by Jim Butcher
“So, Dr. Sargara says you need information about the jinn.” Dr. Hariri stared up at her, eyes narrowed. “For work. What exactly do you do?”
Vicki handed him her card. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Vicki Nelson. Otherworldly crimes a specialty? You believe a jinn has committed a crime?”
She shrugged. “Client confidentiality, Dr. Hariri. I don’t judge.” She could get the information and leave him unaware they’d ever spoken, but she’d rather add a new member to her HR team.
“I see.” He tapped his upper lip with a finger, then shrugged. “What exactly do you need to know?”
She pulled the lamp out of an old backpack and set it on Dr. Hariri’s desk. “How to get one back into one of these.”
“That’s not . . .” As his fingers touched the handle, he froze and leaned forward, expression shifting from dismissive to awe. “Where did you get this?”
“My client found it at a charity yard sale.”
“The inscription isn’t Arabic. It’s Aramaic. The lamp itself looks Assyrian, so that would put it post–Babylonian conquest, sometime between 605 and 612 B.C., which, if I’m right—and I may not be, of course; we’d have to do testing—this could be among the oldest Aramaic inscriptions ever found. Do you have any idea how incredible this is?”
She thought of her empty office. Of Amy in her plastic bag. Of a triangular piece of glass. “Incredible is one word for it. Can you translate the inscription?”
“Probably, but not off the top of my head. You’d need to leave it with me.” Attention locked on the lamp, he slid it across his desk. “Something like this will take time. I’ll have to consult—”
“Dr. Hariri.”
He met her gaze. Wet his lips. His breath slipped in and out, fast and shallow.
“Get it translated as soon as possible.” Without breaking eye contact, she tapped the card on his desk as she stood. “Call me the moment you have a result.”
A new club out in Parkdale meant new business opportunities, so Vicki headed west for a bite to eat. Club drugs were mostly Ecstasy, meth, and LSD, but she found an entrepreneur also selling Rohypnol and led him into the dark corner between the back of a public parking lot and the rear wall of the club.
Nostrils flared, she leaned in closer to the pulse in his throat as he pulled a leather card case out of his pocket. Few dealers used. He smelled clean.
He barely bothered to fake a smile. “So, just the candy, or can I interest you in something else?”
Her smile was completely sincere.
The smell of fresh urine overwhelmed the stale residue at the base of the wall.
She left him propped against the fender of a Buick—Mike was right; Buick was funnier than Toyota—missing his drugs, his cash, and any desire to continue in the same business. He’d probably shake the compulsion in a day or two, but he’d see her in his nightmares for a while, and that might be enough.
In turn, she’d have to deal with the addicting taste of his terror. Make sure it was entirely out of her system before she fed like this again. Giving in to that darkness would lead to loss of self and eventually torches and stakes, and she wouldn’t do that to Mike.
When he di—
When she los—
Later, she’d have to fight to stay on this side of the light.
“You okay?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” When Mike’s brows rose, she smiled the most human smile she had left, the one she saved for him. “Don’t worry; I ate emergency rations.”
“Dave says Amy Shaw hasn’t been home.”
“Smooth segue.” He understood he couldn’t supply all her needs, but he didn’t want to hear the details. Which was fortunate, as she had no intention of telling him. “Do you remember anything yet?”
“Not a damned thing. Doc says I might never get the memories back.” His grip on her hand tightened. “You looking into that fatality downtown with the windows and the missing gold?”
“Yes.”
“Is it connected to what happened to me?”
In the old days, Vicki had been a terrible liar. That had changed when her humanity became a lie. She thought about lying to him now, but there were too many external factors she couldn’t control to get away with it. “Yes, it is.”
“You dealing with it?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good.” He shifted carefully, favoring his left side. “Unless I start pissing blood, they’re sending me home tomorrow.”
No. Stay here. Where you’re safe.
One corner of his mouth curled up. “I told them I had someone who could watch me at night.”
“I thought you didn’t like it when I did that?”
He waggled his eyebrows lecherously. “I like it fine when you’re watching up close and personal.”
I don’t want to watch you die.
She blinked the thought away before he could read it off her face and bent to kiss him good-bye.
“You don’t taste like drug dealer,” he murmured against her mouth.
“I brushed my teeth.”
She dropped Amy’s remains into the medical incinerator on her way out of the building.
“Well, if it isn’t Victory Nelson. You never text; you never call. Was it something I said?” Mama Sweet’s arms weren’t as strong as they’d once been, but even at seventy-seven, her mind was as sharp as ever. She held Vicki out at arm’s length and frowned. “And this isn’t a social call, is it? Even though you promised me three months ago that you’d stop by for drinks.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Mama Sweet didn’t accept excuses, so Vicki didn’t make any. “I’m looking for someone. I thought you might be able to help me find him.”
“Might be able to?” The older woman snorted and sat back down at the table, waving the three heavily muscled young men away. “Go play Pokémon or whatever it is you kids do these days. I’m safer with Victory than I am with the three of you.”
“Pokémon?” Vicki asked when they were alone.
“Pissing off the young is one of the greatest pleasures I have left.” She folded her hands, the knuckles swollen and painful-looking. “What do you want?”
“Person I’m looking for needs to convert a lot of gold.” The genie had been locked away for a while, and gold wasn’t a viable currency anymore.
“Two downtown towers of it?” When Vicki said nothing, Mama Sweet rolled her eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me. And in return?”
Vicki slid a piece of paper across the table. No one came to see Mama Sweet empty-handed. She’d started out in Toronto’s Jamaican gangs in the sixties and objected to the lack of opportunities for women, and when she got out of prison—the objection had involved the application of a baseball bat—she’d worked her ass off to become the best fixer in the city. Back when she’d been on the force, Vicki had arrested her twice. She’d gotten off both times and insisted Vicki stay in touch. Which had been weird enough, but Vicki had. Over the years, Vicki’d watched Mama Sweet age, and if Mama Sweet had, in turn, noticed Vicki wasn’t aging, she hadn’t said anything. Yet.
Mama Sweet frowned at the description on the paper. “Who’s this, then?”
“That’s the man who dumped the body of one of your people in the Don last week.”
“And you didn’t take it to the police because?”
“Because the police wouldn’t consider my witness credible.” Because the police don’t believe a troll lives under the Bloor Viaduct.
“But you do.”
It wasn’t a question, so Vicki didn’t answer it.
Paper refolded and slid into the pocket of the man’s dress shirt she wore, Mama Sweet nodded toward the door. “Wait on the porch. I’ll make a few quick calls.”
Vicki perched on the porch rail and watched traffic go up Ossington.
And down Ossington. And listened to a passing gaggle of teenagers argue in two languages. One of them might have been Farsi; she had no idea what the other was. The topic seemed obvious, given the way they were waving their phones around.
She turned when the door opened.
One of the muscular young men handed her a piece of paper and said, “Mama says a not-very-big guy beat the shit out of Two Ton until he gave up Marie Bilodeau who, in turn, gave up Eddie Ease. Mama also says come by next Tuesday evening.” He frowned. “Bring pie.”
Eddie Ease owned a condo in a building across from St. Lawrence Market. An upper-middle-class building beginning to show its age; the lobby looked as though it had been renovated recently to make room for a concierge. Vicki flashed her fake badge through the glass and, once the door opened, walked straight to the desk and the middle-aged white man behind it. Probably downsized recently from a better job, he clearly thought being a middle-aged white man was protection enough. Idiot.
Vicki smiled and let him fall into the silver in her eyes. “I was never here. When I leave, you won’t see me.”
“You weren’t. I won’t!” He licked his lips, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the desk. “I’m sorry. Please, I . . . I have a family.”
Not as much of an idiot as she’d thought. Or a more perceptive one, at least. “Good for you. Next time, check ID and ask questions when someone flashes a badge. Don’t just open the door; these things aren’t hard to come by.”
“I will. Thank you. I’m sorry.”
She could feel the pull of his fear all the way to the stairs and felt it fade the moment she stepped out of sight and literally out of mind. The temptation to step back was strong. Hunger fighting control, she gritted her teeth and climbed to the sixth floor, moving too fast to register on the security cameras. Eddie Ease had a corner unit at the far end of the brightly lit, freshly painted hall. Odds were very good he kept his business away from his home.
As she walked, she sifted through the surrounding lives. Hearts beating; blood flowing, slowed in sleep.
Power.
The hair lifted off the back of her neck and continued to lift as she approached Eddie’s door. She remembered fire, and the Hunter broke loose as instinct took over from rational thought. She raised a hand to force the door. It opened just before her palm made contact.
“I didn’t hear anyone knock,” Eddie said over his shoulder, and turned to look at her and moaned. His heart sped up. Visible skin gleamed with sweat. Blood pounded through wrists and temples and throat. Vicki snarled before she could stop herself. Eddie staggered back until he hit a wall; then he slid to the floor, eyes rolling up, consciousness surrendering to terror.
“A little extreme, don’t you think, Nightwalker?”
The genie was . . . five-seven. Six-two. Dark. Fair. A slender Asian. A burly redhead. Female. Male. Both. Neither. No heartbeat. No blood moving temptingly under white, black, brown skin. Nails cutting half circles into her palms, Vicki pulled herself back from a darkness she didn’t own and said, “At least he wasn’t a screamer.”
“Oh, well done. You know what I am and still manage a jest.” It rose out of the leather club chair and became a pillar of smokeless fire. “You have found me. What do you want, Nightwalker? Have you come to pay homage?”
“Not even close.”
“Then why are you here?”
She frowned, suddenly realizing she had no idea of what to do now. For fifteen years, she’d been the fastest, strongest, darkest. She’d come up with a way to find the genie, found it, and faced a pillar of fire. How did she defeat a pillar of fire? She didn’t even have the lamp.
“Ah, hubris.” Vicki could hear the amusement in the fire’s voice. “I stand between the gods and humanity, little blood drinker. When I last walked this world, taking who and what I desired, there were heroes and sages and mighty wizards fit to challenge me. Now your wizards are children, your sages are unable to see the truth, and the only hero I have to face is you. A hero out of the darkness for a time without light. I tremble. I shake. I . . .”
“Am a genie. You’re a genie,” she clarified.
“Jinn.”
“Right. Jinn. Given you’re a jinn, why do you need Eddie to change your gold to currency? You took the gold off a skyscraper. Can’t you change it yourself?”
“I did.” It moved aside, and Vicki saw coins spilling out of a basket on the floor next to the chrome-and-glass coffee table. “But the daric is no longer in use, and I am unfamiliar with its modern replacement.”
Makes sense, Vicki acknowledged silently. There were more than a few Canadians still having trouble with the new plastic bills, and they hadn’t spent centuries locked in a magic lamp. And it clearly couldn’t just create what it wanted, or it wouldn’t have taken the gold. “You plan on staying around?”
“The way to my home has long been closed.”
A troll lived under the Bloor Viaduct. Surely the city had room for a displaced jinn?
“All right.” Her city. Her rules. “Amy held your prison; you get a pass for frying her. Kai Johnston could be considered an accident. Don’t have any more. Humans aren’t toys; don’t play with them. If you stay, no more of them die at your hand.”
To her surprise, the fire began to laugh. In her own defense, even given her life, laughing fire was still way out past the borders. “Oh, I have missed the ridiculous arrogance of your kind. For such enjoyment, you may live a while longer.”
One moment, she was enclosed in flame.
The next, she stood in her empty office.
“What part of it’s creepy when you watch me sleep do you not understand?”
Now that he was awake, Vicki settled on the side of Mike’s bed, pressed against his hip, enjoying the warmth she could feel through the thin hospital blanket. “The part where I care about being creepy.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re a few pints past that.” He took her hand, wrapped it in his, and pressed it to his chest over his heart. “What happened? You look thrown. And not through-a-window thrown either. Find something new in the woodpile?” When she hesitated, he tightened his grip. “Talk to me.”
“Not here.” She saw a flicker of red in the corner of her eye, turned, and realized it had to have been an LED on the machine shoved into the corner of the room. Had to have been, because there was nothing else in the room. “There’s too many vulnerable people here. I need a favor,” she added, before he could respond. “I’m waiting for a call from a Dr. Hariri. If it doesn’t come in before dawn, I want to forward it to your phone. Tell him I’ve been detained, that he should get some rest, and I’ll see him in his office at nine tomorrow—” It was five thirteen. “Tonight.”
“You want to use my phone and you want me to pass on a message?” The creases around Mike’s eyes deepened when he smiled. “What did your last slave die of?”
She could hear the nurses talking down the hall. Room 417 was terminal.
“Vicki?”
“Don’t die.”
“Hey . . .”
“Just don’t.”
He studied her expression for a long moment, then kissed her knuckles. “I wasn’t planning on it. Not until I’m old and wizened and people give me shit about robbing the cradle.”
He pulled her head down onto the right side of his chest, the side not arguing his mortality with cracked ribs, and she listened to his heartbeat and thought, Not then either.
“. . . police were already on their way, called in to assist a member of the staff having trouble with a customer. The assumption is that the two incidents aren’t connected, as a preliminary investigation by the fire marshal suggests the cause of the fire that destroyed the restaurant was most likely an exploding gas range. The customer is assumed to be among the nine dead. The fire marshal had no comment on why the fire seemed to be contained within the restaurant, not s
preading to the surrounding buildings or the apartment upstairs.”
Vicki gently leaned the bathroom door against the slightly scorched wall of her still-empty office and released the crushed handle. She had a comment. She had a few comments. Most of them involved profanity.
“The words engraved on the lamp appear to be the spell that contained the jinn. It seems the”—Dr. Hariri paused, rubbed tired eyes, and sighed—“wizard who imprisoned it wanted to ensure the jinn could be reimprisoned, should it escape.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.” Vicki patted the lamp. “How does it work?”
“The words are inscribed in a circle”—he moved a book from the closest tottering pile on his desk and flipped it open to a tabbed page—“sorry, carved in a circle. The lamp is placed in the center of the circle. The jinn is summoned. That’s another spell. . . . Wait.” He yanked at a piece of paper protruding from the bottom book.
Vicki caught the top three books as they fell.
“I had to call in a few favors.” The notes had been written in two different colors of ink. “Fortunately, I have a colleague at Istanbul University cataloging its ancient literature collection. Took her about four hours, but she was able to put her hand on what I needed. I was fairly certain I’d read a reference to it in a 1930s dissertation, but eighty years later, there’s no telling where the manuscript might have gotten to. It was written by . . .”
“Dr. Hariri.”
He blinked.
“The spell?”
“Right. We had to fill in a few words with frog DNA. . . . That’s a Jurassic Park joke.”
“I know.”
“It’s just you’re a little young for . . . Never mind. The spell. Problem is, it won’t work.”
“Because of the frog DNA?”
“No, that should hold. It was synonyms mostly. It’s because”—he pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and opened a book even Vicki could tell was ancient—“you don’t have an angel.”
“I’m sorry?”
“In the Koran, jinn, humans, and angels make up the three known sapient creations of God. As jinn predate the Koran, I suspect the word angel actually refers to one of the lesser gods who helped humanity lock away certain trouble-making jinn.”
