by J. C. Welker
Something sharp touched Rebel’s spine and a voice said, “Oi? Password?”
Passwords. Thieves and cons loved them.
“Furuncle Ferret,” she answered.
The voice snickered. “Nope.”
“Excuse me?”
“Password’s changed.”
Rebel sighed. The beasties loved toying with her. “Pike, you know who I am. Remove the blade or I’ll pop you like a boil.”
With a grumble, the sharp object was withdrawn from her back.
She turned to the sight of Pike, swathed in black with a shock of brown hair atop his head. Three other figures resembling human-sized tarantulas moved about the ceiling rafters. One by one, they dropped to the floor, and the figures straightened up, becoming young thieves. One male, two females, and a Pike.
“Fingersmith.” Pike gave a roused grin. “Liberate anything for the club?”
“Nothing you could handle,” Rebel said. “Jaxon here?”
Pike pointed his dagger up at the stairs. “Training with his treasures.”
As Rebel followed the crew up the stairwell, the steps vibrated the closer they came to the top, due to the pounding music coming from the soundproofed main room of the house. Once Pike drew back the steel doors, voices mixed with beats reached her ears, and she entered the room to an endless wealth of mischief and a carnival of teenagers.
A metal furnace occupied the center room, puffing out warmth. Bunk beds lined the walls. Stolen rugs covered the rundown floorboards, where more young thieves lounged, playing music, draping themselves on stolen sofas, playing stolen games on an enormous television, while others were arranging boxes of “merchandise” for their business.
Once they noticed Rebel’s presence, some stiffened a little and curious eyes wavered, as her reputation preceded her. She had heard the hearsay and rumors often enough. The Fingersmith’s hands were part mechanical. The Fingersmith obtained her special touch from the devil. A single brush of her fingers could unlock a soul. Or the other rumor that changed each time it was repeated. At fourteen years old, she had shot a man. Even if it were true. Even if it were by blind luck, self-defense, and the pimp hadn’t died. It still gave cause to her reputation. To not meddle with the Fingersmith.
Pike led her farther toward the back, coming upon the training room. Thin mattresses padded the walls, and a ruckus of voices were within. Rebel leaned against the doorframe, watching. A few others had gathered, taking in the techniques as Jaxon sparred with Basil, one of the newest Freebooters. He was thick-necked, twice as tall as Jaxon, and didn’t possess a lick of talent.
Jaxon dodged a fist. “Come on, Biggey, put those massive shoulders into it.”
Another swing and miss. Hair fell into Jaxon’s russet eyes, forever filled with mischief. He was every inch the vulpine rumor claimed him to be, from the way he moved his limbs, to his symbolic jacket of many colors trimmed in foxtails. He had been in every dark corner of the city, every hideout, every club run by the biggest boss and lowliest goon, as his father used to be embroiled in the mafia.
Keeping his stance engaged, once more Basil swung. Jaxon sidestepped, swirling around the big boy, and gave him a slap to the back as if it were an invisible knife. “If this were real,” Jaxon said, “you’d be pushing up daisies right now.”
The group applauded.
Though Jaxon lived by a code, or so they liked to believe, this was his business: rescuing guttersnipes to educate them on the dos and don’ts of surviving. He was the information man, sniffing out things to steal and sending others to snatch it. Which translated into passing along lockpick tricks, running street cons and shell games, turning them into professional thieves. Stealing from the well-off for when their stomachs twisted in hunger. Protecting the boys from dealing, protecting the girls from being trafficked.
The Freebooter’s hideout was home to all manner of hodgepodge objects and orphans. The “lost children” of street kids. And Jaxon became the Pan to their Neverland.
Once the training room dispersed, Jaxon patted Basil on the shoulder. The boy glared, upset, but moved on to spar with a prettier Freebooter. Siblings came to offer Jaxon his usual items he required—Fani handing him a cup of tea and Fadil lit a cigarette for him.
“You know, those things will be having you pushing up daisies,” Rebel voiced.
A smile enveloped Jaxon’s face once he saw her. “Well, well. The Queen of Thieves has graced us with her presence,” he said. “Enjoy the show?”
She chuckled. “You’re like an awful mother hen to them.”
“The beasties see me as more of a savant.” Jaxon winked. With a cigarette in one hand and a teacup in the other, he ushered Rebel into his private office. Another out-of-place looking room occupied with posh furnishings, big-ticket electronics, and just about any object you could dream up. He leaned against his desk littered with pirated treasures. “So, where, pray tell, has the ever elusive Fingersmith been?”
“Trying to be ever elusive.” She let out a breath.
“Aren’t you a sight, love. You look worse than a drenched cat with emphysema.” He glanced over her bruised cheek and the bandage poking out of her torn jacket. “Did your fingers mysteriously find their way into something that bit back?”
“You could say that,” she said, worried over voicing what all she’d experienced. “Skinner hasn’t contacted you, has he?”
Jaxon shrugged, but his expression turned to displeasure. “He’s rung several times, but I’ve been busy the last few days. Had to make up for the loot a Fingersmith promised me.” He waved a hand in the air. “I thought we made a deal when you hawked that treasure?”
“Yeah, about that.” She withdrew the vase from her satchel, her grip gentle as not to disturb Anjeline within. “It’s not exactly an object for sale.”
Rebel told him everything. Told him how she’d wished her entire life, how fate had bestowed the vase into her hands, and then rushed through the last few days. Skinner’s dragons. Lycanthropes hunting her across Piccadilly Circus into the tunnels. Madame Gramone’s witchy ways. And now, how some Prince of the underneath had every foul creature tracking her for the Wishmaker.
At last, she spoke of Anjeline.
When Rebel did, she found her pulse racing, sensing the heat of the vase in her palm. “She’s a real, tangible jinni… She’s pure fire and light, bringing out the god-light of every color around you…” Rebel said, a little too dreamily, and remembered Anjeline could perceive everything outside the vessel’s confinement.
“Calm down, Shakespeare.” Jaxon cleared his throat, mulling everything over, and put out his cigarette. “Are you telling me someone finally trapped the untrappable Fingersmith?”
“Technically, no. As you can see, I’m free.” She glanced down at herself, not mentioning the wish that had saved her, hoping if she ignored it, the price wouldn’t come.
Jaxon eyed the vase in her hands. “Did Skinner witness this—Wishmaker?”
“Not exactly. He was too occupied trying to melt my face off.”
“And Gramone? Did she tail you?”
Rebel shook her head. He poured himself another cup of tea but didn’t seem disturbed. In fact, he appeared passive. She squinted at him, questions cramming against other questions. “Did you know whose apartment that belonged to before you got me involved?”
Up went one of his brows. “Your words sound awfully skeptical.”
“As skeptical as yours. Just wondering how you knew about the safe.”
“How else do I find my targets? Overheard it from a little birdie. Thieves don’t go around discussing how to purloin a…jinni.” His eyes rolled skyward and he chuckled. “‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’” It was an English proverb, meaning wishing was useless or even the lowliest vagabond would have everything they desired. Jaxon, the perpetual skeptic, wasn’t one to believe in magic or pin his faith on fate, not when untold kids had been kicked to the unforgiving streets.
“You don’t
believe me, do you?”
Jaxon ran a hand through his curls and brought the teacup to his lips. “It’s a lot to take in, love. Knitted dragons come to life, werewolves living in the Tube tunnels, witches managing an Institute, and such. You sure it’s not a sign of your pills playing with your head?”
She glared with dignity. “Don’t be rude. I know I don’t look well.”
The passiveness on his face faded, replaced by a curious light. “If it’s true, then let’s see a little magic.” He gestured to the vase. “Show me your Wishmaker.”
Rebel’s insides warmed. “She’ll take your breath away.”
Chapter Fourteen
Before Anjeline felt the rub, she sensed Rebel’s aura.
The weight of it wrapped around the vase, and a heartbeat filled her core with the pulse in Rebel’s fingertips. Able to feel the touch of will still burning from the wish cast in the basement. And it baffled Anjeline. She could tell much from someone’s wish. Their words. Most thought theirs through, counting out each one carefully, while others had started wars that killed nations before another wish could end it. But of all the words, all the wishes Rebel could’ve cast, to be powerful, to possess magic of her own…she hadn’t. She’d merely wished for their safety. Never had Anjeline experienced a will as strong as hers. Well, not since you, Solomon.
And as the rub came, heat rose in her core, shivering up her spine. Answering to the call, she coiled into smoke, slithered out of the vase’s opening, and reshaped into a girl.
Now she met the enchanted faces of two thieves.
Specs of silver danced in Rebel’s wonder-filled eyes, as they had the first time Anjeline emerged. Almost endearing. “God-light of every color?” she repeated smugly.
“Oh, hush.” Rebel folded her arms, but appeared flushed. There was something quite satisfying in teasing her, seeing what reaction would come.
The other thief’s face slackened in awe, then he let out a howl of laughter. “I simply don’t believe it.” He circled Anjeline and his foxlike gaze cruised her figure. “Aren’t you something,” he purred, touching her hair.
“Hands off, fox.” Anjeline swatted him away.
Rebel’s eyebrows inched closer together, as if they were daggers. “She’s not an object you can steal, Jax.”
Even so, Anjeline knew putting a shiny treasure not meant to be stolen before a thief could be a particular kind of cruelty. Jaxon sat against his desk, stockpiled with illegal paraphernalia, and stared at her, blinking occasionally. “She’s a wish granting genie, you say?”
Her insides smoldered. “Jinni.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“No.” Rebel shook her head.
“It’s not that hard to pronounce.” Anjeline canted her chin.
The fox’s eyes fluttered from Rebel to her, attempting to wake himself up from some fantasy he probably thought he was having. He slowly reached for the vase. “May I examine—”
If her scowl could kill, he would be gasping his last breath.
Rebel chuckled but said, “Don’t worry, her glare isn’t lethal.”
“At least not that you know of.” His grin glowed prettily under the lamplight, striking in a way which must have gotten him out of countless conflicts.
Jabbering noises drifted from outside the club and for an instant, Anjeline was reminded of her own Jinn tribe, a mishmash of ifrits and marids. Her kin, Sinvad, birthed from the same breath of fire, used to tease her in the same manner, in his constant brotherliness. Until things changed and I befriended Solomon. She eyeballed this Jaxon with undisguised suspicion.
A hand brushed against hers. “It’s all right, Anjeline,” Rebel said.
At the use of her name, her essence tickled. It often did that when she was irritated, or vexed, or encountered anything that resembled feelings. She gave a nod, though releasing a huff of displeasure, a sign of how she disliked this plan. But for whatever reason, she’d agreed to it, ignoring Madrath’s rules. Never trust a human. Yet their three-day train jaunt had only confused her more about Rebel. Whereas she relied on logic and weighing truths, Rebel relied on feelings and intuition. They were opposites and yet entirely similar.
With a mournful look, Rebel handed him the vase. “Just—don’t rub it.”
The moment the vessel met his fingers, Anjeline grimaced, sensing the shift of possession transfer from her to him. The imprint of this Jaxon felt weak compared to Rebel’s, and she prayed he knew nothing of wishes.
Jaxon withdrew a magnifying glass from a desk drawer and then examined the vessel as desire took shape in his gaze. She knew how human hearts worked. Seen that look before in those who were ruined due to their hunger. Since she first entered this bandits club and laid eyes on him, her unease had grown. The fox was, after all, as much a criminal as those they’d been up against. And he was a bad omen waiting to happen.
She would not be charmed by a human. At least not that one. As his fingers ran over the vase, Anjeline’s irritation flared in a violent surge of heat. Her eyes turned predator-like, and she contorted and sharpened her features, trying her hardest to change but couldn’t. Rebel nudged her and whispered, “What’s wrong with your face?”
“I’m trying to shift into leopard form to bite his fingers off.” She scowled at Rebel ready to bite her in betrayal.
“Don’t leer at me because he’s curious. He’s the best bet we have right now.”
When had they become a we? “Another one who’ll have possession over my freedom?”
“A good one.” Rebel regarded her with a certain look—it was that look. She was beginning to learn Rebel’s little habits, like the way her eyes glinted for just a moment with that expression, one of gentleness. “Trust me,” she added. “Isn’t that the strongest virtue?”
“Actually, it’s gentleness.”
Rebel quirked one brow. “Gentle is my…”
“Middle name. I’m aware.” Anjeline’s lips curled.
She wasn’t sure when she’d joined together into a cohesive “we” with who Madrath would’ve called the enemy. Stranger things have happened than a Jinn allying oneself with a human, Sinvad used to say. Stranger things had happened than a Jinn allying oneself with not one, but two. She’d become so used to being controlled by those possessing her for their desires, that Rebel’s kindness confused her. A reminder that her belief from long ago was still there despite its damage. And if she was to stand a chance of breaking her imprisonment, she needed all the support she could get.
“Fine. But I don’t like him touching it. I prefer your touch,” Anjeline said, pretending not to know the deeper meaning her words held, but enjoyed the reaction it produced.
Rebel’s ears flushed pink. She fumbled forward, yanking the vessel back from the fox, and her life force hummed against it again. The human was too easy.
“So? Thoughts?” Rebel asked him.
With hands now empty, Jaxon’s face wrinkled in disappointment. “Let me get this straight—You, who knows nothing about magic, is trying to find a way to magically free her?”
“Frightening, isn’t it?” Rebel smiled.
“Isn’t it.” Anjeline muffled a laugh, amazed that a smile triggered something in her.
His curious gaze glanced between them. “Tell me about this magical offering. Have you already tried offering goods to the jinni? Hmm?” He bumped Rebel’s arm. “One doesn’t get the name Fingersmith for nothing.”
They cast him twin dirty looks.
“Magic isn’t a lock anyone can open,” Anjeline stated. “It must be specific.”
“Specific?” He leaned closer to her. “So how does your magic work? Clearly it’s not to aid those starving-to-death mortals in need?”
“Jax, she’s bound.” Rebel’s voice came out hard. “And you’re one to talk. Just looking around your club could unravel someone’s moral fiber.”
“Happiness doesn’t come cheap.” He shrugged. “But she claims better?”
Rebel pushed her bo
ot into his shin to shut his muzzle, aware of the drama about to unfold. Irritation tugged at the corners of Anjeline’s mouth, and she imagined lunging across the room in cat form or choking him with her indestructible hair. But this was Rebel’s ally. Perhaps a brotherly figure, as Sinvad had been.
Instead, Anjeline clenched her smoky insides and said, “Jinn can only enter the Steelworld when summoned by a magician to do their bidding. For all your concern for those who suffer, where are your stolen items going? Surely not to them?”
Jaxon’s lips curled but he said nothing. He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled chin before looking to Rebel. “It’s still a bit strange. The better question is, now you possess the jinni, and yet you haven’t cast your wish?”
Hatred rippled along Anjeline’s skin for that word.
It must have shown because Rebel inched closer, giving him a wretched look. “We have a contract. Not to mention, wishes come with consequences,” she said, not informing him of the wish she’d cast in the basement.
Guilt nudged Anjeline, the tiny part of her softness left over from centuries before. Knowing the price yet to come must have scared Rebel too much to voice. A wish she wouldn’t have cast if it hadn’t been for Anjeline. For that, she thought, the price has to be less severe. Perhaps Rebel’s persistent stomachache?
“Consequences?” Jaxon’s pointed brows lifted. “Have you seen them come about? Because in the legends I know, the Jinn are tricky beings.”
“Then why am I the one captive? As Dalil of Prophets, I could scorch you to the bone if I wished.” Anjeline grinned, letting smoke stream between her lips, and he lurched back. Still, it is true. Rebel hadn’t yet seen the price of a wish play out, though it didn’t mean Anjeline had lied to her. At least not about that.
Jaxon hummed in question. “So we should put our trust in magic like dear Rebel? And when you’re a free jinni, will she receive her wish, or will you devour her heart—”
“Jax.” Rebel sighed. “Not helpful.”
“That’s the problem with your world.” Anjeline glanced through the slats of the office’s window at the young faces busy at work. “It thrives on the magical yet fails to trust magic exists, or that someone could offer something without wanting anything in return.” Her voice grew soft and low, as though for Rebel’s ears only.
