The Angel: Tales of the Djinn, #3

by Emma Holly

  Captain Taytoch shocked her even more by dropkicking the defenseless gargoyle across the room. Ishmael sailed like a stone football, not even trying to spread his wings to slow his velocity. Georgie wondered if attempting to save himself would have caused more offense.

  “Do you think I hadn’t guessed that?” Taytoch roared. “You slothful apple-eating cretin! I posted you here as punishment for your last screw-up. You were supposed to learn your lesson, not let this human run amok.”

  Having thudded off the floor, Ishmael immediately genuflected again. Impressively, at least to Georgie, his little round glasses remained in place. “She only has a smidgen of magic, sir. And she’s not a bad person. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “You didn’t think I’d mind?” Actual sparks sizzled from Taytoch’s blood red eyes. He stalked to where Ishmael landed and raised his hand to strike.

  “Stop!” Georgie ordered, her voice coming out deeper than she expected. Her tattooed arm was hot, as if the protective seal were more alive than before. “In the name of God, I command you not to harm Ishmael.”

  Taytoch lowered his arm and goggled at her in amazement.

  Georgie was amazed herself. Getting books to show themselves was the most impressive spell she’d done till then.

  “Sorry, sir,” Ishmael said, genuinely sounding as if he were. Apparently no longer seeing the need to cower, he unrolled and stood on his feet. He brushed a bit of oriental carpet fiber from one shoulder. “I didn’t know the human could do that. Or that you’d discovered a means to escape your holding cell.”

  “As if that excuses you,” Taytoch said. “In any case, you know I always find a way.”

  “Of course you do,” Ishmael agreed. “It is one of the multitudinous reasons we of your crew feel honored to follow you.”

  Taytoch hmphed and crossed his arms as he considered his underling. “This is not good.”

  “It could be an opportunity,” Ishmael suggested.

  He and his superior exchanged private messages with their eyes.

  “Perhaps,” Taytoch agreed after a pause.

  Georgie found their conversation disquieting. “Exactly how many do you mean by ‘crew’?”

  Taytoch opened his lipless mouth, but Ishmael answered first. “Only a few have been cursed to remain in this residence. Once we finish our sentence, we’ll return home. Until then, we make the best of our servitude that we can.”

  Taytoch uncrossed his arms and nodded. “The imp speaks true,” he said gruffly. “I’m sure he didn’t mention the others because he didn’t wish you to grow alarmed. Clearly, he . . . appreciates your visits.”

  His answer seemed honest but maybe incomplete.

  “What about my guardian?” Georgie asked.

  “Your guardian?” Taytoch returned.

  “Alma West isn’t in on of this woo-woo stuff. I don’t want you ifrit guys—however many were cursed to stay in the house—pranking or scaring her.”

  Georgie appeared to have struck Taytoch speechless.

  “Oh she’s good,” Ishmael murmured.

  “Very good,” his captain agreed.

  Did they mean her? Georgie was pretty sure her spelling skills were half-assed at best. Still, it might be more strategic not to share that aloud.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “You leave Alma and any other human at Ravenwings out of your little games. I don’t want to have to come back and curse you worse.”

  Taytoch broke into a slow but surprisingly sweet smile. She barely noticed his teeth were pointed like a piranha’s.

  “Fair human,” he said in a courtly tone. “You are a beacon of compassion in a dark dungeon. I solemnly swear on behalf of myself and my crew that none among us shall harm the human female named Alma West . . . or any other human who ventures here.”

  “Or my cat,” she added.

  “Or your cat,” he agreed, inclining his head nobly.

  “Okay then,” she said, still unsettled but sensing he was sincere. “I, uh, guess it’s been nice to meet you. I’ll come back some other time to catch up with Ishmael.”

  She turned to leave, but Captain Taytoch wasn’t quite done with her.

  “The pleasure was entirely ours,” he crooned.

  Georgie hoped the demon didn’t notice that his silky politeness sent a shudder down her spine.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  —

  IKSANDER CATCHES UP

  Despite the troubling disappearance of Georgie and her apartment, Iksander still had a mission to complete. He presumed he did anyway. When it came to magic, his friends had superior abilities. Creator willing, they’d landed in the human realm with fewer bumps than him.

  Left with nowhere else to sleep, Iksander spent the remainder of the night in the tiny bunkroom at Black Cat. He must have dozed off, because a knock woke him. He sat up with his heart racing.

  “Alexander?” called a deep voice he thought belonged to Tobias’s employee Mike. “We’ve got donuts and coffee in the workshop if you’re hungry.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I shall wash quickly and join you.”

  He put his promise into action, ordering himself not to overthink what challenges lay ahead. He’d take them as he met them. Truthfully, he didn’t have a choice.

  Francine’s voice reached him first as he approached Black Cat’s machining space. The female sounded so angry he stopped outside the door to listen.

  “I don’t understand why you’re defending her,” she raged. “That little witch wants to shut us down! She copycatted our whole idea. And poached Jerry to work for her. He was our best idea man!”

  “She offered him a partnership,” Tobias responded in a calmer tone. “Something he deserves that we weren’t going to do for him. Also, if she’s trying to shut us down, it’s backfiring. Traffic is up since she opened. Her customers trot right across the street when they’re done over there—especially the ones who balk at her high prices. We’re benefitting from her fancy PR efforts.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Francine huffed. “You’ve seen those devil things she sticks on her furniture. The decent people of Black Bear shouldn’t have to look at them.”

  The mention of devil things motivated Iksander to enter.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Tobias said. “Just a kerfuffle about a competitor.”

  Mike was at the table and pulled out a chair for him. “I got espresso for you. I figured since you’re Turkish, you’d like it strong.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “That was considerate.”

  He looked around as he sat. Jerry’s absence was the most obvious difference from yesterday, but he spotted others. Some of the more colorful items that had hung on the walls were no longer there. The NEHI advertisement with the woman’s naked legs was missing, and the CAUTION MEN WORKING sign. The changes made him uneasy, but when he glanced at Francine he got a genuine shock.

  The human looked years older. The lines in her face were deeper, the set of her features pinched. Though he continued to sense the kindness that had led her to offer a stranger shelter, she seemed deeply unhappy.

  Bitter, he corrected. Her appearance was that of person who believed life had betrayed her.

  He removed his gaze before she could take offense at his attention.

  “So,” Tobias said, absently rubbing his wife’s shoulder. He looked less different than Francine: wearier, mainly. “Not much going on this morning. If you’re so inclined—” he nodded at Iksander “—there’s a load of antique ironwork in need of a power wash. It’s not exciting, but it needs doing. Mike can show you how to use the equipment. I’m off to the mechanic to see if our forklift’s fixed.”

  Francine rose when her husband did, balancing on her crutches to kiss his cheek goodbye. She didn’t sit again but hobbled through another door murmuring something about boxing online orders.

  “Just you and me,” Mike said, saluting Iks
ander with his coffee.

  “Pardon me for asking,” Iksander said cautiously, “but don’t Tobias and Francine have a child?”

  “They wanted to,” Mike said. “I’m not completely sure, but I think Francine couldn’t get pregnant. Then there was an adoption that fell through. It’s kind of a touchy subject. Don’t bring it up in front of them.”

  “Of course.” Iksander looked at Mike curiously. He seemed the same as he remembered. “Are you upset about your coworker being poached?”

  Mike shrugged his big shoulders. “I still hang out with Jerry, just not as much. Anyway, I have ideas for repurposing salvage too. Mine might not be as slick as what they sell at Black Cat, but they don’t sit on the sales floor. Now I don’t have to make them in anyone’s shadow.”

  “What they sell at Black Cat?” Iksander repeated.

  “The place across the street. The one Francine was going on about.”

  Iksander’s brain felt like it was rattling. He thought the name of this establishment was Black Cat. Rather than say so and risk looking crazy, he pushed back his chair and stood.

  “Would you mind if I went outside to stretch my legs? I’ll return to power wash items without too great a delay.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Mike said. “I’ll finish my coffee.”

  He got up immediately, pulling on his jacket as he went. The sign out front was the next spot he checked. It wasn’t the same at all. The cat was gone, for one thing. For another, it simply said HAMILTON SALVAGE in red letters.

  Shit, he thought and looked across the street. The hairs on his arms prickled. Here was a change, all right.

  Yesterday, the building opposite had been a defunct florist. Today it was a shiny and inviting home goods proprietor. The plate glass windows displayed much sleeker creations than Francine and Tobias’s shop—though they too were assembled from pieces of salvaged human junk. The lamps and chairs and tables emanated their dimension’s history. They were simply polished and not rustic.

  The humano-philes in Iksander’s city would pay generously for such items.

  When he turned his gaze to the establishment’s door, the sign he spied above it now seemed inevitable.

  BLACK CAT UPCYCLE, it proclaimed. The endearing painting of Titus the cat graced it as before, though the addendum beneath was new: Magical Furniture for your Magical Home.

  With such a promise, Iksander had no choice but to cross the street and investigate.

  The shop couldn’t have been open long, but quite a few customers browsed inside. He smelled heady spices and saw arrangements of vibrant autumn leaves. FREE MULLED CIDER WITH PURCHASE, declared a placard on an easel. Iksander’s mouth watered at the idea. He remembered how delicious the local apples were.

  “Welcome to Black Cat,” said a pleasant voice.

  Iksander’s head jerked around. An unfamiliar young male human had come up to him. He wore a clean white T-shirt adorned with the store’s logo, which he’d tucked into plain blue jeans. His smile was friendly, his face relaxed.

  He’s not a threat, Iksander reprimanded his tightening nerves.

  “I’m Tom,” the human said. “Do you need help finding anything?”

  Tell me how the hell this shop sprang up overnight, Iksander wanted to demand.

  “I hope so,” he said aloud. “Is a woman named Georgie employed here?”

  The human’s smiled broadened. “Georgie’s the boss. Follow me and we’ll see if she’s available.”

  He followed, but a moment later an eyebrow-raising sight brought him to a halt.

  Some distance ahead of them, a woman he presumed was an employee perched on an aluminum ladder. She was stretching toward the store’s metal rafters to hang a giant paper turkey on a hook. As singular as this activity was, it paled in comparison to her garb. The female’s blue jeans weren’t simply worn but shredded, exposing substantial swaths of her apparently strong legs. Her T-shirt displayed the same logo as the young man’s. Unlike his garment, hers was cut halfway up her belly, baring far too much of a seductive midsection. The stomach thus exposed was smooth, its navel out for the world to see. More startling yet, Iksander could see the top of the girl’s hipbones.

  Though this seemed scandalous to him, he couldn’t quell his admiration. What a shape the female had—her bottom a lush, round contrast to her trim waist. Her hair was a crazy mop, chopped unevenly and tousled about her head in streaks of soft pink and bright yellow. A tattoo of tropical flora and fauna stretched up her arm from wrist to shoulder, the design as colorful if not as sexually charged as the rest of her.

  God’s sake, he thought as heat rushed thickly to his groin. Hadn’t he lusted after enough women recently? Did he really need to add another?

  “What do you think?” the female asked the man who steadied her ladder. “Have we got the right cornucopia-to-turkey ratio?”

  Crap, Iksander thought the second he heard her voice. He hadn’t added another woman to the list who attracted him. Despite the alteration in her appearance, this was Georgie.

  “I think another pilgrim would be nice,” the man beside her responded. “A smiling one, so children won’t be alarmed.”

  “A smiling pilgrim it is,” the strange new Georgie said laughingly. She began reversing course down the ladder.

  “Georgie,” Iksander’s escort said. “Someone’s here to see you.”

  She turned to him with a smile on her face. Gold glinted at her eyebrow, two rings unexpectedly piercing it. Exactly how much had changed from the previous night? Would Georgie recognize him in her new guise?

  If she didn’t, Iksander had no idea what to say.

  As it happened, Georgie took care of that for him.

  Her expression shifted when she saw the person her employee had brought over. Before Iksander could blink, every ray of sunny welcome fled.

  “You,” she said furiously.

  Though he didn’t know why she sounded angry, he thought he ought to respond. “You know me?”

  “I damn well do, you bastard. How could you abandon Najat that way? You should have forgiven her, protected her—especially since you screwed half your city after you banished her. Shit, you might as well have killed your wife yourself!”

  Iksander reeled back in shock, her words striking him like knives.

  “Georgie!” the other man with her exclaimed.

  “I’m sorry,” Iksander said . . . all he could say. He turned too fast to be careful where he went. He stumbled into a table stacked with glass jars of wrapped candy. Two fell to the floor and shattered.

  “Sorry,” he said again, though he barely had breath for it.

  “Go, you self-righteous man-hoe,” Georgie called as he walked more rapidly toward the door. “I don’t know why you’re here, but don’t you come back ever!”

  He knocked into two more people before he reached the street. He didn’t see them; didn’t see anything but Georgie’s contemptuous face.

  You might as well have killed your wife yourself.

  He felt sick and ducked into the diner alley, where he’d first arrived in this confusing dimension. Not wanting to throw up, he braced on the wall and breathed. The air was ice on his clammy skin, but it gradually settled him. He dried his face on the sleeve of his logging jacket and forced himself to think.

  He knew his sins. Georgie’s accusation made them neither worse nor better. She only said what he’d thought many times himself. The Deity would judge Iksander as He saw fit. For now, he had more important responsibilities to address.

  He looked toward the front of the alleyway.

  Walk back in there, he ordered. Question her. Find out what’s going on.

  His feet refused, jogging him across the street instead.

  “Wait,” someone called from the Black Cat’s door.

  The voice wasn’t Georgie’s so Iksander ignored it.

  CONNOR REMAINED ON the pavement, watching the sultan disappear into Hamilton Salvage. The angel was unsettled in his bones, maybe his e
nergy as well. When Georgie came out to join him, he barely felt better.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said as she silently squeezed his arm. “What is Najat’s husband doing here? He’s a djinni. Why would he come to this dimension?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” Georgie said stubbornly.

  Connor knew her too well to buy this. He smiled as he caressed her scowling face.

  “I don’t,” she insisted. “I’m just ashamed I made a scene in front of customers. Tom must think I’ve gone crazy.”

  “He will get over it. Probably he’s making excuses for you now. Iksander went into Hamilton Salvage,” he added.

  Georgie had been looking abashed, but his observation renewed her frown. “Fine. Francine and Marianne deserve his company.”

  “Sh,” he soothed when she turned to leave. “Don’t go back into the store just yet. Hold me a moment and calm down.”

  Georgie hugged him, petting his back the same way he petted hers. After a bit, she spoke into his chest. “I told you what I read about the sultan in that demon newspaper. Aren’t you angry at him for Najat’s sake?”

  “No,” Conner said. “I am simply mystified.”

  Georgie sighed gustily. “I guess that’s why you’re the angel.”

  Connor pressed his lips to her hair, which was happy and festive in its new colored do. “You’re my angel.”

  Georgie snorted and pushed back. “God help you,” she said with rueful affection.

  WITH THE TIMELINES due to meet up any moment, the empress felt a need to check the storage room in her mirror space. The brain that used to belong to Alma had a knack for math. Coupled with its current owner’s intelligence, inventory taking went quickly. Luna was satisfied she’d amassed the reserves she needed, and a bit more besides. That was good.

  No sorceress wanted to run short of juice partway through a project.

  She was exiting the portrait into the real dining room when she realized someone was out there.

  Fortunately she didn’t have to turn back. It was just the ifrit Pink. The demon sat—somewhat brashly—in Luna’s thronelike chair at the table’s head, drumming pop music with her hands and swinging short fuchsia legs.