Chapter 2
“Hey. You. You.”
Caspar ignored the call and focused on his novel.
It was one of the trashier reading materials the prison had in its library, and though he’d already read The Sheikh’s Adventure Bride several times, he still wanted to get to the good bits—specifically, the fucking.
He kept imagining the new prisoner, his potential stranger-danger as the Sheikh, though he also hated the stereotype.
He just wanted to relax into some problematic fantasies, maybe even forget where he was.
But no, that was impossible.
“Caspar Nassir.”
“What the fuck? Leave me alone.”
“Hey. I have something for you.”
Caspar raised his eyes to see Atticus Dubcek, a former celebrity supernatural host now behind bars.
His long history of smuggling, trafficking, and otherwise harming supernaturals was well known but tolerated in the entertainment industry until numerous laws were passed that criminalized his behaviour.
He was a known enemy of the supernaturals and humans alike—behaviour that domineering and abusive always crossed natural and supernatural lines.
Caspar was repulsed before his mind had a conscious thought. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“I have something for you.”
Caspar threw his book at Atticus. “Fuck. Damn. I was—”
Atticus picked up the book and regarded the cover, his lips parting with curiosity and wonder.
His dark hair had grown long enough to curl behind his ears, which he did now.
His tell. It was always his tell. I like this a bit too much and I may fancy taking it.
He made jokes about men, women, and monsters in his shows and then combed his hair back. Caspar’s skin crawled.
“Give that back.”
Atticus laid the book down casually, yet with a hint of menace. The grey prison jumpsuit made his skin look washed out, but there was still a flare in his blue-green eyes.
Atticus took a seat. Caspar flinched. Having someone else close to him—especially during free time—made him feel odd.
He was so used to being alone, reading about forbidden romance in some random made up Middle Eastern country, that he almost wanted to tell Atticus to fuck off.
He muffled the words and folded the page over to mark his reading spot instead.
“You should treat the book better. Dog-earing pages sucks.”
“Fuck off. I hardly think that’s what you’ve come here to tell me.”
“True. What do we have for him, Johnny?” Atticus glanced around to see where the guards were and leaned in close again. “Do you want to pick what’s behind door number one or two?”
“I’m not playing your games. I’m leaving.”
“That’s right. You’re getting out of here.”
“Oh yeah? And you’re coming too?”
“No. I’m staying. Always staying. But I’m out of solitary, so I can give you a message.”
“Uh-huh.” Caspar sighed. He couldn’t leave, not without causing an even bigger scene. So he opened his book again. “Riveting.”
Atticus huffed. He placed one of his long fingers in the centre of the book, halting Caspar’s reading. “Why are you even looking at this trash?”
“It’s called reading, and it keeps the mind active.”
“But the endings are all the same.”
“Yeah, and that’s where this plot’s headed too. One ending. In for life. Prison until death. You should know that, Mr. Supernatural Hoarder and Manslaughterer.”
“Still think it should be monsterslaughter—”
“At least in my romance novels, my people end up happy.”
“Your people?” Atticus rolled his eyes. “Anyways, yes. My ending is still the same because I’m stuck in here. But you’re getting out. You’re going to be free.”
Caspar’s heart beat extra fast. Something was different in Atticus’s voice. He wasn’t gameshow talking anymore. He was almost sad. Jealous. Like there was a real prize behind door number one. Caspar tried to quell his excitement. “I don’t believe you.”
“Of course you don’t. I would suspect nothing less from you.
So I’m giving you something.” Atticus kept his finger on the book, but rotated his wrist so he could slip out a ring from inside his sleeve, along with an orange prison thread from a uniform.
The gold ring sat on the thread like a locket on a necklace.
Caspar furrowed his brows, but didn’t take the offered item.
“What is going on?”
“You wrote the Innocent Action League, right? Athena’s Law Group?”
“A long, long time ago.”
Caspar closed his eyes tightly. The first year in prison after losing his trial had been nothing but appeals, which he had been assured was standard, even for the guilty.
Lawrence, Anthony’s father, had been the main person to defend Caspar at trial; Anthony was too young to be a defense attorney yet, but insisted that he was shadowing his father the whole time and showed up at most meetings.
It was nice to see a familiar face, one that still smiled at him and met his eyes during discussions that weighed more than the world.
Eventually, Anthony would only show up to every other meeting, then none at all.
Lawrence brushed it off by saying he needed Anthony to help other clients—as in, other clients who had a chance—and focus on his studies.
“He‘s going into real estate, you know,” Lawrence told Caspar during one of their last meetings.
“He‘s focused on location, location, location, and less vindication, vindication, vindication.” Caspar knew that repeated nonsense phrases meant someone had resorted to superstition, and his case had been lost from the hands of those he had once trusted.
So he had started to write to anyone and everyone who said they advocated for innocent parties, supernatural or not. Magic or not. He hadn’t actually killed his parents in a bloodbath, despite being covered in their blood when he was found.
He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But no one ever believed him.
“Well, forgive the timing. They just received it now.”
“Bullshit,” Caspar spat. His heart flickered with hope and then despair. “So what if I did write to them? I’ve seen a dozen other people get out of here who wrote after I did. My case is seven years old.”
“Eight, really. You know, trial time included.”
“Whatever. It’s long done. I gave up hope.”
“You haven’t, though.”
“The fuck do you know about hope?”
“Some. But I know you haven’t given up, because you’re reading romances.” Atticus tapped the book again. “You still believe in that happy ending.”
“Fine. So maybe I’ve not lost hope completely. There’s still a chance for parole on good behaviour. Which I won’t get talking to you, so—”
“Hey. No. Don’t leave.” Atticus closed the book Caspar had been reading and shoved it toward him.
The ring and thread acted like an awkward bookmark wedged between the pages, breaking the already worn-down spine.
When it was clear Caspar wasn’t leaving their shared table, Atticus took another breath and continued talking.
“Okay, so, you remember those people who came to interview you a few months ago, right?”
“A lot of people interview me,” Caspar said dismissively. “I’m very popular.”
“The apple of so many eyes.” Atticus grinned. “Eye.”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks. But you still remember the people who came to talk with you?”
“Fuck them, too.”
“Don’t be so rude,” Atticus chided. “Remember the lady? Tiny slip of a thing?”
Caspar flinched. Yes. He was interviewed by a woman.
It had been right after his eye had been removed.
He vaguely remembered a blond woman with sharp features leaning over his bed and asking him a dozen questions with a slight German or other Eastern European accent.
He’d been too hazy on the drugs for his eye wound and painkillers to register much else.
And honestly, a lot of people did visit him.
It’s just that many of the people who showed up asking about magic or PhD dissertations were haggard men with beards to their knees and who smelled like some forest witch’s lair.
Sometimes journalists still showed up, too, but those media darlings were usually so obvious with the amount of make-up and enunciation in their questions.
Sometimes they even leaned a little one way, making their microphones or livestreaming devices that much more obvious.
This woman was not like that at all. She had an aura about her, but it was not spotlight. Or even the bright ivory tower of knowledge. She was … almost angelic. Almost–
“She was barely five feet,” Atticus added. “Blond hair, blue eyes, spoke with an accent?”
“So?” Caspar made a face. “I thought she was a nurse’s aide. Or someone from the prison’s insurance, making sure I didn’t sue.”
“Clever, but no. She works for the underground network. One of many, I suppose, that are now doing the right thing.” Atticus shrugged, as if this task was boring now. “And they finally got to your letter. You’re getting out.”
“No.”
“Yes?”
“No.”
“Why are you arguing with me?” Atticus whined in a wretched sing-song voice. “This is the best news!”
“This is a trap,” Caspar insisted. His skin was hot and his vision was turning to pinpoints.
Just like that night he found his parents.
“I wrote that letter years ago. To some crazy woman who thinks she’s justice incarnate.
Athena. That woman who runs ads on midnight TV for people like me, desperate to stay alive.
It was a wish in the dark. And those don’t come true. ”
“I don’t know…” Atticus merely shook his head. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! Take your wish.”
“Um… No offense, but, you know, given your history—”
“Okay, don’t trust me. I get that. I’m just a messenger now because, well, I have no choice.
” Atticus shrugged. “As long as I keep getting commissary, I deliver things to people like you. You’re not the first person I’ve done this with.
Remember that fight a year ago? The really bad one that started a riot? ”
“Oh yeah.” Caspar nodded along. “Didn’t leave my bunk because I knew better. Three people died.”
“Wrong,” Atticus snapped, and his shortly cropped hair would have bounced if it had been long enough. “Three people escaped and started new lives. They were innocent.”
Caspar had tried to forget about that riot entirely because the three guys who had died were nice.
Not gang affiliated, though they were here for violent crimes (and so was Caspar, for that matter).
He’d eaten with one of them their first night in the dining area and chatted about random things in the outside world that Caspar had been missing, like music and baseball.
When the dust had settled after the riot, Caspar had been sad to hear about their deaths.
But if what Atticus says is true… A spark of hope flared inside of him.
He’d been so sarcastic and cynical these past years because no one was coming to help him.
He wanted better and knew he deserved it, but keeping his hope alive with wide-eyed innocence would only get him killed. It would only get him used.
But I still lost an eye regardless. I was a twat, and they still took something from me. So why not believe Atticus now?
“I still don’t know,” Caspar said. “Forgive me for being skeptical, but I’ve had a tough two months.”
“I know. We know. The underground network should have gotten you out sooner. And really, there’s nothing wrong with being a skeptic. True believers are boring.”
Caspar laughed. Finally, something to agree on. “Okay. Let’s say I still have a healthy amount of skepticism, but I also want to believe you. How does all of this work?”
“Good. Good. Keep your healthy skepticism. Never give it away.” Atticus checked the guards around him once more.
“Tomorrow you’re being transferred to another prison, along with some other offenders.
That ring belongs to someone in this prison.
He’s a djinn. A genie, for those less cultured, but it seems like you know what’s going on in that regard thanks to your romance novels. ”
“Djinns are… angels, right? In Islam they are.”
“More or less. There are a lot of different kinds of djinns, and it’s a really complicated culture that even I can’t pretend to grasp.
This djinn is a good guy, though, and that’s all you need to know.
As soon as you’re on that transfer bus, rub the ring, and you’ll get three wishes.
I suggest using the first one to obtain your freedom, though there is nothing stopping you from wishing irresponsibly. ”
Caspar’s skin blistered with excitement.
His fear melted away. The ring between the pages of his book seemed to glow.
God, this was better than The Sheikh’s Adventure Bride or any of the other romances he’d found in the library.
A real genie? A real escape route? And maybe a happy ending too?
Caspar had to compose himself or else he’d burst. “Okay. Then what?”
“Then, whatever. We’re gonna fake your death here, I’m pretty sure. That’s what they’ve been doing.”
“Oh. Really?”
“Really.”
“But what about—”
“Your parents?” Atticus laughed. “Who else do you need to write to?”
Caspar thought of Anthony once again. Though he had become the stellar lawyer his father had always wanted, he had also ignored his father’s wishes and eventually came back as Caspar’s quasi-lawyer.
But even he knew Caspar was fucked. There was no helping him.
They just took phone calls that were private because they could, had visits that were private because they could, and remembered the past together simply because they could. What about Anthony in all of this?
Caspar didn’t get a chance to ask, or consider it, before Atticus moved on.
“I suppose the death part of the plan is still in the air. Faking deaths is very dramatic, and will eventually get the entire network caught. So don’t quote me on that part—but please do attempt to trust me. You’ve waited a long time for justice.”
“I have. Thank you.”
“See? That wasn’t too bad, talking to me!” Atticus grinned manically as he rose. Caspar slipped the book under his arm and was about to run to his cell to jump for joy when he remembered the other detail in this plan. “Wait. So the djinn is already here?”
Atticus made a sign to keep their voices down, but nodded.
“Who is he?”
Atticus gestured behind him. “Under the clock. That’s him. His name is Malek.”
When Caspar turned, he saw the giant man from the showers who’d been scoping him out for the past three days. Caspar’s blood ran cold, then hot with desire. Shit. Of course it’s him. This time, when the man met his eyes, he smiled.
The guards called for dinner and the rest of the room scattered. Atticus squeezed Caspar’s shoulder. “Remember, don’t lose the ring.”
Caspar swallowed. By the time he glanced through the room again, Malek was gone.
Tomorrow morning couldn’t come fast enough.