Words That Bind Read online

  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.

  Chapter 28

  Burns returned to her office the same way he’d left—in a puff of incense. Without a word, he first checked the door; seemingly satisfied that it hadn’t been opened, he proceeded to the window and tilted the blinds, peering out.

  “Well?” She wanted to smack him. It was twenty minutes to eleven and she’d been stuck in this room, unable to call reception, even unable to answer Cindy’s repeated inquiries at the door. “Can
I be released now?”

  “Released?”

  She wanted to pull her hair. And his. “You made me promise to not speak to anyone.”

  “Yes, yes.” He pointed to the phone. “Go ahead.”

  With an exaggerated huff, she snatched the phone and dialed Cindy’s extension.

  “I know, I know. There was a crisis….Just cancel the last appointment before lunch.” She eyed him a moment. He was starting to fidget, clicking his thumbnails against each other. If he couldn’t manage to learn self-soothing practices, he’d end up burning something. Again. “And tell Dolly I won’t be at group today.”

  She replaced the phone on its cradle and rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them.

  “Why do you look like this?” He frowned at her. “You look—upset.”

  Where did she begin? She had enough inside her to fuel a Burns-sized rant of her own but she settled for simple and direct. “I’m closing my practice.”

  He opened his mouth but she cut him off. “Focus, Burns. Did you find anything out?”

  “Not here. Walls have mice and mice have ears. I do not know what other amulets may be here. Take the elevator and turn the corner. I’ll wait for you there.”

  He added a bow, low enough to show the back of his head. “If it pleases you, Mistress.”

  Then he vanished.

  She took her purse from her desk and grabbed her sweater from the coat tree before walking out. Mistress. It grated at her to hear him call her that. Just when she thought he’d get over something, he just fired it back up.

  She took a moment to let Cindy know she was leaving for the afternoon. The older woman gave her a tight nod and a perfunctory smile. She was upset with her. She could see it in the stiffness of her brows. Not that she could blame Cindy; the seemingly abrupt decision to remove herself from the practice without any real explanation tossed everyone’s future up into the air.

  Burns. She knotted her scarf around her neck. This whole thing with him was leaving a trail of casualties behind them.

  In the lobby, she turned right when the rest of the people in the elevator veered left for the exit. She pretended to search her purse for her cell phone, waiting for the last person to leave.

  A hand clapped on her shoulder, yanking her backwards.

  Burns pulled her through the door that shouldn’t exist. She spun, recognizing the hallway of his home on Carbonnet Street. She intended to scold him for his ambush but he’d already set off down the hall. She had to sprint after him.

  The hall was the same…but so much had changed. The rooms were empty, nothing but bare walls. No furniture, no rugs, no ornaments. Their footsteps clattered and echoed, emphasizing the hollowness of the house. The lush extravagance, the luxury, even the peacock—all gone.

  Is this what binding him had done? Was this her fault?

  He turned a corner and vanished. Still several paces behind, she slowed and peeked around the doorway. His library.

  For the most part, still intact. Gone was the tent illusion and the high windows. It looked less like an English mansion library and more like…her office. A desk similar to hers, the chair that faced it. Burns’ chair.

  She craned her head. Was that—oh! She tapped her chin. It was. Her fern, the possible bane of his existence.

  Their space. His personal room now looked very much like her office. It should have been flattering. Instead, it just increased the impending sense of absolute loss.

  “I know who left that amulet.” He quick-stepped a few passes along the book-lined wall before continuing. “Do you remember what I told you about Homadiel?”

  She shrugged. “The angel.”

  “God’s wing man.” He smirked at his own wit. “He was the one who gave Solomon his magic—or, should I say, ours. That feathered bastard bound us to the ring, like good little disposable wish-granters, and handed us over. He also brought the first of a long-standing tribe into magical power to keep an eye on us. The Guardians.”

  He raised his hand. “Don’t get me wrong—Solomon was a good man. A wise man. But he was a fallible man. He was mortal and flawed and made mistakes. If he’d been the one to create the ring, all I’d have to do is smash it. Mortal creator, mortal ring. Or suffer three wishes, maybe find a sneaky way to bring the pain. Or, better yet, annihilate the poor fool who had the misfortune to possess it.”

  Annihilation. That word evoked an immediate emotion—a dark one that settled in the pit of her stomach. “Then let me make three quick wishes and you’ll be free.”

  “It’s not that easy. The only way to destroy this ring is to make the Forbidden Wish.” He became absolutely still. Even his eyes, usually full of energy, seemed dull and lifeless. “See? I am damned.”

  No. She didn’t see. “This Forbidden Wish. What―”

  “Do. Not.” He clamped his hand over her mouth. “You don’t understand the first thing about the geas that binds me. And I have forgotten more about it than Solomon ever knew. Don’t ever ask me specific questions. You may end up dead. Or worse.”

  The solid dread in her stomach lurched. “Worse?”

  “You might end up…” He fluttered his fingers, exasperated. “An ostrich.”

  “A what?” She laughed, the absurd image chasing the worry from her mind.

  “An ostrich. Really. You want to be trapped in that ugly body forever? Ugh. Dusters with necks. Those feet and bulgy eyes. Really. What kind of creator thought those disgusting birds were worthy of His magnificence?”

  “Can’t you be serious? You are making jokes about ugly birds when our lives are in shambles—”

  “Our lives?” He spread his hands, shoulders up. Incredulous disbelief. No one displayed it better than the king of all emoters. “What are you so worried about? You’ve got all the power in the world, right here for the commanding.”

  “Burns!” Out of patience, her voice frayed with desperation. “Please. I’m—”

  He looked at her, still wearing a sneer.

  “I’m scared,” she said, the whisper too tiny for the feeling that threatened to engulf her.

  He slapped at his legs and sat down, pushing the chair to a slant, preferring to face the oh-so-hated fern rather than her. “Whoopee. You’re scared.”

  She walked around him and blocked his view. He had to look at her. Had to see her. “I never felt like this before.”

  He made no reply, instead brushing his pant leg, plucking at imaginary lint.

  “Oh, God.” She sank to the floor, curling her knees up. That vision Sahir had shown her—she couldn’t even tell him about it. She couldn’t tell him anything Sahir said. If that man had a solution, it was useless because she couldn’t talk about it. Her eyes were wide, tears swelling. “I don’t know what to do. My heart is racing, I feel like I can’t breathe, I never—”

  She shook her head wildly, pawing at her ears and hunching into her knees. “How do they stand this, this awful sensation, this torture? I’m going to go crazy.”

  Burns’ jaw dropped. He looked like someone had cracked him in the back of his head with a large stick. “You’re serious.”

  She laughed, a high-pitched titter, the sound of her nerves unravelling. “Oh, I’m perfectly serious, Burnsie. Help me. I want to do the right thing and I don’t know what it is and I’m so scared I’m going to hurt you.”

  The tears broke loose, dropping down her cheeks. Enthralled and distraught at the same time by the sensation and distraught about the cramping in her stomach, the compression in her chest, the squeeze in her throat. This fear—it was a physical ailment, not just a condition of the psyche arising from an unknown and unpleasant stimulus—

  “Overwhelming feelings, aren’t they?” He slipped away from his chair and dropped into a crouch, stroking her hair, taking her face in his hands. He thumbed away her tears, his brows upturned at her distress. “And you fear…for me.”

  “I do.” She hiccupped as a sob tried to escape. She was no good at crying. It was harder than it looked.
“You’ve gone through so much and I’m just adding to the torment. I hate it. I hate myself.”

  “Shhh.” He clucked his tongue at her. “You did nothing wrong.”

  “I must have. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.” She knuckled the tears away from her chin, where they’d begun to itch. They also made her nose stuff up. What an unglamorous emotion.

  “I murmured because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.” He stood and drew her up by the hands, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close to his chest. “It will be all right in the end. I promise.”

  “How do you know?” She mumbled into his shirt. His embrace was the first comfort she’d felt since their falling out. It bolstered her, gave her a strength she hadn’t known she was lacking. “All you’ve talked about since I met you is about things that won’t be all right.”

  “I know because…” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head before turning to rest his cheek against her hair. “I would rather be a slave to the woman I love, than a free being alone in such a vast world.”

  She rested her head against his broad chest, lulled to peacefulness by his heartbeat. There. There was another element to the comfort. Those words filled her to brimming and, for the first time in her entire life, she felt like she wasn’t alone. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say nothing.” He lifted her chin and gazed at her. “Just, now and then, allow me to become lost in your eyes. Grant me the grace of your smile. Bless me by telling me you never want me to leave, and never banish me.”

  “I could never.” She slid her hands around to his back, pressing him closer, searching his face with fevered earnest. “You have to believe me, Burnsie, I swear. I will never betray you.”

  She’d never used those words before. I swear. In retrospect, it seemed kind of redundant for a woman of her conditions. The words were more for his benefit.