“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 theFringes. 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 stoneestate. “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.
