The Angel: Tales of the Djinn, #3 Page 9

  “This is too much,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” Alma denied. “Filling it would make a nice project. Very educational, I’m sure.”

  Georgie felt as if Alma had read her mind. Hadn’t she always fantasized about furnishing her own place? She turned in a slow circle, picturing possibilities. “I could decorate any way I want?”

  “We’ll set a budget, and you can choose what you please. Turn it into a junk shop, for all I care.”

  Alma’s tone was humorous.

  “I might like that,” Georgie warned.

  Alma shrugged and smiled. I’ll stay! Georgie almost cried, but caution made her pause. Instead of speaking, she gnawed her lip. Was this too good to be true?

  “Come, come,” Alma soothed. “What more assurance do you need that I want you and I to get on?”

  Georgie’s black eye twinged, reminding her what she had to go back to. “Will you have Internet I can use whenever and not just an hour a day?”

  “I have everything,” Alma laughed. “I think you’ve surmised I’m no jailer.”

  Georgie thought of a question she suspected was pushing it. If she says no to this, it’ll mean I should turn her down. “What about a cat? I couldn’t have one before.” Her throat tightened, but she cleared it. “My mom was allergic.”

  “I think a cat would be doable.” For a moment, Alma’s gray eyes appeared to glow. It must have been a trick of the light, because she blinked and the glow was gone. She dug into the shoulder purse she carried to pull out a cell phone. “You seem to be decided. I’ll call Beulah Gleason. We’ll make it official.”

  Wasn’t this rushing it? Maybe Georgie should ask for more time to think. Alma was already dialing. She spoke for a moment and then held out the phone.

  “Beulah wants to speak to you,” she said.

  “Hello?” came the matron’s voice through the small speaker. “Georgie, are you there?”

  Funny how a stranger’s voice could become so hateful in so very short a time. If Georgie accepted Alma’s offer, she could leave everything that voice represented behind her.

  “I’m here,” she said, leaning closer to the phone.

  “Wonderful,” Beulah said. “I need you to answer one question: Do you, Georgie McFadden, voluntarily agree to be fostered by the woman known as Alma West?”

  This was an odd way to put it. Georgie considered a moment longer, but Alma had guessed correctly that she’d made up her mind. Better to take her chances than return to group home hell.

  “I do,” she said firmly.

  Her ears gave a funny pop, like she’d risen too fast in an elevator.

  Beulah’s response sounded like it came from far off. “Wonderful! That’s all I need to know.”

  Alma pulled the phone back and shut it off.

  “That’s it?” Georgie said, surprised Alma hadn’t said goodbye.

  She guessed the woman had her own idea of manners, because she shrugged. “What else does she need to know? I’ll smooth out the paperwork tomorrow. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have some personal business to see to. Make yourself at home. Wander anywhere you want. My only request is that if you find something locked, you don’t try to open it.”

  Alma’s abrupt departure struck Georgie as weird too, considering she claimed to want a foster kid she could talk to. Then again, maybe her eccentricity made the change in Georgie’s circumstances more credible. This wasn’t a Hallmark movie. Someone like Alma would never turn into a cookie-baking den mother.

  The thought of cookies made her realize she was hungry for the first time in weeks. Ravenwings must have a kitchen somewhere, but did Georgie truly have free rein? She remembered spotting a bowl of fruit in the library. That seemed a safer goal. After one wrong turn down a servant’s stair, she found her way back to it.

  The sight of the endless shelves stole her breath as thoroughly as on her first visit. Gosh, this room was the best—each plush old chair and gleaming table suggesting a story. She wanted to light the oil lamps and spin the antique globes. As dazed as if she were lost in a fairytale, she crossed the gorgeous oriental carpet to a marble-topped pedestal table.

  A beautiful sterling bowl, heavily ornamented with repoussé grapes and leaves, held the fresh fruit she remembered. The two apples looked most appealing, but she couldn’t choose between red and green.

  Please choose green, miss, she almost heard someone say. Red is my favorite.

  She laughed. Her imagination must be getting the best of her. It was childish to listen to it, but it had been a strange day.

  “Green it is,” she murmured, polishing the Granny Smith on her sweater front.

  Biting into it made her happy with her choice. The apple was tart and firm and juicy, just like it ought to be. She climbed a spiral staircase as she chewed. Alma hadn’t showed her the second level, but now she could suit herself. The library’s upper tier held more books than her whole high school library twice over. Most were bound in leather, many had foreign titles, and all of them intrigued her. Despite the number of volumes, space remained for interesting objects between them. From the looks of the upscale trinkets, Ravenwings’ previous owners had traveled all over.

  A gargoyle with batwings stopped her in her tracks with its sheer cuteness.

  Perhaps ten inches high in its crouch, the creature was hewn from granite and wore wire-rimmed spectacles. The realism of its grumpy glower delighted her.

  “You, sir,” Georgie said, pretending to bow to it, “look like a being who appreciates red apples.”

  The gargoyle didn’t respond, of course. Glass doors secured the bank of shelves next to it, which were designed to store oversized volumes. Georgie reached for the door handles then remembered Alma’s instructions. If it’s locked, don’t open it. This cabinet had a lock. A nice bronze key with a bright red tassel stuck out of it, but that didn’t mean she was welcome to turn it.

  Leave it alone, she ordered her tempted hand. Remember where you have to go if you get tossed out here.

  She was moving to the next shelf when a click sounded behind her. She turned and saw one door was open. Perhaps her footfalls knocked it ajar.

  She went back and told herself to shut it, but she didn’t move fast enough. With a tiny creak, the beveled glass swung wider. The volumes inside were new: coffee table tomes rather than antiques.

  The spine for Beautiful Male Nudes gleamed brighter than the others.

  Oh whatever, she thought, giving in. She set down her apple, wiped her hands, and carefully dragged it off the shelf. The title sounded like an art book. It couldn’t be too racy. No one was here but her. Also, strictly speaking, the cabinet wasn’t locked.

  She carried her heavy treasure to a convenient reading stand. The book was so large it took a bit of effort to open the cover.

  Georgie’s cheeks immediately flamed. These models were very nude—like, no fig leaves or concealing poses or anything. Plus, they were in living color. She’d been expecting black and white. She bit her thumb then decided to turn one more page. God made the human body. Who was she to find it shameful?

  Ten pages later, her jaw fell.

  She was staring at a man so lovely she couldn’t wrench her gaze away. Though his face was young, his body was adult and—to her eyes—utterly perfect. He lay on his back, his solid muscles strong but smooth, his skin suggestively rosy. Somehow she knew he hadn’t gotten flushed jogging. His long legs lolled open, his well-developed arms half raised. The relaxed pose created the impression the camera caught him a moment before a stretch: a healthy, uninhibited farm boy preparing to take a nap.

  Despite the exposure of his assets, the image radiated innocence.

  Realizing she was sweating, Georgie slammed the book shut.

  What was she doing, ogling these naked men? She was pretty sure this wasn’t how Alma intended her to make herself at home.

  She was suspiciously short of breath as she lugged the heavy volume back to the cabinet. Lips pressed tightly together, she sli
d it where it belonged.

  A spine titled Men Who Love Men glimmered out at her.

  “No, no, no,” she said, ignoring the interested tingle that swept her skin. She pushed the door shut and turned the key, checking twice to make sure it was locked.

  Her eyes had experienced enough exotica for one day.

  THOUGH LUNA KNEW BEING left to her own devices surprised Georgie, her personal business couldn’t wait. Like all dark djinn, the ifrit gang she’d called up to serve her tended to resist authority. Until she had the demons more perfectly in hand, she needed to check in on them regularly.

  Her chambers were in the opposite wing from Georgie’s. Fully furnished and nearly as luxurious as her former palace, they boasted beautiful jet-black walls, lush mink rugs, and solid gold fittings. Velvet and brocade abounded, mostly in deep shades of blue. Without exception, the heavy curtains were pulled shut. Though the empress didn’t fear sunlight, she much preferred darkness.

  The leader of her ifrit crew, a snake-eyed, scaly-skinned, five-foot tall fellow named Taytoch, waited in the ritual circle in her suite’s sitting room. The symbols that held him hostage more or less guaranteed his underlings’ behaved. Sadly, despite other useful skills, neither he nor they could pass for human.

  Taytoch bowed his scaly head politely as she strode in.

  “You’re here,” she said. “Good.”

  “Your Highness ordered me to appear at this hour,” he reminded.

  His voice was smooth and cultivated, the scorn it managed to convey subtle.

  “So I did,” she said calmly. Scolding him for his insolence wasn’t worth her effort. Answering to others’ rule was the lot of inferior orders of ifrits. They didn’t like subjugation and never would. Luna didn’t care as long as they followed her orders.

  On the other hand, it didn’t pay to rile them up either.

  “Thank you for being prompt,” she said brusquely. “Please report on the progress of my mirror space.”

  Mirror spaces duplicated portions of one dimension in bubbles of another. Traditionally, actual mirrors connected them. Created by magic, most humans couldn’t detect a copy’s presence, much less pass through the connector. Though Luna had her own wing at the house, she wanted a separate area for activities that warranted extra privacy.

  “The space is ripening,” Taytoch said. “And unsafe to enter yet. My men will check it again in a day or two.”

  “And you’ve succeeded in attracting a stabilizing spirit?”

  The theory among light djinn scholars was that the creation of a mirror space drew a new angel into being. These navel gazers reasoned only divine intelligence could direct the spaces’ development and prevent them from degrading. Luna had never subscribed to this argument, not even when she was light herself. Once trusted counselors, angels no longer spoke to djinn. Humans, yes, but not them. Given this, why would angels choose to help djinn in any way? No, the stabilizing spirits were probably elementals—raw consciousness that took no side in the rivalry between races, possibly more like computers than thinking beings.

  Whatever they were, without their presence mirror spaces were volatile.

  “Indications are positive one has been attracted,” Taytoch confirmed.

  “And matters proceed with the girl?”

  “Beautifully, Your Highness. She’ll be corrupted in no time.”

  “Of her own free will?” Luna asked, wanting to be certain she was clear. She hadn’t faked Beulah’s voice on her phone for nothing. Georgie’s voluntary participation was important. “I insist the human not be compelled to sin.”

  “We’re treating her with the same respect angels would.” The gang leader smirked. No doubt the irony amused him.

  “Wonderful,” she said with just enough dryness to let him know she’d noted the undercurrent. “I am satisfied with your work.”

  She started to walk away, but Taytoch cleared his throat. When she turned back, he’d lifted his scaly brow ridges like eyebrows.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, realizing what he was waiting for. “Any among you who isn’t needed for a task may rest until I call them.”

  The gang leader bowed ostentatiously. “You are too kind, Breathtaking Moon Ruler.”

  The empress decided to ignore his sarcasm. Her magic was stronger. In the end, mischief was the only trouble these ifrit could make.

  NOT KNOWING WHERE ELSE to go, Georgie returned to her suite. Changes had occurred in her absence. Fresh sheets and blankets covered the formerly bare mattress of her bed. A peek in the bathroom told her that too had been supplied with every accessory a five-star hotel visitor might want. Did Alma West have servants? She didn’t seem the chore-doing sort, but Georgie had yet to lay eyes on staff.

  Maybe Alma didn’t think her meeting them mattered.

  Georgie plunked down on the side of the bed, hands clasped together and pressed between her knees. She was pretty sure she’d dodged a bullet by leaving Kind Shepherd. She did wonder what her life was going to be like now. She’d missed a bunch of school days after her mother’s death. Now there wasn’t much of the year left. Would she attend high school here in Black Bear? Could she catch up? Would anyone like her?

  More important: was Alma West as peculiar as she seemed?

  Part of Georgie couldn’t believe she’d never see her mom again.

  Her eyes pricked and she pressed her locked hands against her brow. No more crying. You’ll wear your darn tear ducts out.

  She jumped when the door creaked open and Alma strode inside. Georgie noticed the older woman was super-good at walking in high heels.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “You’re settling in. I forgot to ask you a few questions.”

  “Hit me,” Georgie responded, hoping she didn’t sound like she was bracing.

  Alma blinked as if she wasn’t familiar with the phrase. “Right. First, do you know where babies come from, or should we have The Talk?”

  “Uh, no,” Georgie said. “I learned that stuff in Family Life class.”

  “Excellent. Then are you sexually active?”

  “I’m sixteen!” Georgie exclaimed. She blushed a moment later. Did Alma somehow know which books she’d been looking at in the library?

  “Better safe than sorry,” Alma said briskly. “Sixteen doesn’t seem too young to some of your peers. I’ll arrange for you to have a supply of charmed condoms.”

  “Charmed,” Georgie repeated, assuming she’d misheard.

  Alma stared blankly for a second then waved a manicured hand. “It’s a brand. Charmed Condoms. Very popular in Turkey. They do these things better abroad. In any case, you’re not obliged to use them. They’re for in case. I want to be a responsible foster parent.”

  Was that what this was about? “Okay,” Georgie said. “I guess that’s considerate.”

  “You’ll go back to school on Monday. My . . . people will arrange whatever needs to be sorted out.”

  So there were servants—or people, anyway. Alma began to leave.

  “Could someone get my things from Kind Shepherd?” Georgie asked before she lost her chance.

  “Of course.” Alma turned her head to speak but not the rest of her. The way the light hit her profile was striking. Her posture was so erect it looked regal. “And Internet. I promised you that, didn’t I?”

  Did Alma not understand Georgie might crave more than a room to decorate and unlimited net surfing?

  That’s what you asked for, she told herself. Anyway, maybe Alma was feeling as awkward as she was. When it came down to it, both of them were strangers.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

  Alma inclined her head stiffly. “It’s my pleasure,” she assured her.

  Once she was gone, Georgie hopped up restlessly. The suite felt empty, the house virtually silent. The windows were open for the nice June weather, but the only sound was the rustle of leaves outside. Did Alma’s staff live in, or were she and Georgie Ravenwings’ only residents
?

  She paced to a window overlooking the front garden when the tiny hairs on her arms stood up. She knew before she turned that she wasn’t alone.

  A slender figure perched on the sill of the next window, maybe ten feet away. A simple clip contained her straight red hair, her flowered go-to-church dress more than a bit familiar, considering she’d worn it in her coffin. The figure’s pose was wistful, her gaze directed toward the gravel paths below.

  Most strikingly, Georgie could see the wood of the window frame through her.

  “Mom?” she said, her voice cracking on the word.

  The ghost looked at her and shook her head sadly. “Georgie,” she said. “You’re a good girl. This isn’t where you’re supposed to be.”

  It was broad daylight. Georgie couldn’t be dreaming. Maybe having a mental breakdown, but not dreaming.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Warning you,” the image of her mother answered. “You need to leave this house.”

  The huffing sound Georgie made took her and the ghost by surprise. Georgie discovered she didn’t want to fight the anger behind it.

  “Why do you get to say?” she demanded. “You’re dead, and after I begged you not to go out into the storm!”

  “I did that so you wouldn’t have to,” the ghost reproached. “To get the book you forgot.”

  “You did it because you thought I was being silly! I was right, though, and maybe I’m right now. I always tried to please you. Don’t smoke. Don’t curse. Don’t mess around with boys. Now I know you wanted me to do that because of him. You were afraid I’d turn out like my father, who you never let me meet!”

  If the ghost was a hallucination, stomping closer didn’t make her less visible. It did, however, make her shrink back a bit.

  “You were better off without him,” her mother defended.

  “Maybe I was,” Georgie continued recklessly. “But you took my choice away. Not anymore. I’m the boss of me now, and I get to choose. I don’t have to go back to that damn group home if I don’t want to!”