Day of the Djinn Warriors
Page 30
The disappointing news that she had not yet arrived home was, to some extent, lessened by the discovery that Mrs. Trump was there to greet them warmly, having made a spectacular recovery from her head trauma. If anything, she looked better than they remembered her ever looking before, even, it has to be said, more than a little glamorous. She was wearing some very expensive clothes and a new set of pearls, and her hair had been done in a way that reminded the twins of their mother’s hairstyle. Somehow Mrs. Trump seemed more graceful, too, and hardly like a housekeeper at all.
Their father was much recovered, too. His hair was gray rather than white. And he was able to stand rather than sit in a wheelchair. He was even a little taller than they remembered. His hands had stopped shaking and the pungent, musty old-people smell that had once hung about his person was now gone. So near back to normal was he that Marion Morrison had now left New York to go and look after another victim of a malicious djinn binding. Mr. Gaunt’s voice had recovered most of its strength, too. Not to mention its authority.
“John,” said Mr. Gaunt. “Why don’t you go upstairs and reclaim your body? And Philippa, why don’t you go and recover your djinn power. When you are both quite yourselves again, I want you to meet me in the library. I think we should have a little talk. It’s been so long since we had a proper conversation as a family, and so much has happened that we need to sit down and catch up with all that’s taken place. You, me, and Mrs. Trump.”
Intrigued, Philippa ran quickly upstairs. John thanked her politely for the ride and then stepped out of his sister and back into his own body.
“Oh man, that feels good,” he said. “I am myself again.”
“Before you get too comfortable,” said Philippa, “you still have to blow in my ear.”
“What?”
“So I can get my power back,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”
“All right,” John said grimly. “Let’s get it over with.”
When it was done, John spat on the floor, several times.
“You don’t have to make such a song and dance about it,” said Philippa, wiping her ear daintily.
“Don’t I?” muttered John.
But Philippa hardly cared. She had djinn power back in her body. Not having djinn power was exactly like having just one arm. John had been right about that. She felt great. She took off the golden slippers the great Khan had presented to her and sniffed them. It was true, they smelled of fresh strawberries.
“Did you notice?” said John. “That’s the first time Dad ever mentioned djinn power in front of Mrs. Trump.”
“You’re right, he did, didn’t he? And Mrs. Trump. She seems different, too. Don’t you think? As if a blow on the head did her a lot of good. I never saw her looking so good. I wonder what Dad wants to tell us.”
“When a parent summons you to a meeting like that,” said John, “it’s never good news. Perhaps Mom isn’t coming back after all.”
“What about the letter? It said she was coming back very soon, didn’t it? I’d recognize her handwriting anywhere.” Philippa shook her head. “I wonder what Dad wants to tell us,” she said again.
“Perhaps it’s about Mr. Rakshasas,” said John. “Did you notice? His body is gone.”
“Of course I noticed,” said Philippa. “But I can’t imagine Dad wants to talk about that, can you? After all, he’s not a djinn. He leaves all that kind of stuff to Mom. Always has. It makes him feel uncomfortable.”
“Well, whatever it is he wants to talk about, you can bet it’s going to be something weird,” said John. “There’s nothing normal about this family.”
A minute or two later, he and Philippa were sitting in the library facing an awkward-looking Mr. Gaunt and a strangely serene-looking Mrs. Trump. Monty the cat had even turned up to witness the scene.
“Is something wrong, Dad?” asked Philippa.
“Is it about Mr. Rakshasas?” asked John.
“Where’s Mom?” they said in unison.
Mr. Gaunt looked at Mrs. Trump and nodded. “Under the circumstances, Mrs. er …” he said. “Perhaps this had better come from you.”
Mrs. Trump smiled kindly. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Not from where I’m sitting, anyway. But yes, something has happened. No doubt about that. Something important. Something peculiar. Something that might take quite a bit of getting used to. Yes, indeed. You see, children, the thing is, you’re going to have to get used to a few changes around here. We all are. From now on, things are going to be a little different. Let me explain how.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
P. B. Kerr was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, where he developed a lifelong love of reading. Although the Children of the Lamp books are P. B. Kerr’s first for children, he is well known as the thriller writer Philip Kerr, author of the Berlin Noir series, including most recently The One from the Other, A Philosophical Investigation, Gridiron, The Shot, and many other acclaimed novels. Mr. Kerr lives in London with his family. You can visit him on his Web site at www.pbkerr.com.
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Copyright © 2008 by Thynker Ltd.
Cover art by Petar Meseldžija
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
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First paperback printing, December 2008
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e-ISBN 978-0-545-30158-9