Princes and a Dangerous Djinn

Chapter 1

The guy was staring at him again.

But this guy, with his long, wild hair and dark skin speckled with brightness, reminded Caspar of freedom.

When the man reached up and brushed a curl off his forehead, Caspar caught a better look at one of the tattoos on his hand.

The red and orange mandala struck Caspar with deep familiarity.

Maybe this guy had grown up in a house just like him, where parents spoke Arabic when they wanted to talk about something important and only used “white phrases” when things annoyed them or they wanted to impress guests.

Maybe he’d eaten batata harra and the prison’s mashed potatoes left a flat, bland taste in his mouth.

Maybe this guy was just like him.

All of this might be true, but it still doesn’t change the fact that this new prisoner—whoever he is—is definitely staring at me. And has been for three days. Ugh.

Caspar looked away from the man by the fence in the exercise yard and down at the grass.

No matter where Caspar went in Kingston Penitentiary, the new guy was always there, staring and scoping out the crowd until Caspar came along.

Caspar had learned a long time ago that any kind of attention in prison was bad attention.

Yet he still cast furtive glances across the yard to see where his new stalker had gone.

Each time he met the stranger’s haunted, piercing eyes, he tore his gaze away, and felt the stranger’s stare like a bruise on his back.

“Hey. Caspar Nassir.”

Caspar glanced up from the worktable into the annoyed gaze of a guard in a blue uniform. “It’s almost three. Time for your shower and check-up.”

“So soon?”

“You feel like skipping today?”

“No. I’m here.” Caspar rose from his seat as if there were wings powering him. Even as he left the outside area with the prison guard, he still felt the stranger’s eyes on his back and down his spine, like a glowing bullseye—or a mandala.

The feeling didn’t leave until he saw the nurse, Ms. Patricia, who gave him a couple shots and some antibiotic pills to prevent infection in his still tender wound.

“Last day for these,” she said, referring to the pink cup of pills between them. “So how’s the eye doing?”

“The glass one? Or the lonely one on the right side of my face?” Caspar asked, his lip twisting with sarcasm.

He winced a little as Ms. Patricia’s fingers palpated the soft part of his left cheek.

Spiderwebs of pain radiated across his skin.

He pulled away from her hand. “I gotta start charging you for these exams, you know. Or will that add to my crimes now that I’m in here? You think I’m cute enough to be—”

“Stop.” Ms. Patricia sighed. “I need to examine you.”

Her voice was sharp, out of character for her normal self.

She’d clearly seen too many fakers today to deal with Caspar’s sass.

Or maybe there was something else brewing behind the scenes of the prison, something that he was never privy to—but something he swore he could feel in the walls.

Something was wrong. The transfer of a new prisoner no one could contain, the firing of a guard for an inappropriate trade with a supernatural prisoner—it could be anything. Or nothing.

Caspar hated this part of the visit the most. With a sigh, he retrieved the new glass eye from his left socket.

He clamped his one good eye shut tight as Ms. Patricia shone a light into the empty space.

He swore he could feel the light inside his skull, shining through him like a stained glass window filled with red.

Caspar coughed. “I, uh, it’s starting to—”

“Almost done.” She made curious noises as she evaluated him. Then she stepped back almost as quickly as she had stepped forward to examine him. “Okay, good. The antibiotics have been working well. Everything’s fine. You can put the eye back in.”

She turned to give him privacy, something Caspar appreciated. He’d lost a part of his body—and so much else in prison—but with Ms. Patricia, there was at least an attempt to offer him some dignity. She scribbled on her notepad as Caspar waited.

“Are you writing me a love note?” Caspar teased. He laughed, but it was more like a cough. “Or is this the ending of our story, and you’re adding to my local legend? The Ghoul has now become a one-eyed snake?”

Ms. Patricia gave him a narrow gaze. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“So I should try harder, or…?”

“Antibiotics are done. The eye is healing. But… you should still see me for preventative care.”

“Preventative care,” Caspar said slowly. Ms. Patricia smiled softly, as if presenting an out. A respite. A break. She was giving him a break. “Ah. Makes sense. You’re my bodyguard and my doctor.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Whatever will I do without you?”

“You are clever—”

“I’m a cyclops.”

“And I’m sorry, sweetie,” Ms. Patricia sighed. “But you’re also sick. I’m seeing something in your bloodwork I don’t like.”

“Oh?”

She nodded slowly. Caspar’s breath caught in his throat. He had been attacked, but he’d thought he was the only one who had lost blood. Had the gang members who’d taken his eye also given him a little something to remember them forever? This couldn’t be happening.

“I—”

“You’re okay. For now.” Ms. Patricia tried to force a smile. “I just like to be sure. You know me.”

“I know,” Caspar said. “It’s okay, really. Should have seen it coming.”

Ms. Patricia winced, but it was true. Attacks had been happening all seven years since he’d been sentenced to life at Kingston Penitentiary.

He’d learned how to defend himself when he was in high school against muggers and other lowlifes who’d followed him from his father’s grocery store late at night, thinking his skinny frame made him an easy mark.

Since throwing punches and hiding a butterfly knife in his back pocket didn’t go so well in prison, Caspar had tailored his defenses.

His apparent crime had labeled him the Ghoul of Main Street, making him into a legend as much as a criminal.

Even in a Canada that had a new landscape of real and true supernaturals integrated into society, Caspar’s crime still demanded something special.

That je ne sais quoi of the human monster experience.

So people paid attention. They watched the trial on TV and read about it in newspapers, hoping for some big magical reveal.

Unfortunately, all those tests they ran in prison and during the trial came back with nothing more than O- blood.

A horribly boring fiend, but a normal fiend nonetheless.When it was just a normal kid killing his parents for the inheritance, well, it was still pretty good entertainment.

What was more interesting than firestarters, vampires, and werewolves who accidentally killed people with their powers?

A second generation Lebanese kid who murdered his parents for fun.

Something so banal had almost become innovative.

A ghoul by any other name… If only his blood had smelled as sweet.

Except maybe now I’m a normal, boring person with a blood-borne disease.

Caspar shook his head. It just didn’t make sense.

How many tests had he gotten in here? Loads.

Who knows, maybe Ms. Patricia was the one starting another rumour for him so that people would just fucking leave him alone.

Whenever people got too close to him those first few years in prison, all he usually had to do was mumble something in Arabic, make a hand gesture, and declare them cursed.

It was enough to keep the most superstitious of gang leaders away from him (and to Caspar’s surprise, most gang leaders were very superstitious).

It didn’t matter that he never seemed to truly manifest any of those curses, or that every single media outlet reminded people he was a brutally normal human—he was scary.

He knew a foreign language and he could mutter it pretty spookily.

Honestly, it really did surprise Caspar just how long it took him to be attacked in any substantial way.

He was in the human prison system, after all.

If someone was in here with him, it meant they were just like him.

Horribly, horribly ordinary.

And yet… Caspar’s eye pulsed with remembered pain.

A new crew had developed in the past two years consisting of castoffs from the Chaos Cartels, a nasty gang centred in Toronto.

Well, not a gang in the traditional sense so much as a coven on steroids and meth.

Each member of the Chaos Cartel claimed to be Chaos Magicians, though none of them had a lick of supernatural in their blood.

They were just thieves, drug makers, and pillagers who took from others and called it magic.

And to them, a rumour was as good as the truth.

A ghoul was a ghoul was a ghoul.

So Caspar was as good as a magical object, free for them to possess.

Six weeks ago, he’d been cornered coming out of the dining hall by four of these Chaos castoffs.

Caspar had muttered a curse (which was really a typical good morning greeting his father had said to their loyal shoppers) and clapped his hands as he “sealed” his spell—but none of it worked.

All four of them cornered him and pinned down his limbs.

By the time a fifth Chaos castoff appeared with a shiv made from a toothbrush, Caspar realized he had absolutely no control over his body anymore.

And then his eye had been removed.

“I really should have seen all of this coming,” Caspar repeated.

“Uh-uh. No should haves or would haves. Now. Any lingering pain?” Ms. Patricia asked, making him focus again on the here and now. “On your wrists or ribs from the attack?”

“Um, yeah, actually,” he said, lying. “Can I have a few more pills to take the edge off? My hips, you know, aren’t what they used to be. I’m getting old in here.”