The Art of Wishing (20 page)

“I understand that Oliver wants to keep living it.”

“Living?” he said, regarding me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Did he actually use that word? Living? Because this”—he gestured down at his body as he stepped closer to me—“is not living. This is a shadow, an echo of what living should be. People used to love us. They worshiped us and feared us. They put us in stories and songs, built legends and myths around us. We were gods. Tricksters. Angels, devils, creatures of fire. Those who knew us, called us the djinn.”

At first I thought he’d said “gin,” and it took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. “Oh,
djinn,
” I said. “But wait, isn’t that just another word for genies?”

“Well, aren’t you the clever one,” he said, bringing his hands up to give me a slow, mocking clap. “Don’t you just know everything. It’s merely a different placement of the tongue, isn’t it—a quirk of translation. Arabic, English. Djinni, genie. The same thing.” He was closer to me now, looking down at me with such intensity that I had to fight not to back away. “Listen to me, Margaret McKenna. Is the ocean the same as a cup of water? A cup of water is something you can toss away, or boil and flavor to taste, or consume without a drop left over. The ocean, though . . . the ocean consumes
you
.” He smiled. “Or it doesn’t. But the choice is never yours.”

He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out. “We were oceans, once. Now we’re just tap water, easily used and easily discarded. That isn’t living.”

I frowned, trying to piece together everything he’d said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we had true magic,” he said patiently. “Magic unbound by the wills of masters. And then it was lost.”

“Lost?” I said, taken aback. “How can magic be lost?”

He stepped away, laughing as he threw his hands up to the sky. “How the hell should I know?” he cried, so loudly that I looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Some believe it was taken from us. Some believe it was cast off by one of our own kind. And others . . .” He paused to make sure I was listening. “Others believe it left of its own accord. It knew the world was changing, and true magic would soon be stifled by chemicals and wires and screens. So it abandoned us and moved on to the next life, leaving behind only enough of itself to bind us to our vessels, and remind us of how much we’d lost.”

With his head slightly bowed, he let the words float away into the evening air, as solemn as a sermon. True magic, possessed and then lost—the idea of it made me feel uncomfortably small.

I tried to steer him back to more familiar territory: “And what does Oliver believe?”

“Oliver.” He snorted. “Ciarán’s still young. To him, this life of slavery is still whimsical and thrilling, even when his masters force the most horrible of wishes upon him. The things I’ve seen him do . . .”

My stomach turned, remembering how Oliver had said the same thing.

“The last time I found Ciarán,” Xavier continued, “his vessel had landed somewhere in eastern Europe. He called himself Dmitri, and he belonged to a bitter old man who treated him like dirt. I offered, back then, to unbind him from his vessel, but he said no. He wanted to see who he could become next, when this was all over.

“Ciarán throws himself into this with his whole heart, reinventing himself time and time again, making himself newer and prettier for every master he has. Falling in love with each of them, in his own way.” He gave me a pointed look, which I tried my damnedest to ignore. “But the day will come when he’ll realize there’s no substance to this. He’s only playing different versions of the same part, over and over, with no end in sight. He can deal out life and death, but only at someone else’s whim. He’s nothing more than a slave. He can’t even die without a master to wish it so.”

“In other words,” I said slowly, “he can’t choose when to die, so you get to do it for him? What kind of sense does that make?”

Xavier gave me a tight, disappointed smile. “The kind of sense we immortals understand,” he said, almost kindly, “and you do not. It’s a matter of honor.”

That rankled, but I kept my face as neutral as I could. Xavier sighed. “I encountered the one who made me, shortly after our true magic left us. She was called Dunya, and she was old. Six thousand, seven thousand years, maybe. One of the most powerful djinn I ever knew. She asked me if I’d felt the loss, too, and she asked if I would wish her free. She said that our time here was nearly over—that there was no longer a place in this shrinking world for great beings like us.

“So I did as she asked, and do you know what she said to me? She said ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, and she burned until she was nothing but air and light.” He shook his head slowly, reverently. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

“But that’s different,” I said. “She was
ancient
. Oliver isn’t even two hundred!”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.” He gave a little shake of his head, like he was horribly disappointed in me. “Ciarán does, though, even if he won’t admit it to you. Maybe he doesn’t even want to admit it to himself. But he does understand.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” he said gently. “Sunset tomorrow, Miss McKenna. I won’t ask again.”

Chapter
TWENTY
-
ONE

Y
ears of after-school rehearsals had accustomed me to being alone in the dark mostly-empty school parking lot, but after my encounter with Xavier, nothing seemed familiar anymore. Shadows were deeper. Edges were blurrier. A pink-orange sunset stretched across the sky, only to be cut off by the pine trees that bordered the lot, but I could imagine it stretching on and on, beyond the reach of my vision, continuing forever and ever and ever and . . .

I zipped my coat up and wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck. Then I reached into my pocket, grabbed Oliver’s ring, and called him. It seemed like eons before he arrived.

“Margo!” Oliver jogged briskly toward me, his cheeks flushed, his hair messier than usual, and his camera clutched in one hand. The sight of him looking so happy, so
alive,
made me want to grab him and hold him tight and never let Xavier near him again.

“Listen,” he said, “I found the greatest spot, just a couple blocks away, and there isn’t a lot of sunlight left, so I should get back, but if you want to meet me . . .”

But as he drew closer to me, he trailed off with a frown, and before I knew it, he’d pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. I closed my eyes and leaned into him, breathing in the warmth of his soft gray hoodie and yearning to keep that third wish forever.

After a few breaths, he pulled gently away. “Now, why was that the first thing I saw in your mind? Is everything okay?”

Worry clouded his face, eclipsing the happy, excited Oliver of a moment before, and just then I hated that he could read my thoughts. I had to tell him. I had to say, out loud, that Xavier had given him one more day to live—but I had no idea how. I hadn’t had a plan beyond making sure Oliver was still alive.

“I’m fine,” I said instead. “You were in the middle of something. Something fun? You should get back.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not fine. There’s something you don’t want to tell me. What is it?”

I hesitated, clenching my jaw. But the moment was lost anyway. “Xavier found me.”

“What?” Taking me by the shoulders, he gave me a hurried once-over, like he was checking me for more broken bones and knife wounds. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I said, shrugging irritably out of his grasp. “He didn’t do anything. I just wanted to see you, but you were in the middle of something. You said sunlight . . . ?”

He squinted up at the sky. “It’s not important.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. He gave me a questioning look, but I wasn’t sure how to explain. How could I possibly tell him how important it had felt when he’d appeared, all windblown and smiling and full of life, just minutes after Xavier had killed him right in front of me?

But something in my head must have told him that I really meant it, because he gave me the tiniest nod. “All right,” he said, smiling again. “Get in your car. Meet me at the end of Lombardi Boulevard. You know where that is, right?”

“Sure, yeah. But why—”

“Good. See you there!” Giving me a cartoonish salute, he disappeared without waiting for my reply.

Lombardi was a short street that ended in a cul-de-sac. It used to be nearly identical to Naomi’s street, a quiet place with a small handful of big houses—but a few years ago, someone had decided to tear down the big houses and build
really
big houses in their place. For whatever stupid money-related reason, though, construction always seemed to be halted, which meant there was a street full of half-finished houses in a ring around the cul-de-sac. A lot of people called them ghost houses.

As I got out of the car, I spotted Oliver on one knee in front of the center house, right by the chain-link fence that bordered the property. Backlit as he was by the setting sun, his features weren’t clear. My stomach clenched in sudden panic, and I snaked my hand into my jeans pocket, touching the ring with my thumb and forefinger. Almost instantly, Oliver straightened up, his shoulders going stiff as he looked around, and relaxed again when he spotted me.

“Why’d you call me?” he said, waving me over. “I’m right here.”

Relieved, I crossed the lawn to meet him. “Just making sure it was really you,” I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

His expression darkened, but he must have understood that I didn’t want to talk about it further, because he just nodded and knelt down again. He pointed his lens upward, adjusted it a few times, and snapped another picture. He looked at the result on the screen, then held it out to me. “See? It’s not every day you see sunsets like this one.”

Even on the tiny screen, I could see that the picture he’d taken was absolutely gorgeous. By themselves, the bones of the ghost house were dark and flat and foreboding, but the bright colors of sunset shone through where the walls would eventually be, giving the structure a vibrant depth. I squinted up at the real house. The sunset colors weren’t as bright in real life. Frowning, I looked back at the camera screen.

“Backlighting and no flash,” said Oliver, smiling proudly. “Plus I fiddled with the saturation. Cool, right?”

“Very cool,” I said. “You’re actually really good at this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly flustered. “Um. How long would that be?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Since . . . the twenties, maybe? The thirties? I put off using cameras for a long time, because I thought painting and drawing were just
so
much more
dignified
.” He rolled his eyes at himself. “But I like to remember where I’ve been, and who I’ve been, and this is the easiest way. And then, of course, digital cameras came along a few years ago, and they are absolutely the coolest things ever, and will you stop giving me that look?”

“What look?” I said quickly, mustering an innocent expression.

He laughed. “That look, right there. The one that says you’re still freaked out by how old I am, but you’re trying to pretend you’re not.”

“I’m not freaked out,” I said defensively. It was true, too. Sort of. But he just shook his head, so I left it alone and handed his camera back.

Oliver darted off across the lawn, scouting out vantage points, adjusting the settings on his camera, and snapping pictures. He looked totally immersed in his own artistic process—and more than that, he looked like he was really enjoying himself. I briefly wondered how much of that was for my benefit, but then told myself to stop overthinking it.

At first I just hung back and watched him. But after a few minutes, he beckoned me farther down the fence. “Stand over there, would you?”

I jogged across the short stretch of grass between us, and leaned against the fence. “Why?”

“Just do it,” he said, a mischievous smile crossing his face as he began to back up, camera at the ready.

“Oh, wait a minute,” I said, holding my hands in front of my face. “Don’t take my picture. I’ve been at school all day, and I look gross, and my hair’s all—”

“Margo,” he interrupted firmly. “You do not look gross. You look beautiful, just like you always do. What’s more, despite what you’re telling me, you very much want me to take your picture right now, because you want to see what kind of special effects I’m going to use on you.”

I lowered my hands slightly, peeking over my fingertips at him. His grin was so smug that I could have slapped him. “You’re such a cheater,” I said. “Fine. Do your worst.”

Oliver knelt in the grass to look at me through the viewfinder. On a whim, I struck a pose, with the back of my hand dramatically against my forehead like a Fosse dancer. He laughed. “I like that! Hold it for just—” His camera made a clicking noise. “There we go. Give me another one!”

So I did. I moved from pose to pose, pausing each time to wait for the click. I gave him dramatic poses. I gave him outrageously silly poses. I even climbed the fence for a few of them—until I lost my footing, banged my ankle against the fence, and nearly fell off. After that, I made my way back over to him and demanded to see the pictures. Wordlessly he handed the camera over to me, pointing at the button I could use to scroll through them.

They were stunning.

Somehow he’d captured me entirely in silhouette; against the warm glow of the sunset, my exaggerated poses somehow became attractive. Elegant, even. How could the girl in these pictures possibly be the same person whose form Xavier had taken in the parking lot, not even half an hour ago?

“You like them?” he said, suddenly shy.

“I love them,” I said honestly, cradling the camera in both hands. “It’s just . . . they don’t look anything like me.”

He smiled warmly. “They look exactly like you. Come on, let’s take some more. Let’s see,” he mused, looking critically at our surroundings.

“We could go inside,” I said, before I even realized I was thinking it. Oliver gave me a look that was more than a little wary, but I just grinned, handed his camera back, and motioned for him to follow me.

I followed the fence around to the side of the center house, almost to the edge of the lawn. There, half hidden by an evergreen bush, was a small hole in the fence. This was how all the junior high kids sneaked in at Halloween, and how all the high-schoolers sneaked in whenever there weren’t junior high kids around. I’d never gone inside before, but I’d always felt a little bit more worldly for knowing about it. Plus, it was probably one of the few things in life that I knew about and Oliver didn’t.

Getting down on my hands and knees, I crawled through the hole, taking care not to catch my clothes on the sharp edges. Once I was through, I jumped lightly to my feet and brushed the dust from my knees. Oliver hung back, an uncertain expression on his face.

“Come on through!” I said. “It’s just a fence. It won’t bite.”

He gave me a pointed look. “I don’t do fences,” he said. And before I could reply, he disappeared—and reappeared at my side. “My way’s much easier.”

Giving me a quick peck on the cheek, he ran off toward the house. I ran after him, but as soon as I did, he sped up, calling “Come on, slowpoke!” as he rounded the back corner of the house.

So I ran faster. I rounded the corner mere seconds after he did. Standing a little bit farther away, he snapped a shot. He checked the result on the screen, then looked up just in time to see me about to catch him—and vanished again.

“Up here!” he called. I craned my neck up, following the sound of his voice, only to see him standing right on the edge of what would eventually be the second floor.

“No fair!” I shouted.

“What’s no fair?” he said, too innocently. “I thought we were taking pictures.” He held his camera up and clicked, this time with the flash. By the time I’d blinked the splotches of color out of my eyes, he was gone again.

I turned where I stood, looking and listening for him—but aside from the faint whistle of the wind through the empty houses and the sound of traffic in the distance, I heard nothing. I waited, willing myself not to get creeped out. Still nothing. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried not to think of Xavier and wished it would stop getting dark so fast—

“Don’t blink,” whispered a voice right by my ear. I yelped, and the camera flashed again.

“You asshat!” The words came out in a shaky puff of laughter. Whirling around, I moved to punch his arm, but he smiled and disappeared again.

Thrown off balance, I stumbled, and was rewarded by quiet laughter. “You blinked,” said Oliver, holding up the camera screen from about ten feet away. I couldn’t see the details of it, but I couldn’t imagine it was anything good. I shook my head and leaned over, hands on my knees, taking a moment to recover my balance and my breath.

Old leaves crunched as Oliver sauntered toward me. “My memory card’s getting full,” he said, frowning at his camera. “Do you have a computer I could use? And maybe a USB cord?”

“Probably,” I said. “I have a whole bunch of wires, and no idea what they’re for. But if you want, you can come over and see if any of them work.”

He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”