Forbidden

by Jacquelyn Frank

  Vincent knelt at Docia’s feet, lifting them onto his thighs to rest, then inspecting the left one first.

  “Yeah, but you didn’t think twice about throwing them at me,” he pointed out.

  “Well, I panicked,” SingSing admitted sheepishly. “It’s been a while since I’ve even seen another Night-walker. Face-to-face like this, anyway. I was so mad when those Templars showed up in the valley, you have no idea. I know I should pack up and go, that it’s the safe thing to do, but this is …” She frowned and her head dropped forward.

  “This is your home,” Docia guessed gently, her hand touching the Djynn female with compassion. It made Vincent tense up to see her do it. Djynn were not to be trusted. That was the first rule Ramses had ever taught him about them. Never trust them. Their craving for niks was like a disease; they were obsessed by them, and they just couldn’t help it. They would do anything, screw over anyone they had to, to acquire their next nik. The more powerful the nik, the more willing they were to sacrifice someone else. This Djynn had stopped fighting them only because he had threatened her niks.

  “Well, it has been, anyway. And now thanks to you people I have to get the heck out of Dodge. This sucks supremely, I just want you to know that,” she said, pointing angrily at him.

  “I have nothing to do with it!” he shot back defensively. “Believe me, if we could rout Odjit out of there, we would. I’d like nothing more than to see her disenfranchised. A lot of us would.”

  “Hmm.” SingSing tilted her head. “So, you’re like Djynn, then. Not all the same.”

  “Not all the same?” Docia echoed.

  “Mm.” SingSing shrugged. “Castes. We come from different castes. Some of us”— she rolled her eyes— “think we’re better than others of us. I guess that’s no different than any other society. But the truth is, some of us are way wickedly more powerful. And that means they are more dangerous. The Marids and the Afreets are the first and second most powerful Djynn. And if you come across a Sheytan …” She shivered, and Docia looked quickly at Vincent.

  “They’re pure evil,” he supplied cautiously. “Only the Marids and Afreets can keep them in line.”

  “Then there’s lowly little Djinn like me. We’re sort of the suburban middle class of Djynn.”

  “And that leaves your poor. Your destitute.”

  “The Jann.” She nodded. “Usually servants to other Djynn. They don’t have much skill or power. Oh, stop fondling her feet already, would you?” she huffed at Vincent, pushing him aside. She linked her fingers above Docia’s feet like a web and a sudden burst of green energy popped out of her hands, like a wonky, brilliant flashbulb. Then she stood up and walked away.

  “I was getting ready for bed, it being daybreak and all, but I could go for a little nosh. Anyone hungry?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Docia inspected her feet carefully. They felt warm and, outside of a weird tingling sensation, perfectly healed.

  Good gravy, what was next? She really wouldn’t mind some kind of a handbook to all of this. Bodywalkers for Dummies or something like that. How to Become a Nightwalker in One Easy Lesson.

  But no such luck. Of course. But, hey, no one promised you life was going to be easy, she thought. Or was this technically an afterlife? Never mind. She wasn’t going to dissect that right now. She already had way too much to do trying to keep track of all the information coming at her. To top it all off, she was feeling incredibly sleepy. The darkness of the cabin wasn’t helping; neither was the blessed warmth of it, once their Djynn host was thoughtful enough to shut the door that Vincent had left open. Happily enough, though, there was a huge cobblestone fireplace dead center of the large glass windows that were blacked out now but promised to have a great view of the outdoors. She didn’t blame SingSing for wanting to stay. A secluded cabin in the mountains sounded like a little slice of heaven to her right then.

  “Where are we, anyway?” she thought to ask.

  “Up near Hunter Mountain. The ski resort’s on the other ridge over across the valley here.” She pointed out the window. “It’s not easy to build over here, so it’s a pretty low population. Nice and quiet. The valley has more people in it. Early Spanish settlements made the town down there. I’m surprised you came up the mountain.”

  “That’s why we did it,” Vincent pointed out. “They would have anticipated the easy way, and we’d already be back with the Templars, hanging there like Christmas geese.”

  “Well, you’re safe here as long as you behave yourselves,” SingSing said. “No one knows about this place. You need a snowmobile to get to the road … or an ATV if there’s no snow cover.”

  “Both of which leave tracks,” he pointed out.

  “Yeah, but I haven’t been to town since before the last snowfall,” she shot back, sticking her tongue out at him. “So like I said, you’re safe.”

  “Until dusk. Then we’ll have to go,” Vincent warned Docia pointedly. “We don’t want to endanger our hostess.”

  “Pfft,” SingSing snorted. “I’m not afraid of a bunch of fanatic Templars. They should be afraid of me,” she said, pointing to her puffed-up chest. Docia had to agree with Vincent’s skeptical expression. She really didn’t look all that powerful. SingSing started to whistle and made herself busy in the cozy little kitchen. It had nice conveniences in it, slightly dated in some cases, but of a classic style that would never grow old or obsolete. The entire cabin was quaint, as far as she could see. She could even see a huge loft above the entryway that ran the entire width of the house on that side. Clearly it was SingSing’s sleeping area. There were only two other doors in the place, outside of the front doors and a pair of sliders on the right side of the chimney. She supposed one was the bathroom and maybe the other was a closet.

  “Vincent, I’m so very tired,” she said to him softly, reaching to touch his hand as he paced past her. He’d been doing a frenetic sort of circuit for a while now, as if he were trying to think and needed to be on the move in order to do so.

  Vincent came to an immediate halt, concern etching his face as he crouched in front of her. She leaned toward him as he cupped her face between his hands. After a long moment of studying her with those warm golden eyes of his, he nodded.

  “I can see that you are,” he said, his thumb brushing over her lips. The touch had an instant revitalizing effect, stirring something inside of her she couldn’t even begin to explain. It was like a kiss in a way, intimate and warm, so very tender.

  “And I can see Ram coming back to you,” she said softly.

  That made him frown. “Why would you say that? Don’t you think I’m capable of kindness on my own?”

  “No. Of course you are.” She sighed, watching as his attention drifted down to the lips he was touching, appreciating the warmth of her breath on the back of his hand. “You start to round out your vowels. The smart-ass in your personality smooths out a little. And when you touch me …” She trailed off, suddenly shy about putting the sensation into words. It was a wholly intimate thing, the deeply felt sensations that something as simple as a touch against her lips was stirring. It made her want to cross her legs in defense of it, to hide it away in case it was embarrassingly obvious to everyone in the room. Especially him.

  “And Ram is overly concerned with respect toward me because of who he feels I am,” she added after a moment. “To be honest, I like you a bit more. You’re … you treat me normally. Like my brother does. Or Leo …” She trailed off, taking a moment to think about those wonderful men in her life who were no doubt beside themselves with worry over her.

  “Who is this Leo?” he demanded, his whole body bristling. “Is it a boyfriend? Unfortunately, I must tell you that most preexisting relationships deteriorate under the stress of the Blending.”

  She blinked at him. “Leo helped raise me as a child,” she said softly.

  “Oh.” He exhaled, seemingly a little easier. “So he’s … old.”

  She smiled, unable to keep from fil
ling the expression with mischief. “Older. Not necessarily old. I love Leo very much. And he loves me. I could turn into Regan from The Exorcist and neither he nor my brother would ever stop loving me, so I am not worried about that in the least.”

  “You say that,” he said a bit darkly, “and for your sake I hope it’s true, but I know human beings. We are not known for our flexibility.” He met her eyes steadily, and there it was. That splendid golden warmth. It was so beautiful, so otherworldly almost. Like a pair of fabulous little suns that had been captured and set there to burn her up with their heat. “So, when I touch you … if Ram isn’t present, you feel nothing?” he asked, trying to spin it off as idle curiosity.

  “What does it matter? The odds you’ll ever be separate like this again are almost nil,” she pointed out, trying not to flush over the direct conversational topic. Not that she was a prude. Far from it. But with him, it just seemed deliciously naughty talking about it, and that sent a wriggle of awareness down her spine. “And it appeared to me that you and Ram have no interest in pursuing an attraction … so …” She shrugged.

  “Just answer my question,” he said, leaning in closer to her until their foreheads were just about touching. “You feel nothing when it’s just me in here?”

  Unable to resist the impulse, Docia reached up and touched his jawline, running the tips of her fingers along the crispy start of whiskers. It made him appear a little more rugged, a little more Vincent, as opposed to the clean-cut handsomeness of Ram. It was the same face either way, but the attitude behind it, the aura of presence, made it seem like two different men. Just as it was. Although, in truth, she had never seen just Ram without Vincent, as she was seeing Vincent without Ram. She found herself curious to know what Ram would be like in such circumstances.

  “I never said that,” she murmured. “Isn’t it a silly kind of question? Doesn’t that put you in competition with yourself? You’re both the same person in the end.”

  “And yet you just said there’s a difference.”

  “The difference is—”

  “Food!”

  SingSing plopped a tray of food on the coffee table just behind Vincent, the smack of it making Docia jump. She had just about forgotten the Djynn was there, though she couldn’t imagine why. SingSing had been bustling noisily about the kitchen the whole time.

  Vincent moved back from Docia, turning to look at the tray. Truth was, there was no telling when either of them had last eaten, no knowing just how long they had been hanging there in the Templars’ Spanish church. It didn’t feel all that long … but the sudden leap of hunger overcoming her weariness made her feel as though she hadn’t eaten in days. And technically, that was very likely true. She had barely eaten at the hospital; the stress of the whole business of dying had put off her appetite. So now even a tray of cold meats and cheeses seemed like gourmet fare, and admittedly, SingSing had laid out the tray with an impressive flair for variety and detail. She’d even cut a fanned-out strawberry for every glass of chocolate milk sitting there. SingSing scooped up a glass, flopped onto the couch next to Docia, and took a loud slurp of the milk.

  “Ahh!” She smacked her lips for emphasis. “I suppose I ought to have made cocoa, with it being so cold and all. But I do so love cold chocolate milk, don’t you? It’s sweet and refreshing at the same time. Isn’t that great? And yet it looks like liquid poo. Go figure.”

  Docia had been midsip from her own glass when that observation came out, and she immediately spit and sprayed the would-be swallow as a laugh bolted out of her. Unfortunately, Vincent was still kneeling in front of her.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” she cried.

  SingSing handed over a cloth napkin to Docia, then, humming happily, she reached for some cheese while Docia frantically blotted Vincent’s face. He eventually caught her hands together, took the napkin from her, and finished the job himself. His sigh seemed more pained than angry, but Docia was biting her lip anxiously.

  “A word about Djynn,” he said dryly. “They don’t have much in the way of filters.”

  “What for?” SingSing demanded. “It’s too much work tiptoeing around other people’s sensibilities.”

  “Anything else you’d like to warn me about?” Docia asked him, touching the damp hair at his forehead, trying to arrange it in a way that made it look less as though he’d been spit on.

  “Never. Ever. No matter what. Make a wish.” He nailed her with a serious expression. “Djynn are con artists. Wishes are only a way of getting them what they want. And it never turns out well for the wisher.”

  “He has a point there,” SingSing agreed. “But decent Djynn, such as myself, won’t lure you with wishes or any such nonsense. I’ve gone straight. Yep. That’s me. Straight and narrow. Up-and-up, for the most part.” She grinned. “A girl has to have some secrets.” SingSing sat up. “Say, you look beat. So am I. Nosh up, I’ll get some bedding and you both can camp out down here. Don’t have much in the way of blankets and pillows, so you’ll have to share. House is a little drafty, so snuggle up near the fireplace. Mattress!”

  The Djynn snapped her fingers and a thick feather mattress plopped out of the rafters and onto the floor, unrolling itself in front of the fire and startling the heck out of Docia.

  “Jeez!” She instinctively jumped toward Vincent, grabbing on to the yoke of his shoulders and practically sitting in his lap as she came off the couch. She was nearly strangling him by the time the pillows and blankets fell out of the sky and onto the bed.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Don’t worry, the other stuff stays up there unless I call for it.” SingSing yawned, oblivious to the two sets of eyes cautiously looking up at the rafters. There was nothing to be seen, just as there had been no mattress or blankets up there earlier. Wherever SingSing’s storage space was, it was invisible to their eyes.

  “Other stuff?” Docia had to ask.

  “Oh, you know … warm-weather clothing, holiday decorations, spare furniture …”

  “Furniture?” Docia squeaked.

  “A Jet Ski. Waterslide. A Bouncy Kingdom, you know, for when the kids visit. Trampoline, also for the kids. A camel. Coupla gondolas. I know, I know. Who needs two gondolas, right? It’s a long story … one was a gift from someone who clearly didn’t know me as well as they thought they did.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, buncha other stuff.” She stood up and yawned again, stretching with a limberness that would make a yogi proud. “I’ll leave the tray, but I’m taking my milk.” She said it warningly, as if they might steal it from her given half a chance.

  “Where are … ?”

  “The dragonlets? In my hair, silly.” And right on cue, a lizard head popped out from betwixt her blond curls and stuck out a forked tongue, blowing a raspberry at them. “SutSut, be nice!” SingSing warned, putting two fingers on its head and stuffing it back into her hair.

  “But there’s not enough room for all four of them to be— ,” she whispered to Vincent.

  “Djynn have the power to alter spatial relations. She could fit a whole zoo in her hair if she wanted to.”

  SingSing giggled. “Now that would be a little ridiculous.” She yawned again. “Welp. G’day, guys. Stay warm. Help yourself to the fridge. And … uh …” She pointed to Vincent sternly. “Make sure you tell her the part about never waking a Djynn. I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” She pointed back and forth between them, eyeballing each until she was satisfied they were taking her seriously. Then she was off with a flounce toward the loft. For the first time, Docia noticed there was no ladder … no stairs. But apparently that didn’t matter, as the Djynn turned into sparkly blue smoke midstep and rose into the loft area, disappearing into the darkness.

  They both sat there, staring after her for a moment.

  “Never wake a Djynn?” Docia whispered.

  “Yeah. Pisses them off,” Vincent whispered back.

  “I gathered.” Docia bit her lip. “So … there is such a thing as rubbing the lamp th
e wrong way?”

  “Really? You had to go there?” he asked.

  “I’m just saying.” She giggled.

  Vincent was determined to make some headway with this whole “Ram makes me feel things you don’t” business. Well, okay, maybe she hadn’t actually said that, but she’d been on the verge of implying it. How was it different? How was it … less?

  Oh hell, no. There was nothing that Ram had that Vincent didn’t have. Literally. And before Ram came raging back into the picture, Vincent was intent on proving that. He knew she was tired. He wanted her to rest, he really did. But time was of the essence in this particular case. He couldn’t exactly wait until dusk to gather empirical evidence that he was just as stimulating as Ram.

  Luckily, SingSing had unwittingly provided means and opportunity. One mattress. One quilt. Two pillows. It was really very cozy. Very conducive to the matter at hand.

  She was nibbling sleepily on bits from the tray, clearly torn between sleep and starvation. He moved to the kitchen and washed what remained of the chocolate milk from his face and hair, anticipating the stickiness if he did not. He’d been in his dinner dress clothes throughout their whole ordeal, and he shrugged out of his jacket, pulled off his tie, and reached to unbutton his cuffs. The cuff links held a fastener along the inside of his left sleeve. The fastener held the invisible knife he always kept secured there. The knife had been one of Ram’s gifts and his way out of the Suspension bindings. He grabbed hold of the knife, which only he could see and feel, and set it on the countertop. He would hide it under his pillow or sleep some other way with it within reach. This wasn’t the first occasion it had saved his life, and he had no doubt it wouldn’t be the last.