by Rachel Caine
“You could simply force the machines to deliver winnings.”
He eyed me as if he’d never seen me before. “You want me to cheat in a casino run by the Ma’at? You really think that’s any kind of a good idea?”
I shrugged. “I am simply pointing out that you make your own luck. Whether you use it or not is your choice.”
“Yeah, well, stop putting bad thoughts in my head already.”
“Was I?”
Our eyes locked, and I felt his attention like the heat of a distant fire. “Pretty much all the time.”
That made me want to smile, but somehow, I resisted the urge. I was making a habit of resisting urges. I wondered if that made me virtuous, or merely stupid.
After another few moments, the security man received a message through a tiny speaker tucked inside his ear, and stepped aside. “This way,” he said. Polite, but firm. He led us through the rows and rows of casino machines, then off behind a busy, glowing bar with a phalanx of bartenders pouring dozens of drinks. There was a plain, dark wooden door set into the wall, almost invisible in the shadows. A plain gold plate was engraved with the words PRIVATE SALON.
The guard swung the door open and stepped aside to allow us to enter. Beyond, it was just as dimly lit, but much smaller. Dark paneling, discreet inset paintings that I instantly felt were true classics. A heavy desk at the far end of the room, with two substantial armchairs placed at precise angles in front of it. An empty poker table, covered in green felt, sat in the corner, surrounded by comfortable chairs.
Behind the desk at the far end sat a small, neat man. Older, with white hair and a lined, sharp face. His hands were folded together on the empty, clean wooden surface, and he watched us without much of an expression—neither welcoming, nor suspicious.
He didn’t rise to greet us. “Rocha,” he said, and nodded. “Sorry to hear about your brother and sister- in-law. My condolences.”
“Thank you,” Luis said, and took one of the chairs angled to face the desk. I wondered for a moment if I should take the other, then decided to stay standing, arms folded, behind Luis’s chair. He had told me to follow his lead, but I was not entirely comfortable here, in this place. There was something powerful, and it was also something that I did not quite understand.
“You’re Cassiel.” That pulled my attention back fully onto the old man. “I’m Charles Spencer Ashworth. For now, I’m the head of the Ma’at.”
“For now?” Luis asked.
“Let’s just say there was some management reorganization. Internal politics, nothing you need to worry about. Coffee?” He didn’t wait for a reply, simply pressed a button inset in the top of the desk. “You’ve got some explaining to do, I think.”
He assumed a very clear posture that said he was awaiting our report. Luis took a moment before saying,
“I’m not sure I should do my explaining to you. With respect, sir.”
Ashworth’s thin lips stretched, but I didn’t think it could be properly named a smile. “With respect,” he said, “I think that if you’re standing in my hotel, surrounded by my people, and there’s a Djinn standing in the corner ready to enforce my wishes, I really think you should reconsider.”
I whirled.
In the darkest corner of the room stood a Djinn—not one of those I felt the most fellowship with, but a New Djinn, one who had been born from human origins. An artificial creation, I had always thought. A pretender.
This one was tall, slender, and the bluish color of smoke even in human flesh. He bowed his head slightly as I met his gaze. His eyes were a bright, liquid violet, and his hair was dusty gold. Beautiful, in a shocking way, although not in a way I had ever seen before.
He was—for a New Djinn—powerful.
“Cassiel,” he said, and his voice was magic distilled—soft, warm, deep, comforting. “I’ve long wanted to meet you—though, I admit, I never wished to face you on the battlefield. You may take that as a sign of respect.”
He was gracious in pretending that I was still something a Djinn could truly fear. I nodded unwillingly in return. “Your name?” I could have read it from the air around him, once. Not now.
“Rashid,” he said.
I turned back to Ashworth and said, “He belongs to you?” It was a deliberate provocation, and I heard a soft laugh from Rashid—amused, almost mocking, but far from offended. Ashworth smiled again, this time more genuinely.
“No one belongs to anyone,” he said. “Tenet of our society. Anyone who joins the Ma’at joins as a volunteer, and they can leave when and if they desire.”
“How democratic,” I said. I didn’t put any special weight on the words, which made them, by default, a touch sarcastic. “I had heard you made use of Djinn when necessary. I see it’s true.”
“We make use of anyone willing to work. Including you, should the spirit move you, of course.”
I shook my head slightly and focused back on Luis. My conversation had given him time to decide what to do, and I could see by the set of his back and shoulders that he was bracing himself for some kind of impact.
“The boy we were trying to save is dead,” Luis said. “We did our best, but whoever sent him drained him in the last attack. We couldn’t help him.”
Ashworth’s thick brows slowly climbed, though his face remained set and still. “Really. I’d heard you were a skilled Earth Warden.”
“I am.” He glanced at me. “So is she.”
“Then I think you’d best explain to me why a child attacked you in the first place, and why you couldn’t simply stop him without death entering into it.”
Luis did his best, but Ashworth gave no indication, throughout the explanation, as to whether or not he believed a word of it. When Luis came to the point where we’d left the boy’s body behind, I heard a soft hiss from Rashid, behind me. I resisted the urge to turn.
“It was not my first choice,” I said. “But it was necessary. She intended for us to be caught with the body. She hoped we wouldn’t notice his passing until it was too late.”
“She,” Rashid repeated. “Name this enemy.” I didn’t. He gave another soft sound of disgust. “There is no great villain in this, Ashworth. Only the twisted desperation of one who was once a queen among our kind. Don’t believe her. The humiliation of being cast down into skin has turned her.”
“I’ll believe what I like, Rashid. Thank you for your input.” I’d never heard a human rebuke a Djinn in quite that way, firm and authoritative—not a human who didn’t arrogantly assume that owning a Djinn protected them from retribution. The aggression raised fierce, cold instincts in me, even though it was not directed toward me. I wondered what it did to Rashid. “I was at the Ranch,” Ashworth continued. “I understand what you two think you saw.”
“We don’t think,” Luis said. “We know. She exists. We may not be able to find her yet, but we will. And we’re going to get my niece back, safe and sound.”
Ashworth didn’t comment on that. He said, instead, “Not many Wardens left these days. Some are off chasing ghosts, some lying low, the rest just trying to hold things together. A good portion of them died fighting the Djinn in the rebellion. Some say there’s still a war going on, one of attrition. Fewer Wardens, stretched thinner. Enemies picking them off, one by one.”
“Some say it could benefit the Ma’at,” Luis pointed out.
Ashworth’s face twisted in a tired grimace. “People talk nonsense most of the time. I have no interest in making the Ma’at any kind of replacement for the Wardens. You should know that, better than most. The world needs Wardens; if she didn’t, they wouldn’t be here. They’re part of the natural order, same as the Djinn. Same as regular human beings, animals, plants, insects, protozoa. Ma’at, boy. Everything in balance. Now. Why are you here? You could’ve turned around and gone straight back home, nothing to stop you.”
“Guess just wanting to visit Vegas isn’t a good excuse.”
Luis’s attempt at humor—never more than half-hearted�
�fell into a cold silence. Ashworth didn’t reply. He shifted his gaze to me. “You really do think this creature’s real.”
“Yes,” I said. “She’s real. She’s a threat to the Djinn. A genuine threat. And until we can locate her again, we are fighting shadows. She can target us. We can’t target her in turn.”
Rashid made that sound again. I turned to face him, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Yes?” he asked.
“You have something to tell me?”
“Not really,” I said. “I presume when you’re screaming your last, the way Gallan screamed, you will take my words more seriously.”
I left that deliberately ambiguous. He would know of my friend Gallan’s death—the death of a Djinn never went unremarked, and Gallan had been no minor power. What Rashid did not know, from the sudden burst of brightness in his eyes, was whether or not I had been the cause of it.
I knew well enough what he suspected.
“I take you seriously now,” Rashid said. “Believe it.”
“Enough,” Ashworth snapped. “The both of you. You’ll not be settling any grudges in my office; I just redecorated. Luis, what the hell do you want from me? I can’t offer you any real help. And I don’t have any real information.”
“Then there’s one other thing you can do. You can lend me a Djinn,” Luis said.
There was a sudden, startling quiet among the four of us; Ashworth’s gaze leapt to Rashid, and mine moved to focus on Luis as I struggled to process what he had just said.
He had a Djinn. He had me. I felt a sudden, baffling surge of rage and confusion, and I wondered if it was . . . jealousy? Surely not. Surely I had not sunk so low.
Rashid’s voice came from behind me. Very close behind, so close that I felt the whisper of air on the back of my neck. “You must not be performing to his expectations,” he said. “How very sad for you.”
I turned, slammed the palm of my hand into the flat of his chest. It should have sent him flying across the room, splintered paneling, crumbled concrete in his wake.
Instead, Rashid simply stood there, smiling at me with a terrible bright light in his violet eyes. Then he took hold of my wrist, and snapped my arm.
I cried out as the bones broke, twisted, and ripped into muscle. Pain tore through me in a livid white wave, loosening my knees, and darkness flickered over my eyes.
“Rashid!” Ashworth shouted, and surged to his feet behind the desk. Luis, however, was faster. His armchair tipped over, and before it hit the carpet with a dull thud he was next to me. He pointed a finger at Rashid, and for a second I saw—or thought I saw—black flames lick up and down his arms. I blinked. It was an effect of the pain, surely.
“You,” Luis said. “Let go of her. Now.”
Rashid did, still smiling, and stepped back. Luis took my arm in both his hands, and his touch was extraordinarily gentle and warm. I felt the warmth cascade into me, power twining in intimate circles around the damage. I swayed closer to him as my strength left me, and he caught me with one arm around my body, holding the injury clear as the healing continued.
“Point made,” Rashid said, sounding bored and waspish. “She’s no better than a human, is she? Hardly of much use at all. You do need a Djinn. But why, I wonder?”
“I need one who thinks he’s invulnerable,” Luis said through gritted teeth. “You’ll do fine.”
Rashid frowned, and a little of his overwhelming arrogance flickered away. Not enough to matter, however. I found some strength left after all, and pushed away from Luis to stand on my own. My arm felt fragile and barely knitted together, and I knew I shouldn’t test it, though the healing was vastly accelerated. Rage had subsided to a low, hot burn deep within me, but I was less pleased with what had replaced it: fear. Was this how humans lived, so afraid of pain, so aware of their fragile and temporary bodies?
I didn’t like it. Not at all. “What are you doing?” I asked. Luis sent me a dark, urgent look that almost demanded my silence. He went back to a silent war of stares with Rashid, who, finally, crossed his arms across his chest, lowered his chin, and gave a wolfish smile. “You think you can challenge me with threats of danger? Little man, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, sure, you’re a big man, breaking the arms of women without giving them chances to fight back,” Luis said. “Big talker. I get that. But what I’m asking is for something that’s going to take some balls and some brains. Maybe you should go get somebody, you know, better. I’ll wait, man.”
Rashid’s eyes grew molten, and I thought for a dull, terrible second that he would simply burn Luis down to the ground for that. He was fully capable.
Instead, Ashworth snapped, “Enough, you two. We don’t have time or luxury for this. Rocha, tell me what you want, and don’t be coy about it. Now.”
It must have taken a sincere and awesome act of will to turn his back on Rashid, but somehow Luis managed it. For security, I kept an eye on the Djinn. I didn’t for even an instant trust him. He was a jackal, sniffing for opportunity, and I had a sudden and sickening experience—for perhaps the first time in my long existence—of being the wounded prey.
“I need a Djinn who can verify where this boy came from,” Luis said.
“The dead boy?”
“Yes. Time’s critical. Traces fade. I need somebody who’s not full of bullshit and bluster.” That, of course, was specifically thrown at Rashid, and I watched the Djinn consider, again, whether or not to kill us. If he decided to act, there would be little Ashworth could do to stop him, and while Luis and I would put up a fight, it was a foregone conclusion how it would end.
Wasn’t it?
I don’t know what expression must have crossed Ashworth’s face, as he assessed all these things, plus of course the potentially lethal damage a fight could do inside his dark-paneled sanctum. Finally, he said, with absolutely no emphasis, “I think we could work something out. However, it would have to be done as a strictly voluntary effort on the part of the Djinn. That’s our code.”
“Of course,” Luis said, and hesitated before continuing. “Thing is, from everything we know about this situation, tracing this dead boy back to the ones behind him could be dangerous. Even for a Djinn. I wouldn’t want anybody to misunderstand the risks involved.”
Rashid was still giving us that unsettling predator’s smile. Now he said, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Ashworth sighed.
“Then I pronounce you all friends and allies. Mazel tov,” he said, in a tone that was weary with disgust. “Now all of you, get the hell out of my office, out of the hotel, and go kill each other someplace where I don’t have to worry about cleaning it up.”
Chapter 4
I KNEW LITTLE about Rashid. My kind looked on our younger, upstart cousins with little respect, and we’d rarely taken the time to know or acknowledge them individually.
Except, of course, for Jonathan.
Even now, thinking of him, I felt a knot in my chest. Jonathan had come on us like a black storm of power, unlooked-for. He had lived as a mortal man, and he had been the first of all those we now called Wardens; his bond to the Earth was something even those of us who remembered formless voids could not explain, or imagine. His death had woken her to fury and grief, and she had preserved Jonathan’s soul by creating a new form around him. A new kind of life.
She had made him a Djinn, by gathering in the dying life force of thousands near him. Not only him—another had been created that day. Jonathan’s friend David, who had died with him. The first of many, after them.
But it was Jonathan who had been given the heart of the Mother, and it was Jonathan who, regardless of his human origins, had wielded more power over the Djinn—all the Djinn, old and new—than any other, before or since.
We had never accepted him, but all of us, however unwillingly, had obeyed him. For thousands of years, the True Djinn had bent our necks to one we should have, by rights, despised; and some had, though quietly. But ther
e was also respect in even the most militant of us. And yes, love. Jonathan had shone with a kind of purity that I could never understand, nor hope to imitate.
I had even grieved for him when he was lost to us. But there will not be another Jonathan, another New Djinn who can charm and bully us into becoming one people. The True Djinn will always stand apart. We are too arrogant to do anything else.
And that was the gulf that lay between me and Rashid, and always would.
We walked out of Ashworth’s office into the chiming dimness of the casino, none of us speaking. Rashid was on one side of me, Luis on the other. People avoided our path, though whether consciously or unconsciously, I don’t know. I caught sight of us striding together on a security monitor; Luis looked utterly focused, tall, and dangerous; Rashid had moderated the alien nature of his coloring just enough to keep himself from drawing stares, although in this strange place that probably wasn’t necessary.
My pale, severe face, white hair, and pale leathers seemed to glow like a ghost between the two of them.
We looked . . . like nothing any sane human would want to challenge. Heads turned to follow us as we moved through the crowds, and I felt eyes assessing me, measuring, coveting.
It was oddly interesting.
Outside, the hot wind dried a faint trace of sweat from my face, and Rashid’s skin darkened, just a touch, to better absorb the sun’s harsh rays. Luis slipped on a pair of sunglasses. We stood in the shadow of the false pyramid, not far from the false Sphinx, and faced each other without speaking.
Then Rashid said, “Take me to where you left the boy.”
Luis nodded and led the way to where we had parked the van. He slid open the back and gestured for Rashid to get in, but the Djinn simply stood there, frowning, head cocked.
“You came in this?”
“Yeah, obviously, not up to your standards, I get that. Just get in.” Rashid curled his lip and stepped into the van, dropping into the seat with obvious distaste. Luis looked at me and rolled his eyes. “I thought you were bad. I see it runs in the Djinn family.”