One Wish Away: Djinn Empire Complete Series

by Ingrid Seymour

  I spent my morning on edge, looking up every time the door chimed, trying to deny who I expected to see walking in. For lunch, Javier picked up two shrimp po’boys. We pulled a couple of stools to the counter and ate under the shade of the mesh canopy, sweating in the August heat and humidity. He listened to the Spanish radio station, perking up when—what sounded like news—interrupted the music.

  Restless energy coursed through my body. My finger drummed on the counter. The events at Maven’s house seemed to have opened a world of possibilities in front of me. Seeing Samuel walk had been incredible. I shook my head, giddy at the prospect of making two more wishes that would actually come true. My mind spun. I slapped my cheek and smiled at Javier.

  “Um, how’s Anita?” I asked to take my mind off things.

  Javier pushed a stray shrimp into his mouth. “She’s okay, I guess. Just . . .”

  “Just what?” I took a gulp of ice-cold root beer.

  “Sad.”

  I thought of Anita’s doe-eyes and her quiet and slumped demeanor. I’d always assumed that was her personality. Now, I wondered.

  “Why is that?” Even before I finished my question, a long-ago conversation I’d had with Grandpa came back to mind. Javier and Anita missed their family. A lot.

  “She miss Guadalajara, la familia, but Benito more than the others.”

  “Benito?”

  Javier pushed a French fry around the paper bag that served as his plate. “Our son,” he said in a strangled tone.

  “You have a son? I . . . I never knew.” I felt terrible.

  “Is okay. I do no talk about him. Hurts too much.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Pry?”

  “You know, stick my nose in your business,” I explained.

  He smiled sadly. “You do no pry.” He pulled a picture from his wallet and showed it to me. A serious looking boy with big brown eyes like his mother’s stared back at me. “This is Benito. He’s fourteen.”

  “He looks like Anita.”

  “Yes, but no sweet like his mama. He’s an angry boy, angry at us.” Regret filled his voice.

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I thought of my own anger toward my father. I could totally understand why Benito might feel that way.

  “We thought we work hard, then bring him here. Now, we know we can’t, but even if possible, he won’t come. He say he has no mama and papa no more. He give mother-in-law a lotta headaches with school and bad friends. Anita want to go back. Maybe I stay and she go.” He sounded torn up at the idea.

  I looked at the mesh canopy overhead and blinked several times, trying not to choke on my po’boy.

  “She decide soon, I think. She think about it all the time.” He shook his head repeatedly in resignation. “What you gonna do, right?” he asked, forcing a grin. “Life’s a . . . what people say?” he snapped his finger, searching for the words.

  “Life’s a bitch,” I finished for him.

  “That’s it. Life’s a beach.”

  “No. Not a beach, a bitch . . . never mind.”

  “La vida es una perra,” Javier said very slowly, translating.

  “La vita es un pera,” I repeated.

  He laughed, raising his chin up in the air. “You say life’s a pear.”

  I rolled my eyes and laughed with him. “I’ll never be a linguist. My accent sucks.”

  I thought about Javier’s good nature and how hard he worked day in and day out, just to live in a crappy apartment and send money to his family. Bad things always seemed to happen to good people like us. I was good, too. Wasn’t I? I’d never thought of myself that way. Except this morning—at Maven’s house—I’d felt different, capable of generosity, able to glimpse happiness, even if through others, and that was good.

  Javier tapped his foot to a lively song and finished his sandwich. A new possibility presented itself. I smiled.

  ***

  As we were finishing our lunch, the sight of a taxi cab outside caught my attention. Javier crumpled his paper bag. I did the same, wondering who would take a taxi to come shopping. I watched down the length of the aisle as a man got out of the cab, paid the driver and headed inside. Only because we shared the same blood did I recognize the bony man.

  Robert!

  He approached, eyes trained on some object above my head, then stopped in front of the register. For an instant, I tried to pretend this person wasn’t my father, but a random customer. He was gaunt, unshaven, a dim version of the man I remembered. But those green eyes! I couldn’t pretend they didn’t look familiar—not when I saw them in the mirror every day.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he said as if he’d just seen me this morning.

  I had imagined this meeting countless times before. The scenarios ranged from breaking down into happy tears to slapping him. Cold indifference had never seemed an option. Yet, I felt nothing.

  “Did you sign the papers?” My words sounded as chilled as I felt. I needed nothing else from him but his signature.

  He blinked slowly and turned his head away. When he opened his eyes, they seemed distant, lost in the vision of a better place. A bar somewhere, no doubt.

  “No. Not yet. I went to the cemetery, then rode a cab here.” He dropped his seabag and rolled his shoulder. Even though he stood six-foot-three, the bag looked bigger than him. He ignored my hostility and went into the shack. For a moment, I hesitated, then anger hit me like a knockout punch, as I’d always imagined it would.

  I followed him. “All you need to do is sign those documents. Then you can go back to Austin. Or whatever city you crawled out of.”

  He approached the wall and peered into the dusty pictures frames. “I was thinking about staying here.” He furrowed his brow at the photo that Faris had altered.

  “Here?” My mouth went dry.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Why would you do that? There’s nothing for you here.”

  Robert ran a hand across his mouth and swallowed as if there wasn’t enough saliva to wet his throat. “Maybe,” he said. “But that’s for me to decide, don’t you think?”

  “I. Don’t. Want. You. Here,” I said between clenched teeth.

  He walked over to the kitchenette, picked up a plastic cup from the drying rack, and filled it to the rim. The water went down his throat in big gulps and a single breath. After finishing, he washed the cup with the soap-squirting brush and set it back. I watched him, seething.

  “I won’t get in the way,” he said, walking back outside.

  “You can’t!” I cried out, finally losing it. “You can’t just barge in after all these years. I don’t need you here. I don’t want you here. How else do you want me to say it?” I stood in the threshold, shaking all over, trying to ignore Javier, who was staring wide-eyed at us.

  “Everything okay, Señorita Mariella?” he asked, looking around, probably for something sharp or blunt.

  Robert walked up to Javier, hand outstretched. “I’m Robert Iris. Arthur Iris was my father. Nice to meet you.”

  Javier looked at his hand warily, then at me. After two awkward seconds, he moved away without returning the greeting. Robert shrugged it off. I inwardly thanked Javier for his solidarity.

  “I’ll be in the back if you need me,” Javier said, giving Robert the evil eye.

  “I guess I’ll go.” Robert picked up his seabag. “I’ll see you later when you’ve had a chance to calm down.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  He turned and walked away. “We can talk later.”

  “We’ve got nothing to talk about.”

  “I’m going home now.”

  “What? No!” I rushed toward him. “I won’t allow it. I won’t.”

  “The house is also mine, Marielle,” he said, still walking, eyes impassive and set on the exit ahead. “Dad left it to both of us to sell it and split the money.”

  I shook my head. The lawyer didn’t say anything about the h
ouse. I just assumed Grandpa had left everything to me, not just the nursery.

  “Fine,” I yelled. “You can have it all if you want, see if I care,” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I wanted to be heard, loud and clear.

  Furious, I ran into the shack. “Faris!” I shouted, looking for a puff of smoke or something that might let me know he was here. “Damn it, where are you?” On my second spin, he’d appeared on the desk chair.

  “You called, Master?”

  “I want . . . I wi . . .”

  “Wait!” In a flash, he stood in front of me, a finger on my lips. “You’re angry.”

  My agitated breath came to a sudden stop. The words died on my lips as my eyes filled with his impossibly handsome face.

  “Take a deep breath and think about what you’re going to do.”

  His voice soothed me. Air filled my lungs.

  “You don’t want to waste a wish like that. You’ll regret it.” He held my gaze. His index finger, still heavy on my mouth, made me think of secrets and truth or dare games.

  Slowly, he slid his finger downward, brushing my lips and stopping on my chin. His chest rose and fell in time with mine. The room spun until it became a blur. I knew I could lose my soul in those dark eyes. In fact, I was doing it now.

  “Marielle,” he whispered.

  Even though my name was but a murmur, heady and full of meaning, the spell broke, shattered by my suspicion. I took a step back. For an instant, he looked as if his most intense desire had eluded him, then his expression closed, giving nothing away.

  More confused than ever, I turned and ran. I wanted to disappear, to leave forever. Taking the spare key from my car’s visor, I started the engine and tore out of the parking lot, determined to leave it all behind.

  14

  As I drove aimlessly, I thought of calling Maven to ask if I could stay in his house for a few days. Then I remembered Samuel’s miraculous recovery and realized that was a bad idea. Things were probably hectic in their house at the moment. Next, I thought of Abby, but that wouldn’t work, either. With two brothers and one sister, her small house was already crowded.

  I considered taking money from the nursery’s register to pay for a hotel, but, after a few calls, it became clear that staying anywhere besides a fleabag motel wasn’t an option—not with Jardin Noir’s crappy cash flow.

  This was ridiculous! I had two wishes, anything my heart desired. Except now, I had gone all righteous and Mother Theresa-like. I could blame helping Samuel for that. I’d done something good today, and seeing Mrs. Mora’s face when she hugged him had been amazing. For once, I hadn’t felt helpless. How could I waste a wish in anger? Faris was right. I would regret it.

  If only I knew Grandpa’s last wish! Had he asked for something for himself? Or had he been selfless until the end? If I wished for money, I could leave New Orleans. But would I outrun the pain that Robert had caused? If I didn’t face my monsters, would I ever be free? No amount of denial or manual labor had made the pain go away. Maybe it was time to face it head on, to stop pretending it didn’t exist. I sighed, knowing it was my only choice.

  So I went home, took a deep breath and opened the door. A delicious aroma welcomed me. My stomach growled in response, and, for a second, I thought Faris was up to his cooking tricks again, but it was Robert.

  “Hey!” He greeted, spoon in hand. “I made spaghetti.”

  My resolve crumbled. “I’m not hungry.” I bounded upstairs to my room and threw my messenger bag on the bed.

  “‘I made spaghetti,’” I mocked. “What does he think? That he can just show up, cook spaghetti, and everything’s okay? Fat chance.”

  I checked the time. 6 P.M. Snatching my phone, I texted Maven.

  “Still on for a movie?”

  While I waited, I surfed the web, scanning headlines.

  Drunken Hollywood star trashes a room at the Plaza Hotel. Old (ancient really) senator dies of a heart attack. College student arrested after slipping the “rape drug” to his girlfriend.

  Scumbag!

  I shut the laptop in disgust as an image of Jeremy popped into my head. I hated him and, after what he’d try to do the other morning, slipping roofies to unwilling girls seemed a likely piece of his sleazy repertoire, just on par with his moral code. I feared for any girl who happened to catch his eye.

  My phone chimed with a new text message.

  “Can’t make it. Family stuff. Friday?”

  I threw the phone on the bed and paced. The sound of the front door opening and closing made me stop in my tracks. I listened. The neighbor’s Terrier barked.

  Tiptoeing, I descended the stairs. A large plastic container full of spaghetti sat on the kitchen table. Pots and utensils, freshly washed, filled the drying rack. It looked as if someone else might be OCD. Through Grandpa’s bedroom door, I saw Robert’s seabag on the floor, but he wasn’t there. I pulled on my shirt and wrung it like a wet dishrag. I felt Mom’s absence—same as five years ago—raw like a fresh wound. She died when I was fourteen. After that, Robert managed to keep it together for barely a month, then started drinking heavily and disappearing in the middle of the night. That was when I learned that alcohol had been an issue for him when he first married Mom, something he got and kept under control after I was born. But Mom’s departure undid it all, and he started up again. It was an overnight change. I hardly recognized him, and, as much as it hurt, the times he’d drop me off here to stay with Grandpa, and didn’t come back for several days were a blessing. At least it was better than being left home all alone and having to call Grandpa the next morning.

  The taste of loneliness suddenly filled my mouth.

  A name burned on my tongue, but I bit it. I wouldn’t call Faris. Even if he could be here right this second to erase this oppressive stillness. I smoothed my shirt, put the pasta in the refrigerator and counted ten steps as I went back to my room. I locked the door, picked up a book and tried to read in bed. The words on the page wavered as tears pooled in my eyes. I rolled to one side, stuffed a pillow between my legs and hugged the paperback to my chest.

  I stared at a fixed point on the door, blinking and staining my pillowcase with mascara. Where had Robert gone? Would he come back? Did I want him to? The truth was, I didn’t. I couldn’t take his drunken sobs, Mom’s mournful name on his lips and the thousand excuses and apologies the morning after, not even when my only other choice was loneliness.

  I let sleep steal me away.

  In my dreams, a black cat—face mocking as a Cheshire nightmare with many pointed teeth—jumped onto my bed and brushed a furry tail across my closed eyes. I ordered it to take its yellow eyes off me and go away. Instead, the cat purred and made itself comfortable at my feet. Ignoring the queasy feeling in my gut, I let it stay, enjoying its softness and warmth. After a minute, the cat’s head popped up, its jaws widening in an impossibly long grin.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” the cat said and flicked its tongue in an obscene gesture. Unnerved, I kicked at the beast and sent it sprawling on the floor.

  I sat, panting, the echo of a thump still ringing in my ears. My chest pumped harder than at the end of a five-mile run with Maven. I listened and had started lowering my head to peer under the bed when a light knock at the door made me pull back. My heart thudded against the paperback, as I hugged it tightly.

  “It’s just me,” Faris said. “May I come in?”

  I flung the paperback at the door in the same instant as the door opened. He caught the book as it was about to hit him square in the nose. “Nice to see you, Faris. How do you do?” He ambled in.

  “You scared me!” I tried to get my heart rate back under control. It wasn’t fair to take my anger out on Faris, but he was infuriating. “The door was locked. That should give you a hint.” I glared at him, but the sight of his tailored suit ruined the withering look I was going for. He stopped at the foot of the bed, looking like a Hollywood star ready for camera flashes to dazzle him.

  He read t
he book cover. “Madame Bovary? Are you a glutton for torture?”

  I tried to find a clever answer, but the half-unbuttoned black shirt under his shiny gray suit showed just enough chest to be distracting. “Um . . . that’s Gustave Flaubert’s masterpiece. What do you know?” I sounded half eloquent, which was better than nothing.

  “And you like it?” he asked.

  Masterpiece or not, I hated the book. I’d been on a kick, reading classics, just so I could say I’d read them, but getting through most of them was true torture.

  “Yeah, I like it.”

  “You’re a bad liar.” He walked to my night table and placed the book there. I was about to argue, but he cut me off. “So . . .” He let the word linger. “What happened to your . . . date?”

  I got out of bed, sat at my desk and opened the laptop. I needed a distraction from those fierce, searching eyes. “Still spying on me, I see. Charming. I thought I asked you to stay out of my personal life. It’s not your business.”

  “Well, I could make it my business if . . . you let me take you out,” he said seductively.

  I turned my gaze on Faris, surprised by his tone. When our eyes locked, though, he wore a business-like expression, totally at odds with what I’d heard.

  “Uh . . . no, thank you.” I switched my attention back to the computer screen, but the words on the browser evaded me.

  “Instead, you’d rather sit here and mope,” he said.

  “Mope?” I stood and closed the laptop. “I wasn’t moping. And how would you know what I was doing? Unless you’re always spying on me . . . you perv.” I was trying to be mean, but my own comment made my face go hot. I kept imagining him watching me when I changed clothes or bathed, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “It’s nothing like that,” he said simply.

  I felt foolish. For all I knew, Djinn were like . . . eunuchs or something. A strange wave of disappointment hit me. I collapsed on the chair.

  “What is it like then?” I wanted to know.

  “I’m . . . concerned about you.” He sat on the bed.

  “Concerned, huh? Is that in your job description?”