Master of None (5 page)

For the first time, I noticed the tattoos encircling his upper arms: identical bands of curving, fluid points overlapping straight lines. Like stylized barbed wire or thorns. The ink, or
whatever djinn used for tattoos, was shades of brown and black. The markings appeared to have a raised texture, but I wasn’t about to touch him and find out.

“I take it they don’t have phones back in genie world,” I said. “You all should invest in some technology. Your disruptive force seems a little defective in the communication department.”

Ian glowered. “It would have been fine, if you had not interrupted.”

“How was I supposed to know you were talking to a magic mirror? I thought that was a witch thing. Besides, I . . . never mind.” I stomped to the fridge and grabbed the last beer. If I drank enough, maybe all this insanity would go away.

“Besides what?”

“I was worried, all right?” I popped the can and studied my feet. “You’re bleeding all over the place. I don’t want you dying on me.”

Ian made a strangled sound. “Not before you get your riches and fame from me.”

“Wrong. I just don’t know how I would dump your sorry carcass, you impossible son of a bitch.” I took a long swallow, exhaled sharply. Wasn’t enough beer in the world to make him disappear. “What makes you think I want riches and fame, anyway?”

“You are human.”

“And?”

“I’ve seen your world. All humans are greedy, selfish, and shallow.”

“Damn it, you don’t know me!” I resisted throwing the beer can across the room and drank more instead. I couldn’t believe he was getting to me. I might have been a thief, but
as humans went, I considered myself halfway decent. I held doors open and helped old ladies cross the street, and I always tipped at restaurants. Besides, stealing was just a job—and the only thing I’d ever been good at. I didn’t want to be rich. I just wanted to survive. “Are all djinn miserable, secretive bastards?” I muttered. “If I hadn’t seen your wife, I’d be inclined to believe that.”

“My wife is none of your business.”

“
Nothing
is my business. How the hell are we supposed to work together and get you home if I don’t know what’s going on?”

Ian’s brow lifted. “You want to get me home?”

“I don’t want you hanging around pissing and moaning about how much you hate me.” I moved to the bed and sat down. Hard. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less about my life’s purpose, or whatever it is you’re supposed to be here for. It wouldn’t matter to me if you left right now. Christ, I need a cigarette.”

“Look in your jacket pocket.” Ian waved vaguely at the windbreaker I’d tossed onto the nightstand between the beds.

I shook my head. “One of Trevor’s goons snagged ’em.”

“Just look.”

“Whatever.” I grabbed the jacket and inspected the pockets one by one. The upper right yielded a sealed pack of filtered Camels. I grinned and tapped the top of the box against my leg a few times. He’d even gotten the brand right. “Thanks for determining I needed this. Got a light?”

Wordlessly, Ian reached for his own jacket and produced a plain gold Zippo.

I lit up and offered the pack. “Want one?”

“No.” Ian dropped his gaze and added as an afterthought, “Thank you.”

Shrugging it off, I tossed the pack and lighter onto the table. “So I take it you’re not going to die anytime soon?”

“I am afraid not. In fact, I should be fine if I can get these blasted bullets out.”

“Jazz’ll take care of that. She’ll be here soon.” I finished off all but a few sips of beer and flicked ash into the open can. A quick hiss echoed inside the hollow space. Pleasantly buzzed, I ignored the logical part of my mind that insisted none of this could be real—the car that shouldn’t exist, the beer I shouldn’t have been offered, the cigarette I smoked that couldn’t have been in my jacket, the speaking phantom in the mirror . . .

The blood in the bathroom. Jazz might not freak, but the motel owner sure as hell would.

“God damn
it.” I stood and dropped the cigarette into the can. “We’ve got to do something about that mess. Well, I’ve got to do something. You’ll just make it worse. You stay there and bleed. I’ll figure it out.”

Ian sighed. He made a dismissive gesture toward the closed door. “It is done.”

“Crud.” I sat back down. “This is really happening, isn’t it?” Propping elbows on knees, I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, as if I could push every crazy thing that had happened tonight out of existence. When I looked again, I was still in a shitbag of a motel room in the middle of nowhere, with a grumpy magical dude sitting across from me. “Why are you being so nice now? I don’t trust you.”

“I am simply doing my job.
Master.
”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me that.”

He had the decency to appear mildly apologetic.

I sighed. “Can we call a truce? You try not to hate me for
existing, and I’ll try not to hate you for making my already shitty life worse. Deal?”

Ian’s gaze flicked down and back up. “I will try.”

“Gee, thanks.” He sounded about as enthusiastic as a fast-food employee asking if I wanted fries with that. “You know, I really don’t get you. Are you allergic to humans or something? Because I don’t remember doing anything to make you despise me this much.”

Before Ian could reply, the rumble of an approaching engine swelled outside, revved for an instant, and cut out. “Hold that thought,” I told him. “Jazz is here. Cover yourself up, wouldya? She’s tough, but it’s better to ease into stuff like life-threatening wounds that don’t make you dead.”

Ian grunted and moved for his coat. I pushed myself off the bed, crossed the room, and opened the door—only to find myself at the wrong end of a gun for the third time in a night. A new record.

Hey, Jazz. You know, if you shoot me, there’s a good chance you won’t get paid.”

Jazz offered a crooked smile. “There’s more to life than money.”

“True. But I hear it’s hard to get much out of life behind bars.”

“If I took you out, I’d probably get a medal. Don’t worry too much. I’m just taking precautions.” She leaned aside and looked into the room. “That your partner?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“He’s prettier than you. Looks pissed. What’s his problem?”

I shrugged. “He hates me.”

“I like him already.” Jazz lowered the Glock and gestured toward the parking lot. “Go get my bags, Houdini. I’ll see to your friend, and then we need to talk.”

I didn’t move.

“What are you staring at?”

“Nothing.”
You.
Jazz had captivated me from the first time I’d seen her lay out a man twice her size without breaking a sweat—which described just about every man she’d ever laid
out, since she stood all of five feet in boots. Her mixed heritage had given her the best of both worlds: glossy black hair, elegant features, golden brown skin. At night, she couldn’t wear the sunglasses she favored to hide her unusual eyes. One deep brown, almost black, the other a pale and penetrating green. “It’s good to see you,” I said. Understatement of the century, but I couldn’t come up with anything more profound at the moment.

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t say the same yet, but I might change my mind. Would you get moving? It’s two in the goddamn morning.”

“Right. Sorry.” I edged past her, and she held the room door open while I snagged two worn leather bags from the back of her white panel van. Couldn’t believe she still had this thing. We’d used it for a job up by the St. Lawrence, and she’d put it through some serious shit. But I guessed getaway drivers never dumped a vehicle if they could help it. She must’ve fixed it up and stashed it for a while until the heat died down.

I hauled the bags back to the room, pushing away memories of what we’d done in the back of that van. Jazz closed the door behind me.

“Just put them down.” She waved a hand at the floor and turned her attention to Ian, who stood as she approached him. “Guess you can’t be that bad off, if you can still get up. You’re a bit tall for a thief,” she said. “Are you the driver or the distraction?”

Ian bristled. I dropped the bags, hustled toward them, and cleared my throat. “Ian, this is Jazz. And Jazz, Ian. My partner
.
” I leveled a keep-your-mouth-shut look at the djinn, sure he’d take offense at the partner bit. “He’s a little on the green side, but he specializes.”

“Hello, Jazz.” Ian gave a slight bow. “It’s an honor to meet such a lovely and no doubt talented lady.”

Jazz laughed. “Oh, I definitely like you. Even if you are a little weird. So what’s your specialty, cowboy?”

“Let’s not talk shop right now,” I cut in. The bastard could be civil when he wanted to—and if I’d said the same thing to Jazz, she’d have slugged me. “All right, Jazz, this is your show. Just tell us what you need us to do.”

Jazz pursed her lips. “I’m guessing I’ll have to take a few bullets out, so it’s going to get messy. We can do it on the bed, if you don’t mind lifting the blankets when you check out.”

“No problem.” That wouldn’t be necessary, but I didn’t have to tell her that Ian could just magic the bloodstains away after she left.

“Didn’t think it would be.” Jazz eyed Ian again. “You took one in the leg. Where else?”

“Uh, Jazz?” Tough as she was, the sight of his mangled chest would be hard to take. “Before you check him out, I need to explain something. Ian is . . . resilient.”

“Fascinating. And I need to know this because?”

“Well. He’s tough. Tougher than Teflon. It’s almost hard to believe—”

“I’ve dedicated years to the art of separating mind and body, in order to manage pain,” Ian interrupted smoothly. “I have studied many different techniques, including those of the sumo, Yogi masters, and ancient Egyptians. I believe Donatti is attempting to warn you that the extent of my injuries may prove shocking.”

“Yeah. What he said,” I muttered. Son of a bitch was a better liar than me, too.

Jazz grinned. “If you can shock me, I’ll be impressed.”

With a small smile, Ian removed his coat.

“Okay,” Jazz whispered. “I’m impressed.”

“I thought you might be. Should I lie down?”

“Yes. No . . . strip first. I’ll have to get at that leg, eventually.” Jazz stepped back and finally tore her gaze from the sight of his ruined flesh. “Donatti. Get the basin out of the big bag—wait, hand me the small one first.”

I did as she asked and put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Shouldn’t have sprung this on you.”

“I’m all right.” Jazz released a shallow breath and visibly pulled herself together. “Well, Houdini, at least I can say you’re never boring. Got any more . . . whoa.”

I followed her stunned gaze. “Christ, Ian.”

“What?” he countered.

“Don’t you believe in underwear?”

Ian scowled. “As a matter of fact, I do not. And why should it bother you? Do you not have the same equipment?”

“Yeah, but I don’t go showing it off to everyone. And you said
I
didn’t have any manners. Get a towel or something.”

“What the hell’s goin’ on in here?”

Shit
.
The motel owner, shotgun in tow, stood in the open doorway with a grim expression, holding what I assumed was a master key. “Not much,” I said, resigned to a lack of explanation. Anything I came up with now would sound ridiculous. Yes, sir, we’re just rehearsing for an off-Broadway show, and Ian’s really bad at death scenes. Don’t mind the blood. Or maybe: My friend here is a masochist, and we hired this dominatrix to shoot him a few times. He asked for it. Me, I’m just holding the bucket. I’m a voyeur.

Oh, yeah. He’d buy that. At least the gun wasn’t pointed at me this time.

“You freaks get outta my place. Right now.”

I glanced at Ian and shook my head, hoping he would take the hint and leave things alone. I hated this dump anyway. “Don’t I get a refund?”

“Out!”

Sighing, I hoisted Jazz’s bags and caught her eye. Her hand hovered near the pocket in which she’d stowed her Glock.
Don’t
, I mouthed, noting with relief that Ian was getting dressed.
No trouble.
Her lips firmed in disapproval, but she dropped her hand.

We filed out under the owner’s paranoid watch. In the parking lot, I replaced the bags where I’d found them and turned an apologetic grimace on Jazz. “Know any decent motels nearby?”

Jazz shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but . . . you two had better come with me.”

W
E
LEFT IN RECORD TIME, UNDER A BARRAGE OF THREATS FROM
the owner to alternately call his buddy the sheriff and just shoot us all. After stashing the odd little car in a wooded area just off the road outside town, I climbed into the passenger seat of the van when Jazz curtly declined my offer to drive. I couldn’t argue. She was the expert. Ian stretched across the van’s far backseat, apparently asleep. Jazz hadn’t looked in my direction since I’d gotten in, and I hadn’t been inclined to initiate conversation.

Since I’d nixed letting her put the motel owner in his place, I worried she might turn the Glock on me as a substitute. Jazz never allowed herself to get pushed around.

She swung onto 34 North, switched the radio on at low
volume, and glanced into the rearview mirror. “He’s not from around here, is he?” she said softly.

“Not exactly.” I pushed back the temptation to confess. Barely believed it myself, so how could I convince her? The best idea for now would be to elaborate as little as possible. Keep it simple. And lie my ass off. She’d taken it well, but we’d both seen some insane things on the job. Most of the time, it was better to adopt a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. So far, she’d stuck to the thieves’ rulebook. I hoped she didn’t plan any detours.

“Somehow I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me. No,” she said, holding up a hand. “Right now, I don’t want to know. But we need to talk, and we might as well do it now.”

“All right.” I suspected I wouldn’t like what was coming. “Let’s talk.”

Jazz hesitated. When she finally started speaking, she kept her gaze straight ahead. “First off, Trevor has an open contract out on you. Big money. He wants you alive.”