She cleared her throat. “Sounds like there’ll be a full investigation.”
“Don’t you see the blood on her hands? It’s open and shut.”
The tablet beeped and the woman released my hand. “Other hand, please.”
I brought up my other hand and she repeated the process. As the tablet scanned, she met my eyes. “Why would she kill her master? Wouldn’t being in the city be better than the farm?”
The officer scoffed. “Why wouldn’t a djinn kill a human if they had the chance?”
“You’re making a good case for that,” I muttered before I could stop myself.
The tablet beeped and he yanked me away from the counter, glaring down at me. “Where did you get the bruises on your throat?”
I returned his glare, the pain radiating from my scalp making it easy to be angry. “You didn’t believe the last thing I said. Why I should I answer now?”
“Your master did it,” he said, a confident statement, not a question.
There was no point in answering, so I just glared up at him.
He turned back to the woman at the counter. “See? Open and shut.”
The officer pushed me into a cell, and I felt the magic wards snap up around me as I stumbled across the threshold. He slammed the bars shut behind me. With a final glare, he locked the gate and stalked back down the hall.
Alone. Trapped. A shiver danced across my skin as I glanced around my cell. It was a small, sparse room, with two bunk beds built into the cinderblock walls on either side, with a toilet/drinking fountain combo against the back wall underneath the tiniest of windows. The wall of bars facing the hallway contained the magic that kept me locked in here whether the gate was closed or not. They alternated between dull gray iron and bright copper, the same metals that formed my slave cuffs and blocked me from my own power. But the enchantment in the bars was much stronger than my cuffs. It didn’t just keep me from accessing my magic—it blocked me from the magic completely, like a wall inside my soul, dividing me in half, so I couldn’t even sense the buzz of magic in my blood. It hurt, deep in my bones, my magic a phantom limb I was used to feeling even if I had no control over it. My heart beat slower, my blood sluggish. I was inherently a magical creature, the power woven into every cell of my being. This enchanted prison was slowly, surely, splitting me apart. If they left me here too long, it might eventually kill me.
I hugged myself and crossed the cell to one of the lower bunks. Even that small amount of effort made my head spin. I sat down to catch my breath. Between the fight and getting arrested, the adrenaline that had kept me going was wearing off. It was late, after midnight, and the imprisonment spell amplified my exhaustion. It would only get worse.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to think how I would get out of this mess. If the police would just look a little closer, they’d know there was someone else in Morgan’s office. But how could I get them to investigate? I was a djinn, a slave. They didn’t believe anything I said.
My head started to pound. I laid on the flat pillow, the rough blanket scratching my arms. Think. I needed to think. My breathing slowed and deepened. It felt so good to lay down and close my eyes. Exhaustion settled on my limbs like a heavy blanket. I stopped trying to think. As long as I was in this cell, there was nothing I could do anyway.
I dozed. One hour, a few, I couldn’t tell. As tired as I was, true restorative sleep eluded me. I was at once both adrift in nothingness and pinned down by the cell’s enchantment.
A loud clanging jerked me awake. I sat up too fast and hit my head on the top bunk, pain bursting in my forehead and renewing my pounding headache. I clapped a hand to my head and groaned.
“Get up, djinn,” growled a voice, followed by more clanging. “Someone wants to see you.”
I eyed the hallway, where the officer who had arrested me hit the bars of my cell with his black baton, producing the awful racket that echoed in the cell. I slid my legs over the edge of the bunk and stood up, revealing more of the hallway and the officer’s companion.
The stranger from the studio, Morgan’s nephew Nick, stared at me through the bars. His gaze froze me in place, his face expressionless, faint circles under his eyes the only clue to his current mood. His brown hair still raked to one side, and a black leather jacket completed his all-black style, covering the muscles of his arms. A little tendril of heat warred with nerves in my belly. What was he doing here?
“There she is,” the officer said. “Satisfied?”
Nick’ eyes bored into mine, hot and hard. “Why?” he whispered, his voice hoarse like he could barely push out the word. He gripped the bars of my cell as if to hold himself steady, his knuckles whitening. “Why did you kill him? He was trying to protect you. I tried to protect you.”
“She’s a djinn,” the officer spat before I could answer. “The council won’t need any other reason to see her punished. Unless you want to punish her yourself?”
He offered Nick the baton. My heart leapt into overdrive as Morgan’s nephew considered the weapon. The truth was my only defense. I had no reason to think he’d listen to me, but he was here, and I had tried to stop Sebastian Maguire from groping me earlier. If any human might believe me, it would be him.
“I didn’t kill him,” I blurted. “There was someone else when I got there.”
Nick lifted his eyes to mine again, but the officer snorted. “Lying won’t get you out of this, slave.”
I ignored him and crossed the cell to stand in front of the Nick. “Your uncle was a decent master. I swear I did not hurt him.”
“Isn’t that his blood on your hands?” he said through clenched teeth.
I followed his gaze to my hands, my gut twisting. Dark reddish brown stains covered my palms and fingers, rivulets of Morgan’s blood dried on my slave cuffs. I hadn’t been allowed to clean my hands before the handprinting, and I’d been so exhausted after being thrown in the cell that I hadn’t even thought of trying to clean my hands in the little drinking fountain. Bile came up my throat and I swallowed hard.
“I tried to save him,” I said softly, remembering the terrible wounds on Morgan’s neck. “The attacker cut his throat. I was just trying to stop the bleeding.”
“What happened to this so-called attacker?” the officer said. “Did you see his face, perhaps?”
I looked at Nick as I answered. “It was too dark. After I fought him off Morgan, he jumped through the window.”
The officer rolled his eyes. “So not only did you, a slave, voluntarily try to rescue your owner from his killer, but this unknown individual leapt through a window on the penthouse story to get away from you?”
My heart sank as he laughed. Nick still stared at me, looking tired and angry. Convincing him was my only hope, and I was running out of time.
“I know it sounds ridiculous. I know it looks bad. But I swear…” I rested my hand on one of his, still gripping the bars. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. “I swear I did not kill Morgan.”
The officer jammed his baton at me through the bars. My elbow exploded with pain. I jerked back with a cry, pain radiating down my forearm.
“What the hell?” Nick exclaimed. “That was not necessary.”
“It’s time to leave,” the officer replied, his voice as cold as his eyes. “Her lies only get more preposterous. Rest assured, your uncle’s killer will get what she deserves.”
“I am not his killer!” I shouted. The last word echoed in the cell as the two men looked back at me. Cradling my injured arm, I ignored the officer’s menacing glare and focused on Nick. “The real killer used a garrote wire. There’s nothing in Morgan’s office I could have used to do that. Look at Morgan’s body. You’ll see I’m telling the truth. Isn’t that what you want?”
Something flashed in Nick’ eyes, so fast I couldn’t be certain I’d actually seen anything. But maybe I’d landed on something I could use.
I stepped closer to the bars again, staying just outside the officer’s baton range. “You d
eserve to know the truth, Nick. If you believe I’m the killer, if you want to see me punished, fine. But at least be certain of it. At least make sure every possible explanation is investigated so you can sleep at night.”
His eyes flickered again. I had definitely hit on something. Hopefully it would be enough.
“It won’t matter.” The officer sounded certain, smug.
Nick turned to him. “What is that supposed to mean? LAPD would rather punish a djinn than do their job and investigate?”
The officer shrugged. “Investigation or not, the council’s already decided to make an example of her.”
My shoulders drooped as I expelled a heavy breath. “So they’re going to send me to the farm even though I’m innocent?”
I’d been lucky to leave the farm when Morgan purchased me as a teenager. Going back in my prime meant I’d be used for my magic near constantly. The djinn at the farm supplied all the power for the west coast. There would be no master who turned the dial down to give me a break or spite someone else. In fact, they’d probably suck more out of me in every session than Morgan ever did.
That, or they’d breed me like a mare. I shuddered.
The officer saw it and smiled, a cold and cruel quirk of his lips. His eyes said he knew what I was thinking. “They don’t intend to send you to the farm. That wouldn’t send much of a message.”
I furrowed my brows. Message to whom?
“What is that supposed to mean?” Nick said.
The officer kept smiling. “It means she’s going to be executed at dawn.”
5
My knees went weak, and I gripped a cell bar with my good hand to keep myself from sliding limply to the floor. The officer smirked at me over his shoulder as he ushered Nick Morgan out, leaving me alone, trapped in a magic-nullifying cell to await my death like a rabbit about to be skinned.
My lungs pumped too quickly. I couldn’t get enough air. I’d thought being used to breed more djinn slaves was bad. That my magic being harvested at high daily rate was bad.
Those were nothing.
At least I had a chance of being purchased again if they sent me to the farm. Nick could have investigated, proved my innocence, reclaimed me as his inheritance. Possibly I could convince one of the human handlers to go easy on the harvesting of my magic every once in a while, although Yasmina was better at sweet talking than me.
But I’d been wrong. The farm was not my fate.
The council wanted to kill me whether I was guilty or not, drag me in front of a live audience, cameras flashing, some politician making a speech before someone shot me, or drugged me, or cut off my head. My hand tightened painfully around the copper bar, my knuckles whitening until the skin was nearly transparent.
The imaginary execution gave way to Morgan’s slashed throat. The real killer thought they got away with murder. While I trembled in this cell, they would sleep soundly, knowing the authorities thought they got the culprit and weren’t looking any further. All because I had put my hands around Morgan’s throat in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding.
Instead of making my stomach twist or bile rise in my throat, this time the memory made me angry. A rushing sensation filled my body, and my limbs steadied with newfound strength. I refused to take the fall for them. I would not go quietly to the council’s decided fate like a lamb to slaughter. If they wanted me to die, I would go down like a wolf—snarling and biting, taking my enemies down with me.
I pushed away from the bars and took a deep, cleansing breath. First things first. I moved to the little drinking fountain and got to work on my blood-stained hands. It was awkward and not terribly effective without soap, but after several minutes of scrubbing my hands, the reddish-brown of dried blood faded to a light cinnamon barely darker than my gold-toned skin. As long as no one looked too closely at my hands, they’d never know the difference. Another few minutes scraping at my slave cuffs erased as much evidence of what had transpired in Morgan’s office as I could manage.
Drying my hands on my pants, I re-examined my cell. I might have been trapped, but at least I was alone. I had to make the most of it. If I waited to make my move when the officers came for me at dawn, they would have the advantage of numbers, not to mention handcuffs and guns and who knew what other magic-countering devices. All of which meant one thing.
I had to escape.
I started my examination at the drinking fountain/commode. It was securely fastened, the pipes going directly into the wall and too large to wrap a hand around. Then I stood carefully on the toilet to get a better look at the window. About the size of tissue box, it was far too small to be a potential exit, and it didn’t even give me a proper look at the night sky thanks to the tall neighboring buildings. I stretched up to pat the window frame, hoping to find a loose screw or something that could come in handy, but no such luck.
Next I inspected one set of bunk beds, shaking the blanket, probing the thin pillow and mattress, touching every spring and support. It took longer than I liked without finding any weaknesses I could exploit. How far away was dawn? The little window was backlit by streetlights, so I had no idea how dark the sky really was. Would someone come for me right at dawn, or before to get me to the execution before the sun rose?
I had just turned to the second set of bunk beds, the one I had dozed on earlier, when footsteps echoed down the hall. It sounded like more than one person, but the echoes bounced off the cinderblock walls and tangled with each other so I couldn’t guess at the size of the group heading my way.
It must be dawn. Time for my execution.
I sat on the bed and leaned against the wall, trying to look relaxed, like I hadn’t been trying to figure out an escape. The footsteps got louder as the group approached. My heart hammered against my chest as I mentally prepared to meet my executioners.
Two men came into view and stopped at the door to my cell. Only one of them wore an officer’s uniform. The other, a skinny young man dressed in a red t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a poor attempt at a moustache, took one look at the cell and shook his head.
“Whoa, hey man, this is not my usual,” he said.
“Regular cellblock’s full tonight. You get special treatment, Hernandez.” The officer unlocked the gate and pushed him in, pausing just long enough to uncuff him before slamming the gate shut. “Oh, and be careful of the djinn. She’s a murderer.”
Hernandez whipped around and grabbed the bars, staring at the officer with wide eyes. “The what now?”
The cop’s eyes slid to me, and Hernandez followed his gaze. His eyes bugged out even more. I kept my face neutral as he stared. Why would the police throw him in here when they were so convinced of my guilt?
With a sadistic grin, the cop walked away.
“Hey, you can’t leave me in here. All I did was tag an overpass. C’mon, man!”
Echoing footsteps were the only reply.
Hernandez slammed a hand against a bar. With a sigh, he turned around and leaned against the bars, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyed me. After a moment, he shifted his weight and shoved his hands in his pockets, his pants threatening to slide even further down his legs.
“Djinn, huh?” he finally said.
I held up my arms to show him my slave cuffs. He nodded. “Never seen a djinn before.” His eyes widened. “I mean met. Because you’re alive and all. You meet intelligent life, you see animals. Like going to the zoo. But this is nothing like that, nothing at all. Even though we are in a cage.”
A lifted eyebrow broke my neutral mask. I couldn’t help it.
His eyes looked a little wild as he pushed off the bars to pace the small room, pulling his hands out of his pockets and tapping them on his leg. Good thing I’d washed the dried blood off my hands. He was already nervous enough.
“I’ve never been in this cell before.” His voice sounded stronger when he wasn’t looking at me. “They usually put me in the drunk tank. Which is an insult, you know. Tagging is an art form. Freedom of speech, man.�
�
I suppressed a sigh as he continued pacing and talking. I needed to keep searching the cell for a weakness, anything I could use to escape. But how could I do that with a cellmate that wouldn’t shut up?
“This cell doesn’t smell,” Hernandez said, sounding puzzled. He sniffed a few times. “That’s weird. The drunk tank always stinks. Mostly alcohol of course—they don’t call it the drunk tank for nothing. But other stuff too, stuff I don’t even want to think about. It reeks.”
I refused to sniff, but I paid attention on my next inhale. He was right. The air was…blank. It didn’t even smell clean, or slightly musty from disuse. I tried to think what that could mean, if it gave me any information I could use to escape.
“The bars are different, too.” Hernandez walked back to the front of the cell, examining the bars. “They alternate. This one is definitely iron, I’d recognize that anywhere. But these others…what are they, copper?” His face scrunched up. “This is a weird cell.”
“It’s made for djinn,” I said.
Hernandez jumped and spun around, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Oh, right. Copper and iron, like…”
He gestured at the cuffs on my wrists, and I nodded. “Designed to block any and all magic.”
“But don’t your cuffs already do that?”
I nodded again. “Except the enchantment in this cell is much stronger, blocking not just my access to magic, but the magic that exists in me. If I stay here long enough, eventually it would rip me apart.”
Hernandez snorted. “Overkill much?”
I gave him a tight smile. “Literally.”
He swallowed and looked away, his eyes scanning the cell again like he was looking for something else to talk about. Great, more senseless chatter coming right up. I had to keep looking for an escape. What would he do if I continued my examination of the bunk beds while he talked?
“You really kill someone?”
My eyes snapped to his, dark and, for once, serious. “Does it matter? The police think I did. They’re going to execute me at dawn.”
Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection Page 168