Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Even magic bends when the stack is fat enough.
ALISTAIR
“Well done,” the voice says. “Are you convinced now that I mean you no harm?” I have a hard time hiding my disbelief. The only thing I’m convinced of is that I’m talking to a snitch. And the longer they continue to invade my privacy, the less patience I have.
“What did you do to him?” I demand.
Ciprian didn’t appear sick or hurt, but the invisible demon clearly feels better now, and magic is nothing if not a complex system of checks and balances.
“Again, you ask the wrong questions,” they say. “Let’s return to what I am: a mazzikin demon. Made entirely of magic; formless, we exist only by remaining in the presence of other demons, preferably powerful ones.”
“You live at the compound—”
“Out of necessity and tradition, yes. My clan has been linked to the Casanell family for centuries. We siphon their magic to power ourselves and do a few simple household chores in exchange. An agreeable deal for the most part. As for what I did to him, young Casanell didn’t notice when I siphoned from him at age two, and he certainly won’t notice now. Do try to quell your absurd qualms.”
Household chores, siphoning magic, their obvious defensiveness—if they’re telling the truth, I’m starting to believe this demon can’t do much physical damage. But keeping an invisible servant around is the perfect recipe for a ready-made spy that no one suspects.
“Your history lesson was fascinating, but I have no way of verifying it,” I say, examining the cuff of my shirtsleeve. “I think it’s time you told me why you’re really here.”
Their silence is absolute, interrupted only by the gentle drone of electricity and the puff of cool air exiting the ceiling vents. The mazzikin is trying to make me nervous and get me to backtrack. I’m far too experienced with silence for that to work.
I sit on the couch and casually prop one ankle on my opposite knee.
With a steady pulse and nothing but time, I wait them out.
I’m not the one who needs siphoned demonic energy to make myself heard, and I’ve already begun the good faith portion of this negotiation by bringing Ciprian here to be snacked on.
The mazzikin will come around, or they won’t. The outcome can’t concern me. My business remains successful because I refuse to scramble. Ever.
“There’s a prize at the compound—a being more powerful than any born on Earth in hundreds of years. She dropped into the enclave’s lap quite by accident, but they won’t hesitate to make use of her.”
My brow wrinkles. That’s incredibly vague. “Use her how?”
“Money, power, control . . . the implications are endless,” they whisper smugly.
“Uh-huh.” I steeple my fingers and relax against the couch. “That’s fascinating, but from where I stand, the enclave already has all those things. Why should I give a damn if they do some recruiting?”
“You’re a fool,” they hiss. “Have you seen many djinn walking your scum-encrusted streets? Her powers will ignite war. These lawless Fringe communities, where you do as you please and answer to no one, will disappear—turned to dust with a snap of her fingers.”
I focus on keeping my breathing even and my face slack. The djinn report is interesting. It’s worth investigating, but the mazzikin’s heated speech made it clear they aren’t here for equality and justice for all. “Why would you betray the Casanells?” I ask.
“My motivations aren’t part of our bargain.”
“I say they are.” I push to my feet. “I’m happy to pay you for this information—half now and half when I verify it—but our dealings are done unless you tell me why you’re really here.”
My blood heats. This is the tipping point.
In the Fringes, I wouldn’t ask. Any potential client wouldn’t tell me anyway, and the deal would be lost, but this mazzikin says they’ve been part of the enclave their entire life.
If that’s true, they’ve been spoon-fed the enclave’s talking points for decades.
They must have a reason to justify their betrayal, and I want to know what it is.
“Harboring the djinn will destroy everything the demons have built here,” they say grimly, quieter than before. “She’s an outsider and powerful, but Dimitri Casanell doesn’t see the target he paints on his back, only the potential: for riches and reconciliation with his son.”
“Ciprian?” I ask.
“The family fool?” The mazzikin cackles. “He’s a lost cause, and his father knows it. Ciprian will go nowhere and accomplish nothing; that’s clear from his shameful fascination with the Fringes. Callum has potential, but only if the djinn is dealt with.”
Anger burns in my belly.
I’m not sure if it’s my hunger or my irritation with this smug, bitter demon, but I want them gone. The information—if it pans out—could be the most valuable I’ve stumbled upon in years. What I don’t know is the cost and who will be asked to pay it.
I raise one eyebrow and reach for my wallet. “I assume you prefer cash?”
I pace the length of my apartment, wearing out the floor as I consider the angles. A powerful djinn, drama among the Casanells, a file on me and my dealings, and interest in Celine?
How does Ciprian fit into all this?
His frantic concern for his unnamed friend flickers through my mind. More than a month ago, he sat here on my couch, pale with blood loss from saving my life, gripping his phone until his knuckles turned whiter than his face.
Could that friend be the djinn the mazzikin believes will tear the enclave apart? It’s a flimsy theory, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Call it gut instinct or paranoia, I need to know if this person is one and the same.
If I confront Ciprian about this and it goes poorly, the enclave will almost certainly have me killed. But if he is close to the djinn and I regain his trust . . . he could make an introduction.
What am I willing to risk to earn a wish? I know I’m playing a dangerous game, but I’m backed into a corner. I have no choice but to fight my way out.
The memory hits fast—I should have expected it. Because I’ve been in this situation many times before: wanting something no one will let me have.
“You ask too many questions, Alistair. It will be your ruin.” Mum’s lips are pinched.
She’s annoyed with me again, this time for talking to the gardener’s children.
But she doesn’t understand. They move differently than she does, differently than anyone else on our estate—besides me—and I want to know why.
“You don’t answer any of them,” I protest.
Her eyes flash red. “Children are to be seen and not heard. Are your needs not met? Honestly, Alistair, one would think I deprive you.”
My fingers curl into fists. I hate it when she talks to me like this.
What she says is wrong, I know that, but I don’t know why.
And if I don’t know why, I can’t win the argument.
And if I can’t win the argument, I won’t get answers.
I’ll never know why her eyes turn red when she’s angry, yet mine stay as blue as the trout pond when the lily pads split to reveal the crystal surface beneath.
Cautiously, I switch gears, adjusting my face until it’s picture-perfect—like the paintings in the formal sitting room Mum loves so much. “Will you play outside with me tomorrow?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, my schedule simply won’t allow for that, but I’m happy to have the front lawn lit for an evening game of croquet.” It’s as I suspected. She won’t step foot outside until the sun retreats below the treetops.
The heavy curtains are always drawn tight in the residential wing.
The gardener’s children have a theory, and they were more than happy to tell me that our home and everyone in it is cursed to burn in the sun.
I laughed in their faces, pushing my sleeve up to reveal the dusting of freckles on my skin courtesy of the summer rays.
The oldest, a boy called Samuel, smiled at me then.
It was the smile I hate—the one that says someone knows more than I do.
Samuel gestures to the rolling green hills and our stately stone estate.
“Everyone here is cursed. Everyone but you,” he says.
“One day you’ll be cursed too, unless they eat you first.”
I frown, my heart beating too fast. I don’t understand. Samuel isn’t making any sense. Something nibbles at the back of my mind—like the mouse in the stables consuming the wedges of cheese I bring him when I’m at my loneliest.
“No one will eat me,” I retort, fury gripping me.
“Not until you’re bigger,” Samuel says with a shrug. “Then they’ll eat you for sure.”
Before I can think through why I shouldn’t, anger gets the best of me.
My fist slams into Samuel’s nose. He wails, presses his fingers to the injury, and makes a bubbling snort-like sound.
My head feels light. I watch, transfixed, while blood—as red and shiny as the cherries from our finest tree—dribbles from his nostrils.
His sister Peg shoves me, and in my surprise, I fall on my bum. “I hate you,” she screams. “I hope they eat you soon, do you hear me?”
A chill runs down my spine, but it has nothing to do with the superstitions Peg is spewing and everything to do with the shadow covering all three of us.
“Get on with you,” the stable master snarls at the gardener’s children.
They scurry away, never looking back, and I scoot toward the wall, hoping Ansel doesn’t notice me. As always with Mum’s servants, it’s a pointless hope. His eyes dart to me. I blink and scramble to my feet.
“Forget what those urchins told you,” Ansel says, his tone sending a shiver down my spine. His eyes are red and terrifying. I can’t look away, even though I want to.
A commotion among the horses draws his attention, and I run directly into the sunlight outside the stable. Ansel doesn’t follow, and deep in my belly, I know he won’t. I keep running until the stitch in my side is impossible to ignore, and my face stings from the heat of the sun.
Cursing, I blink rapidly and replace the memory of the bright summer day with the reality of my dim, shuttered apartment. As a boy, secrets called to me, just as they call to me now.
I won’t be able to let this go.
The aching burn in my throat spreads to include my mouth. I can taste my own thirst—a mixture of salt, bile, and desperation.
I glance at the sink, filled with one broken mug and a dozen opened pouches of blood. Inexplicably rancid, all of them, I’ve tried and failed to drink from every single one.
Shaking my head, I chuckle wryly.
I traded the sun’s burn for another twice as insistent. Mum would call me a fool. Perhaps she would be right. One thing is clear to me: if I don’t hold blood down soon, everyone around me will be in danger.
Starving vampires don’t ask permission.