“Your sentimentalism is sickening.”
So she had followed me.
“Only second to your brutality,” I said.
She stood next to me, and with satisfaction, looked upon the destruction her pet had caused. There was a splashing sound in the lake’s water, a fish, a large trout. The wind blew from the north, bringing a brackish scent with it.
“A conscience is useless,” she said. “Everyone acts in their best interest. What is the use of guilt after it has all been said and done?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. It was true. I had acted in my best interest to keep Marielle safe. Did it matter that I hadn’t killed anyone? Those who had died on the riverboat and the two Eritrean men should be on Akeelah and Andy’s consciences, not mine. And yet . . . what lay on my conscience was bigger than that. I had shown her how to make Djinn, and if she managed to figure out how to make one like Zet, humanity was doomed.
So guilt burrowed deep inside of me, dwarfed only by the immense love I felt for that beautiful human girl whose green eyes haunted my every waking moment.
“Go and find her,” Akeelah said. “Take your prize and relish it,” a mocking remark. “Neither one of you is of any use to me anymore.”
The wind picked up, whipping my hair into my eyes. Akeelah floated toward the lake on a turbulent funnel cloud. When she reached the water, a whirlpool formed on the surface. She waved a black hand with a flourish and sank slowly into the lake until the black waters swallowed her.
My fists clenched.
What have I done?
Defeat pinned itself to my chest and shone like a badge.
29
Marielle
The shepherd guy walked up the small hill without waiting to see if we followed. I eyed my friends to gauge their mood. Maven looked uneasy, but Abby just shrugged and followed the guy like she was one of his sheep.
Hesitantly, I started for the hill, my eyes dancing between the BMW and the shepherd’s back. Maybe following him wasn’t a great idea, but going around in circles wasn’t an option either. We would run out of gas before long, and I hadn’t seen any service stations nearby.
For good measure, I aimed the fob toward the car and pressed the lock button. The headlights flashed accompanied by a satisfying beep.
“I guess we can go to the top of the hill to see where he’s headed,” I said.
“I guess,” Maven said. “Beats driving around aimlessly, if one forgets the rifle.”
I started walking. “Yeah, the GPS was useless.”
“If the guy didn’t live in the boonies, it might’ve worked.”
Up ahead, Abby stopped to wait for us. When we reached her, she asked, “You think this dude works for the doctor?”
The shepherd was only a few paces ahead.
“I don’t know, but I don’t like him.” Maven threw the man a nasty look and seemed to shiver, probably remembering the feeling of having a rifle pointed at his back.
“He was just defending his sheep. Someone had the great idea of messing with them.” Abby picked a wildflower, put it in her hair and gave Maven a huge smile.
Maven scoffed.
“What else was I supposed to do? You dared me.” Abby batted her eyelashes. “Besides, if we want to find out how to stop Akeelah, we can’t keep driving around like idiots.”
Ahead, the shepherd came to a sudden stop, as if perking up to Abby’s comment. I frowned, wondering if he could understand us. But when his expression flashed from attentiveness to indifference, I decided he probably couldn’t.
As he waited for us to reach the crest of the hill, he hung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled out a long, brown cigarette from the inside of his vest. After striking a match and lighting his weird death-stick, he pointed at something down the hidden slope.
“Allá,” he said and started walking again.
I hurried my pace and reached the crest of the hill. The wind blew my hair against my eyes. I pulled the few rogue strands away and blinked at the sight on the other side. A large, stone cottage lay about a hundred yards away. It was surrounded by a three-foot stone wall with moss growing at its base. The place was old and beautiful, something from another era, or a fairy tale. Its walls were the color of desert sand with green vines creeping up one side. The windows were flanked by quaint, weathered shutters. Red clay tiles were stacked like domino pieces on the roof, and a wrought iron balcony overflowing with potted flowers hovered above massive double front doors that stood ajar.
The shepherd was halfway there by the time we hesitantly descended to the grassy field. When he got there, he propped his rifle against the outside wall. An involuntary sigh of relief escaped me. He probably had an arsenal inside, but still. As he walked into the cottage, a large, shaggy dog ran out to greet him. Eyes buried behind a curtain of curly black hair, the dog jerked its head and growled defiantly when it noticed us, but it quickly stood down at a stern word from the man.
I huddled closer to my friends, imagining the size of its teeth.
“What a pretty dog,” Abby said, offering her hand for it to sniff.
“You’re crazy,” Maven said. “I bet you’d ride a rhino given the right circumstances.”
“No kidding,” I said.
The dog licked the side of her hand and wagged its tail. “Yeah, and you’re probably the sort that would kill Bambi.” She stuck her tongue out at Maven.
The dog stepped aside and let us through the door. We stopped past the threshold, looking around for the shepherd. He had disappeared into the house. We stood in a receiving room with stone walls and exposed wooden beams overhead. The surface of the rust-colored tiles underfoot shone, reflecting the light that came from outside. Oil paintings with gilded frames hung from the walls. A tall grandfather clock ticked in one corner, looking regal and very old.
A noise from the room to the right drew us into an expansive library. My eyes traveled the length of the sixteen-foot tall walls and marveled at the size of the bookshelves lining them. I loved the place instantly. The smell of books, the muted light, the many Persian rugs layered on top of one another, the comfortable-looking armchairs. Everything.
The shepherd stood by a table on the far end, pouring himself a drink in a crystal glass.
“So what brings you kids to Spain? And looking for me, no less?” he asked in a weird Spanish/British accent.
I exchanged confused glances with my friends.
“You mean you’re Doctor Gallardo?” I asked.
“The one and only.” He sat on a black leather wingback chair, crossed his leg and took a sip of his amber-colored drink. “Well, don’t just stand there looking like . . . Americans.” The way he said the word, it sounded as if he meant idiots.
“Hey!” Abby protested.
“So far I have to say I’m impressed with Spanish hospitality,” Maven said, sounding as if he meant rudeness.
Doctor Gallardo ignored him and fixed his eyes on me.
“Explain yourself or Dario,” he petted the dog which had come to lay at the foot of his chair, “will have to show you out. He’s a good dog. Trained to obey all my commands.” He smiled at the animal who seemed to smile back in agreement.
“Um, we came to ask you some questions.”
Doctor Gallardo turned the glass in his hand, intent on the way the liquid swirled inside. “Never heard of a telephone? Or post?”
Maven snorted. “Have you?”
The doctor glared at Maven, then leaned slightly toward the dog.
I elbowed my friend and sent him a silent message to leave the conversation to me. I took a step forward. “We tried the phone but got no answer. Mail would have taken too long.”
“And what is so important that you would come all the way to Besalú?” He tipped the glass to his mouth and, with one quick jerk of his head, drained it.
I figured there was no use beating around the bush. Doctor Gallardo was an Islam and Persian studies expert. Even if he didn’t believe my story, he might
still be interested in listening, if only out of curiosity.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I was hoping you could tell me how to destroy a Djinn.”
30
Akeelah
“Andy has ceased to be useful,” Akeelah said from behind the cloak of invisibility.
Frank Angello jumped back from the documents he was reviewing, jerked a hand to one of the desk’s drawers and looked around, eyes wild.
Akeelah took shape within the shadows in the furthest corner of his office and ordered the gloom to recede. Frank glared as she took a step forward.
“How did you get in?” he asked, index finger on the trigger of the gun inside his drawer.
Hips swaying from side to side, she approached, wearing the same guise she had used in the casino. “I require two of your men—preferably of no scruples, willing to follow orders unquestioningly, willing to kill.” She had two tasks and both required the spillage of blood.
“Where’s Andy?” Frank asked.
“Summon them here. Immediately.”
Frank stood abruptly. “How dare you come into my office and order me around? This has gone too far. Leave now. Or not at all.” He slid his hand out of the drawer and placed the gun on the desk.
Why were theatrics always necessary to get the attention of humans?
With a flick of her hand, she released a gust of wind that blew a stack of papers off the desk and ruffled Frank’s hair. Confused, he stepped back. Akeelah blinked in and out of the physical world and positioned herself directly behind him.
He started, tried to turn around, but she snaked an arm around his neck and held him close, wishing she could squeeze a little harder. She settled for a harmless, but immobilizing headlock, and spoke seductively into his ear.
“Oh, Frank, there’s so much you have to learn. You’re fortunate I’m in the mood to teach you.”
She let him go. The gun magically flew from the desk into her hand. She twirled it like an expert marksman, then pointed it straight at Frank’s head.
He stared, too shocked to do or say anything. After a moment, he shook himself, as if waking from a bad dream. His eyes moved left to right, looking for an answer to what had happened or, perhaps, for an escape. It was a toss-up.
With a flick of her finger, she removed the gun’s safety. The revolver held six bullets. Fear flashed in Frank’s eyes. She savored it, her essence tasting its sweetness.
As her finger slowly applied pressure to the trigger, she expected him to beg. He didn’t—not even as his fear became a pulsing force louder than his thumping heart.
There was a hollow click as the hammer tapped on the bullet. Frank let out a pent-up breath, and his jaw fell open. Akeelah flipped the chamber open and let the unspent bullets slide out. They hit the desk with an almost musical quality.
“You should be dead. Shouldn’t you?” she asked with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.
She threw the empty gun to the floor and walked around the desk. The walls moved counterclockwise, following her. Frank collapsed into his chair, gripped the armrests with deathly force and watched the north wall become the west wall.
Still sashaying her hips, Akeelah walked to the painting that had been behind Frank’s desk just a second ago. Without touching it, she made the oil canvas—an abstract depiction of a pond—fly across the room, revealing a hidden combination safe. She lifted a hand and wiggled her fingers. The dial on the safe turned, then the door popped open, exposing four stacks of cash.
“Umm, what do we have here? Is this yours?” she asked skeptically.
Frank’s face was red in a mixture of awe, fear and rage. He didn’t answer the question.
“Is this your money?” She paused, considering. “Your dirty money?!” Akeelah exclaimed as if she was appalled by its existence and the means by which Frank had acquired it. “It must be purified.” he took a step closer.
Frank shot to his feet. “Don’t touch that!”
In spite of herself, she admired his bold stance. Most humans would have soiled themselves at this point in her theatrics. She watched him closely. The fear was slowly draining from his expression, leaving nothing but rage. Apparently, money meant more to him than his own safety.
“I suppose I can help you cleanse it. Fire is very helpful in these circumstances.” She moved her hands in an intricate pattern, then lit her fingertips on fire, letting them glow like a candelabra. With wicked satisfaction, she wiggled her fire-tipped nails at Frank, then redirected them toward the money.
“STOP!” Frank cried out, just as she released a ball of orange-red fire. The scorching projectile traveled into the safe, igniting it contents and incinerating everything to fine ash in a split second.
“Oh.” Akeelah painted an innocent expression on her face. “I think I overdid it. You probably need that back, don’t you?”
Frank’s gaze was fixed on the smoking safe, fists trembling at his sides.
“I think I can help with that, too.” Akeelah whirled her hands again, this time aiming them at the desk. A pile of money appeared next to Frank’s box of Cuban cigars. It was considerably larger than the one the safe had held.
Frank’s eyes shifted between the money and Akeelah as his manicured hand reached for a stack of bills. Hesitantly, he picked it up, turned it around and examined it closely
“What . . . what are you?” he asked.
“I told you. Your worst nightmare. Or . . . your dream come true. It is at your sole discretion to decide which.”
Akeelah abandoned her reduced human form and stretched to her preferred height of seven feet. She allowed her brown skin to darken to the purest obsidian, and reclaimed her hooked nose, prominent chin and pointed ears. Lastly, her white hair stretched down to her knees and revolved around her as if stirred by a small storm.
“I’m a Djinn,” she pronounced, letting her pervasive, knee-weakening essence flow forth.
To his credit, Frank stood his ground, though a hitch in his breath proved even the most cold-hearted of men weren’t cold-hearted enough for her.
“I will repeat myself only once, so listen carefully,” she began. “If you don’t abide by my wishes, you will face the consequences of my wrath. I require two of your most unscrupulous men. Summon them immediately.”
Frank swallowed, lips quivering with fury. He didn’t move or say anything.
“Unless,” she added, “you are willing to kill for me.”
His mouth twisted in distaste.
“I didn’t think so. It would be a shame to soil your flawless manicure, would it not?” she grinned, then barked her order one last time.
Frank hesitated only for another instant, then picked up his telephone and dialed.
Two men arrived within fifteen minutes.
31
Marielle
At the word Djinn, Doctor Gallardo’s mouth twisted as if he’d tasted a rotten lemon. He stood and deposited his empty glass on a coaster on the desk.
“Have you come here to mock me? To harass me? Is that it?” Doctor Gallardo barked, his lips upturned under his thick, gray mustache.
“Mock you? Nothing like that,” I said, confused.
“No?” he asked sarcastically.
“Of course not.”
“How to destroy a Djinn?!” He repeated my question with disdain. “Leave, before you regret ever coming here!” His voice was a low rumble, a mean threat that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Abby and Maven stepped back. I took a deep breath and stayed put. I hadn’t come all this way to give up so easily. I didn’t know how many more words I’d be allowed before the doctor sicced his dog on us, but I wasn’t going to waste any of them.
“My inheritance from my grandfather was a Djinn,” I started. “His name is Faris, and he was trapped in an ancient Sumerian stone tablet. I released him. He granted me three wishes. I broke the spell that bound him to the stone and now he’s free.” The words rushed out of my mouth in one breath.
One
of the doctor’s eyes twitched and narrowed to a slit. “Who put you up to this?” he demanded.
“No one. I found you through an internet search. I looked for an expert in Persian and Islam folklore. Every article pointed to you. I called Oxford and begged your assistant until he gave me your telephone number.”
“He’s not my assistant. No más.” He grabbed the empty glass and began tapping it against the desk with unsettling force, so much that I feared it might shatter at any moment. Apparently the man had some serious resentment issues.
After a drawn out moment, he let the glass alone and sat back on his wingback chair. “Let me play along for a second here,” he said. “Why do you want to destroy your supposed Djinn?” His brows released a bit. A good sign. He was giving me an in, and I had to make the most of it.
“Faris isn’t the one I’d like to destroy. He’s only a half Djinn, and all he wants is to be human again.”
“Plus, he’s her boyfriend,” Abby put in.
I gave her a pointed frown.
Abby shrugged sheepishly. “What?”
Doctor Gallardo pushed to the edge of the chair.
Abby let out a sigh and threw herself on a loveseat. “I guess we’re in for the long haul.”
“The one I want to destroy is a true Djinn,” I continued. “She wants to take over the world. She’s evil.”
“And this Faris, you say he wants to be human again?” Almost all skepticism was gone from the doctor’s manner, and his eyes were beginning to glow with genuine curiosity.
“Yes. He was turned into a Djinn by a magus. He was Persian and lived under Cyrus the Great’s empire. My great-grandfather won the stone table in a poker game while he was stationed in Morocco during World War II. Faris was trapped inside of it.”
“Do you have the tablet? Can I see it?” The doctor asked, his voiced charged with an odd intensity.
“She does,” Abby said, inspecting the chipped nail polished on her right hand. “But Faris’s evil Djinn brother ended up in there instead.”
Two Hearts Asunder (Djinn Empire Book 2) Page 19
