Chapter 27

That sphere. He’d seen it before.

Too many times.

The magic that had hummed forth from it had a distinct treble, a tone that was akin to a person’s voice. A person’s voice revealed so many things; gender of the speaker, an accent or dialect that revealed origin, a pitch that betrayed emotion. Magic had the same qualities of voice, and this magic spoke of one source.

Those scheming mages, those al-Sahiri bastards who dared call themselves Guardians.

He took to the wind, scouring the corners of the city, searching every face for the tell-tale sign of al-Sahir: a tattoo on the right cheekbone, the stylized name of the first of the clan.

He knew the clan well. Their lineage went back just as long as his. Although the name had survived, their values and traditions had changed greatly over the years.

He had learned a great many things from Solomon, who had been wise beyond explanation. Loyalty and devotion to God were the Key to understanding Solomon’s wisdom. Burns, unaligned as he was, did not share that same depth of devotion to God, not Solomon’s or anyone else’s.

However, unaligned as he had been, he was not faithless. He just hadn’t decided exactly what he believed.

The tribe of Guardians believed in the same God as Solomon had; they appreciated his wisdom even if they did not share it to the same depth. They, too, controlled djinni, lesser beings capable of providing small magics, and stored that magic inside unique glass orbs. Burns had scorned the men and their weak djinni. He did, however, respect the Guardians, albeit begrudgingly, because they had been loyal to Solomon.

The years, and the loss of a man like Solomon, did much to change them.

Solomon controlled his djinni and released each one when their duty had been discharged. The Guardians monitored each one after they left the palace, and counted down the djinni who remained tethered. Their job was to protect humankind from the wrath of any djinn who considered seeking retaliation.

At length, there came to be only one djinn still bound to Solomon’s ring. Himself.

He did not like the darting eyes of the Guardians, their persistent presence and watchful mutterings. Solomon had played favorites when it came to Burns, giving him privileges and a place at court. As Solomon grew older, he exhausted the power of the other djinni he controlled—but never Burns. Never once did he call upon his last djinn to surrender his power and grant his wishes.

Sol could not bear to give him up.

The djinn solidified mid-stride, taking on the physical form of Burns. Washington Square. Pleasant park. Obnoxious squirrels. Choosing a sun-warmed bench, he mused through the years, remembering the life he shared with Solomon.

They had become near-constant companions, spending hours in thought-provoking conversation. Although Sol possessed a great wisdom through the generosity of his God, he was still a human with a very mortal heart. He never made a decision without first consulting the young djinn, who had the benefit of centuries and a wider world perspective. They strolled through gardens and lounged in perfumed courtyards, talking and sharing. When Burns was with the old king, they did not behave as master and slave.

Solomon treated him as an equal and he regarded him as family. The king confessed that, as the sole remaining djinn of the ring, he, not Sol, was the true owner of the talisman. One could not truly own another creature; one could only control another. Burns owned the ring. Sol merely held the reins. It was a system of check and balance, devised by a wise man who knew the potential for absolute power to corrupt.

Sol also confessed that he had never told anyone the secret of Burns’ true name, and never would. He never spoke it allowed, instead calling him by various titles, some of which were utterly ridiculous and physically impossible. It was a testament to his rich humor.

And every step of the way, one of those shifty-eyed Guardians was lurking nearby, golden glass sphere in hand, just waiting for the secret to spill.

Upon Solomon’s death, Burns fled the palace, burning the skies with his grief and despair. He could not bear to stand with the court and Solomon’s sons as they prepared his body. His cuffs suddenly felt too tight, too heavy. Too much a reminder that he was a slave, waiting for another master.

Burns returned to the palace, resigned to waiting for the new king to take up the ring. He’d known Rehoboam since birth. He could never stand up to be half the man his father had been. Burns knew the young king had a greed for wealth and an unhealthy disregard for the lives of common men. His future was dim, indeed.

On the night he returned to accept his fate, he stole into his chamber, stealthy as ever, only to find the rooms empty.

Empty. Even the floors were bare. The new king had a place for his djinn and it wasn’t the one he’d previously enjoyed.

That was the moment. He decided to steal the talisman and run.

The talisman was his—bound to it made him the owner, if not the wielder. And if he could steal it back, no one would have the opportunity to control him ever again.

He made his way to the treasure room, seeking into the inner chamber where the ring of Solomon had been stored. This room was his second home, in a way; he’d been charged with protecting the king’s wealth since the day he was given over. He wasn’t entirely sure what his status was under the new rule. He had to do this quietly.

Flitting from flame to flame, from torch to lamp to hanging lantern, he travelled, invisible to the mortal soldiers who guarded the palace. At last he was inside the treasure chamber. Solomon had kept his ring in a casket, stored with his most priceless belongings.

Urns brimming with gems lined a narrow pathway, chests of glittering coin and glinting gold statues standing in heaps and stacks. The smell of the riches made a savory play on Burns’ tongue as he slipped deeper into the chamber. Undistracted, he zoomed in on a wall niche on the far end. Sol kept the ring in a small wooden casket, behind a blush-and-gold glass lantern.

A tiny flame danced in the lantern, catching his quick glances and honing him in. But when he lifted he lamp from its place, his breath sputtered.

The casket was open. The ring was gone.

He twisted, looking over his shoulder. A noise behind him, footsteps outside the door.

He slipped into the torch flame once more, fire-jumping closer and closer to the door, reaching the entry sconce just as the door swung open.

The Guardians.

They rushed into the chamber, opening boxes and shaking out coffers, making their way deeper into the chamber. Cries of outrage sounded when they discovered the empty casket. They, too, had been after the ring. Wafting behind in their wake was an acrid stench that stung his nostrils: brimstone. The sulfurous odor was the devil’s calling card, which meant only one thing.

A demon. Asmodeus guided the al-Sahiri.

Burns knew he was no longer safe in the palace. He slammed the door on them, locking them inside the chamber, adding a layer of magic more tangled than a dune spider’s web. That would keep their brethren busy for some time. Spite heated his core and, as an afterthought, he poked the closest guard with an unseen finger, alerting him to the muffled shouts coming from within. An alarm went up.

Thieves in the treasury!

Footsteps pounded from all directions as the king’s army responded. The guards thusly preoccupied with the intruders, he thinned out his essence, invisible as the air, and sped out of the compound. He’d never be safe again.

Never.

A bold squirrel pawed at his shoulder, looking for an easy snack, stirring him from his reverie. Rubbing his temples, he wrenched himself out of the past. Past was past and nothing had changed. He still was not safe. For the first time since Solomon’s death, someone had the ring and knew his name. He was back in cuffs, their weight so much greater than he remembered. This stifling sense of confinement smothered him. In the first moments of the binding, he’d gone halfway out of his mind, the old grief and despair he’d felt so long ago rushing back in a flood.

She, he knew, was no Rehoboam. She was a strong and unique woman, unafraid of his true nature and accepting him just as he was. Solomon had adjusted and became accustomed to his various forms but there had been times when Burns still was able to surprise the wise man.

But Tamarinda—it was almost as if she’d known him long before he popped into her office, as he prepared to confront the poor unsuspecting mortal who had the tremendous misfortune of possessing his ring.

That sphere brought back memories of another kind.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden disk. The sunlight struck it in a blaze of brilliance, bouncing of every surface, every carved intricacy. The design has every bit as accomplished as their work had been in Sol’s time. This was the work of a true master. Although this disk was a recent contrivance, looking at it was like staring at the ancient past.

That globe of glass, hovering like a disease over that pitiful plant in her office. He saw once more every darting glance, every sinewy shape of black robe and face-wrap, the tattoos upon their cheeks. The mark of al-Sahiri. That sphere had contained an observation spell, weaker than he remembered their power to be.

Ah, well. Djinni were in short supply these days.

One of the al-Sahiri was watching Tamarinda. That could only mean one thing. They knew she had the talisman.

Which meant they knew about him. Ruthless bastards.

He boiled inside, his hands losing definition and melting into whips of fire. The squirrel seemed to cure itself of its curiosity and its hopes for a quick snack and shot from the back of the bench like it was on fire. Maybe it was. He didn’t think to check. Much too preoccupied with the thought of one of the al-Sahiri in his woman’s office.

He’d seen what they did to other magicians, other clans. They kidnapped, they tortured, they extruded the magic of others. Even djinn avoided the Guardians, killing them outright whenever able. He’d witnessed their single-minded drive to possess power and knowledge. Loyalty and devotion to God had been the Key to understanding Solomon’s power. They never had Sol’s wisdom because they never had his devotion.

Jealous bastards. They couldn’t earn wisdom or power so they would steal it, instead. And Asmodeus would help them do it.

Suddenly, he went cold.

Tamarinda. If they still had a demon guiding them, she was in terrible danger.

The cold quenched the raging flames threatening his physical form. The cuffs on his wrist meant nothing compared with the unspeakable horror of something happening to her.

She was his talisman.

She was his.

Only his.

But if a servant of Asmodeus was near, there would be blood. And he would lose her.