Master of None (2 page)

The dog licked his its a few times. And barked.

It was more of a sneeze, actually, but it sounded louder than a marching band in a tin can. Had the thugs heard that? Not daring to move, I scanned the building, convinced they could hear my eyeballs rotating in my skull. The idling sedan’s headlights revealed just enough detail to count heads.
One, two, three...

Something hard and cold pressed against my temple. I sighed.
Four.

Thanks a lot, dog.

“Hey, Skids. How’s it hangin’?”

A hand made of gristle and steel clamped on my upper arm. I caught a whiff of sour perspiration and cigarette breath when he said, “Going somewhere, Donatti?”

“Yeah. With you.”

“You’re a smart monkey.” Skids jerked me toward the
entrance and thrust me into the glare of the headlights. The semiautomatic trained on my head looked like a cap gun in Skids’s meaty paw. “Unload.”

“Come on, man. I need this shit. Gotta earn a living—”

The gun drifted lower. “Unload, or I ventilate your thigh.”

“Fine.” I emptied my pockets, dropping items one by one onto the ground with deliberate slowness. As if buying time would improve the situation. Even with an hour to spare, I couldn’t come up with a way out of this. The other three wandered back toward the car and collected the dog, grinning the universal gotcha smiles of thugs everywhere. “I’m gonna get my junk back, right?”

“Doubt it. You won’t be needing any of this. Unless you’ve got Trevor’s item jammed up your ass.” If Skids was amused, his cold features didn’t betray the emotion. “Care to explain what in the hell you were thinking, Donatti? We know you had it. Who’d you fence it to?”

I added the last of the cash to the pile at my feet and glowered at Skids. “I’m not explaining jack to you. Trevor wants to know, I’ll tell him.”

“You’ll have an easier time if you tell me. Trevor wants to hurt you. Extensively. I’ll just shoot you now and get it over with.”

“I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Skids gestured with the semi. His free hand produced a key fob with a fat plastic tag. He aimed at the car, pushed a button, and the trunk popped open. “First class is full. You get to ride coach.”

“Lucky me.” I moved as slowly as I dared, figuring I had two options: climb into the trunk or run. If I picked
the trunk, I’d have to tell Trevor I lost the score. Not that I knew why the bastard wanted the thing in the first place. Taking the trunk meant being taken to Trevor, where I’d be tortured to death.

And if I ran, I’d be shot. Great options.

I concentrated on the exit. To the right of the crumbling drive leading into the place, a few lone trees provided scant cover opportunities. I could run hard to the left, hope the hint of forest in that direction thickened fast. I’d probably take a bullet before I got out of range—
if
I got out of range—but Skids wouldn’t shoot to kill. At least, not the first time.

Left it was, then. I tensed, slowed to a crawl. And stopped when a long, low shape streaked across the entrance from right to left, impossibly fast, and disappeared. Was it the wolf I’d heard out here earlier? I blinked and glanced at Skids, wondering if he’d seen it—or if I was just losing the few remaining ounces of sanity I possessed.

Skids displayed no reaction. His expression remained immutable. “Get in there.”

I shook my head. Must have been a panic-induced hallucination. I stood in front of the open trunk, poised to climb inside. Drew a breath. And ran.

Gunfire snapped immediately. I lurched aside, hoping for a graze instead of penetration. I heard a faint, wet
pop
as a bullet met flesh, but I felt no pain, no weakness. I kept moving. Where had he hit me?

An unfamiliar voice rang out. “That
hurt.
”

I misplaced a foot, stumbled, and went down with a grunt. Rolling onto my back, I located the source of the voice and froze. A tall stranger in a long, weather-beaten
duster stood between me and Skids. The bullet had torn through the stranger’s calf. Blood pooled on the cracked asphalt beneath him, thick and black in the red wash of the car’s taillights, but the stranger showed no signed of distress. He seemed . . . insulted.

Skids didn’t waste words. He shot the stranger in the chest.

The stranger glanced down at the massive wound. Blood practically poured from a two-inch hole in his ribs, and the torn flesh revealed a glimpse of bone. He glared at Skids. “I said that hurt, blast you. Do not do it again.”

The fear skittering like June bugs through my stomach reflected in Skids’s eyes. The gun shook in the thug’s hand. He fired again. And again. The second time, the gun exploded—and took Skids’s hand with it.

Skids howled. He didn’t sound at all like a wolf.

The stranger pointed at me. “I need him.” The disgust edging his tone indicated that whatever this guy wanted, it wouldn’t be in my best interests. “Tell your master that Gavyn Donatti is mine. He is not to harm him.”

Outright terror struck when my name left the stranger’s lips. “How the fuck—”

“Be silent, thief.” The stranger whirled to face me, eyes flashing pure hatred. “Unbelievably stupid . . . if I had no need of you, I would kill you myself.”

Car doors slammed in rapid sequence. I stared past my bulletproof savior and saw the last thug dive into the backseat. The engine revved. The vehicle lurched back, executed a rapid single-point turn, and peeled away. I watched them go, too shocked to react.

I should have taken the trunk.

Okay. Who the hell are you, and why aren’t you dead?”

The stranger ignored my demand. Not surprising. I would’ve ignored me, if I could take a few .45 slugs to the chest and stand there telling the guy who shot me to knock it off.

“On your feet,” he said. “Take me wherever you live, so we can finish this quickly.”

“Fine.” I bit back a kiss-my-ass comeback. Whatever this psycho wanted to get over with, I wanted it done, too. Maybe he’d go away.

And maybe Trevor would call me up right now, apologize for the inconvenience, and send me a dozen roses and a bottle of bubbly.

I stood and caught a breath. At six-two, I’m no slouch, but I had to look up to the stranger towering over me. Hate-filled eyes glared at me. An unnatural shade of green-flecked gold, they were rounder than they should have been and ringed with black that looked like eyeliner on both upper and lower lids. The stranger’s shaggy brown hair boasted occasional streaks of white, black, or gray. Made him look like a refugee from an
eighties glam-rock band. He wore no shirt beneath the coat. Only an open vest and two ragged, oozing bullet wounds.

“What are you staring at?” the stranger snapped.

“Maybe I asked the wrong questions.
What
the hell are you?”

“I am furious. Now take me to your home.”

“Sure. Follow me.” I headed back into the garage. Time for a reality check. If this guy expected to rip off what I’d lifted for Trevor, he was in for a disappointing haul. Robbing me for his trouble wouldn’t line his pockets much, either. He’d get more out of a McDonald’s cash register. But if he really wanted my ancient Ford junker, it was all his.

The stranger hesitated and followed me inside. “What are you doing? You cannot live in this building.”

“No, I don’t.” I stopped behind my thug-tossed car. “Right there. Home sweet home. Only I think I’ve just been evicted.”

“You live in your car.”

“Not anymore. Trevor bugged it, and I . . . misplaced my scanner, so I can’t find the chip.”

“Why, you idiotic, incompetent—” The stranger pressed his lips over whatever he’d been ready to say. “This is ridiculous. Why did it have to be you? How could you possibly . . . you are a thief. Not even a
good
thief.”

“Hey. I’m an excellent thief.” I had the distinct feeling the stranger was talking to himself, but I had to defend my honor—such as it was. “Just not very lucky.”

The stranger’s eyes narrowed. “Do you plan to continue your larcenous career, or are you actually going to do something with your life at some point?”

What was with the insults? The guy had told Skids he needed me. Maybe he really thought he did. I decided to try a different approach and propped myself casually against the car,
as if I wasn’t afraid for my life. “I’m not answering any more of your questions until you start answering mine.”

“I am not interested in humoring you, thief.”

“Okay. I guess we’re through, then.” I straightened and approached the scattered pile of stuff Trevor’s thugs had left behind. Some of it looked salvageable. They’d even missed a few stacks of cash. Idiots. They’d smashed my cell phone. That didn’t bother me as much as the mangled remains of my scrambler and the twisted-beyond-salvation lock jock. I couldn’t see calling anyone in the near future, but I suspected I’d have to boost a ride. I pocketed everything that appeared intact and deliberately avoided looking in the stranger’s direction.

“We are not through.” The stranger spoke just behind me. I didn’t turn. “I have business with you, and I’ll see it carried out.”

“Good luck with that.”

“You will cooperate. Did you forget what happened to your quick-tempered friend?”

The cool front seemed to be working. I picked up the last remaining item—the wire spool, slightly bent—and slipped it into a pocket of the windbreaker. Straightening slowly for effect, I flashed a wry smile. “First, Skids is no friend of mine. I suspect you know that. And second, I didn’t forget. But if
you
did that to Skids, it won’t happen to me.”

“I would not be so certain of that,” the stranger growled.

“I would.” My smile stayed put. “You need me. Remember?”

A flush suffused the stranger’s face. He didn’t correct me.

“That’s what I thought. The way I figure it, you’re the one who has to cooperate with me. So start cooperating, or I’m dust.”

“You would be, if I had my way.” The stranger’s tone took on a silken edge that held more threat than his barbs. “Very well, Gavyn Donatti. What do you want?”

“Answers. Who are you?”

“You may call me Ian.”

“Is that your name?”

“No.”

“Fair enough.” The people in my world didn’t always use their real names. Skids’s mom sure as hell hadn’t named him after underwear stains. Probably wasn’t what Skids had in mind when he took the handle, either, but I thought it suited him.

I let the name thing pass and stared at Ian’s chest. The wounds still glistened red, their edges puckered and drawn. He shouldn’t be standing—
couldn’t
be—but I’d learned to believe what my eyes told me, no matter how impossible it seemed. “How do you know my name?”

“From the telephone book.”

“Nice try. I’m not listed.”

“I know because it is my business to know. I cannot explain further.”

“Fine. I have a more important question, anyway.” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer, but I had a feeling it was a need-to-know kind of thing. “What are you?”

Ian hesitated. He stared at me, as if he was trying to gauge my capacity to handle the news. A few insane ideas flashed through my head: werewolf, vampire, figment of my imagination. I would’ve preferred the latter. At last, he said, “I am djinn.”

“You’re digi-what? Can you say that in English?”

“A djinn, you blithering idiot. What you Americans call
genies
.” Ian managed to infuse the word with more contempt than he’d shown for me, a feat that couldn’t have been easy.

I laughed. “Seriously. What are you?”

Ian extended an arm and waved long and slender fingers at my dilapidated coupe. A spot of gleaming chrome burst on the
front bumper and spread to become glossy turquoise along the body. Within seconds, a sleek two-door sports car—no brand I’d ever seen and no logo or name to identify it—stood in place of my former heap.

“I am djinn,” Ian repeated.

I shut the flytrap that had replaced my mouth, surprised I wasn’t drooling. “Right. Digie-inn. Got it.”

“Imbecile! Just call me Ian. Surely you can pronounce that, at least.”

“Sure,” I said, not really listening to him anymore. I wandered to the car and ran a hand along the smooth roof. Cool, solid metal. My hand didn’t go through it, and the paint didn’t rub off. Okay, so maybe this Ian guy really had turned my rustbucket into a . . . whatever this was. Cinderella never had it so good. All she got was a lousy coach and breakable shoes. Maybe my luck actually was starting to turn. What could be luckier than having a digie . . . a genie . . . an Ian on my side? Or at least saving my ass from Trevor’s thugs and giving me sweet wheels. “So, Ian,” I said, without taking my attention from the car in case it disappeared. “Why do you need me?”

Ian didn’t answer.

I turned. The self-professed djinn’s fierce glare had become almost feral. I had to admit, I was impressed with Ian’s restraint. Not even Trevor hated me this much. “If you’re not going to answer me, I’ll just leave. And you can find somebody else to get whatever it is you want.”

“I cannot do that. It must be you.”

“Why?” I leaned back and propped my elbows on the car’s low roof. Still there. Hot damn. “What’s so special about me?”

“You—” Ian snapped his mouth closed. The intensity of the hatred in his eyes flared to inferno proportions for an instant. At
last, he said through gritted teeth, “You are my master, Gavyn Donatti. And I must serve you until your life’s purpose has been realized. But—and heed me well, thief—I will not enjoy it in the least. And if you attempt to humiliate me, or do anything stupid while I am around, you will regret that I ever found you. I despise you, and I am not your friend. Understand?”

I managed a small nod. Maybe having a djinn wasn’t so lucky, after all.

I
F
I THOUGHT TOO HARD ABOUT THIS, I WAS PRETTY
sure I’d lose my mind. I couldn’t dismiss the fact that the man—the
creature
next to me—was real. Not when I was driving the evidence.

At least I’d found the bug stuck to the frame under the passenger side, so I wouldn’t have to worry about Trevor’s thugs for a while. If they were even still trying to find me after Ian’s little Superman act back there. Which I doubted. The look on Skids’s face had said Trevor wasn’t paying him enough for this shit.