack, the people who distill that for me are quite alive. Do you like it?"
"It's amazing."
"Good. Then I will send a case to your hotel. Perhaps Miss Yao will like it as well."
Jack stared at him. "She knows nothing of this. Of any of it."
The Old Man waved a hand. "Of course. I simply thought you might wish to share it with her. And the remarkable Ms. Hounstra."
Jack thought of how Carolien had begged him not to do this. He leaned forward in his chair. "Let's stop the bullshit," he said. "I appreciate your hospitality, it's great, but I came here to ask for some ser
ious help."
The old Man sipped his whiskey. "Of course," he said. "And I will offer any assistance I can. And not just because of the debt I owe you. This creature endangers all of us. These things that we do, you and I, they are very different but they depend on the world remaining stable. And more, ignorant. Unaware of itself."
"So you know what's happened."
"Not everything. Tell me about the host, please."
"Host?"
"The human who wears the ring."
"Right. The ring is the key." Jack told him about Carol Acker and her desire for a soul retrieval. "Was it fake?" he asked. "Was she playing me the whole time?"
"No, no. I see I must explain about the host." He sipped his drink, then set it down to lean forward slightly. To Jack it felt like something had shifted in the room, a subtle mass moving towards him. "The creature came to life long ago, before humanity, quite possibly one of the First Incursions. For millenia it fed on whatever wretched creatures stumbled before it. I suspect it always felt there was some lack in its existence, though of course there is no way to know. I doubt that even your Peter Midnight could have traveled back that far, if he were foolish enough to wish to do so." Jack nodded. Peter Midnight was from the eighteenth century but he was said to have mastered moving through time. Though he was buried in that unmarked grave, Jack always half expected to meet him. Is a time traveler ever really dead?
The Old Man went on, "Then the Powers seeded awareness and culture into the world. As always with our benevolent Friends, their good intentions brought unwelcome side effects. For now the creature discovered something new and wonderful. Group suffering. As humanity became conscious, so did the enemy."
Enemy? thought Jack, isn't that you? But all he said was, "Let's cut to the important part. What stopped it? What will stop if now?"
"No one knows precisely, who, or what, imprisoned it. It is possible that the Travelers came into being for just this purpose." Jack did his best not to react. No one really knew the origin of the Travelers, though most believed that the Powers (or a Power) imbued a few early humans with knowledge and ability, and the desire for more. He said, "So the Travelers did it?"
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