Scarlett Undercover (10 page)

“Come again?”

“You were your father’s chosen, Scarlett. He knew you were the new
Abd al-Malik
from the moment you entered the world, silent as dawn, with your eyes wide open. You have never shied away from life, my dear. Your sister is the healer. You are the warrior.”

“Did you tell Delilah I’m this
Abd al-Malik
thing so she’d get off my back last night?” I was flailing, trying to find some kind of toehold against the avalanche coming down on me.

“She has always known. I only reminded her.”

“Well, thanks for that, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

He was so earnest I almost smiled. Then I remembered Asim and didn’t. “You know the
Shubaak
Asim stole from me is a fake, right?” I said.

Manny’s face fell. He stood up, walked to a desk against the wall, and pulled the bottle from our curio cabinet out of a bottom drawer. “I suspected as much, but had hoped to be wrong.” He sat back down and handed it to me. “You’re positive this is not the true
Shubaak
?”

“
Abbi
told us it was just an old souvenir,” I said. “He kept it out in the open in our apartment.”

“Then it could not possibly be,” Manny said.

“So you’re telling me bottles weren’t genie prisons like in the stories?”

“The stories are wrong on that count.
Shubaak
were, as I have said, portals.”

I rubbed my thumb across the bottle’s lid. A lot of Manny’s story was still sinking in.

He leaned toward me.

“Scarlett?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m quite certain the Children of Iblis killed your
abbi
in the process of stealing what they believed to be the real
Shubaak
.”

Nuala shifted in her seat. It was all I could do to breathe.

“Scarlett?”

I didn’t move.

“Was the real
Shubaak
with him the night he died?” Manny asked. “Or was it a decoy?”

We were heading down a path I’d never even known was there. It was too much. Too fast. Too everything.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. Time slowed, and my mind cleared.

“You know,” I said, the lie slipping off my tongue like truth. “I haven’t got a clue.”

W
alking home from Calamus was a terrible idea, so that was exactly what I did. The stoop boys outside the church made kissing sounds and rude suggestions as I passed by. The dog trotted behind me. I didn’t care. I knew why my father was dead.

The cancer that stole
Ummi
was easy to understand, easy to hate. But zealots had killed
Abbi
, and that was different. Hating them came easy as breathing. Understanding them was a whole lot tougher. And the more I thought about it, the less I
wanted
to understand. Maybe blame had been the anchor I’d needed all these
years. With someone to go after, I wouldn’t have to forget. Or forgive.

Halfway home, the dog was still behind me.

“Beat it,” I said.

She sat, letting me build enough of a lead to think she’d listened. Next thing I knew, she was back again.

“Seriously?”

She cocked her head. Scratched her belly with a back paw.

“Whatever.”

She yawned.

I turned and started walking again, going over everything Manny had said. On one level, it all made sense. Stolen antiques, cults, crazies loose on the streets of Las Almas—those were the kinds of things private detectives
got
. Dreamed of, even. But genies and magic rings? They might have been fun to read about, or watch onscreen in a dark movie theater, but you didn’t let them into real life. You didn’t
believe
in them.

The wind took on an ugly bite. I pulled my jacket tighter, walked faster. The closer I got to my neighborhood, the more the sidewalks filled up with people. Compared with Third and Doyle, this was a living, breathing
place. The hum of it all flushed out some of my chill. It was good. It just wasn’t enough.

I needed Decker.

So I headed to the Rubicon. Found it dark inside and locked up tight behind its metal security grate.

Monday. Dammit.

Delilah never opened the place on Mondays. Sometimes Deck came in to take deliveries and get a jump on prep work, though.
Please be here
, I pleaded silently, heading down the building’s side alley.
Please, please, please.

Latches clicked. The back door swung open while I was still pounding on it. And there stood Decker, looking all kinds of wonderful.

“I was hoping you’d show,” he said. “C’mon in.”

The kitchen was warm and damp and smelled like home.

“Stock for matzo ball soup.” He motioned toward a pot big enough to stew a whole flock of chickens.

I fell into him, wrapped my arms around him, and held tight.

“Hey.…” His body tensed, then softened and closed around me. I felt his breath against my skin. Pressed my cheek into the curve where his neck met his shoulder.
His pulse steadied mine. Slowly, the blood in my veins defrosted and started to flow.

We stayed there, not moving, not speaking, pots simmering around us. It was perfect. I’d needed perfect.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

“You know the answer to that,” Decker murmured into my hair.

I pulled away, hating myself for it, and watched the gold flecks around his irises dance in the steam.

“You know what I mean,” I said.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “You want to sit down?”

“Yeah.”

We pushed through the swinging door to the dining room. I hopped onto one of the counter stools. Deck pointed to a half-f pot of coffee on the burner.

“Want some?”

“I’m good,” I said. “Let’s just talk.”

He nodded, ran his hands through dark hair cut too short for his curls to show. “How’d things go at Calamus?”

“You knew I was there?”

He shrugged. Looked guilty.

“Scarlett…”

The look in my eyes must have made him stop.

“You should have told me what was going on, Deck,” I said quietly.

“I couldn’t. I wasn’t supposed to.”

“What do you mean you weren’t
supposed
to? Since when do you take orders from anyone?”

“It’s not like that,” he said. “I wasn’t following orders—I was trying to do things the way they’re meant to be done. This is all bigger than you and me, Scarlett.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just fairy tales and delusions.”

He shook his head. “It’s definitely more than that.”

“A magic ring and an old bottle that’s really a door to genie land? Are you kidding me?”

Deck frowned and shook his head. “Solomon’s ring and the
Shubaak
aren’t fairy tales. They’re our history, Scarlett. Where we come from. And that’s worth saving.”

“Okay,” I said, “but even if that’s true, from what Manny told me, the Children of Iblis are doing this because they actually believe all the magic stuff. And I got the feeling he believes it, too. I mean, the guy’s all torn up about losing the ring. He thinks he’s an
Abd al-Malik
.”

Deck looked sheepish. It suited him.

“What about Delilah?” I asked. “Does she believe?”

“A little, maybe. But she’s not all weird about it. It’s more like she figures there’s no harm believing, just in case it’s true. Because if it is, and if the Children of Iblis find the ring and the
Shubaak
, we’re all sunk.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m still sorting things out,” Deck said. “When both of your parents believe in something, when it’s what they expect
you
to believe, it’s kind of hard not to at least give it a good think. And you’re going to have to do the same, Scarlett. Your parents believed, too.”

He rested his knee against mine. I thought about pulling back. Didn’t.

“You told me your father was dead,” I said.

“Up until last year, I thought he was.” Decker tucked a strand of curls behind my ear. I tried to brush his hand away, but he caught my wrist right where it was tender, and hard enough to make me wince.

“I’m sorry!” Deck jerked his hand away, looking ready to throw himself on a sword. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not you. Asim.” I tugged up my sleeve so he could see. He ran the tips of his fingers over the swelling, gentle as a butterfly kiss.

“He knocked me down, shoving his way into our apartment Saturday night,” I said. “I landed funny.”

Deck’s face went grim. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“No shit.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

I pulled my hand away. “Don’t bother. From what I can tell, he’s way too into this mess to see things rationally.”

Deck tried to turn his head away, but I put my hand on his cheek and brought it back.

“Even if you aren’t sure about the magic part, Deck, do you believe your ancestors were jinn?”

He looked at me then like there was nothing between us, nothing to mark where I ended and he began.

“I don’t know.”

The raw honesty of his answer filled up a deep, empty spot inside me that I hadn’t known was there. I came off my stool and moved to him. Pressed my hands against his chest. Felt the warmth of him through his cotton T-shirt. My hands slid to his waist. Around. Up the muscles of his back.

He didn’t move. I kissed him.

It was warm and sweet and walking off a cliff, all at once. My tongue traced the curve of his upper lip.
He held back, letting me. Then it was too much and he pressed me to him hard. His tongue licked at mine. His free hand slipped to the small of my back, electric with want and promise.

And then he pulled away.

“No,” he said. “Not like this.”

“What do you mean?” My breath came fast. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

His fingers slid from the top of my spine to wander over my lips. “You know it is.”

“Then what?” I pulled his hand away, held it as I bumped back against my stool. “What’s wrong?”

“It… it’s just the timing, I guess,” he said. “This shouldn’t happen when everything’s so screwed up. I mean, you just found out about your family. Things must be so surreal for you right now. You need time to make sense of it all without having to think about us. Because I know that
we’re
real. You and me. We’re real, and that’s never going to change.”

I played with the hairs on his wrist.

“Okay,” I said.

His lips brushed my cheek. And then we sat there, hands touching, listening to the wall clock count out minutes.

“Scarlett?”

I looked up.

“I…” He paused, exhaled, tried again until I stopped him.

“I know, Deck. Me too.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

And that was all we needed to say.

I left the Rubicon alone, even though Deck had offered to go with me. Insisted, even. But I turned him down. Needing him was one thing. Needing him to protect me was another.

The smell of chicken stock seeped out of my cardigan and into my nose as I walked, reminding me that no matter how Deck made me feel, a girl can’t live on stomach butterflies alone. So I swung by the Vietnamese place around the corner from our apartment and picked up two orders of pho. Reem’s went into the fridge; mine went into bed with me.

Everything was easier to take once the pillows at my back were arranged just so. It freed up my mind, let me focus on the questions that still needed answering. Like
why the Children of Iblis were after George Fagin. And what had been on the paper shreds Quinn threw off the bridge before he jumped.

I sipped my broth and was about to shovel in a mouthful of noodles when a strange chime sounded in my backpack.

It was Quinn’s phone. Had to be.

I shoved the container aside, pawed through the backpack and came up with the phone. A push notification lit the screen.

I hit the icon next to the message, and a photo sharing account for SoldierofIblis21 came up. Even though I’d never seen the boy in the picture before, his round cheeks, freckles, and bushy red hair were so much like Sam’s it spooked me. SoldierofIblis21 was Quinn Johnson.

Quinn had posted the picture and its caption the day he died. Since then, a string of comments had piled up underneath.

And on and on.

Some detective you are, Scarlett
, I thought.
Any shamus worth her salt and pepper should be able to search a phone right, especially when it comes straight from a dead boy’s hand.

I’d just flunked Gumshoe 101.

It wouldn’t happen again.

A quick look at Quinn’s followers gave me a list of SoldierofIblis usernames, numbered one through thirty-six, along with one more that stuck out like a sore, festering thumb:
IBLIS
.

I tapped the screen, closed my eyes as Iblis’s photos loaded. When I opened them, a single picture was onscreen, showing the Baker Street Bridge and a caption from that morning.

That was when I knew that even though I’d screwed up a little, the Children of Iblis had screwed up a lot. They were zealots, and zealots relied on fear to weaken enemies and blind their followers.

But I wasn’t afraid.

My eyes were wide open. I was going to keep Sam and Gemma safe. I was going to destroy the Children of Iblis.

Even when things hit too close to home.

Even when curveballs knocked me flat.

Even when it meant facing down a psychotic cult on the bridge Quinn Johnson had jumped from just a few days ago.

I wasn’t afraid.