All Your Wishes

by Cat Adams

I practiced drawing the gun, then practiced pulling the knives. My moves weren’t as smooth as with my usual jacket, but I thought it would be all right.

  Looking up, I met Divya’s gaze. The smile she gave me was more than a little sickly. Poor woman, she was absolutely terrified.

  Couldn’t say I blamed her.

  * * *

  Pradeep, Rahim, and I took the glass-fronted elevator to the ground floor. It was a short ride, but I felt hideously exposed the whole time and was grateful when we were reached the first floor and were able to exit. It was a short walk, across the paved parking lot and through a small gate, to the beach. This close to dawn that strand was the next best thing to deserted, and quiet enough that I could easily hear the sound of the ocean.

  The scene was beautiful, lit by the fading rays of the pure, white light of a nearly full moon that reflected on the water, as well as by the orange glow of halogen lamps bouncing off more prosaic concrete. I could smell a sea breeze … and a drunk, sleeping it off near a footbridge a couple of condos down. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a vampire bite on him, lying exposed all night on the beach, but he was still alive—I could hear his soft breathing.

  The local blood-suckers were hustling off to their nests to die for the day. My inner bat wanted desperately to do the same. I ignored it, moving despite the stiffness and pain in my joints that grew as the first hint of pink and orange backlit the belt of clouds on the eastern horizon, painting them in shades of blue and purple. The first delicate flickers of color danced atop the dark water.

  We passed a large patch of tall grass and palm trees where sleepy birds made small sounds as they shifted around in the nests they’d made in the sandy ground. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised at the color and texture of the sand, but I was, a little. I’d heard of white sand beaches, but in truth the color was a pale gray, particularly where it was wet. Other than the little scraps of broken shell and the occasional shell-covered ocean creature, the sand was incredibly fine. We kept walking until we were just short of the foam and debris at the water’s edge.

  I envied Divya, who had stayed at the condo. I’d have loved to go back to bed and get more sleep. Not that I thought she was resting—she was far too worried. More likely, she was standing on that postage stamp of a balcony, trying to catch a glimpse of what we were doing. I didn’t check to see. Instead, I kept alert, my gaze raking the area as the two men began chanting. They dragged sharp sticks through sand that had been smoothed by the soft touch of the ocean, drawing the magical symbols they needed. I could feel the burning heat of the power building until it was like a bonfire at my back.

  I gave a jaw-cracking yawn. I just couldn’t help it. Shaking myself slightly, I fought to focus. At that precise moment, I heard a small, metallic click followed by a soft beeping. I turned and saw that the sleeping drunk was neither. He’d rolled onto his stomach and was aiming a rifle at Rahim. I shouted a warning as I drew the Magnum and moved into the line of fire. In the distance I heard the sound of motors on the water. The beeping was a homing beacon. The shooter and I fired almost simultaneously, in a roar of deafening sound and flashing light. We both hit our targets, my bullet tearing into his skull at the same instant a bolt of pure energy slammed into my chest.

  My heart stopped, my body tumbled onto the wet sand. The pain was incredible. Indescribable. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel my body failing and my brain shutting down.

  It was nearly over when I saw a translucent image shimmer over the sand.

  He was lovely—inhuman, made of smoke and the light of distant stars, a vision of terrible beauty. He smiled down at me, his expression beautiful but chillingly acquisitive. He moved forward slowly, with exquisite grace. As he did, I knew … knew who and what he was, what he intended to do.

  Hasan intended to take over my body, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.

  11

  The ifrit slid into me as easily as a hand slides into a glove. As he did, I felt my heart give a feeble thump, then another, my lungs expanding in a breath that felt like heaven, flooding my body with sweet, beautiful oxygen.

  My body rose from where it had sprawled on the ground: rose with a fluid grace I could never have managed on my own. With that same liquid grace, he glided toward the circle and the Guardians.

  Pradeep stood outside the circle, and I saw him, not as the old man I had gotten to know since yesterday, but as a fierce warrior. Whirling and slicing his own arm with a bloodied knife, he sprayed drops of blood in great arcs, splattering a shimmering, shifting cloud of spirits. The spirits screamed when the blood hit them, each drop burning like acid.

  I knew then what Rahim had meant by “marking them.” I also knew, instinctively, what Hasan wanted with my body. My flesh was the ifrit’s shield. Pradeep’s blood could hit me without doing damage. More, as a mortal, I could cross the ritual circle, disrupting it so that Hasan could kill the Guardians, steal the stone, and regain some small amount of the power he’d lost during his time of imprisonment.

  No. I fought for control of my own body, forcing it to a stop just a fraction of an inch short of the circle.

  That shocked him. What are you? Hasan was startled and beginning to be angry. No mere human could fight me like this.

  I didn’t answer, but I didn’t have to. He was in my body and mind and could hear my thoughts. Every day, I fight to maintain my humanity in the face of the warring parts of my being that are anything but human. Now, in this moment, I needed to embrace the things that were different about me: the vampire strength, my siren heritage. Being human would not get me out of this. Being inhuman might.

  The siren ring on my finger throbbed with power, making the ifrit riding me hiss with pain. His control of my body slipped just a fraction: enough that I was able to control that arm. I used that control to draw a knife.

  You will do as I say. If you do not, I will leave and you will die.

  Fuck you. As I said the words I used the knife to shallowly slice across the top of my hand.

  It was a small cut, but the pain helped me focus. I pulled on my vampire nature, deliberately focusing on the smell of blood, so strong I could taste it like copper pennies on my tongue. At the same time I used my siren heritage to call on the power of the ocean and all its creatures. It was not high tide, but the water came, in a rushing wave that washed over the ritual circle and knocked me off my feet. I fell into the sea and Hasan was forced out of me, his voice leaving my lips in a cry of frustrated fury.

  The circle had been breached, by me and by water, the damage done. Hasan was not entirely corporeal, but damned if he couldn’t interact with the physical just the same. He slammed into Rahim with bruising force, flattening him onto the sand. Rahim struggled, using words of power and physical strength, yet the ifrit wrenched the vosta from his grip. Hasan’s howl of triumph mingled with Rahim’s cry of rage as the shimmering form of the ifrit flew off over the ocean, the live vosta in his hand.

  My vision was fading to black. My heart had stopped beating again. I couldn’t seem to draw air into my burning lungs. I felt my spirit start to pull away from the body that anchored it to the world. Everything changed. Reality faded, becoming a pale, translucent watercolor, the edges blurring. I could see my body on the sand, but it wasn’t me. The true me stood in the air a short distance away, slightly above the tableau. I watched Pradeep collapse to his knees, overcome by utter exhaustion; saw Rahim crawl toward my fallen form, his features drawn in a grimace of pained determination.

  The air before me began to tremble, filling with dark, sparkling energy. In the blink of an eye, a familiar form appeared.

  Connor Finn’s ghost stood before me, solid and real. He looked almost exactly as I remembered him from my visit to the Needle, the high-security prison where he’d supposedly been a prisoner. His red hair was cropped close to his head, his expression ever so superior. Instead of the prison orange and accompanying shackles he’d worn then, he was clad
, head to toe, in black: black raw silk shirt, black jeans, and the hooded black robe that he’d probably worn while performing the ceremony in which he died.

  A grin split his face and he crowed with laughter. “It’s true. You’re really dead.”

  “Apparently so,” I said, or thought I did, my voice sounding almost as tired as I felt. It was so weird. I probably should’ve been scared, hysterical even. But I wasn’t. In fact, I didn’t feel much of anything.

  “No glowing white light, no angel to guide you along the passage to heaven. I’m so disappointed in you, Celia.” He didn’t sound disappointed, more delighted.

  “Think how I must feel,” I replied.

  He chortled, blue eyes sparkling, the skin near his eyes crinkling with mirth. But only for a moment. He was still laughing when something changed. I felt pressure begin to build, the air becoming thick, almost liquid, swirling with darkness that moved like smoke made of black diamond glitter. The darkness grew, and with it rose a strong smell of brimstone—the scent of hell.

  Now I was afraid. Was this it? Were the demons coming for me? I’m not a true believer and I sure as hell am not perfect. There are things I’ve done … terrible things. I didn’t mean to. But …

  Swirling black mist seemed to devour the very light as it formed a tornadic vortex with Finn at its eye, ever darkening, its spinning winds taking on hints of blood red.

  Rushing winds roared, pressing my clothes against me, the pressure continuing to build until my virtual ears popped and my eyes streamed. Then, with a sound like a clap of thunder, an opening appeared, a rift in reality. For a split second I glimpsed something awful … something the human mind wasn’t capable of fathoming. The scent of brimstone was so thick I could taste it clear down my throat, and I choked so hard I began to retch.

  And then it was over. Nothing remained of Connor Finn or the storm that had swept him into hell.

  * * *

  Pain. I was in my body, lying on wet sand. My chest hurt. My lungs burned. I coughed weakly and heard someone sigh with relief.

  “She’s back.” Rahim sounded as exhausted as I felt. I was so tired I couldn’t even find the strength to open my eyes. I hurt absolutely everywhere; muscles I didn’t even normally know I had burned in agony—but whether that was from lack of oxygen or an aftereffect of the djinn’s occupation, I had no clue.

  “You should not have saved her,” Pradeep hissed. “She is not human. Hasan knows that now. He could use her as his vehicle.”

  I opened my eyes by dint of sheer willpower. Pradeep and Rahim were kneeling beside me in the sand. In the distance I saw lights strobing blue and red as uniformed officers swarmed onto the beach. They’d come in without sirens—or else my hearing had been offline. I didn’t know, or care, which.

  “We need an ambulance,” Rahim shouted to the officers, not answering Pradeep.

  “Facedown on the ground. Hands behind your head. Now,” the nearest cop commanded.

  Pradeep and Rahim did as they were told. I didn’t. I couldn’t have moved that much to save my life. I was still having to concentrate just to keep on breathing. At least my heartbeat had steadied.

  It looked as if I was going to live long enough to see the fallout from our failure after all.

  Some girls have all the luck.

  12

  The EMT took one look at my ultra-pale skin and long canines and zapped me with a stunning spell. It must have been pretty strong, because when I opened my eyes, late afternoon sun was filtering through the drawn curtains of a hospital-room window. I was handcuffed to the bed and Bubba was sitting beside me. It was good to see him, big and burly, guarding me while I was out of it. I did wonder how he’d gotten to Florida so quickly—or had I been under longer than I thought?

  I wasn’t hungry. Then again, there were tubes running into my arm. One of them could’ve been giving me liquid nourishment.

  “Hey.” My voice sounded rough and scratchy.

  “Welcome back.” He gave me a smile. In my mind, I heard him say, Don’t say anything important. The cops have a listening spell on the room.

  “What are you doing here? How long have I been out?”

  “Twelve hours, more or less. And before you ask, Kevin is guarding the client. Dawna sent us out and put us on twelve on, twelve off until you’re back on your feet.” He reached down by his feet. I couldn’t see what he was doing, even moving to the extent the handcuffs would let me, but heard the rattle of a plastic sack. When he straightened up, he held a chocolate nutrition shake and a straw. “They’ve got fluids going into you, but Dawna wanted to make sure you got a couple of these in you, just in case.”

  Yay, Dawna! “Good idea.” Bubba twisted the cap off of the little plastic bottle and put the straw in, then held the bottle for me while I gulped it down. I’ve grown tired of the shakes over the years, but right now, this one tasted wonderful. The scratchiness in my throat eased, as did a tension I hadn’t realized had been building in me. By the end of the second bottle I was feeling more myself again. I still hated the restraints, but at least I wasn’t having to deal with the vampire side of me being so close to the surface.

  Why am I handcuffed?

  You’re under arrest for shooting a man on the beach. And boss, there’s more.

  Oh, shit.

  The man you shot in yesterday’s firefight died in the hospital—someone unplugged his life support. And two more died in the ocean. They were on Jet Skis, armed to the teeth with weapons that matched the ones the guy on the beach had—and they drowned during the attack. You’re a siren, so the authorities are working on the theory that you’re responsible.

  Holy shit. Four dead.

  I wasn’t at fault—at least I didn’t think I was. Yeah, I’m a siren, but I’m not much of one. I have to work hard even to communicate telepathically. On the other hand, I’ve been known to do some weird shit when my adrenaline is flowing and lives are on the line.

  Four dead. Wow. This was bad. This was so bad.

  I’ve been in trouble before. More often than I’d like. But with this many bodies on my head, I was looking at life in prison. And not just any prison either: one of the monster hellholes.

  The local guy the Patels hired has been hard at it and Roberto is flying in as co-counsel. But it doesn’t look good.

  I blinked several times to clear the blurriness from my vision. Roberto Santos is one of the top attorneys in the nation. He defends the famous and the infamous—so long as they pay their bills. I like him and I think he likes me. But more than that, I respect him. He’s everything a great litigator can hope to be: handsome, cultured, and he has a brilliant mind and amazing courtroom skills. Sort of a modern Latino Perry Mason. I was glad he was coming, but that he felt he needed to meant that I was hip-deep in manure and sinking fast.

  And boss, there’s something weird, too.

  Of course there was. My life was nothing if not weird.

  What?

  Your curse mark’s gone.

  “What?” I hadn’t meant to speak out loud, but I was too shocked to keep silent. I’ve had a curse mark since early childhood, thanks to one of the siren queens, the late, unlamented Stephania. Her death curse hadn’t succeeded in ending my life—though it had cost me my sister—but from my earliest childhood, I’ve had almost constant brushes with death and disaster. I was reliably informed that the mark had warped my life and career lines, so that I am drawn to deadly situations and have the urge to protect people from death.

  I hadn’t known it was there until I was an adult, when a piece of magical gear unexpectedly shattered the illusion spells that had concealed it. Since then, it had been visible, an irregularly shaped, reddish-black mark that covered most of my palm. The best experts in the world had been studying that curse for years now, and hadn’t had a clue how to lift it.

  I turned my head, straining to get a look at my palm. Sure enough, the mark was gone. I stared at the clean, clear flesh for long moments, stunned.

  Ho
w the hell?

  You died, boss. They had to do CPR to revive you and you crashed again on the way to the hospital. Dr. Sloan thinks that may have done it. He’s practically ordered you to come see him the minute you get back home. He wanted to fly out here to see for himself but we talked him out of it because you’re in the middle of a case. He’ll never forgive you if you don’t let him look you over, and soon.

  My friend, Ram Aaron Sloan, was a retired professor from the University of California Bayview. He was the world’s leading expert on curse marks and had been a little bit obsessed with mine since I’d first come to his attention.

  I’ve technically died before, Bubba, and nothing changed. When they revived me, the curse mark was still there. Still, this time I’d seen Connor Finn, watched him being dragged to hell, as a matter of fact. And while it was terribly, terribly un-Christian of me, I felt more than a little satisfaction about that.

  Maybe that vindictive streak of mine was why I hadn’t seen the doorway to heaven? Then again, no one had tried to drag me to hell, either.

  Rahim says Hasan could’ve removed the curse, but he doesn’t know why the ifrit would.

  Before I could digest that, thought, the door to my room burst open. The man who stood framed in the doorway was slender, with pale skin stretched taut over cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread. Below his tousled black curls, his eyes were a rather eerie green, more likely to be found on a cat than a human, and were framed by long black lashes. He was dressed in a very expensive, hand-tailored navy suit, but his attitude and body language screamed cop.

  “What are you doing here?” he snarled at Bubba. “She wasn’t to be allowed any visitors.”

  Bubba didn’t respond, just turned in his seat. Something about that little shift in position was ominous enough that I decided to jump in before things went too far south to be salvaged.

  “Hi. Celia Graves,” I introduced myself, giving a cheery little wave of my cuffed right hand; the cuff rattled against the bed. “I just woke up a minute or so ago. And you are?”