The Wishing Heart

by J. C. Welker

  “Maybe I should unrattle the Fingersmith’s noggin.” Vandal bent low and eyed Rebel up and down. She should stab out his eyeballs for staring at her like that.

  “Will you belt up and let Father interrogate the human?” Styria glanced at the alpha, though it was apparent they weren’t blood related. “Wulfram, do continue.”

  “Thank you, sweet.” As the alpha neared, Rebel saw the tattoo on his forearm: a half-moon, mirroring the one on the wall. Wulfram’s pelt coat hung over his muscular shoulders, swelling with tension, his neck thicker than her head. A bandage, Rebel noticed now, covered his lower stomach. She would’ve paid a handsome fee to see her handiwork. “Who are you?” His voice rumbled. “And from where did you obtain the vessel?”

  Rebel shifted, sending a twinge up her shoulder wound. “Get,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “stuffed.”

  Wulfram actually chuckled, showing a pointed canine, and his eyes gleamed as bright as the moon. More images rushed Rebel until her mind snapped to attention. Her precious vase. Her gaze darted around the chamber, searching for it. There in the alpha’s hand, it shined like starlight, looking out of place in this netherworld.

  “It’s unwise to make remarks when facing a beast.” The veins in Wulfram’s neck bulged like thick roots, and fur sprouted up the muscles of his arms. “The master wants to know who you pirated the vessel from.”

  “Master?” Rebel couldn’t suppress a grin. “Does he give you treats?”

  A growl vibrated to her core. With a whip-crack motion, a thick hand wrapped around her neck, dragging her upright. Rebel’s head bumped against the wall. Against stone. Stupid mouth. His claws flexed and she felt one extend, a painful prick, and then sickly warmth dripped down her neck. Damn her, and her inability to hold in sarcasm.

  “You don’t understand how things work around here.” Wulfram’s pupils dilated in warning. “The Night Guard doesn’t take kindly to turncoats. Where’d you lift it from?”

  In order to breathe, Rebel answered, “Some…east side apartment.”

  His grip released and she gasped for breath. “How many has she granted you?”

  “No one granted me anything,” she croaked. “You attacked me!”

  “Don’t play stupid,” he snarled, spit hitting her in the face. “You expect me to believe you know nothing of what the vessel holds or the magus who possessed it?”

  “Surprising, isn’t it?” she breathed as the hideous feeling of his claws lessened.

  Another form slithered near. Whereas her brother appeared all strapping and inept, Styria moved with a lupine grace in each of her steps. “Father.” She crooned. “The urchin sounds truthful. Smell her. She reeks of common human blood of the Steelworld, not our magic-kind.”

  Magic. Now that’s a word Rebel knew. She’d seen things before—odd, unexplainable things. People standing on the street one second and in a blink, not. Or how Skinner seemed to swindle the most stubborn of thieves, as if he’d manipulated their mind, but never had she let her mind stray to that word. The possibility of what it meant filled her with hope. It bounced around her mind and settled on her heart. The possibility of a cure. Even if the magic she’d met so far threatened her life, it was real.

  Wulfram didn’t argue, allowing his features to return to man. He ignored Rebel for the moment and placed the vase on a bench table as they gathered around. “Before we present it, we must make sure it’s the right one heisted from Nero,” he told the twins. “The Prince will expect her to do what she’s claimed.”

  Again, there was that name. Prince.

  Rebel’s chest twitched, and she felt her pendant press against it. The one-inch knife it held was useless for cutting, a tiny, wicked thing good for lockpicking. Her fingers were going numb, but she inched them along the rope bindings. It seemed made of thorny roots, and she couldn’t find a knot. The more she moved, the tighter the root rope became, so she couldn’t slip her wrist through or it would rip flesh.

  Unless…

  Unless Rebel broke her thumb. It was a last resort but it might come to it. Sparing a glance at her feet, she caught sight of her satchel under the table, and on top, her beloved switchblade. She needed her pills and to escape from wherever she was with her vase in tow. An impossible task. But not for the Fingersmith. The lycanthropes paid no attention to her scheming, more focused on the gems of the vase.

  “Now,” Wulfram said, “let’s see this daughter of smoke and sky.” Once he rubbed the vase with a taloned finger and unscrewed the gemstone top, the air seemed to heat.

  A fiery mist materialized from the vase’s spout.

  The smoke flooded forth, drifting atop the table, forming and gathering together into a shape. And as it diffused, a figure rose through the vapor like a being from the netherworld. Beautiful. Terrifying.

  A goddess.

  Liquid smoke spilled over her shoulders into ringlets of midnight hair and slid down her chest to encircle her waist. The bronzed flesh not covered by a bandeau of black plumes glistened with rising vapors. Her arms were a curiosity—rune-like patterns trailed up them in gold swirls that vanished beneath her mane. She wore heat as a second skin, as though she’d been molded from flames. She was fire in the flesh. The very definition of magic.

  A being so mighty Rebel felt if she stared into those eyes long enough, she could see the universe’s secrets. Now she understood why they were willing to kill for the vase. Her entire worldview shattered before her, to be slowly put back together at the sight of the goddess. No. Not a goddess.

  A jinni.

  “Wishmaker.” The alpha grinned.

  The chamber filled with a bewitching voice. “Maskh.” The word ripped from the jinni’s throat as if she were banishing a monster, her tongue the sharpest weapon.

  “You’ll make the Prince a fine addition to his collection,” Wulfram said.

  Heat flared into a halo around the jinni, and she scowled with a face one could imagine on an ancient princess. “I am no thing. I am Anjeline the Wishmaker. Dalil of Prophets. Daughter of the Scorching Winds…the Divine’s Fire. I am miracles, and I am destruction, with one flip of the switch.”

  “Indeed.” His eyes roamed over her. “I charge you, Wishmaker, who has informed soothsayers and inspired magicians, to show your worth.”

  Anjeline gave a look so fierce it could’ve made giants kowtow. “Wishes have rules. Even your blackguard pack knows that.”

  He lifted the vase in his meaty hand. “I know whoever possesses the vessel possesses you, thus they gain all the wishes they crave. You will obey my will.”

  More heat flared. Anjeline’s features contorted, as if she were trying to mold her body into a different shape, but then stopped. She sighed. “I cannot grant the wish to kill, make one more powerful than the Creator, or make alive the dead. And you must agree to my term for each wish before it’s cast.”

  “Term?” Wulfram grunted. “Speak it.”

  Anjeline stared him down with her odd-colored eyes, rimmed in kohl and heavily lashed. The tip ends of her dark hair appeared dipped in molten gold, and glowed as bright as her irises. Pure and luminous. Eyes that smoldered like living fire. And as they traveled beyond the lycanthropes, they caught sight of Rebel with recognition. The moment they landed on her, they punched the breath from her lungs. Her heart paused, rewound, and then sped up again.

  “You would devour the human?” Anjeline kept eyes on her but addressed the alpha.

  “Naturally. What else do I need her filth for?”

  “Filth?” Rebel felt offended. “I bathe regularly.”

  A snarl worked up from Wulfram’s throat, and the twins grinned, broadcasting fangs. Rebel clicked her mouth shut as those words reminded her: devour. She couldn’t believe how the universe was toying with her. At last, she’d discovered the means by which to obtain her wishes, and just as quickly, it would be taken away.

  As if reading her mind, Anjeline’s focus turned toward her. “The human,” she spoke to the alpha. “Harm he
r not and you will receive your wish.”

  Rebel met her gaze and something unspoken passed between them. A singular sustaining glance. The feel of those eyes was as if fiery fingertips were caressing the nape of her neck. For the briefest instant, she felt a connection to this being, the same sensation from when she first touched the vase.

  “That’s your term?” Wulfram huffed. “Agreed.”

  “Take heed what you ask,” Anjeline warned. “Wolfish hearts reap what they sow.”

  With a hulking hand, he dismissed it. “I know the workings of magic. Now…” He glanced at his stomach and, in one swift movement, ripped the bandage away, showing a nasty wound. “I wish for healing,” he said, “for regeneration of the forever young.”

  At his command, ripples of sizzling smoke seemed to fill Anjeline’s chest. The swirls upon her arms blazed golden as she pursed her lips—and released a breath.

  The wish was cast.

  Time appeared to stop in motion. The jinni’s eyes gleamed as threads of light flickered from her mouth. The air before them reacted to her whisper, churning slowly, as a swirling point in midair began to glimmer. Then the small orb swelled into glowing tentacles, coiling around the alpha and encasing him in illumination.

  It was Rebel’s first sight of what a wish could bring. Stunning. Pure. Like the first snow of a winter’s day. The first laugh from a newborn. The first touch of a woman in love. The light shrouded Wulfram, lacing in and out of his pelt, encircling his chest, and threaded between the folds of his dark beard. As the wish merged into him, weaving his desire, the gash on his side shrank, and healing energy accelerated—knitting flesh together.

  The wound Rebel had inflicted was no more.

  Her heart swelled in her chest with want. It did not twitch. It did not fill her with pain, but with an overwhelming lightness. And in its wake, something else surfaced. Possibility. She’d found her answer. What she’d been praying for since she could speak, could walk, could wish. It was true. If she wasn’t so weak, a tear might have escaped her eyes.

  “Remarkable.” Wulfram glanced down at himself, then nodded to the jinni. “You’ve proven your worth, Wishmaker. Back inside the vessel.”

  Anjeline’s eyes darkened from living fire to that of a thundering sea, and in a coil of smoke, she disappeared. Heat glittered in her path like the memory of a dream. Wulfram screwed the cap back on the vase, setting it atop the table, and Rebel felt as though she was watching an old friend vanish. No. She lunged, as if that could stop him, and was met with a pointed boot to the chest.

  “So?” Styria smiled at her. “We keep this stray for now?”

  “For now,” Wulfram said. “You stand first watch.”

  A mewl vibrated from Vandal’s throat. “Just one bite? A tasty little nibble of the bandit.” His tone weaved a perverse implication, and he placed a hairy hand on Rebel’s leg.

  She kicked out her bound feet, striking him in the shin with a pain-inducing blow. “Touch me again and you can guess which fist I’ll crush your wolfhood with,” she snapped.

  He sneered but Styria pushed him back. “The human’s not yours. Yet.”

  Rebel shuddered, disturbed at the thought of his fangs tasting any part of her. Before departing, Wulfram growled in warning and trudged out of the chamber and up the stairwell with Vandal limping in his massive shadow.

  Styria stepped closer, her pelt fluttering about her feet, and watched as Rebel refused to meet her gaze. “We’re not monsters,” she said.

  Rebel glared. “You were going to eat me.”

  “‘Eat’ is a general term.” She waved it away with a long fingernail. “Although, we could utilize your skills. Few have clashed against Father and been left with their tongue.” Her curious eyes studied Rebel. “I could persuade him to grant you the Bite. It would make you part of the greatest sept of the Night Guard.”

  Unsure whether the she-wolf was serious, Rebel mumbled for her to go choke on twigs and berries, causing her to growl in laughter. Rebel tried shifting away and pain shot through her shoulder like a million nerves on fire. But it sparked an idea. A person could steal about anything, even what had been stolen from them. That is, if they understood locks. And if people were locks, Rebel knew just how to finesse the mechanics within.

  She doubled over in a sudden coughing fit, startling the she-wolf. “My shoulder…” She wheezed. “Could you… It’s still bleeding.”

  Styria’s brow arched. “Don’t think so, charmer.”

  “You can’t all be wankers, can you?” She slumped back, hair falling over her brow and a sliver of her eyes peeking through, in her best hangdog impression.

  Another laugh. Styria bent inches from her face and grinned. “Those eyes really get you out of sticky situations, don’t they?”

  Gritting her teeth, Rebel turned her shoulder to give a better view of her ailment, which was the wrong thing to do. White-hot pain pierced through her back, so overwhelming she gasped. This wasn’t part of the ruse. For a moment, she became too short of breath, barely able to speak one word, “Please…”

  Even wolves were like locks.

  Styria grimaced, consideration glinting in her gaze, trying to discern whether she was being deceived. “If you die, I suppose it would be bad for Father’s wish.” She walked to the stone stairs, but glanced back. “Don’t move an inch or you’ll regret it.”

  As she left the chamber, a grin came over Rebel.

  Third rule of thievery: Always have a plan.

  Chapter Five

  Anjeline tugged at the brass cuff encircling her wrists, the pain of this torture surging inside of her. With a flick of the tongue, her magic spread out, threading through her fingertips and stirring along her lips. Heated light twirled around the wristlet, and sparks fell like heavenly flames. Yet as always, with every try, her magic faded away.

  And the cuffs remained.

  Her essence turned to smoke rage, filling the vessel, curling and uncurling, pushing and stretching, but her form snapped back, unable to escape. Bound like an animal. She heaved a defeated sigh, yearning to feel her magic in its whole again. But what little she could conjure held nothing against her bindings. Her magic would belong to whoever possessed her. Making her less of a jinni and more of a treasure. And thus, she’d remained imprisoned. Her latest mistress magician had promised to unearth a way to liberate her. Till now.

  Thanks to a thieving girl.

  Anjeline gazed through the vase’s transparent windows at the bound girl. It felt strange. She could sense the human’s aura as if she were still outside the vessel. Now, the red wolf was laughing. The human had mumbled something about the lycan choking on twigs and berries. She wasn’t sure what fruit had to do with anything, but she had the impression that it was more offensive than Anjeline understood in her Jinn language.

  All at once, the girl hunched over in pain.

  She recognized the actions for what it was. A ruse. And she warmed a little to see it. A charming thief. The worst kind. “Crafty charlatan, aren’t you?” She studied her closer.

  Those eyes, as silvery as the center of a star, shone through a smattering of dirt and blood. Though the girl was gangly like an overgrown pup, she had a sort of feline quality, lithe but floppy, as if her arms and her legs had a mind of their own but with purpose and charm. The wolf could learn a thing or two from this human, and Anjeline wondered what was scheming behind those eyes. She sighed to herself. If she was allowing her musings to turn to a thief, she must’ve been more desperate than she’d realized.

  Humans were, after all, the enemy.

  For which, Madrath the Jinn, potentate of all wishmakers, had utter contempt for—as he did when speaking of all humans and magicians alike. Drafts of heat would billow around his tuffs of sapphire hair like an unseen fire, his irises would swirl to crimson, and the runes upon his forearms would blaze. “Man is shamelessly predictable,” he’d said ages ago, when first versing her in breathing desires into reality. “I wish. So easy, they say. So
much comes at a price.”

  “Indeed, since I just paid it with my magic,” she’d quipped, feeling the drain of energy as her runes dimmed. The color of their runes could tell Jinn ranking: sapphire for wise potentates, emerald equaled peaceful, crimson for warriors, and gold among wishmakers. “And what for those who deserve their wishes?”

  “Deserve?” Madrath had huffed, his voice so deep-seated it crackled like embers rubbing together. “We are tools to them. Compelled, controlled, dominated. We’re made to share our magic, so they believe it’s their right to take, when they share only their greed and attempt to bind us. You know Jinn rules.”

  “‘Don’t trust their words, believe their sorrows, or feel pity,’” she’d quoted.

  He had given a nod. “Jinn must come first, above your desires, your magic, your feelings. We are kindred. Together to the end.” That was Madrath: rules and decrees.

  Still she’d pushed. “The sun and the stars are mine. What could a human rival do?” She hadn’t understood evil then. Before her wrists were bound and her vengeance sparked.

  “They will tear down the very stars of the sky,” he’d promised. “There’s always a price to their wishes. Unless it’s cast by an unselfish heart.” Therein lay the irony. Wishes by human nature were desires of the self. And Anjeline had watched cities destroyed in a single word, with fire, with water, with the trembling of the earth. Countless prophets and magicians who believed they were faultless had still fallen to the ramifications of their greed.

  In centuries, she’d only witnessed one soul who hadn’t reaped the consequence.

  Now as Anjeline watched the bound human, she saw a glimpse, a phantom of a boy king she’d once served. She remembered the girl’s impression left on the vase, could feel her aura—bright and wild—as leaden as magic. Upon the she-wolf’s face curved a smile—she scented it, too. Anjeline could’ve allowed the lycanthropes to do as they pleased with the girl, but her insides twisted at the thought. She shouldn’t care. Feel pity after what humans did to her kind. To her. But even in the underground tunnels, she’d willed the girl to heed to her voice, to run. Why hadn’t she just left the vase and saved herself?