Becoming Jinn (25 page)

Cheeks flushed, Henry mumbles a “Sorry” and squeezes past Samara, whose serious face is so out of character, it's almost what scares me the most.

With Henry gone, my mother ushers Samara and I into the hall, pulling the nursery door halfway closed behind her. She turns to Samara. “How long?”

“Minutes, a half hour at most,” Samara says.

After a deep breath, my mother takes charge. “Azra, tell me exactly what you did and how you did it. As abridged as you can make it.”

Swallowing my million questions as to how she knew I was doing this, why we have so little time, and what happens if we run out, I offer the abbreviated version of how I screwed up granting Ms. Anne Wood's wish. “I'd never have taken her there if I knew about the baby.”

“But you didn't know because you didn't do any research, did you?” If she were a snake, she'd be spitting venom. “No mother's anima would have allowed her to leave her child. Did you even bother to enter her psyche?” My mother briefly closes her eyes. “Later. Let's move on. What I don't understand is how you got her to Hawaii without her questioning it. Oh, please, no, don't tell me you're now just announcing to the world that you're a genie?”

“No, no, of course, not. Henry was a mistake. I—”

“Not now,” she interrupts. “Oddly enough, that's the least of our concerns at the moment. Tell me about the candidate.”

“Well, I was going to do it the right way, I was going to fake a contest and everything, but when the mind control started working, I just kind of went with it.”

Samara backs up and leans against the wall. “Mind control? Azra, you mean reading her mind?”

“No,” I say, “well, yes, I was reading her mind, and then, all of a sudden, she was thinking what I was thinking. I figured it was a way to get her to accept the contest without having to actually make up a contest. Why didn't you guys ever tell me about being able to do that? It's so much easier. I don't get why we wouldn't always grant wishes that way.”

My mother's clearly ticked off. “Since when have you been studying spells?”

“Spells? I haven't. Not a one.”

My mother's and Samara's moods shift into such an alarmed state, I expect the baby to feel the tension and begin wailing again. Fear consumes their eyes as the two evaluate each other.

Gently, my mother says, “But Jinn can't control people's thoughts, Azra, not without spells. How … how did you do it?”

I shrug. “It just kinda happened. But I'll fix it. I was about to go get her back when you guys showed up.”

Silent for longer than I think is a good idea if the Afrit's hitman or whoever is about to make an appearance, my mother finally speaks. “Mind control requires more power than Jinn are capable of. Even using spells, it's not something most Jinn can do.”

Samara nods. “The Afrit can do it. It's coveted by Jinn but—”

“But feared,” my mother quickly finishes. “Mind control is not something to be used casually. Azra, it's not something you should use at all. Ever. It's dark. It's dangerous. The risks … the consequences … I can't stress enough how you mustn't tell anyone about this. Not Laila. Not anyone.”

I stare at my feet. “But Henry knows. Though maybe the two beers will make his memory foggy.”

“The what? The beers? The
two
beers?” My mother breathes long and hard through her nose. She rubs her temples. “Another item for the long list of things we need to discuss. But for now, just promise me you won't tell him anything more and you won't try it again.
Please, Azra
.”

I'm nodding so hard I'm dizzy. Her tone, her face … she's scaring me. A lot. I've lost my desire to use mind control ever again. But … wait … don't I have to do it again?

“What about Ms. Wood?”

“I'll do it.” My mother enters the baby's room and returns to the hall with the little girl in her arms. “Tell me where your candidate is, and I'll bring her home, hopefully before they find her.”

“Who?” I ask, frustrated. “Before who finds her? What's going on?”

“Samara, take Azra home. Stay with her. Make sure … just stay with her.”

Samara wraps her arm around my waist. “Of course.”

“But,” I say, “don't you need me to get into Ms. Wood's head?”

“Kalyssa's got this,” Samara says hesitantly, directing her statement to my mother.

“Yes, yes.” My mother's large, emerald signet ring gets snagged in her hair as she gathers it into a bun. She extracts the jeweled ring along with several hairs from her head.

“Don't worry, Kalyssa,” Samara says. “You can do this.”

My mother kisses my cheek. “I know. I have to. Now, go.”

The tight squeeze on my hand convinces me I have to stay and help, but before my mouth opens, she's gone. And then so are we.

 

24

My butt cheeks are numb from the amount of time I've been sitting in the wooden chair at the kitchen table waiting for my mother to return. When we first got back, there was a note addressed to “Kalyssa” affixed to the refrigerator door. Samara snatched it, read it, and tucked it into the pocket of the shirt she conjured for herself. She won't tell me what it says or who it's from. Her feet do the running her mouth usually does as she paces the kitchen.

Her nerves beget my nerves. Unable to stand it, I ask for the third time why we had to leave so quickly. As before, she refuses to look me in the eye let alone answer.

“At least tell me what you were both so afraid of,” I say.

This stops her, right in front of the stove, where she attempts to cover her reaction by filling a teapot with water and lighting the burner.

My mother, still in her swimsuit cover-up, pops into the doorway. “Not what,” she says, answering me, “who.”

Samara rushes to embrace her. Whispers too low for me to hear are exchanged, followed by a soft moan from Samara. She pecks my mother's cheek, her hands holding the sides of my mother's head almost as if she's the only thing keeping her upright.

Finally, my mother settles into the chair next to me and says, “The Afrit.”

Clasping my hand around my silver bangle, I whisper, “Did they…? Were they somehow watching me?”

The baby girl, Anne Wood, the mind control, my mother having to fix my mistake, her and Samara finding out about my mistake, about Henry, so many claws dig into my heart at once, but the sharpest one is the thought that something might happen to Henry, that the Afrit might make something happen to Henry.

My mother grabs the leg of my chair and twists the whole thing so I'm facing her. “Henry? That's what you're most concerned about?”

Feeling like it shouldn't be but unable to help it, tears spring to my eyes.

She leans forward and pulls me into her chest. “He's going to be fine.”

My body slackens in her arms. “And the baby? Ms. Wood?”

She strokes my hair. “Safe, home, together.”

In this moment, I feel nothing but gratitude that my mother is a model Jinn.

When the smell of mint wafts over us, she lets me go. Samara places three mugs of tea on the table.

Enveloping the warm cup with my hands, I take a sip. “Ooh, sweet.”

Samara kisses the top of my head. “Is there any other way?”

My mother thanks Samara but doesn't reach for her mug. Instead, from the side pocket on her cover-up, she extracts a bronze bangle—thicker, shinier, and more deeply carved than either my silver version or her gold one.

Apologizing in a voice weak with sadness, my mother asks for my wrist. She opens the bronze bangle, gently tugs my arm forward, and lowers my hand.

Fascination mingles with fear as the bangle clamps around my wrist and instantly seals any evidence of a hinge, clasp, or seam. The moment the bronze bangle secures itself, the silver one breaks in two and vanishes before either half gets the chance to land in my lap.

My mother slides her mug in front of her. “The answer to your earlier question is ‘no.' The Afrit can't watch you the way you're thinking. But they do follow up on every candidate.”

Samara sits across from me. “Every assigned candidate. We do the practice ones.”

Afraid to move my wrist I ask, “What does follow up mean, exactly?”

“They check in on the human,” my mother says. “To make sure a wish was successfully granted and that no undue attention was garnered.”

Samara adds, “They can trace the energy of invoking the circulus to your bangle so they know when you grant the wish.”

And so they do act fast. Which means, I'm damn lucky that the Zoe Incident occurred with a practice candidate.

My mother glosses over exactly who alerted her to the mess I'd created (and how), simply saying it was someone doing her a favor, someone with both our best interests at heart.

Though it was too late to hide what I'd done, my mother's goal of intervening was to fix my screwup before the Afrit had to step in and do so themselves. She figured this might lessen my punishment. Maybe it did and maybe it didn't. All she knows is that by the time she successfully returned Ms. Wood to her home, using a spell to leave my wish candidate thinking she'd spent the afternoon having a vivid and bizarre dream, the bronze bangle was waiting for her, well, waiting for her to bring to me. She found it in the baby's crib. A perverse teething toy.

“This,” my mother says, laying her hand on my forearm, “will prevent you from using your powers.”

“I … I can't do magic anymore?” Faced with what I've hoped for my entire life, my urge to celebrate is tamped down by what I know of the Afrit. And surprisingly, by a twinge of disappointment.

My mother answers, “Yes and no. This will block your magic, except—”

“Except when I'm granting a wish.” I tentatively touch the bronze bangle. “They'll let me access my powers for that?” I wedge my hands under my thighs to stop their trembling. “Seriously, I still have to grant wishes after what I did today? Is that … wise?”

Samara reaches across the table and gestures for me to do the same. She cocoons the clammy hand I extend with both of her warm ones. “Don't you start doubting your abilities, Azra. Certainly, you can never again do what you did today. It was impulsive. It was wrong. But it was also a mistake, an unintentional mistake. Believe me, when I was your age, I knowingly did worse things that should have earned me one of those.”

“But times have changed,” my mother says in a strained voice.

“Yes.” Samara sighs. “Indeed, they have.”

My mother explains that the bronze bangle will release my magic when I utter the words that begin a wish-granting ritual. When I close the ritual, it will send my powers back into hibernation. If it's not a wish I can grant in that moment, then each time I need to draw on my magic to accomplish a portion of the wish, I'm supposed to ask permission by saying
“izza samhat.”
We Jinn who prove to be less skilled, who require additional training, who violate the rules forfeit our silver bangles for this amped-up Big Brother bronze number.

Not fair.

Having my magic restricted should mean not granting wishes at all. Like failing a class and being kicked off the football team. Leave it to the Afrit to make it more like every pass, every catch, every tackle is being watched by an elite team of MVPs ready to pounce on the slightest misstep. I'm already perspiring at the thought of performing under such pressure.

Given all that I've done, all that I've lied about, I'm lacking the moral high ground to chastise my mother for not fully explaining what would happen if I botched a wish.

Still my lips flatten into a thin line. “You should have told me.”

My mother's eyes widen. “Told you what, Azra?”

I spin the bronze bangle. “About this. About what this would mean.”

The last thing I expect is the end-of-the-world look on her face to morph into a smug, I-told-you-so grin.

She leans over and pats me on the head. “Thanks, kiddo.” She then holds her empty palm out to Samara. “Pay up.”

Samara frowns. “That's not confirmation.”

“Fine,” my mother replies to Samara. To me, she says, “So you didn't reach that part of the cantamen yet?”

That part? All my bluffing through my mother's random pop quizzes is about to be for naught. “I guess not. I'm … I'm taking it kind of slow. Making sure I absorb fully before moving on.”

Samara exhales a huge sigh. “Thanks a lot, Azra.”

My mother laughs. “Do I know my daughter, or do I know my daughter?” She points at me. “Take that look on her face, right now. Confused, anxious, knowing she's been caught in a lie but not knowing exactly how or which one. Isn't that so, honey?”

“I … I don't know,” I stammer.

Samara pushes her chair back. “Oh, give it up, Azra. You're cooked. And now I owe your mother the finest bottle of wine in my cellar. A 1906 Bordeaux. Even she can't conjure something that good. All my flirting with that twerp at the fancy rare wines store in Boston for nothing. He was going to put it up for auction.
For auction.
Can you imagine? Some rich blowhard would bid an obscene amount of money and put the damn thing under glass, displaying it like some fossil. Wine like that deserves to be enjoyed.”

“Oh, it will be,” my mother says.

Samara, trying to prove to my mother that I was taking all this Jinn stuff seriously, claimed that the only way I could be so talented so quickly was by having already read and internalized everything in the cantamen, spells included. My mother assured her I hadn't even cracked the book open.

My own mother bet against me.

Apparently, the explanation of the bronze bangle as the first penalty for not properly granting a wish is on page two. All this time, through every stupid quiz, my mother knew I hadn't been doing squat. And yet she sent me out there to do a wish, on a real candidate, by myself. This is all her fault.