Chapter 8
When they arrived at the apartment building overlooking Chinatown, Caspar didn’t step into the foyer.
He tested the locks three times before finally using the keycard Malek handed over to him.
When they reached Caspar’s apartment on the fourth floor, he repeated the same actions while glancing around the hallway.
“Is everything okay?” Malek asked. “I know keycards seem more like motel living, but we find it’s a good idea to use them. Locks can be changed more easily.”
“Mmm. It’s fine. Better than where I was. Do you have a keycard too?”
“I do.” Malek reached into his pocket, but found nothing.
He checked the other one, but only turned up a lighter.
Shit. Must have dropped it in the car when we changed.
Malek had kept Caspar’s keycard, the credit card, and all important information for Caspar’s reintegration into society separate and organized, while he tossed his own shit all together.
He let none of his internal turmoil show on his face.
Caspar had been through enough today, and judging by his slowed movements and skeptical gaze, it wouldn’t take a lot for him to be pushed too far and not trust Malek at all.
“I’m the only person that has the other keycard, though. And that’s so I can help you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Everything okay?” Malek asked. “You haven’t even stepped inside.”
“I’m inside.” Caspar gestured to the two inches he’d walked in so he could check the locks again.
Malek sighed. Adjusting from prison life was hard, but for someone like Caspar, who had been either possessed or framed for the murder of his parents, he had to imagine adjusting again was even harder.
The surface of his tough-guy joker act was cracking.
Now that Caspar didn’t have to look over his shoulder and could be free, he had to realize that he’d been imprisoned for seven years.
Sometimes, that realization was too much for people. Malek had seen it one too many times before.
“Let me come in?”
After a moment, Caspar nodded. When Malek brushed by him in the doorway, the brief touch between them burned hot—almost like magic.
“You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You sure? Because you feel a little warm. Sit on the couch. It’s a nice couch. From IKEA, but still nice.”
Caspar huffed, but followed Malek to the centre of the room. He sat on the long white couch and tried to fold his leg over his knee. He seemed woozy, almost dizzy.
“Did you drink with Sully?”
“No, we just listened to music. I fell asleep. I think he did too.”
Malek pocketed that information for later. He really, really just wanted to be sure that Caspar wasn’t having adverse effects to alcohol or anything else. “I’m going to put my hand on your forehead to take your temperature.”
“Pfft.”
Caspar’s response wasn’t a no, so Malek laid his palm over Caspar’s skin. He was so warm Malek couldn’t tell where his own body heat ended and Caspar’s began.
“That’s wrong.”
“Hmm?” Malek asked.
“You can’t use your palm to take the temperature like that. You should use the back of your hand. It’s less hot, so your readings won’t be skewed.”
Malek did as he was asked. Flipping over to use the back of his hand cooled the temperature between them significantly, but Caspar still ran quite hot. “I don’t think you’re feverish,” Malek said after some thought. “But are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m just… this is a weird couch. It’s white—what if I get stains on it?”
“Then you learn to clean.”
Caspar seemed annoyed at how simple the response was.
Malek found a loveseat across from the couch and sat down.
A coffee table was between them with a random fancy dish in the middle.
Aside from these small touches, the rest of the furnishings were as sparse as Jocasta had warned.
There were no lamps, and the overhead light made the whole room seem too bright.
“How did you know the forehead trick?” Malek asked. “Doesn’t strike me as something you learned in prison.”
“What do you think I learned in prison? How to stab a guy and make fake license plates? I’m checking the other rooms.” Caspar rose from the couch, and though he stumbled a little, tripping over his legs like a teenager, he righted himself easily.
He walked down the hallway and checked the bedroom and hall closet.
Malek leaned over his seat and watched most of this surveying occur.
There were towels already in the bathroom—bless Jocasta for doing that first—and Caspar stuck a hand in between them to shake them around.
He got to the bathroom and checked under the sink, opening the shampoo to smell it.
When he walked into the kitchen, his face had almost relaxed.
He opened the fridge and let out a sigh.
“What?”
“The milk. You guys got me the lactose-free kind.”
“Yeah. It’s in your file.”
“File, file, file.” Caspar shut the fridge with a mocking tone. “Is there anything you don’t know about me?”
“Your favourite colour.”
“Blue. Now we’re even, I guess.”
“No, we’d be even if you knew mine.”
Caspar raised his eyebrows in a challenge that made Malek’s heart swoon.
“It’s red.”
Caspar smiled. It was nice seeing it on him again. “Well, there we go. Completely even.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay? I can stay, if you want…?”
Caspar bit his lip, then his thumb nail, before answering. “Would you, actually? It’s been a long time since I’ve slept alone. I’m not entirely sure I remember how to do it.”
“That makes perfect sense. How about we get you some dinner first? You’ve only had candy.”
“Right.” Caspar clutched his stomach as if he’d only just remembered.
His golden skin became white for a second and Malek was worried he’d be sick.
He rushed over and grasped Caspar’s elbow, righting him.
“Hey, you’ve had a long, hard day. You sit on the couch and I’ll microwave some of the leftovers that Jocasta left us. ”
“She cooked them?”
“Maybe. But either way, I know they’re going to be great. Everything’s a little sparse here on furniture, but food and creature comforts are always what J sees to first.”
After Malek helped Caspar to the couch, he went back into the kitchen and picked out something that looked like coconut curry chickpeas.
Caspar seemed delighted when the rich aroma began to fill the room.
Malek brought them both tall glasses of water, and decided to bring some of the lactose-free milk as well.
By the time they were all set up, colour had been restored to Caspar’s face. He seemed positively happy.
“We’d normally eat at a table,” Malek said. “For decorum. But that’ll come soon.”
“Do… do I have to be here for delivery?”
“Not if you don’t want to be.”
“You know,” Caspar said, “I think I’d like the banality of it.”
Malek smiled. “Then sure, stay here for the delivery. I’ll make a note for tomorrow. But for now, don’t ever tell J we ate her turmeric-rich dinner on a coffee table so close to a white couch.”
“Noted. I like breaking the rules a little.”
“Good to know.”
They both ate in relative silence. Caspar kept his arms around his meal, like he must have learned to do in prison, until he noticed Malek watching him.
He relaxed into the couch after, trying to angle himself so he wasn’t as possessive.
At least, that’s what he appeared to be doing.
Caspar’s movements were still controlled and stiff, but he was gradually loosening up.
“This is good,” Malek remarked when they were almost done. “I’ll have to get the recipe from J.”
“Do djinns really need to eat? Aren’t you, like… magic?”
“Djinns use magic, but we aren’t magic. Being a djinn is more cultural than anything.”
“You were born into a genie family?” Caspar asked like it was a joke. When Malek nodded, Caspar murmured an apology.
“It’s okay. Not many people know much about us since we’re not a native supernatural creature to Canada, so our stories always get mangled in translation.”
“So how did you get here?”
“Personally, I was actually born here. But my grandparents immigrated from West Africa. A lot of djinns are the same way. Generations ago, when people immigrated here, they brought their own culture and folklore, along with their own supernaturals. The landscape changed, and Canada finally acknowledged the role of supernaturals in their growing culture and economy. Now the djinns weren’t just stories, but real living beings. Families with a legacy.”
“And rings?” Caspar asked, touching the gold around his finger. “How does this fall into that history?”
Malek pushed his food around with his fork, unsure if he was up for a lesson, so he kept his answers short and to the point.
“When djinns come of age, they are given objects to imprint on that are instrumental to their power. In the Middle East and Africa, where most djinns are from, they imprinted on objects there. But, you know, colonialism happened. White guys came in, raided the pyramids and special areas, and took back all the gold and jewels they found. Some of those items were attached to djinns. That ended badly for a lot of people, both djinn and otherwise.”
“Oh. Is that where mummy curses come from?”
“Yeah, actually. If someone raided a pyramid and took the objects associated with a djinn, the djinn would become incorporeal, since the object needs to be close to them for their powers to work. When your powers don’t work, you’re gone.”
“And incorporeal? What do you mean there?”
“Corpus from Latin, meaning ‘body.’ So… not of body. Djinns are associated with air, so when we’re not around an object, we kind of…
poof. Disappear. Like ghosts, but not.” Malek shrugged, trying not to linger on this point.
“Not quite dead, but not quite alive. The family of someone who’d become incorporeal would want their son or daughter back, though, so they’d try to find the person who took the object and harm them.
Archeologists started to talk about cursed tombs when they couldn’t figure out the source of the violence.
And later on, most of the djinns migrated to other countries because they were following the enchanted object associated with a loved one.
Djinns are very family oriented. Honour is a huge part of the culture. ”
“Interesting. So why are you alone?” Caspar asked. “Or is Jocasta your wife? Twigs?”
Malek had to laugh. “Oh, no. No, no. Twigs is a good friend. Jocasta’s my boss. I’m not interested in women that way.”
“Oh. That’s… um…”
“It is what it is. But your question was about family and not about who I sleep with. Yeah?” Malek didn’t allow Caspar to debate the question much.
He could feel the pink already tinging his cheeks.
“Though family is important to djinn culture, not all djinns choose to stay and work as a djinn. At a certain age, most djinns are given a choice about whether or not to practice wish-granting in the way the family does. You know what rum springa is?”
“The party for Amish kids?”
“It’s more of a spiritual quest than a party, but yes.
Djinns have something similar called Freedom Summer.
You leave your family, where your patriarch is, and you go out into the world.
Do what you want. And then you decide if you’d like to keep practicing wish-granting.
Djinns are very big on choice. Freedom must be a choice—”
“And so must enslavement? To someone else’s whims?” Caspar shook his head, his face skeptical. “I don’t know…”
“The opposite of freedom is not enslavement. It’s servitude.”
Caspar scoffed.
“There is nothing wrong with servitude, Caspar. It means you dedicate your life to the service of something—or someone—else, which is extremely honourable. It’s the exact same principle as priests and nuns.”
“Huh.” Caspar pushed his dish away, though he was only half done. “So, are you like a priest?”
“Um. Not quite. I’m a djinn, but not with my family.
Again, my story is complicated. Every family is complicated in their own way.
I’ve given you the basic rules of the culture, but in the same way that not all families have a mom and a dad raising two point five kids, there’s always going to be variations.
So I’ve told you the basic themes. Honour.
Family. Servitude…” Malek hoped his random listing of buzzwords would signal the end of the conversation, but Caspar looked at him eagerly.
He wasn’t done yet. Caspar would probably never be done with the conversation, and Malek did not want to finish, either if it meant more time together.
Malek pushed his dish away too, no longer finding the curry appetizing.
The pouch Twigs had given him was close, though, and he wondered if it would help speed the night along.
“We should clean up,” Malek said.
“But you’re not done. There’s gotta be more things.”
“But I am done, for now.” Malek stacked their dishes together and brought them into the kitchen.
He ran some water and allowed the turmeric stained dishes to soak under the suds; there was no point even attempting to wash them until the worst of those stains had been removed.
When Malek turned back to the living room, Caspar’s actions became frantic again.
He bounced his foot and ran his hand through his hair.
“Um. I don’t know… I don’t know if I can…”
“Shhh.” Malek reached into his jacket pocket to pull out the baggie. “Twigs gave me this when I saw her.”
“What is it?”
“A drug. It usually helps me sleep after a big day like this. It relaxes you, and sometimes makes your skin extra sensitive to the touch. It’s nice to crawl into bed that way. Much easier to let go, too.”
“Yeah?” Caspar rose to examine the pouch. When he undid the drawstring, he smiled. “Looks like khat.”
“Khat?”
“It’s something my mom would sometimes chew when she was cooking late into the night. It’s this weird plant leaf that’s pretty much like chewing strong coffee, and—”
“I know what khat is. I’m just surprised anyone else does.” Malek smiled. “Anyway, what Twigs grows is called Breeze. So when you use it, you’re shooting the breeze, you know? It’s not quite like khat, but it’s neat.”
Caspar smelled the leaves, coughing after. “Oh, yeah. Not like khat. I spoke too soon.”
“It is pretty strong. We smoke it, though, not chew it. It’s not as thick as weed. And you don’t have to do this, by the way. I just wanted to share it with you in case you wanted some.”
“It’ll help me sleep?”
“Definitely.” Malek held back that it sometimes made him extra horny, because when his defenses were down and relaxed, he could think about sex again. But that detail was irrelevant. As long as it got Caspar to sleep, that was what they’d use it for.
“Then let’s shoot the breeze,” Caspar said, laughing awkwardly. “I can’t wait to see what it’s like.”