“Done,” Vasili says.
Sigurd stands with the pen in his hand a moment longer than necessary, reading the line above his signature. The ink is still wet. His handwriting is more precise than it needs to be. Sigurd learned to write in Norse runes, and even after all this time, he’s never quite shaken his dislike for the Roman alphabet.
I find myself thinking of different handwriting. A cheap black marker, absently jotting down the curls of anRin swift, efficient motions.
A thought slips in, uninvited. Will Iris ever get over her dislike for me?
It’s the kind of thought a creature like me shouldn’t be capable of having. It should be harmless. Instead, it solidifies… into a paper coffee cup.
The damning cup manifests right on the chest next to Vasili’s tail. The rim is crumpled where a hand closed around it. My hand, sadly. The cardboard sleeve has slid down one side. A name is written there in black marker.Rakan.
Never in three thousand years of existence have my powers gotten away from me in such an embarrassing way. I take a slow breath and try not to let it get to me.
Iris Beckett is a human I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours. This is ridiculous.
Sigurd crosses the floor of the vault and leans over the cup. Vasili eyes the anomaly with a blank expression that says more than words ever could. “That is new,” Sigurd remarks. “And very interesting.”
I glare at the offending object, and it dissipates into thin air. “It’s nothing.”
Vasili picks up his quill again and returns to writing on his parchment. He’s giving us time to talk, but he’s definitely listening.
“Rakan.” Sigurd shifts his weight, and one of his tentacles drags over the floor of the vault. “That cup appeared on its own.”
“I’ve been managing it since yesterday afternoon.”
“Managing it,” he repeats, utterly unconvinced.
The cup reappears on the lid of the chest from which I just removed it. Sigurd looks at it. Vasili’s quill stops moving, and the corner of his scaled mouth twitches.
I flick my fingers again, and the cup vanishes. But I have a feeling this isn’t the last I’ve seen of it.
I turn back to Vasili, who has completely dropped the pretense of indifference. “There’s one more thing. I need two dozen blue lotuses. Prepared in a bouquet.”
Vasili meets my gaze and arches his brow. “It can be arranged. The nymph Lotis owes Lindwurm two favours and has been overdue on both for the better part of a century. I’ll wake her. May I ask the purpose of the acquisition, or would you prefer I file it under the usual discretion?”
“It’s a gift. For a human woman. I’d prefer that to remain between us.”
Behind me, Sigurd goes unnaturally still. There are only so many things a djinn can’t accomplish simply by willing it. For me to take the time to requisition a gift through the bank… I know he’ll be concerned.
“I see,” Vasili says, nodding. “It will take an hour, no more.”
I let myself meet his eyes for a beat longer than I usually do. “As always, Lindwurm Capital doesn’t disappoint. Thank you, Vasili.”
He gives me something that, on another creature’s face, would be a smile. “My pleasure, Rakan. It’s been a long time since you’ve asked me for anything that wasn’t routine. I find I have missed it.”
He returns to his silence, and just like that, the conversation is over. Dragons don’t like to dwell on goodbyes, and Vasili is no different.
As I make my way out of the vault, Sigurd joins me. “Tell me you’re not actually doing this. You can’t possibly be considering giving a human that kind of gift.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and smoke, seeping from my skin, curls around our feet. “And why not?”
“Rakan… Humans have no use for magical flowers. Lotuses from a nymph? Please. You know what would be easier? A scarf.”
Easier. I can’t help but snort. “I don’t need to take the easy way out. I’m a djinn.”
“Make it a cashmere scarf, then,” Sigurd replies, his voice drier than the desert I once came from. “A nice one, but still sensible. The succubi imported new stock from India. Surely you can find something better from them.”
As much as I appreciate my friend, I’m really not interested in the ins and outs of his business. Oceanic import trade is Sigurd’s thing, not mine. And scarves are definitely not enough for the message I’m trying to send. “Iris has no use for succubus wares, and she has no need for scarves. But every woman loves flowers. This will work.”
