by D. R. Perry
Finally, I got to Rochambeau Avenue, the street Mr. Kazynski lived on. His building was halfway down a steep hill, so I had to walk carefully as I silently scolded myself for wearing four-inch platform heels. I changed my internal tune when my right foot landed squarely in dog doo. In flatter shoes, I might have been splattered.
I stopped in front of Mr. Kazynski’s building, hanging on to a fence as I tried to scrape the mess off my right shoe. I’d be mortified to track dog droppings into the old fellow’s apartment. But the pavement was uneven. Scrambling to catch my balance on the fence, I felt something crack at the back of my left foot. I fell on my tail for the second time that day. What in the world was wrong with me? I wasn’t a klutz normally, and there wasn’t even a slippery shower with ice-cold water to escape here.
To make the whole culmination of public humiliation more complete, I saw curtains twitch on the first and second floors of Mr. Kazynski’s building. Just what I always wanted, an audience. I shook my now sweaty hair off my face and reached into my handbag. I never went anywhere in platforms without a pair of ballet flats in my purse, or anywhere in pastels without a wrap dress right alongside it. And people wonder why ladies carry such big bags. It’s for times like these, of course. For a bear shifter like me, those might happen even more frequently if I had to shift for some reason.
I couldn’t change my dress, but the shoes were a must. I slipped the pumps off and replaced them with the flats, noticing a run in my right stocking, of course. On a day like this, what couldn’t go wrong? I stood and sighed as I reluctantly dumped the platform pumps into a trash can. I had no choice. Not even a Faerie cobbler could fix something that broken.
The entrance was on the side of the building, so I walked halfway down the driveway and up the three steps to the stoop. The door buzzed, unlocking almost before my finger hit the doorbell. Mr. Kazynski had seen me coming, of course, but even though I should have expected the early buzzer, I didn’t react fast enough to pull the door open in time. I rang again, he buzzed again. Finally, I got in.
“Miss La Montagne, good morning.” Saul Kazynski’s round figure took up most of the breadth of the doorway. He stepped back and aside, making room for me to get by.
“Good morning, Mr. Kazynski.” I smiled, feeling like I could just about find the nearest patch of bare floor and go to sleep for the rest of the day. “I heard you’ve been home with a stomach bug, but we still need to have our visit.”
“Yes, I know. Miss Murphy called while you were on the way over.” He tilted his head, a scar at his jawline reminding me of all the stories he’d told about being a violinist over in Europe.
Instead of saying we ought to get started with the mandatory questions, I yawned. Mr. Kazynski shook his head and tut-tutted over me, offering lemon tea and jam on toast. My stomach rumbled in response before I could politely decline. I sat in his well-appointed but dusty parlor, watching him shuffle into the kitchen. The apartment was spacious but cluttered with furniture, curio cases, and nick-knacks. If Saul ever needed a wheelchair or even a walker, he’d have to redecorate or possibly even move. I made a mental note to tell my Professor about this. It was the kind of situation that could make an illness or injury lead to a rapid decline for a man his age.
Saul was in his nineties, an Empathic Psychic, and an immigrant. He’d come over alone, married and had children later in life than was typical, and set himself up as a violin instructor. He’d bought this building to house his whole family in. None of them had stayed. His paperwork said he had a granddaughter my age, but she’d moved out of Rhode Island the second she turned eighteen. Mr. Kazynski had lived alone since his wife died, and he’d retired from teaching music the year before we met. I was probably the only one who’d seen the inside of his house in all that time.
When he came back with the tray, I watched him, paying attention to his shuffling gait. He seemed steady enough. Like other people his age living at home, he had a system for navigating his living space that worked for him. I noticed there weren’t any rugs or mats on the floors, and if there’d been doorjambs, they’d been removed. Someone had given him advice at some point, then. I didn’t feel so bad about not visiting his home sooner.
He set the tray on the coffee table between us and served himself, leaving me to fix my own tea and toast. I started to give him a formal thank you, but he stopped me.
“Please, call me Saul, Miss La Montagne.”
“Okay, Saul. And you can call me Jeannie.”
It was as though some tightly coiled thing in him unwound. When he answered my questions, it was in a more relaxed fashion than I’d ever seen from him. When the conversation segued into the idly directed chatter I’d gotten used to, he stopped again.
“Today, Jeannie, I’d like to tell you a story you haven’t heard.” He settled his teacup down on its saucer, then leaned forward on his easy chair. “But first, I must show you something.” He unbuttoned his right sleeve and began rolling it up.
I looked on, realizing I’d never seen him in a short-sleeved shirt. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I’d always suspected but hadn’t confirmed. Because of this, when he turned his arm out, presenting the number like a line of graying ants inside, I didn’t gasp or show any sign of shock.
“You always suspected this, Jeannie.” Mr. Kazynski was stating a fact, not asking me a question. “And I know why.”
“Please, Saul.” I shut my eyes, opening them again after a short enough time to excuse the expression as a long blink. “I’m not supposed to talk about my time in the Boston Internment with clients. I wish I could—”
I put my hand over my mouth an instant before thick blue smoke filled the space on the sofa next to me. I had turned my head before it cleared, taking in Ismail’s thick eyebrows, drawn together on his brow as he opened his mouth to question me.
“Ismail!” Saul’s exclamation startled all the imminent excuses out of me, and Ismail turned to face the old psychic. “How long has it been?”
“Too long, my old friend.” The Djinn’s gentle smile did nothing to hide the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
I acted on my first impulse, reaching out to grab Ismail’s hand and give it a squeeze. His eyes widened when he turned his gaze back on me. Then, he looked up, down, around the room with his cheeks coloring, pulling his hand away. What had I done wrong?
Chapter Four
Ismail
No one had dared touch me since I took up service in the lamp. Everyone else had known better. Even my own wife hadn’t, though I thought that had more to do with using the lamp to escape front-line combat than the volatile and fickle power an Unseelie magic lamp represents. Jeannie had made a wish, and I’d greeted Saul instead of addressing that. Anything could happen if I didn’t act fast.
“Did you mean to wish for such a thing, mistress?” I forced myself to look at Jeannie, unable to mold my expression into anything resembling a smile. I felt the buildup of magical potential behind her wish statement deflate like a slow leak in a tire.
“No, Ismail. Sorry about that.” She pouted, making me struggle not to look at her lips. “Figure of speech again. And I’m sorry to you also, Saul. I’m not supposed to bring people to our meetings.”
“Dobre.” Saul shook his head, as though clearing it of the impulse to speak in Russian. “Enough about what you are and aren’t supposed to do. You’re a guest in my house, both of you. People visit so infrequently, and I won’t let the college up the hill decide what we can and can’t talk about in my home.” He pushed the plate of toast and jam toward Ismail. “And you. I know you don’t have to eat, but once upon a time, you liked to. Help yourself.”
I looked at Jeannie. She blinked, and her lips parted as she realized just how much control she had over me and my actions.
“Wherever we go, Ismail, you can decide whether you want to eat or drink or, I don’t know, even go get a haircut. I don’t want you to wait for my pe
rmission for things like that.”
It was my turn to drop my jaw in perplexity. This was the second such freedom Jeannie had granted me. It was almost as though she knew what it was like to be enslaved herself. But she wasn’t a Djinn, nor a Faerie of any type. What’s more, she was a woman living in a western country in the twenty-first century. If Saul were my master, I’d understand this sort of behavior. From someone like Jeannie, it made no sense.
“Yes, mistress,” was all I could say. I poured a cup of tea and took a triangle of toast from the plate.
“I was about to tell Jeannie a story you already know, Ismail.” Saul took up the conversational manner I remembered from the boat on the way over from Europe. The grin he wore wasn’t exactly the same. It had a drawn and worn quality. Even time spent working while starved hadn’t added to it back then.
“Oh?”
“Yes. About the rescue you mounted and its true purpose.”
“It was never my rescue.” I sighed. “Wilfred wished you and your fellow prisoners free.” Instead of gasping as I expected, Jeannie grew even quieter. Her nostrils flared, and her brows drew down in thought.
“Yours was the face I saw at the window, yours the hand that cut the wire.”
“I know, Saul. But if men doing evil excuse themselves by saying they were following orders, I can’t claim goodness for doing the same.”
“You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have broken down the walls of that prison on your own, Ismail. I won’t believe that of you.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that for you, old friend.” If dehumanization hadn’t broken Saul Kazynski’s belief, I surely wouldn’t. “But perhaps this isn’t the kind of story to tell a young woman.”
Saul glanced at Jeannie, then looked down at the number on his arm. He rolled his sleeve down and closed the button at the cuff after only a few tries. He locked gazes with me, the depth of his stare trying to convey something to me, or maybe his intention was the reverse, to take some thought or feeling from me. Saul was an Empath, the kind of Psychic who held sway over feelings. The more emotional the state of the surrounding people, the more he could sway them. He’d never been harmless, and especially not now when age had given him wisdom and experience despite his continued lack of restraint.
“I disagree, but understand how it might be awkward to hear tales of heroics you don’t believe you participated in.” Saul stood more easily than his age should have allowed. “I can do better than that for my guests.” He turned and shuffled over to a sideboard with a music stand beside it.
I knew what I’d see before he opened the weathered case, so I watched Jeannie instead. This time, she did gasp. The inside of Saul’s violin case was embossed with the seals of both Faerie Monarchs, meaning he was one of the few mortals alive who’d been honored by both the Goblin King and the Sidhe Queen. Such a reputation gave him benefits many would envy, including the fact that his violin couldn’t be destroyed. Even if it were shattered, the instrument would rebuild itself if the majority of the pieces got returned to the case. The enchantment was eternal as long as it remained the property of his blood relatives.
The music Saul made felt like it sent hooks into the very fabric of my heart. I’d thought it coated in steel until Jeannie’s demonstration of compassion when I first appeared in the apartment. I swallowed as if that would banish the tears from my eyes. Then, I looked away, out a window, so neither of them would see how affected I was. But I already knew it was no use as far as Saul was concerned.
The whole reason he and the other prisoners at the German camp had remained alive long enough for Wilfred to find them was Saul and his violin. Empathic Psychics each had a talent, some art form with which they wielded their power to bend hearts. Every afternoon for nearly a year, the SS Commander wrote up orders to terminate all the prisoners come morning. Every evening, Saul played for the soldiers. Every night, the Commander tore up the papers that would doom the camp’s denizens. I can’t imagine the things Saul Kazynski had seen, heard, and endured in that year. I didn’t want to. But his music wouldn’t let me ignore my pain anymore.
Beside me, Jeannie seemed just as appalled and enthralled as I was. I wondered why, and when I tried to tell myself it was none of my business, Saul’s music wouldn’t let me. Maybe Jeannie thought her responsibility as an old man’s caregiver meant she shouldn’t trouble him. I was a Djinn, even more than that, her servant for the time being. I finally understood why she was so awkward a mistress. She was accustomed to being the one serving. Having someone else at her beck and call must be difficult for her.
As the notes spiraled out of Saul Kazynski’s instrument, I understood that I hadn’t done nearly enough. The time in the lamp had artificially extended my life, but I’d done nearly nothing with my extra time but sit and mourn. I’d gone about business as the lamp required, even though Unseelie rules meant I had so much more potential to act than that.
Wilfred Harcourt had been an opportunist, Kimiko Ichiro desperate. Jeannie La Montagne was an altruist. She couldn’t think of real wishes because she wanted to make them count for others, not herself. Whatever crucible she’d been through as a youngling had forged a will bent on action and accountability. If all masters of Djinn since the beginning of our time in lamps had been like her, we’d live in a utopia.
I made a vow to myself. Jeannie La Montagne thought she didn’t need wishes or even help. She was wrong. I would do everything in my power to help her until I couldn’t anymore.
Chapter Five
Jeannie
Saul’s unexpected performance left Ismail dumbstruck beside me on the loveseat. Me, not so much. The notes pouring like audible honey from that amber violin set my skin tingling with goosebumps. I didn’t recognize the piece he played, but whatever it was had me wanting to get up, get out, go and do some good in the world, even more than my usual days entailed. The city was full of people struggling, hopeless, suffering. I’d helped a handful turn that around during my nearly four years in Providence. And I had to do better before I graduated and went back to Boston.
I could. I had Ismail. Three wishes, but I didn’t understand the potential scope of his power. I’d need more information, some from researching magic lamps, but the rest from what I did best. Ismail would tell me. What was it Olivia had said? Unseelie Djinn had flexibility, loopholes, allowances built in by the Goblin King that would let him talk things over. After a hundred years inside a lamp, I’d be going nuts, wanting to chat nearly all day once I could. But Ismail didn’t seem to share that trait. I’d need some confirmation and knew just where to get it.
When I said goodbye to Saul Kazynski at the door to his apartment, Ismail vanished himself instead of walking out with me. That sort of thing wouldn’t do at all. I headed up Camp Street, this time, not wanting to retrace the unlucky steps I’d taken on the way here while going back to campus. Once back at the dorm, I washed up and changed into something more appropriate for the stomping around College Hill I’d do later. After that, I headed down the hall to knock on a door.
An orange origami paper dragon and a brown corrugated cardboard cutout bear rampaged across a construction-paper backed collage of buildings and shoreline. Each of them had a little crown made of Wrigley’s wrappers. Scrawled across the bottom of the dorm door decor were the names Bobby and Blaine plus the tag-line “Team Tinfoil, blasting off again!” Neither of them had written that, but I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I shrugged, then knocked.
“Come back in an hour.” Even through the grumbling, I recognized Blaine’s voice and the old movie quote. I chuckled.
“Housekeeping,” I squeaked. “You want towel?”
“No towels, need sleepy.” Blaine sounded more alert and also closer to the door.
“No sleepy.” I gave up on the quotes since they’d done their job and gotten his attention. “I need some Tinfoil help.”
“Oh, fewmets.” I heard a rustle of fabric. “Hold on a minute.”
I tried not to stare
when Blaine Harcourt opened the door, but that was nearly impossible. There were just too many things going on in that doorway. He was in a set of Slytherin pajamas, eyes red and dragon-pupiled. I still wasn’t used to seeing him with short hair, and he had a brunette girl in a yellow and black dress clinging to his waist, peeking out at me from under thick bangs. I recognized her.
“Kimiko, good to see you again.” I tried not to smile because I knew most girls younger than me were reminded of Barbie dolls when I did.
“Yeah, nice to finally meet when we’re not getting shot at and other unfun things.” She giggled but looked up and down the hall a few times.
“Um.” Blaine blinked, his eyes going back to their usual brown. “So, were there noise complaints or something?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.” I chuckled, watching Blaine’s shoulders drop as the tension went out of them. “It’s just that we have a mutual acquaintance who I’m not sure how to handle. And I wanted to ask if you’d chat with me about him.”
“Ohmigod, Blaine!” Kimiko put one hand over her mouth. “She means Ismail!”
“Wait, what?” He rubbed his chin. “You mean your Unseelie Djinn? The one who paid respects to my stepdad with a stupidly rare antique?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” I shrugged, knowing I couldn’t possibly look nonchalant while blushing. “Can I come in?”
“Okay!” Kimiko bounced on her toes, shouldering Blaine out of my way. His lips made a grouchy frown, but his eyes twinkled. When I’d run into them in Newport, I hadn’t thought they could seem more complementary to each other. I’d been wrong.
Blaine gestured to Bobby’s desk chair. I sat, watching him toss the sheets and blanket back over his bed. He collected a tablet and sat down, tapping it to wake it up. Kimiko sat on the edge of the bed, dangling her bare feet off it. She smiled.