by Emma Holly
Simply looking at them turned his stomach.
Repeating the syllable he'd already spoken was easier than staying silent. “Tet,” he said. “Tet, tet, tet—”
Luna slapped him across the face.
She shouldn’t have lost control. She’d let her concentration waver enough for him to seize a fraction more agency.
“I hate you,” he hissed, the primal emotion stronger than any spell. “I hate you, you fucking bitch.”
Unlike his sword, this barb drew blood.
“You hate yourself,” she spat back, her pale cheeks flushed with reaction. “Najat died because of you.”
His heart thundered crazily. The curse was mere feet behind her. Don’t give away that it’s here. Hold your ground and let it take you too if you must.
But maybe he didn’t have to.
“I’m glad Najat is free,” he cried wildly, the first thing that came to mind. “You’ll never hurt her again!”
His violent shove caught the enchantress unprepared. Face twisting with anger, she stepped back to catch her balance.
Her rear foot landed inside the curse.
She gasped but didn’t get breath to scream. The magic ran up her as if hungry for the one who’d created it. Luna fell to her knees, then her hands, and then—the same as the hordes before her—she was a perfect sugar-white statue.
“Almighty,” Iksander breathed.
He couldn’t waste time on shock. “Tetramorph,” he turned to bark at the golden hatch.
Though his limbs shook, he yanked the heavy barrier open and ran inside. He ignored the shelves piled high with gleaming treasures, gifts to himself and sultans before him. The portal was at the back, the only item of value to him now.
Luckily, the transdimensional orb was already charged. Fist-sized and ringing softly, light rayed out and sparkled from it as it spun slowly at waist level. Iksander flung himself to the floor to sit near it cross-legged. Joseph, who was their best magician, and Philip, who was an artist and also skilled, had devised the spell that worked it. Because the four friends had different magical aptitudes, they’d kept the ritual simple. He only needed to calm himself, focus on where he planned to go, and activate the charm Philip had encoded in a twin sun tattoo on his ankle.
From there, the spell would take care of everything. Iksander’s soul would divide into two pieces. The larger part would project through the portal into the human realm, where it would create a physical double for him to inhabit. The smaller portion would remain within his statue, ensuring his original form didn’t die. With Luna gone, one of her allies was likely to claim the city. They’d never guess a future rescue could be mounted. The former sultan would seem as powerless as his citizens. Additionally, if the foursome couldn’t accomplish a return trip, there’d still be a chance—however minuscule—that someone from their side would find a means to revive their statues. Plan B was a long shot, but it was better than none at all.
Plan A was simple enough that Iksander hadn’t worried about enacting it. He hadn’t realized how discomposed his journey to the treasury would leave him.
“Fuck,” he said, only then noticing he’d left the vault door ajar.
It was too late to correct the oversight. The curse was at the threshold, billowing greasily.
He growled with his effort to throw off the distraction. The door didn’t matter. Focusing did. Iksander had a clear sense of his own body. All djinn could spin simple spells, but he’d always been a primarily physical being. He knew he could project the details of his form with reasonable accuracy.
Visualizing his desired location would be the challenge. Istanbul was the Glorious City’s twin on the human plane. Though it took less magic to reach than other places, the downside to traveling there was its citizens’ continued belief in djinn. If the escapees were identified, humans would know formulas for controlling them. Worse, they’d possess the needed faith for spells to work. Too many in that part of the world knew King Solomon’s power to command their race was more than a bible tale. Precisely because the human country of the USA didn’t have similar traditions, Joseph had selected it.
To most of that populace, djinn were less real than Santa Claus.
This was essential. Though the Almighty’s favorites had shaky faith and in most cases sketchy knowledge, their Creator endowed them with more magical potential than the beings He'd cast off. Other factors being equal, humans would always out-spell djinn. Best they not be able to exploit the advantage. The less vulnerable Iksander and his friends were to enslavement, the better.
He'd settled on the state of Florida as his goal. He thought the climate would make him feel at home. In contrast to some djinn, Iksander wasn’t obsessed with magically spying on humans. Nonetheless, he’d viewed many pirated episodes of CSI: Miami to cement the place in his mind.
You’re ready, he thought. Just relax and picture it.
He exhaled and shut his eyes, too aware of the empress’s magic closing in. Ignoring the fear prickling at his nape, he thought of coconut palms and warm breezes, of pleasantly baking heat and waves foaming on the shore.
His eyes burned without warning, his heart suddenly aching. Najat had loved swimming in the Glorious City’s freshwater inlets. During the happy years of their marriage, they’d sneaked off to them many times. We’re otters, she’d tease. No more sultan and kadin. Our only worry is where to catch dinner.
God, she’d been good for him.
The back of his neck itched fiercely, a sensation like tiny claws sinking into him. He resisted the urge to check where the curse was now.
“Miami,” he murmured. “I’m going to Miami.”
He couldn’t put it off any longer. His hair was bristling like crazy. He touched the tattoo of interlocking suns inside his right ankle then sent a surge of energy through his fingertips. He called up his trigger word.
“Undine,” he said. Najat, he thought.
The portal flared, its glare blinding even through closed eyelids. He felt a tug, and a wrench, and then his soul split in two like a star unzipping. Ready or not, he was sucked into the door’s riptide.
Traveling between dimensions was no small matter. A single trip burned too much magic for him to have experienced a journey this long before. Iksander prayed the process was working the way it should. Lightning flashed, plasma filaments whirling out from it dizzyingly. His essence was formless. He couldn't tell if he was right-side up or even right-side out. Did he have a side? Was he just spinning in one place?
He materialized in a body that felt peculiar though still recognizable as his. He was somewhere again.
Off balance, he lurched forward. His palms saved him from falling by slapping the wall that had appeared in front of him. Its bricks were rough, the scent that assailed his senses not what he expected. Instead of salty air and suntan lotion, he scented too-sweet apples and cooking grease.
He wrinkled his nose. A large green bin labeled STUCKEY’S DINER hulked next to him.
Never mind that, though. Iksander wasn’t so delicate he couldn’t survive an encounter with a dumpster. The police on CSI: Miami searched through them all the time. Better yet, no one had seen him materialize—which they might have done, since the hour appeared similar to the one he’d left. That was a positive sign. Time between the dimensions didn’t always run in sync. Because he’d arrived unnoticed, he’d simply stroll casually from this alley and find the beach.
His shaky knees agreed to hold him, so he proceeded with his plan.
Hurdle one down, he told himself. He simply had to stay out of trouble until he and his friends could meet. A day or two. A week at the most. Then they’d pool their resources and strategize.
His teeth started chattering before he'd taken a handful of cautious steps.
He realized he was shivering.
That wasn’t right. Miami was supposed to be warm year round. As he puzzled over this, the wind blew a swirl of leaves around the corner and down the dirty lane. The leaves were bright red and not pa
lm-shaped. He picked one up and stared at it.
“This is a maple leaf.” He plucked the knowledge from the ethers the way most of his kind could. The knack was handy for learning languages. At the moment, it filled him with dismay.
According to his understanding, Miami didn’t have autumn foliage.
CHAPTER TWO
—
BLACK BEAR MOUNTAIN
His confusion was interrupted in an even less welcome way.
“Check out Aladdin!” called a derisive voice.
The ridicule came from a teenage male at the end of the alleyway. The human had four companions: three tall, one short, and all built bulkily. They were dressed bulkily as well, in boots and jeans and what he believed were logger-style plaid jackets.
Cultural differences notwithstanding, the males’ hostile intent was easy to discern. Iksander dropped the leaf and reached for his scimitar . . . only to remember he’d broken it trying to kill Luna.
“Dude,” said a second human, his tone as insolent as the first’s. “Halloween is over.”
Iksander comprehended they were insulting his outfit.
He’d dressed as he usually did this morning, pulling on neither his fanciest garments nor his least. He wore cheery yellow silk trousers—because he’d needed cheering, hadn’t he? He’d paired the pants with a turquoise embroidered tunic and one of his less ornate state sashes. True, the belt was diamond-studded, but diamonds went with everything.
Possibly they didn’t go with everything for humans.
“You’re not blowing up our town,” declared the shortest male. He stooped, picked up a good-size rock, and threw it at Iksander.
He was too surprised to dodge. The missile hit his chest with some force, stinging a bit but doing no real damage.
“Gentlemen,” he said, lifting his hands palm out. “There’s no need for this. I mean you and your town no harm.”
He’d been striving for conciliation but inspired hilarity.
The humans guffawed, repeating what he’d said with exaggerated mimicry.
Then they rushed him.
Iksander cursed in his head, unable to decide what to do even as the teenagers bowled him backward and piled on him. Joseph had warned him his magic would be offline for a while in his new body—and that he’d probably have less strength than he was used to. His strength might be less, but he’d known the moment the rock hit him that he had more than these teenagers. Considerably more, to go by the negligible effect their blows had on him.
Parrying their punches and kicks was no problem. His worry was that if he actually threw them off, he’d cause injuries too severe for human forms to heal. His attackers were young and stupid; bullies, without question. They didn’t, however, deserve to be crippled.
Additionally, he didn’t wish to attract attention.
“Stop it,” he ordered as the first boy slammed his skull on the cracked cement. He tried to add a compulsion to the command, but the spell fell completely flat.
“Go home and we will,” the boy retorted mockingly.
That startled him. Did they guess his true origins? Had Joseph misjudged their safety in this country?
A new voice cut through the boy’s laughter, a woman’s steel-firm alto. “Donald Wilkerson, get off that man this instant!”
The boy’s arm froze, half-cocked for another punch. He looked around guiltily.
“That’s right,” the woman continued. “I know you. And you other three as well. I also know your parents will tar your fannies for ganging up on people.”
“He could be a terrorist!” the one she’d called Donald protested. “Look at the way he’s dressed.”
The boy’s defensive attitude didn’t prevent him from backing off—along with his cohorts. Iksander sat up and drew a relieved breath.
“You’re an idiot,” the woman said to the ringleader.
To his surprise, his rescuer was on crutches. A cast encased her right foot. The sultan wasn’t used to judging human ages, but he thought she might be fifty. Her long, plaited hair was gray, her features weathered but kindly. Naturally, her face was uncovered. Females didn’t veil here, as a rule. A man in a cowhide coat stood beside her, silent but supportive. He was taller than the woman but appeared to be the same vintage.
Iksander’s attackers turned to their fellow male for support.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “My wife’s the nice one. I’d do worse than tell your parents what you’ve been doing.”
They grumbled and left, seeming younger than they had during the attack.
The man watched them go then walked to where Iksander sat. “You okay, son? Let me help you up.”
No one called him “son” anymore except his vizier. Murat had served Iksander’s father before him, and had known him since he was small. Bemused, Iksander accepted the offered hand. The man seemed surprised he sprang up so easily. Should he have pretended to be injured?
“Thank you,” he said, deciding to ignore the slipup if it was one. “I am unharmed. Those boys’ hand-to-hand technique was unsound.”
“Huh,” the man said, studying him up and down. Iksander straightened his disarranged tunic and diamond sash, feeling more self-conscious than he was used to. “You’re no shrimp. I’m surprised those idiots went for you.”
“I am Turkish,” Iksander said, lighting on this as a means to explain his apparently inappropriate garb. “My luggage has been . . . misplaced by the airlines.”
“Uh-huh,” said the man as if he didn’t quite believe him.
By this time, his wife had hobbled over on her crutches. She elbowed her husband’s ribs. “Your clothes are fine. Colorful. Would you . . .” She hesitated, her eyes cutting to her husband with some question. Seeming to understand what it was, he looked at her and smiled. The love the man felt for her tightened Iksander’s throat. The woman turned back to him. “If you’re not doing anything right now, could you come with us to our shop? We have a truck to unload, and—with my leg like this—I’m not much help to Tobias. It’s only across the street. And perhaps you’d join us for a meal afterwards.”
Iksander blinked rapidly. These humans thought he was indigent. He flushed, about to deny the ruler of the Glorious City needed charity. He restrained the words at the last moment. He did need information. And somewhere less public to get his bearings.
That he wasn’t in Miami had become clear.
Belatedly, he realized taking umbrage at their kindness would be uncivilized.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head to them. “I would value being of assistance.”
He followed the couple out from between the buildings, scrubbing at his nape where it itched. Because the woman’s gait was halting and the man slowed his pace to hers, Iksander had time to look around. The thoroughfare they crossed was two lanes, its asphalt rutted like the alley. Cars lined its edges. Though the conveyances were grimy, they interested him. The djinn realm didn’t use gas-burning vehicles.
Not knowing what he might inadvertently give away, he tried not to gawk openly. A few dozen storefronts stretched down the humble street: the diner, a tractor supply, a flower shop whose windows were boarded up. He was no expert, but the edifices seemed older than they should be.
The buildings on CSI: Miami were shiny.
“Here we are,” the woman announced. “The truck is around the back.”
“Here” was long, low structure of painted brick. The sign that hung above its entrance identified it as BLACK CAT UPCYCLE. Even if the letters hadn’t cooperated in making sense of themselves, he’d have recognized the picture of the feline. The creature had perked-up ears and a curly tail, the illustration primitive but charming. The bell around its neck glinted as if it could jingle.
Fascinated, he stopped to gaze at it. The artwork reminded him of Philip’s creations. Something . . . extra had been infused into the paint strokes.
“The name was our daughter’s idea,” the woman said, joining him where he’d paused. “Because
we don’t just salvage, we repurpose.”
“Ah,” he said as a few more concepts came clear to him. This was a kind of junk shop. The truck they wanted help unloading must be filled with pre-owned items.
“Georgie’s very smart,” the woman added, her pride the same as any mother from any world. “She’s studying economics at UVA.”
“Commendable,” he said, some comment seeming to be required. The knowledge popped into his mind that UVA was the University of Virginia. Was Virginia the place he was? He’d known human females had universities, but the idea of meeting one who’d attended unexpectedly intrigued him.
“She’ll be home tonight,” Tobias put in from a few feet away. “To help out a bit until Francine’s back on both feet.”
“Unless she doesn’t need to,” the woman—Francine—said meaningfully. “It’s a shame she has to put her last year at school on hold.”
“Hm,” said the man, which Iksander took to be an expression of mild doubt.
“I am called Alexander,” he volunteered, belatedly realizing this formality had been skipped. He was glad he’d chosen a Western name already.
“Tobias Hamilton. Nice to meet you.” Tobias grasped Iksander’s palm and gave it a brief pump, after which he jerked his head to the left. “Come this way and we’ll get started.”
To a member of a race who’d raised elaborate greetings to an art, the handshake felt unfinished. Telling himself he’d better get used to it, Iksander complied with Tobias’s suggestion.
The truck Tobias led him to was large. Like the sign in front, a picture of a cat embellished it. Its back was rolled up, and a steel ramp angled down. Pieces of a dismantled house lay inside. Iksander spied piles of milled lumber, stone mantelpieces, windows, plus four long white columns with simple capitals. He hesitated, unable to judge what he ought to be able to carry.
“Greek Revival,” Tobias informed him unhelpfully. He shook his head. “Place was being torn down to make way for a Jiffy Lube.”
“Ah,” Iksander said, because he couldn’t instantly sort this out. “Where do you wish to begin?”