All Your Wishes (7 page)

Not that I'd want to deal with the demonic, or even the angelic, if I didn't have to. But the rest wasn't helpful either.

Tim spoke up. “One of the prehistoric African creation myths has a pair of djinn fighting it out. They wound up killing each other, creating the great desert. But who knows whether that's true.”

“It's true.” Rahim's voice came from the covered walkway that connected the main building to the guest rooms. He appeared a moment later, seeming to materialize out of the shadows themselves. He looked better. In fact, if he hadn't still been wearing his flame-scorched shirt, I wouldn't have known that anything untoward had happened to him. That was definitely weird. I have vampire healing in my favor, which was why I was nearly entirely recovered after a few hours. Rahim didn't. He should still be down and out, not up and around and looking fresh as a daisy. I mean, Chris is good, but nobody's that good.

Dawna gave me a look that told me she'd noticed the same thing and was possibly even more suspicious than I was.

“Anything else we should know?” Dawna asked. Her tone was a little bit sharper than usual and I realized that she still didn't want me taking this case, regardless of what Dottie saw. I couldn't blame her. In fact, I would have heartily agreed—if I didn't trust Dottie so much. But I did.

Since Rahim had been very specific about not wanting us to do research, I more than half expected him to complain about our obvious information-gathering. Surprisingly, he didn't. Maybe the events in the circle had spooked him. Or, possibly, he was the type to pick his battles and had figured out this was one he wasn't going to win.

“I need to use magic to call the ifrit back to its jar. I am considering using another spell that will link my essence to Hasan's on the ethereal plane. I cannot do this if I am under magical attack. I need…” he paused, searching for the right word, “reinforcements.”

Tim opened his mouth, but Rahim silenced him with a gesture. “I appreciate that you are willing to help, but the mages helping me must be of the line of the Guardians if the spells are to work. I called my grandfather in Florida a few minutes ago, before joining you. He has agreed to assist me and to obtain the—uh—some of the things we will need to do a more elaborate working. With his help I should be able to locate and perhaps trap Hasan. We fly out to meet with him. He is expecting us.”

“Your enemies will expect you to go there,” Dawna commented.

Rahim's tone was decidedly chilly. “Perhaps, but it is necessary. So we are going.”

No “perhaps” about it, as far as I was concerned. If I were a bad guy and the only people capable of containing my monster were the Guardians, I'd have them all under close surveillance—video, audio, you name it.

It never pays to underestimate the enemy, so I always assume they're at least as bright and prepared as I am. Having gone up against Connor Finn and his buddies before, I knew they were very ruthless and very good at being bad. In fact, I'd never run into anyone better. I thought about saying so, but I knew that telling the client wouldn't do any good … and I knew that one more word and Dawna would insist we refuse the job.

“Any chance we could meet at a neutral location, some place the bad guys wouldn't expect?” I suggested. “That would give us a real advantage.” I smiled, trying to take the sting from the words.

“We are going to Florida,” Rahim answered, his tone one of absolute finality.

Apparently the djinn don't have a monopoly on arrogance.

 

7

It always
takes longer to get ready for a trip than you think it will. Rahim wanted to leave as soon as possible, but that just wasn't practical. His grandfather would provide most of what we needed, but there were a few specialty items Rahim needed to pick up, and that would have to wait until morning, when the stores would reopen. PharMart was open twenty-four hours, but they didn't carry the really exotic stuff Rahim wanted.

I probably could've imposed on Isaac, but I didn't want to, and I wanted the extra time for my team's investigations. I also definitely wanted to consult Dottie again and in person. Clairvoyants don't have one-hundred-percent accuracy, but Dottie was damned good. Her visions had saved my bacon more than once. So, with ill grace, Rahim and Bubba went to the private airstrip where the Sparrowhawk was parked. Rahim's plan was to change clothes and do as much pre-flight stuff as he could while I packed and took care of some last minute things here.

We agreed to meet at the airstrip at ten o'clock. Take off would be at ten thirty.

Time flies, whether or not you're having fun. By the time I'd gone over everything one last time with Gordon and Warren, looked at the results of my staff's research, and packed a bag, it was seven thirty.

Dottie arrived then, and while the hot pink outfit she wore was cheery, her expression was grim. Giving me a nod in greeting, she moved slowly but steadily through the building until she reached the conference-room table. One of Dottie's scrying tools is a holy water–filled crystal bowl with a silver rim. Another is a
wadjeti
, an ancient Egyptian set of scarabs.

Today she used table salt and playing cards.

Sitting next to me at the center seat of the conference-room table, she poured the salt in a steady, even flow until she'd made a perfect circle about the size of a garbage-can lid. Peeling the plastic from a brand-new pack of playing cards, she shuffled them a few times and began setting out a pyramid pattern, starting at the top.

The first card represented me. The queen of hearts.

Next row, two cards. The ace and queen of spades. I didn't know what that meant until she spoke, her voice gone hollow the way it sometimes does when her power is riding her.

“The ace of spades is death or the dead. The queen is his tool. They stand between you and your goal, guarding the way against you.”

She dealt the third level. Three cards: the jack of diamonds, the joker, and the king of hearts.

“The client thinks he is in control but the joker has the power. They threaten all that you hold dearest.”

Fourth and last row: queen of clubs, ace of diamonds, jack of clubs, king of spades.

“Your enemies know you. For every move there is a counter; for every ally an opponent. They are your match in most ways. Ultimately you can prevail, but only if you embrace your hidden strengths.”

Dottie shook herself, shedding the remnants of her vision like a dog shakes off water. Her expression wasn't panicked, but she definitely wasn't happy.

“Dottie, are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” She didn't look fine. She looked exhausted and truly old. Usually she had a buoyancy that belied the walker and the calendar. Not now. Her skin was sagging, her expression deeply worried. “You need to go. But it is very, very dangerous.”

*   *   *

I was lucky. Traffic was lighter than usual, and I made it to the airstrip on time. Rahim's jet was everything it had been advertised to be, and probably well worth the astronomical asking price, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not. I am better about flying than I used to be, thanks to therapy, but I still don't enjoy the experience. Still, I couldn't fault Rahim for thoroughness. He performed his preflight check as impeccably and with the same attention to detail he'd given to his magic.

Once he'd given the jet a complete external inspection, we climbed on and he made his way to the cockpit. I went to the back and stowed my gear in the small luggage compartment across from the bathroom. Since it was a four-hour flight, I'd brought along reading material—research on the djinn. I set it onto the seat next to me and strapped myself into one of the four passenger seats that were arranged in pairs facing each other.

Either Rahim was a quick shopper, or he had talked someone into opening early. At ten o'clock, we were actually in the air. We would arrive at Midland, Texas, between two and three o'clock local time to refuel and get a late lunch, then fly from Midland to Treasure Island. And, since we were filing our flight plan like good little citizens, it would be spectacularly easy for our opponents to know precisely where we would be, and when.

Not that that bothered me or anything.

Sitting strapped into an admittedly luxurious leather seat in the passenger compartment of the jet, I tried to reassure and distract myself during takeoff by checking my weapons.

Since we were on a private jet, I didn't have to worry about what to pack—what I could legally take through airport security. I could go whole hog, and I had. My favorite gun, a Colt, was strapped in my shoulder holster; a Derringer backup piece was holstered on my ankle, my favorite knives were mounted in their wrist sheaths, and I'd filled my pockets with as many spell disks and balls as could comfortably fit. My jacket was stocked as well, with a stake, two One-Shot brand water pistols filled with holy water, and a garrote. I also had brought sunscreen, a hat, a little recorder similar to the one Rahim had used, my passport, and a couple of changes of clothes. I couldn't pin down Rahim as to how long we were likely to be gone, or what our destinations after Treasure Island might be, so I'd overpacked in hopes of having what I would need. Like the Scouts, I believe in being prepared.

We spent four uneventful hours in the air before landing in Midland. It was time for me to eat again and Rahim was hungry, so I slathered myself with sunscreen, slapped on my hat, and we walked the block and a half to the nearest fast-food roast beef restaurant.

We were too late for the lunch crowd and too early for dinner, so we had the place to ourselves except for the staff. Since solids are a problem for me, Rahim and I split a pair of French dip sandwiches. He got the sandwiches, and I got the dip, along with a large Pepsi and a chocolate shake. I lusted after his curly fries, because they smelled absolutely awesome, but didn't even bother trying to eat one. It is no fun having food get stuck in your esophagus.

Sitting in our little yellow and orange plastic booth, I drank my shake and sipped au jus from the little white plastic cup you're supposed to dip your sandwich in, all the while trying to pry more detailed information from the client.

“Okay, say we go. You and your grandfather do your thing. Then what?”

“If the spells succeed, we will be able to trap Hasan in Florida, and this will all be over.”

“If you fail?”

“It
should
work.” Rahim sounded supremely confident. His body language, however, was less certain. Still, he plowed on, his voice firm. “At the very least, the spells will give me a link to Hasan and let me determine his location. In his current state, he will not be able to resist my spell binding him to his jar if I am physically in his presence.”

I was persistent. “But if the spell doesn't work?”

He glared at me, dark eyes flashing. “I am the Guardian.”

I didn't say a word, just stared, willing him to be forthcoming. Eventually, and with ill grace, he continued.

“Being the Guardian gives me access to certain … reserves of strength and magical power I can call upon in an emergency. I have access to enough power that trapping Hasan should be well within my capabilities.”

“Even with the bad guys running interference?”

“Even so.”

I didn't believe him, not after what I'd seen with my own eyes at the casting circle in my parking lot. Granted, his enemies had caught him by surprise. Next time he'd be prepared. But I didn't like it. Not one itty bitty bit.

Rahim could tell I was skeptical and that pissed him off, which put paid to my getting any additional information from him—and to any other topic of conversation, for that matter. We ate in record time, in less than amicable silence, and shared an equally quiet trudge back to the jet, where he repeated every step of the preflight inspection that he'd performed before we left California.

I probably should've been reassured when he found nothing wrong and we took off without incident. Instead, I got even more tense. The bad guys weren't stupid. They were bound to make a move. If they didn't strike at Midland, then Treasure Island was a safe bet. So I decided to rest up, and dozed for several hours. We were in Florida air space when we hit heavy turbulence. I bounced around in my seat despite the seat belt and had to swallow hard to keep the food I'd eaten from making a second appearance.

It was only spitting rain in Tampa, but there were heavy gusts of wind, which would make a smooth landing impossible for even the best pilot. Rahim brought us down safely and while I did not kiss the ground upon leaving the plane, I really did think about it. Rahim smirked about that.

Despite the rain, I made sure to slather myself with sunscreen before climbing down from the plane to check the area. Once that was done, Rahim passed our luggage down before joining me on the tarmac. He folded up the retracting steps, retriggered the latent security spells, and locked the plane in the private hangar he'd rented, while the wind drove the sprinkling of rain so hard that the drops stung as they struck my skin. I could smell the ocean in the distance, even over the scents of oil and gasoline, but didn't see any gulls dotting the leaden skies. Usually, if I was anywhere near the sea, I quickly accumulated a seagull or two, thanks to my siren heritage. Then again, they might have gone to ground due to the heavy winds.

Rahim was carrying a large-ish black duffel and his doctor's bag. I had a weapons bag and a pale blue, wheeled carry-on that had seen better days. It held toiletries, changes of underwear, a couple of fresh blouses, and a couple of pairs of pants. I'd packed a lot of sunscreen. Still, the weapons that really mattered to me were on my person: My guns, and more importantly, my knives.

Thinking of the knives reminded me of the man who made them. Even though we'd broken up after college, he'd sliced himself every day for five years, shedding blood and working magic, to create weapons that qualified as major magical artifacts. He did that because a clairvoyant had told him they would save my life. They were my most prized possessions and were capable of incredible things. Just a scratch from one of those knives could kill most magical creatures.