I go into the bathroom, splash water on my face and dry off with one of the pink bath towels hanging near the shower. Turning to the mirror, I take a long moment to assess my wounds again. I am pleasantly surprised; my face is completely back to normal and my arm is still a little red, but the rash is gone. Then I turn to the side and look at the jagged mark on my side that I’ve had as long as I can remember. It’s faded and barely noticeable, but it’s still there. Mom and Dad told me I was born with it, just like the one on my neck. Looking more closely at it, I wonder how I ever believed that. It’s clearly a scar, not a birthmark. I don’t know what happened, but I do know it happened the night Roman marked me. I wonder what other lies my parents told me over the years.
I walk out of the bathroom slowly as the realization sinks in that my whole life has been a complete lie. It dawns on me that the reason I can’t remember much from before my drowning incident is because I was probably behind the veil until then. Having my memories erased must have been part of my punishment. Were the two people I thought were my parents really my parents, or were they strangers that took me in when I was exiled to the human world? Did they even know I was djinn?
The questions bouncing around in my head are giving me a serious headache. I retreat back to the bathroom to rummage through the medicine cabinet. I find the ibuprofen and use my hand to cup enough water into my mouth to help them slide down. They get a little stuck with the big knot I’m carrying there all of a sudden, but after a few more swallows, they go down.
They almost come right back up and I jump about two feet in the air when Zane says, “Hey, are you coming?”
“Jesus, Zane, you scared the hell out of me!”
He feigns being contrite. “Sorry. You were taking a while and there’s something you need to see.”
I know with all my heart that I don’t want to see what I supposedly need to see. Zane’s sober expression has ‘run and hide’ written all over it. I’m pretty sure that today is already in the running for breaking yesterday’s record of longest day ever.
Reluctantly, I follow Zane downstairs. I expect him to lead me back into Mrs. Gregori’s sitting room, but he leads me to the rear of the house instead. Wonderful smells of coffee and bacon are wafting from the kitchen as we approach.
The moods of the people in the kitchen are far from wonderful. Roman’s skin has a distinct green hue and Brielle’s has lost all color. Even her lips are white. She may throw up any minute. Mrs. Gregori’s eyes are glued to the flat screen television mounted on the far wall. I can’t read her; her face is a blank page at the moment.
“Can I go back upstairs?” I whisper to Zane.
He shakes his head grimly and puts his hand at the small of my back to keep me from running away. “I’m afraid not.”
Mrs. Gregori notices us first. She uses the remote in her hand to mute the television and turns to me. “You need to sit down before I show you this.”
Maybe I should just sit on the floor. There won’t be so far to go if my mind shuts down and I pass out. I’m dangerously close to that already just from dread. Zane leads me to a chair at the small kitchen table where Roman and Brielle are sitting and he stands behind me. I think he’s worried about my reaction as much as I am. Considering the show I gave him earlier, I can understand where he’s coming from.
Mrs. Gregori must have DVRed the news broadcast, because she rewinds it back to the beginning. As if I said that out loud, she says, “I always record the morning news in case I get lazy and sleep through it.” I suspect she’s never missed a show.
A polished, older newscaster, with bright white teeth and brown hair so perfect it must be a rug, has just thanked the weatherman for his forecast of warm and sunny weather ahead. “Now for our headline news. A serial killer the likes of which has never been seen before, has taken the lives of seven people since yesterday. The police have yet to find a link between the victims; it appears the killings are random at this point. What makes this case unique is the trademark the killer leaves behind. Each of the victims has had the name ‘Skye’ carved into their abdomen. Police believe they have tied the murders to a woman by the name of Skye Rowan who escaped from a local hospital that was under lockdown yesterday. Armed men stormed the hospital in search of this woman, possibly to avenge one of her previous victims.” My university photo flashes on the screen. “Just one week ago, the woman brutally ran over a man with her car, putting herself in the hospital with life threatening injuries. A miraculous recovery left her with the strength needed to elude hospital security as well as her assailants.”
The camera angle changes and the anchorman swivels in his chair, his face the perfect picture of concern. “It is not known how she left the hospital, but she did not leave alone.” Now Roman’s picture from his hospital badge comes on the screen. “Dr. Roman Palis was last seen carrying the suspect from her hospital room, accompanied by a yet to be identified female with red hair pictured here on hospital footage. The woman was careful to keep her back to the hospital security cameras at all times.” A shot of the back of Brielle’s head appears. I’m impressed that she had the foresight not to look at any of the cameras. “Police do not know if Dr. Palis has been involved in the recent killings; they are speculating that he may have simply fallen under the charms of this madwoman. Police fear he may have been the eighth victim, but have yet to find a body matching his description. The police can only speculate on the involvement of the other young woman. If you have any information regarding the case, you are asked to contact the police either through their victim hotline or their silent observer line. Due to the severity of the case, the FBI is taking an active role and may be contacted with any pertinent information as well.” Then, in the blink of an eye, he goes on to the next bit of news about a local woman with cancer and no health insurance.
I believe a part of me just withered and died. Whether they were my real parents or not, I’m glad Mom and Dad are not alive to see this. It has just been announced to the world that I’m a psychopath serial killer. What’s worse is that I have no way of proving that I’m not. I can’t exactly go into the police station and tell them what really happened. All that would do is perpetuate the need for sanity testing. I could probably spend my life in a mental institution instead of prison. I’m sure that would be so much better.
“Zane, get her a cup of coffee. Maybe the caffeine will jolt her out of stupor,” Mrs. Gregori says.
I turn my head in her direction but I have completely lost the ability to speak. If I open my mouth, I’m sure just random noises will fall out. Zane looks unsure about stepping away from me, but he finally does. Somehow, I manage not to fall out of my chair. I’m wanted as a serial killer. I blink my eyelids rapidly as if that will help erase the truth from my mind.
“Here,” Zane says.
He places a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. Absently, I pick it up and take a sip. If I was capable of reacting to anything at the moment, I would be cursing loudly about burning my tongue and throat. Right now, I welcome the pain. It distracts me slightly from the terror that is running around and screaming inside my head.
I am shocked back to my senses when Mrs. Gregori slaps her palm on the table. “Listen up, this is no time for you to be feeling sorry for yourself. It’s not just you who’s in trouble here. Those djinn know damn well who helped you escape and it won’t be long before there’s more than just the back of Brielle’s head up on that screen. They made it personal and I ain’t going to let a damn djinn vendetta or whatever the hell it is ruin my grandbaby’s life. I just got her and I plan to keep her around for a long time.”
Zane is the first to respond. It’s funny how the only two who aren’t being sought by the police are the only two participating in this conversation. “What do we do now?” he asks.
Before she answers, Mrs. Gregori spins her chair around and motors to a cupboard next to the stove. She pulls out a couple of things and then spins back towards us. She’s holding two tea pots. Two copper colored tea pots. She slams them on the table like she did her palm. “The first thing we do is make sure we know where everyone’s loyalties lie. If you two want our help, you will need to be bound first. If that isn’t to your liking, then you can go on without us and good luck to you. I’m not sure which will be worse, if the feds get you or the djinn.” My money’s on the djinn.
Fuck. This is really happening. I’m marked by one person and about to be bound to another on top of the whole serial killer thing. I wonder if I’m still in a coma and just having a horrible nightmare. It seems plausible, except for the tiny little fact that coma patients don’t enter the REM stage of sleep. That means this is all horribly real.
I look at Roman, wondering if his eyes will give me any clue which way he’s leaning on the whole binding thing. His steady gaze is already on me, probably wondering the same thing about me. He surprises me when he speaks first. “I’m in.”
His statement is met with undisguised shock. What, they expected him to just walk out of here? What does he have to go back to? I’m pretty sure his career is already down the toilet, and he’d have a hard time convincing the police that he didn’t help me murder those people. Shit. Now I’m accusing myself of murder.
“Me too,” I say quietly.
“How does this work?” Roman asks, eyeing the copper pots.
“Who will be bound to whom?” I ask.
Mrs. Gregori thinks for a moment. “I think it best for Skye to be bound to Zane.”
Roman is about to blow his top. “I think that would be a mistake.” Turning to me, he says, “Do you really want to be controlled by him?”
“Do you?” I counter.
“Of course not,” he spits out viciously. “We would both be better off bound to Brielle or Mrs. Gregori.”
Mrs. Gregori snorts. “I’m not binding either of you. I’d be too tempted to just send your butts on your way home.” I seriously doubt she means our respective apartments.
“Grams, wouldn’t it make more sense for Roman to be bound to Zane,” Brielle asks.
Her grandmother raises a brow. “It makes sense if you want to see one of them dead by nightfall. There’s no way they could be so closely linked without wanting to kill each other. And I still don’t plan on binding either one of you,” she says to Roman.
Roman clears his throat; I think to swallow down the bile that has crept up his esophagus. “Then I am sure I can make it work if I am bound to Zane.” That was so hard for him to say between gritted teeth.
Zane’s voice has a distinct warning in it when he says to Roman, “We discussed this little jealousy problem of yours upstairs.”
“Uh guys, could you both give it a rest. I’m still dealing with the fact that I’m considered an accessory to serial killing; I don’t need to break a nail prying you two apart as well. Doc, you’re with me,” Brielle says. Some of her normal color has returned to her face and I’m pretty sure she’s not going to throw up. She bounces back well. So does her attitude.
“So, who goes first?” My skin is prickling uncomfortably. My nerves feel rawer now than they did when I had road rash.
Mrs. Gregori gives Roman a hard look. “I think we should take care of him first before he does something stupid.” Roman is insulted, but he keeps his mouth shut.
“Alright.” Brielle picks up a copper pot and brings a chair around the table so she can sit in front of Roman. “It’s really strange doing this with a djinni that’s cooperating,” she says to him.
“Would it be better for you if I resisted?” he asks dryly.
“It wouldn’t be better for you,” Brielle responds. “I’ve taken down djinn bigger than you.” Roman just grunts in response.
Time for conversation is now spent. All eyes are riveted on Brielle and her copper pot. She reaches over and takes Roman’s hand in hers. His desire to resist almost gets the better of him and he stubbornly pulls his back, but after a couple of seconds he gives in. Brielle’s face is sober as she recites the words that will make Roman a slave to a kitchen utensil:
“From ancient times, a race forgotten and shunned,
Fire made, not of earth or sky, these first Bedouin,
A scourge, a plague, an impurity that mars the earth and heavens
Surfaced from behind the veil, unguarded, and chaos threatens,
Bound by copper and my will,
The need to please I now instill,
I carry the burden to control this one of the djinn,
Free will once granted, now revoked herein.”
I wait for a puff of smoke or a noticeable shift in the air or something, but nothing happens. “How do you know it worked?” I ask.
Brielle gets a mischievous glint in her eye. She looks at Roman and says, “Take off your t-shirt.”
There are death threats in his eyes, but Roman pulls the bottom of his t-shirt up and pulls it over his head. “Are you going to have me do the chicken dance now?” he snipes.
Brielle is trying hard not to giggle at his irritation. “Nope, I’m good.”
“Let’s get on with this,” Mrs. Gregori says gruffly.
My eyes seek out Zane’s and I find hesitance in his. Now that it’s come right down to it, I don’t think he wants to do this. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to be bound to me or if thinks this whole thing is a bad idea. Either way, I agree.
His face becomes a blank page and Zane takes my hand in his. Grabbing the other copper pot from in front of his grandmother, he solemnly recites the binding spell. Just like I expected a physical response when Brielle bound Roman, I expected a distinct change in my psyche after Zane finishes the spell. Nothing. I don’t feel one iota different. I’m sure that will change when he tells me to do something.
“Go ahead,” Brielle says. “Make her do the chicken dance.”
Zane puts on a mask of mischief but his eyes are still sober. “Kiss me,” he says.
Roman comes up out of his chair which goes flying backwards. “You said this binding wouldn’t be used to make us do things we don’t want to do.”
Zane gets to his feet a little more casually. “Who says she doesn’t want to?”
As the two of them volley heated words back and forth over the table, a troubling realization washes over to me. I don’t feel any type of compulsion to kiss Zane. When Brielle told Roman to take his shirt off, he responded immediately. I suspect I was supposed to do the same. This should be a good thing. But I know it’s not. From the crinkle that’s growing in Mrs. Gregori’s already wrinkled brow, I know it’s a very, very bad thing.
Jumping to my feet, I tug on Zane’s arm. When he turns to me, I say with a warm smile, “You’re making it difficult to kiss you with all this bickering.” Then I place my hands on his cheeks and I bring my lips to his. Finally, I get a jolt of something, but it’s not obedience. The feeling grows when Zane puts his arms around me and pulls me closer, deepening the kiss. Maybe I am bound to him.
“Alright, alright, knock it off. Roman, stay put. Zane, be a part of the solution, not the problem,” Brielle chastises.
Abruptly, Zane breaks the kiss. He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says softly.
Huh, I’m not. That takes me completely by surprise. “It’s okay,” I say just as softly. I even give him a small smile, which he doesn’t return.
Zane looks towards his grandmother as he sits back down. “Now what?” he asks. Well, that’s a slap of cold water in the face. He obviously didn’t have the same reaction to the kiss that I did. I sit down as well, refusing to look in his direction now.
He asked a good question. Now what?