by A. L. Knorr
I looked down the hall toward Uncle Iry’s room, with a distant weariness. I was going to have a hell of a time explaining myself tomorrow.
“If Sark stirs,” I began and then stifled a yawn, “wake me up. Don’t try and handle things yourself.”
Jackie grunted the most unconvincing affirmative I’ve ever heard.
“Hey!” I said sharp enough to draw her gaze. “I’m not kidding. I won’t sleep if I think you won’t wake me up.”
She took one look at me, and a touch of her old self shone through in a smile. “Liar.”
I gave a weak laugh but reached out to take her hand. “Promise me anyway. Promise you’ll wake me if he starts giving any signs of trouble.”
Jackie met my eyes, looking ready to argue, but she relented.
“All right,” she said quietly. “I promise.”
“Good,” I sighed. “Very good.”
I sank down onto the loveseat, wrapping myself around a plush pillow.
“Aren’t you going to go to bed?” Jackie asked from somewhere that was moving farther and farther away.
“Way ahead of you, luv,” I mumbled, and then everything was the soft, lightless comfort of exhausted sleep.
Chapter Six
Jackie woke me thirty minutes after she should have, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t savour every one of them.
Before konking off on the couch, Jackie told me Dillon had been quiet but that the voices and footsteps she’d heard in the hallway were the police and paramedics. To our surprise, no one had come to our door to ask questions. We counted ourselves lucky.
I kept myself awake by running my awareness over not just the bonds on Sark, but every metal object in our flat. If Sark were, or had been, manipulating metal in our apartment, I would know, because over the last year I’d grown accustomed to the shape and song of every aura. Even a little manipulation would change the tone, especially if done by someone whose powers were as rough as Sark’s.
The first light of day slid through the shades, and I realized that I should have been using the long hours to figure out what to tell Uncle Iry. No doubt, he expected a few culture shocks, but learning we had a badly beaten man who looked and smelled like he lived on the streets would surely be a bridge too far. Sark was quiet now but couldn’t stay in the pantry much longer. How were we going to keep Uncle Iry calm, and what were we going to do with Sark?
The obvious answer to the second question was to turn him over to the police, as far as I knew they were still looking for him. But the more I thought about it, the less I liked it. Sark knew quite a bit about Jackie and me, and even if he couldn’t prove I had powers or had been part of the “strange incident” that collapsed an ageing industrial complex in Greenwich last year, he could get us put under scrutiny. That might mean confused detectives asking questions we couldn’t answer, or it could mean the Group of Winterthür taking note––which would be a lot worse. Turning Sark in became less and less attractive.
Clearly, letting him go wasn’t an option and nor was killing him, for obvious if inconvenient reasons. My head hurt from thinking, my sluggish brain protesting at being called to work so hard with so little sleep. I alternated between staring numbly down the hall and at the pantry, hoping for some divine spark or bolt of inspiration.
Uncle Iry stirred, and after rustling and groaning sounds, he emerged, blinking owlishly. He spied me staring at him, waved, and then pointed to the bathroom. I gave him a thumbs up. Smiling, he bobbed his head gratefully and then ducked inside, shutting the door behind him.
I had minutes to think of something to say, maybe less.
Scrambling over pillows to reach the couch, I shook Jackie awake.
Jackie came to fast and hard and on full alert. She gripped my head in both her hands in an instinctive move and started to squeeze. I gave a squeak that was part fear, part pain as she seemed ready to twist my head clean off. Jackie blinked rapidly and let go, muttering an apology as I massaged my temples.
“Just go and start the coffee,” I pleaded as I checked to make sure everything in my head was where I’d left it. “Uncle Iry’s up and I need something to ease him into a very awkward conversation.”
Jackie blinked one more time, then got up and headed for the kitchen. Halfway there, her body language shifted as she remembered what was in the pantry, but to her credit, she didn’t even pause.
---
“We need to talk.” I took a sip of strong, dark coffee. My hands shook a little, worried about how Uncle Iry would react, but I savoured the drink and its many blessings upon my sleep-deprived brain and body.
“I am listening.” Uncle Iry set his steaming cup down. Jackie had poured two mugs before disappearing, with the rest of the pot, into our room. In the few moments we had, we’d agreed I had to tell Uncle Iry the truth – all of it – and it would be easier if I talked to him alone.
His expression was serious, but his posture was open and welcoming. That was a small encouragement and was just enough to keep me from losing my nerve. As my mind sifted through possible words, they echoed like the ranting of a madwoman. However, I’d crossed the threshold, and if I tried to play this off as something minor, he would know I was lying. I wasn’t a very good liar to start with, and, just like my father, Uncle Iry was not easily deceived.
“This is going to be hard to believe,” I began quietly. “But it is important that you believe and trust me, even if that seems impossible at first.”
Iry looked at me levelly, his brow knotting as he studied my face.
“You look like you didn’t sleep much.” Concern softened the edges of his frown. “This must be important to you.”
I nodded, blinking back tears. Four-and-a-half hours was not enough sleep for emotional control. I took another sip of coffee to distract myself from the tugging feeling in my chest.
“Not knowing what it is you are asking of me, I will just say that I will try, Ibby. Will that be good enough?”
It was more than I should expect, given what I was about to tell him. I nodded.
“Good.” Iry smiled gently, picking up his mug for another sip.
For a second, I just stared at him. A thousand different ways to begin rushed through my mind, but none would work their way to my mouth. I sat there helpless, and Uncle Iry waited, very patient. Then all at once, they came out in a jumbled rush.
“Last year, just as you started on the oil fields, I learned I had superpowers and really bad people tried to control a demon, and I stopped them!”
I paused, my cheeks burning, horrified at the bald, simplicity of my words.
Uncle Iry’s eyes widened at the sudden blitz of words, but after taking a second, he raised an eyebrow. I thought he was going to make a joke or laugh it off, but there was curiosity on his face, not mockery or dismissal.
“My English may need some work because I am not understanding what you mean by superpowers?”
It wasn’t the immediate acceptance I’d naively hoped for, but it wasn’t denial, and that was something.
“I can do things,” I said lamely. “With metal.”
Iry’s face set into that searching frown again. I had to take an even bigger risk. I looked at the pots on the counter, lifted one into the air, and floated it over to the table.
Uncle Iry’s jaw dropped. “Like magic?”
“Kind of,” I nodded, though the acknowledgement was done with trepidation. “But it isn’t about spells or potions or spirits, I promise.”
Sudan, like many places in Africa, was plagued with intense superstitions. While my family had never been so inclined, my father told me of his grandmother’s tales of bouda, the hyena-witches, and Zār, the evil spirits of sickness. Uncle Iry had grown up with the same stories, and I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t lean on old teachings and think I was some kind of witch.
“I just can control metal: make it move, change into shapes I want.”
My uncle listened, his eyes never leaving mine – trying to unde
rstand or trying to ignore the pot, I wasn’t sure.
“You said it has nothing to do with spirits,” he began, choosing words with care. “But you said something about controlling a demon. I do not understand.”
“I wasn’t controlling the demon,” I said quickly, hoping to stave off where I feared this was heading. “Other people were trying to control it, but I stopped them.”
“So, the demon is free, um, loose?” I could tell he was struggling to keep his calm, accepting tone, but I loved him for the effort.
“Not free, trapped.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. A hammering pressure was building behind my eyes, despite the wonderful work the coffee had done.
“So you trapped this demon with your metal magic then?”
That would work, I guess.
“Yes, exactly!” I cried with my best encouraging smile.
“I am sorry; I am still confused.” He gave a helpless shrug. “How can metal trap a spirit like a demon? Demons are spirits, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” I acknowledged, feeling the understanding I thought we’d gained slipping away. “But he was a metal demon”
“Ah, yes, a metal demon.” Uncle Iry nodded reassuringly, but with the same baffled look in his eyes.
I couldn’t blame him. Back then, I was learning as I went, and even now the full cosmological ramifications of what I knew were something I just didn’t think about. If demons from ancient myths were real for the ancient Sumerians, what else could be real? Pair this thought with the knowledge that organizations like the Group of Winterthür were out there … it made my chest tight and my stomach do an unpleasant series of acrobatics.
“Would it help if I showed you a little bit more of what I can do?”
I mentally scooped up the spoon I’d used to stir sugar into my coffee and held it in the air between us.
“It isn’t dangerous?” Uncle Iry asked, trying and failing to hide his sudden suspicion of the utensil in my hand.
“No, no, this is just a little metal shaping, the most harmless thing I can do.”
Iry gave me one more searching stare before he nodded and turned to watch the spoon again.
The metal in the spoon––a simple alloy of stainless steel common as dirt in the modern industrial world––quickened to my mental touch. I had the bowl of the spoon bend and twist around the stem of the spoon, moving this way and that in a wide circle before turning and bobbing toward Uncle Iry in a little wave.
He watched the spoon with rapt interest, but beneath his narrowed eyes beamed a small but sincere smile. “Amazing.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I declared in my best Yank drawl as I sent out another mental command.
The spoon flowed like quicksilver, the bowl splitting in two down to the stem. The halves parted again and then reformed themselves into a crude kind of bloom on top of the spoon handle. Drawing some material from the middle of the spoon handle, I formed a tiny pistil to complete the small metallic flower.
I nudged the flower-spoon towards Uncle Iry.
“Go ahead; it’s safe.”
Uncle Iry took the flower gently in one large hand, turning it over and inspecting it. His fingers pressed at the metal, and when it held its shape––as you’d expect steel to––he looked up at me in shameless wonder.
“Ibby, this is incredible and very beautiful too.”
A thousand fears and anxieties washed off of me in the sudden tide of this response.
“It’s just a tiny bit of what I can do with the power that comes with being an Inconquo.”
He looked at me, still holding the former spoon gingerly.
“Inconquo?”
“Yes, Inconquo. It’s what I am, and to some extent, it is what you must be Uncle Iry.”
Uncle Iry’s gaze darted to my face, confusion returning.
“I can’t do this,” he protested, holding up the flower.
“Maybe not,” I said before he could protest further. “Inconquo is a bloodline, a matter of birth, and––from what I’ve learned––my level of power means that my parents had Inconquo blood in them. It only stands to reason that you do too.”
Uncle Iry looked like he wanted to argue with me, but his eyes kept returning to the object in his hand. “How did you learn all this?”
“That is all part of what I was telling you …”
My explanation was cut off by a steady thumping from the kitchen.
“What is that?” Uncle Iry turned towards the sound.
The pantry door bounced and vibrated with successive percussion. My mouth went dry, and my mind became an empty wasteland.
“Is there something in the pantry?” Iry’s gaze swivelled back and forth between me and the thudding door. “A pet?”
My head shook of its own volition, all hope of clever words or misdirection completely gone. I was powerful enough to collapse a skyscraper with my mind, but I couldn’t make Sark disappear.
The thumping was becoming more urgent and less rhythmic, Sark clearly losing patience.
“Ibby, what is this?” Uncle Iry began to rise.
“Uh, i-it’s,” I stammered, getting up with him. “It’s s-something, well, something not too serious, but …”
As if waiting for her cue, Jackie stalked from the hallway, one hand raised in a warding guard, the other held a collapsible baton, up and ready to strike. Her eyes, fierce and searching, skirted over me, and Iry then zeroed in on the pantry door. The frame was rattling from the impacts now. She prowled forward, her guard hand reaching slowly toward the doorknob.
“Ibby,” Uncle Iry snapped, the closest I’d ever heard him come to shouting. “What is going on?”
“Please, a’am,” I pleaded just as the pantry door burst open and Sark, still snugly bound, spilled onto the floor on his back.
Jackie sprang back into a feline crouch, but just as lithely pounced forward, the baton raised for a crushing strike. Realizing her quarry wasn’t putting up any resistance, Jackie checked her advance, but still held the baton ready.
Sark opened one eye and saw Jackie hovering over him. The swelling over his left eye had gone down enough that it managed a half-masted appearance. For a few tense heartbeats, Sark met Jackie’s furious glare, and then very slowly, he spoke. “I need a wee.”
Jackie grabbed him by his grimy jacket collar and dragged him toward the hallway, and, I assumed, the bathroom. As he swung about in Jackie’s grip, he turned to face Iry and me.
“Charmed,” he drawled at Iry with a wink.
Apparently, the night’s rest, and probably us not killing him, had awakened a bit of his old cheek. I wasn’t exactly a fan, but I preferred this to the gibbering madman I’d shoved in a cupboard last night.
Still, the cat was out of the bag, and the ache I’d felt behind my eyes was blossoming into a real head-splitter. I pressed my fists against my eye sockets.
“Ibby?”
Iry spoke softly, the gentlest of questions, but it carried a tether to many explanations I wasn’t ready to give.
“That’s Dillon Sark,” I groaned. “Would-be demon tamer and all round terrible human being. Apparently, he needs our help.”
Chapter Seven
Sark shifted uncomfortably as he sat on the coffee table in our living room.
Jackie hung on the edge of the loveseat, one hand still wrapped around the baton. I’d rebound Sark’s bindings, but his ex-lover wasn’t taking any chances. A wrong twitch and she’d beat him seven shades of blue, and he knew it.
I sat on the couch next to Uncle Iry. While Jackie helped Sark do his business, I had time to further fill Uncle Iry in about the fun time we had last year, and how Dillon Sark fit in. Uncle Iry had asked a few questions, mostly to clarify English terms.
“I’ve given you a lot to think about,” I’d said as I heard the bathroom door open. “Why don’t you let Jackie and me deal with Sark?”
“No.” His response had been quiet but firm.
I explored the poised lines of his
face and decided it was better not to fight with him.
Dillon shifted again and jumped a little when Jackie leaned forward. “You’re making me nervous with that beat-stick of yours.”
Jackie’s face lit up in a smile whose sweetness was positively chilling matched with her shark-eyed stare.
“You like it?” she asked in a voice that was something close to the tone she’d used when flirting with guys only a year ago. “I picked it out just for you, mon chou. All treated plastics. No need to worry about metal getting in the way.”
Sark gave a small, nervous laugh then shot me a pleading glance.
“Don’t look at me,” I told him flatly. “I kept her from killing you, but as far as I am concerned, anything short of that is fair game.”
I felt Uncle Iry squirm a little next to me, but he held his peace. This was hard enough without feeling as though torn between explaining to him and putting the screws to Sark. I am sure it seemed harsh, brutal even, but he was going to have to trust us.
Sark’s gaze shifted to Uncle Iry, and I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. I decided it was time to get some answers before he concocted some divisive plot.
“You were chatty last night,” I said, drawing his attention back to me. “In between all the begging and crying, you mentioned something about Daria giving you the key to Heaven’s Barrow, and Ninurta being alive. Any of that actually true?”
Sark’s face, battered though it was, went through a rapid succession of emotions. Rage, greed, fear. He didn’t even try to disguise how unnerved he was by the mention of Ninurta’s name. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead.
“All of it is true,” he rasped. “Why come to you unless I was really desperate?”
That did seem a valid point, but Jackie made a disgusted sound in her throat.
“Maybe you came for the Rings?” Jackie hissed. “Or maybe you wanted revenge? Or maybe you wanted to use us to get back at Daria? There are plenty of other reasons.”
Sark glared at Jackie, but rather than rebut, he talked to me.
