Carniepunk

by Rachel Caine

  I tilt my head and twist a strand of my blond wig around my pinkie finger, then give Balthazar a winsome smile. “I didn’t know genies really exist,” I reply with a pout. “How come no one knows that?”

  “Because they’re very difficult to summon, my dear.”

  No kidding. I have more knowledge of the djinn in my little toe than he’ll ever hope to learn in his lifetime. I just can’t toss that back in his smug face.

  Yet.

  Very, very few people in the world can summon a djinn, much less bind one to the Rules of Wishing. Problem one: you have to know djinn exist. Even though vampires, werewolves, and certain types of fey are out to humans, the vast majority of Paras remain hidden while wandering around on Earth. It’s much safer this way, for everyone. Problem two: you have to know the binding words for the Rules, which djinn can’t speak out loud and which are impossible to write down. Problem three: three wishes are all you get (cliché, but true), and even those wishes are bound to the Rules. And yet Balthazar has somehow turned his djinn prisoner into a dancing monkey, bidden to perform magic on command, and it pisses me off.

  Balthazar is no amateur magician, but his experience doesn’t worry me as much as it probably should. I didn’t travel halfway across the country to Denver just to see the magic show and drink champagne. My entire reason for existing is stuck behind a plate-glass wall, hunched over on a stool in the corner of his tiny cell, as miserable as I’ve ever seen him. He isn’t just any powerful, eight-hundred-year-old djinn over there in that cage.

  He is Gaius Oakenjinn. My father.

  —

  I SHOULD PROBABLY back up a little bit and explain.

  Paras first came out to the public at large when werewolves helped us win World War II in 1944, seven weeks after American forces jumped into France. Vampires followed a few decades later, as did a handful of fey. After a while, though, their celebrity status began to wear off, and humans remembered why they ought to fear what’s different. Werewolves now live in state-regulated Packs, while most vampires stick close to their Line Master and avoid human interaction. There’s still the occasional violent flare-up, but we’re all mostly peaceful. Segregated, but peaceful. Oddly enough, it’s usually the human magic abusers who screw things up and incite violence among the Paras.

  Kind of like right now.

  For most people, an Earth djinn disappearing off the face of the planet isn’t going to ding their bell. Djinn live on another plane entirely and they tend to shun human interaction unless summoned and bound to the Rules of Wishing. Likewise, the disappearance of a Pack-less werewolf, a skin-walker, a leprechaun, a pixie cloud, and a harpy won’t ding any serious bells, either. Especially not with the human police.

  It dinged my bell good and hard last week when my dad didn’t show up for my birthday.

  I hate birthdays, and my gypsy mother knows better than to try anything except a card that sings (because she can’t) and a loaf of homemade zucchini bread (her specialty). But this year, birthday number twenty-two, actually did something useful—it clued me in to Dad’s new, unofficial status as a missing non-person. As a frustrated college graduate with no real career plans in mind, I decided to make finding him my official business.

  Five days later, my snooping led me to a coffee shop in downtown Denver in the dead of winter, freezing my ass off when I’d rather have been soaking up the sun in Florida.

  Admittedly, I’ve always been a bit of a wuss about cold weather—something I inherited from my father’s side of the gene pool. All Mom’s mix of gypsy and warlock genes gave me is dark hair and a heart-shaped face.

  The coffee shop seemed like an innocuous enough place for a clandestine meeting with a dhampir named Peyton. Dhampirs (not to be confused with upyrs) are the offspring of vampire fathers and human mothers. Upyrs are the other way around and way more rare because of the difficulty of keeping a vampire pregnant with a human child alive. Once the fetus reaches a certain age and the mother recognizes it as a potential food source . . . well, it’s not important. Or pretty.

  Still following me?

  Peyton supposedly had information on my father’s disappearance, and considering vampires and djinn are immortal enemies, I was taking said information with a barrel of salt. Maybe she was helping me out of some kind of half-breed solidarity thing? Maybe not.

  The eighty-year-old dhampir sipping her latte in the rear of the coffee shop didn’t look a day over twenty, which made me hate her immediately. Vampire offspring inherit very long life spans. Not so much for a djinn’s half-human kid. I’ll always age more slowly than my human counterparts, but my biggest magical gift from Dad is the Quarrel. (Oh, stay tuned for that later.)

  I slid into the booth across from her without bothering to order anything. I needed caffeine on top of my jumping nerves like a sinking ship needs an extra hole in its hull. She didn’t offer me anything, just gazed at me with unblinking eyes shimmering an eerie shade of copper. Without comment, I pulled a paperback novel out of my purse and slid it across the table. Peyton opened the cover, glanced inside, then put the book in her lap.

  Hollowing out an old novel and stuffing it with money is way less obvious than using a plain manila envelope.

  “There are rumors among the wealthy of a great attraction,” Peyton said, her voice toneless and kind of creepy. “An attraction for the wealthy, open only to the wealthy. No one knows what city it will visit until it arrives, and it costs a great deal to attend.”

  This sounded pretty promising. Or like a really expensive red herring. “What kind of attraction?” I asked.

  “A carnival of sorts, or a sideshow, if you will. Paras you know and Paras you’ve never seen before.”

  Paras like a bound djinn, no doubt. “Who runs this sideshow?”

  “A man named Stefan Balthazar. Some call him an abuser of magic, others a powerful warlock.”

  Halfway across the coffee shop, a man in a brown leather jacket caught my attention. Not because he did anything more dramatic than add a packet of sweetener to his mug of coffee, and not because he was ruggedly handsome and absolutely worth a second look. I noticed him because, like Peyton and me, he wasn’t quite human.

  He wasn’t alone, either. Another man shared his table, his back to me, salt-and-pepper hair the only thing I could see. The not-human male didn’t even glance in my direction, but I couldn’t shake the sense of being watched. He was not my priority today, though.

  “Power is all in perspective, I guess,” I said to Peyton. “And I’m sensing by the lead that brought me here that Mr. Balthazar is in Denver now?”

  “Yes. His show is tonight. The cost is twenty-five thousand.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Correct.”

  My heart dropped right to my feet. No way could I come up with that kind of cash in under twelve hours. I have some djinn magic besides the Quarrel and can be bound to the Rules of Wishing, but like other djinn, I can’t use my magic for my own personal gain.

  Crapsticks. “How do I let Mr. Balthazar know I want a ticket?”

  Peyton arched a slim eyebrow, clearly doubting my ability to produce the necessary cash, probably because I’d haggled with her a bit on her fee. Still, she slid a scrap of paper across the table. “Text a message to this number containing your bank account information. Once the funds have been transferred, you will receive the address.”

  Quick and efficient, bless it all. Not good. “Thank you. What about the Paras in this sideshow? Are they real, or has Mr. Balthazar just perfected a magical illusion?”

  “They are quite real, Ms. Harrison, as I’m sure you will find out for yourself.”

  I wasn’t so sure—not unless I figured out a way to manufacture a whole lot of cash in not a lot of time. “How did you even hear about this carnival?”

  “Information is my business.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I may also have been in the bed of the president of the largest bank in Denver when the call came through. Balthaza
r personally targets men with money who think themselves . . . adventurous.”

  I’d call them suicidal, but that’s me. “Balthazar only hands out personal invites?”

  “To a select few. Word spreads. It is a calculated gamble, to offer up so much money in exchange for what could easily be the work of a con artist. Balthazar plays the odds, and his crowds are often small.”

  “And wealthy.”

  “Indeed. Are we finished?”

  “Yes, we are. My sincere thanks, Peyton.”

  “Perhaps we can do business again.”

  “If this information pans out, you can count on it.”

  Her mouth twitched in what probably passed as a dhampir smile. “As it should be. Good luck.”

  After she left, I stayed in the booth and stared at the telephone number she’d given me, as though intense concentration could conjure up the money I needed to attend this little carnival. I had to get in and see for myself if my father was being held against his will by this Stefan Balthazar. Even the man’s name was creepy and conjured up mental images of oily hair and a twisted mustache.

  The slip of paper couldn’t conjure the money, and sitting around while I waited for ideas on getting the funds was a waste of time. My djinn nature made me sensitive to magic as well as the presence of other Paras (like Brown Leather Jacket Guy, who still occupied his table). Wandering around Denver in the freezing cold and hoping I stumbled over a strong, carnival-sized magic signature wasn’t really an ideal plan, but it was the only one I had.

  And that djinn sense of magic served me well less than five minutes later. I’d made it less than six blocks from the coffee shop when the hairs on my arms prickled and that sense of being watched returned. Mid-morning sunshine meant good odds my tail wasn’t a vampire. Beyond that, I had no idea who was following me.

  I don’t like not knowing things.

  Just to be certain of my shadow, I altered my route by slipping onto the next side street. Foot traffic was thinner, the buildings a tad spookier. My tail persisted. The entrance to a public parking garage loomed ten feet ahead. I rummaged in my purse as though looking for keys. Just inside the garage, I slid to my left and hid behind a concrete barrier.

  Soft footfalls preceded my shadow, who turned out to be a man about my height with familiar salt-and-pepper hair. Grabbing his arm, I spun him around face-first into the concrete wall and twisted his arm up against his back until he gasped and stopped struggling.

  “Now, you can pretend you actually have a car parked here and following me was all a huge cosmic coincidence,” I said into his left ear, “or you can save us both a little time and just tell me the truth.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice had a sharpened edge that made me think of the military, with just a hint of a faded southern accent.

  “Well, good, because I doubt you could if you tried.” Mostly true—the average punch in the face wouldn’t faze me, though knives and bullets were something else.

  “Release my arm and we’ll talk.”

  “Talk now.”

  “No.” He put a lot of force into those two little letters.

  Who was this guy?

  My arms prickled again, too late to do anything about Brown Leather Jacket Guy when he appeared in the parking garage. He froze in place, looking momentarily panicked, before a deep growl rose up from his chest.

  Werewolf.

  “Julius?” the werewolf asked like I wasn’t even there.

  “I’m fine,” He Who Must Be Julius said to the concrete wall.

  A tiny flare of panic hit me in the chest, sharp like a bee sting. I could handle a human male, no problem, but werewolves, even in man form, were strong and insanely fast. This one was less than five feet away and could have his hands around my throat before I screamed. Werewolves also react to fear. I had to put a lid on mine before he caught on and freaked. I couldn’t fight him.

  My skin flushed all over as my internal magic rose up to protect me without conscious thought. The Quarrel.

  Oh, sweet Iblis, this would be bad.

  All djinn are not created equal, and Earth djinn—my father’s variety—are known for their ability to affect the combative nature of humans. Arguments ensue, sometimes violence. I was ten years old the first time I realized I had inherited this ability, and I’d learned to control it since then—mostly. Sometimes it got away from me when my emotions ran high.

  Like now. And making two grown men—one of them prone to lupine adrenaline surges—argumentative and pissy was not going to help my situation at all.

  “What are you doing?” the werewolf asked. He took several steps back, stricken, and clasped his hands over opposite forearms like he was cold.

  “It’s not on purpose,” I said. “But this is two against one, and you’re freaking me out.”

  “We are not your enemies, young lady,” Julius said. His voice had a new edge, probably from the Quarrel I was desperately trying not to unleash.

  “Then why are you following me?”

  “Stefan Balthazar.”

  Surprised, I let him go and skipped out of reach, keeping a safe distance between me and them. “Where did you hear that name?”

  Julius rolled his shoulders as he turned around. His gray-speckled hair matched his age-worn face, which was also kinder-looking than I expected. He was in his fifties at least, much older than his companion. “You have your informants and I have mine,” he replied.

  “What’s your business with Balthazar?”

  “The same as yours, I imagine. He has something I’m looking for.”

  “Why do you smell so strange?” the werewolf asked me.

  I shot him a glare. “New deodorant.”

  He frowned. “You aren’t completely human.”

  “Yeah? Neither are you.”

  “I believe we’ve all got off on the wrong foot,” Julius said. “My name is Julius Almeida. This is my associate, Will Carson.”

  “Shiloh Harrison,” I said. I didn’t shake their hands. “You’re not cops.”

  Will snorted. “Hardly.”

  “We are, however, investigating a disappearance,” Julius said. “Much like you are.”

  “What do you know about Balthazar?” I asked.

  “I’m willing to share information, Ms. Harrison, but not here.”

  “Where?”

  “My hotel. Or yours, if you’re more comfortable there.”

  I wasn’t comfortable with any of this. Trust two total strangers, or go at this alone and risk losing track of Balthazar’s traveling freak house? Both were very bad choices. But if my powerful, eight-hundred-year-old djinn father was in a situation from which he could not extricate himself, I’d never save him by playing it safe. I had to take my chances with Will and Julius.

  “My hotel,” I said.

  Julius nodded. “Do you have a car?”

  “Rental’s a few blocks from here.”

  “I’ll drive you over. Believe it or not, I actually do have a car parked on the third level.”

  —

  “I WAS HIRED to find a missing leprechaun,” Julius said as soon as my motel room door shut behind him.

  If he was waiting for me to act all shocked and confused about the existence of leprechauns, he’d be disappointed. “Hired by whom?”

  “By Midas himself.”

  “The leprechaun king?”

  “Yes. One of his sons has been missing for several months.”

  My distrust of Julius was slowly fading. Slowly. Despite my confidence that he was human, he knew a lot about unknown Paras—information rarely shared with outsiders. He still had a long way to go to gain my full trust, but this was definitely helping things along. Will, on the other hand, wasn’t doing anything to ingratiate himself except holding up the wall in tight jeans and that leather jacket. The man—no, the werewolf—was illegally good-looking.

  “What makes you think your missing leprechaun is connected to Balthazar?” I asked.

  “Balth
azar is known in magic circles, and some rumors have circulated about him abusing his power for monetary gain,” Julius said. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure of the connection until Will overheard your conversation at the café.”

  Blessed werewolf hearing. I glared at Will. “You were eavesdropping?”

  Will gave me a bland look. “Not on purpose. I’m still learning to control my hearing, and I was curious about the snippets I was hearing from your direction.”

  Sweet Iblis, a forced wolf.

  No scars were visible because of his layers of winter clothes, but they lingered somewhere on his magnificent body. Werewolves came in two varieties: born and forced. The vast majority of werewolves are born and part of state-regulated Packs. They live together in small communities and report to a single state Alpha. Each state’s Dame or Homme Alpha controls their own, which includes punishment and policing.

  And then there are people like Will Carson—born human and, at some point, mauled by an angry werewolf to the point of death. If the man or woman survives the blood loss and the agony of the wounds, he or she becomes a forced werewolf. Because such individuals can’t breed and are considered unnatural, they are rarely accepted into a Pack. Thus they have no protection, no family, and, if found by the government, they are usually “put down.”

  Colorado is not, thankfully, a Pack state.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to Will.

  He seemed to understand and nodded. “Long story.”

  No doubt. “Was Julius there during the change?”

  His face tightened. “No. But Julius has been helping me adapt to life out here in the world. I’d have gotten myself killed a long time ago if he hadn’t found us.”

  “ ‘Us’?”

  Stony silence.

  Okay. “Not my business,” I said with a shrug. He could keep “us” to himself. And the fact that Julius was helping a forced wolf—who was, by rights, incredibly volatile and dangerous—said a lot about the man. I was starting to like him. “So you and Julius are working together on this case?”

  “Yes. Can you tell us more about this sideshow? I only caught snatches of your conversation.”