Day of the Djinn Warriors (29 page)

“Yes, they do,” the Khan said bluntly. “It will be my job over the coming months to conduct many exorcisms and empty the spirits from them. Of necessity, it will be a brutal, destructive process. And it is to be regretted that few, if any, spirits will survive. Most of them will find themselves freed from the Earth, forever.”

“A good friend of ours was a djinn who was in spirit form and found himself absorbed by one of the warriors,” said John. “His name is Mr. Rakshasas. Is it possible he might survive the process of exorcism?”

“I doubt it,” said the Khan. “With more than eighty thousand warriors to exorcise here in Xian, I have my work cut out for me, I’m afraid. I think it will be impossible to find one among so many and take a great deal of extra care with his exorcism. Which is what it would require.”

“Poor Mr. Rakshasas.” John bit his lip. “He was trying to distract the devil warrior in the Temple of Dendur away from me and Faustina,” he said. “So that we could make our own getaway.” John swallowed loudly. “I’m going to miss him a lot.”

“We’ll all miss him,” said Nimrod. “He was a great soul.”

“Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different ends,” said the great Khan. “Try to remember this: That clay is molded to form a cup. But it is on its nonbeing that the utility of the cup depends. Doors and windows are cut out to make a room, but it is on its nonbeing that the utility of the room depends. Therefore, turn being into advantage and turn nonbeing into utility. Nonbeing is the greatest joy.”

“I don’t understand,” confessed Philippa.

The great Khan laid his hand upon her head. “Words of truth are always confusing,” he said. “But know this for certain, child. Great acts are made up of small deeds such as yours.”

“Hear, hear,” said Groanin. And John, who was, of course, still inside the English butler’s body, agreed.

“You have been a great soul, too. And in reward I give you these strawberry slippers.”

The great Khan pointed a fingernail at Philippa’s feet and a pair of beautiful shoes appeared on them.

“Thank you very much, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said. “But they’re gold, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but they smell of strawberries,” said the great Khan.

“How lovely.”

“I have a small favor to ask of you, sir,” said John. “If I may.”

The great Khan nodded.

“When you’re doing your exorcisms in those museums, like you said you would, I wondered if you might like to exorcise the Temple of Dendur in the Metropolitan Museum in New York. There’s a friend of mine who’s trapped there. His name is Leo Politi and he’s been the Ka servant at the temple for more than two hundred years. If it’s possible, he’d like to be released from his duties. If you don’t mind, sir.”

“It will be my pleasure,” said the great Khan.

“Thanks,” said John. “I appreciate it.”

“Come on, it’s time we were going home,” said Nimrod.

“With any luck, Mom will be there already,” said Philippa. “I can’t wait to see her again. Or to recover my power. I feel kind of naked without it.”

“You
feel naked.” John’s voice sounded unsympathetic in Groanin’s mouth. “What about me? I don’t even have my body. Stuck in here with Groanin. It’s like having to share a small tent with an elephant.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your personal observations to yourself, young fellow me lad,” said Groanin. “It’s not exactly been a picnic for me having to share my most intimate secrets with you, you know?”

“Do tell,” said Finlay.

A whirlwind carried them all across the Pacific Ocean and the continental United States. They landed in Central Park, at night, and said their good-byes in the dark.

“Don’t you want to come back to the house and say hello to Mom?” Philippa asked Nimrod.

“Not this time,” said Nimrod. “Your father should have recovered by now. And I expect all of you will have a lot to tell each other. So it’s best we leave you alone for a while. To enjoy being a family again.”

“What about Mr. Rakshasas?” she asked. “His body was in John’s room when we left. What happens when a djinn dies? Is there a funeral?”

“Since it happened in her house, it’s your mother’s right to make the arrangements,” said Nimrod. “Tell her I’ll call when I get back to London. And that I’ll be back for the OE. Obsequies and exequies. That’s what a djinn funeral is called.”

After Philippa had embraced Groanin and her uncle Nimrod, Groanin allowed John, who was still inside his body, to take over long enough to thank Finlay for all that he had done.

“It’s been interesting,” said Finlay with considerable understatement.

“What happens to you now?”

“I’ll go and see my dad,” said Finlay. “Nimrod’s right. I ought to see if I can make it up with him. After that, I’ll go to boarding school.” They shook hands.

Then John transferred his spirit into his sister’s body. A minute or two later, Philippa stepped off the whirlwind and waved it off as Nimrod, Groanin, and Finlay flew on to London.

Sharing one body for the short time it took John and Philippa to walk along East 77
^th
Street did not cause either of them any real problems. They were twins, after all, and twins rarely have any secrets from each other. Besides, there was, they decided, a lot to be said for reading each other’s thoughts, and they welcomed the chance to catch up with all the details of what each had done during the other’s absence without actually having to take the trouble of explaining anything.

“You know something?” said John. “Adventure is not all it’s cracked up to be. Frankly, I’m kinda tired of adventure. I just want to go home and get my body back and see Mom and Dad. I want to eat the food
I
like, not the stuff Groanin or Finlay eats. Make my own choices, you know? Be myself again. Be a family again. Go back to school. Ordinary stuff like that.”

“Me, too,” admitted Philippa. “I’m just going to fix myself something to eat and talk to Mom and Dad and watch TV, and then, later on, go and see Mrs. Trump.”

Philippa stopped in front of a newsstand long enough for the two of them to read the story on the front page of the
New York Post
. Millions of children all over the world were now “recovered” from the “mass hypnosis” inflicted upon them by “disgraced magician Jonathan Tarot.” Which was a great relief to these two children of the lamp. As well as a source of considerable sadness, too.

“Poor Dybbuk,” said Philippa.

“It’s Buck, remember?” said John. “He hates that name.”

“I wonder what will become of him.”

“Says there he’s disappeared.” John shrugged. “Whatever that means.”

“I know. I can read. I just wondered what was going to become of him. It’s been difficult enough not having any power for four weeks. I can’t imagine what it might feel like to lose djinn power for the rest of your life.”

“I know. I feel like I’ve been missing an arm.”

“I suppose you’d get used to that feeling,” observed Philippa. “Eventually. Groanin did.”

Arriving home, they were disappointed to find that their mother had not yet arrived back from Iravotum, although there was a letter in her familiar, copperplate handwriting, explaining that she would be with them again very soon. John noticed that the letter was on her personal stationery, the ludicrously expensive stuff she had made especially with her name and address on top in gold lettering, and which she kept in the French bureau in her study. It struck him as a little strange, perhaps, that she could have been using this to write on, at least until he reminded himself that his mother was a powerful djinn and could do more or less whatever she liked.

The disappointing news that she had not yet arrived home was, to some extent, lessened by the discovery that Mrs. Trump was there to greet them warmly, having made a spectacular recovery from her head trauma. If anything, she looked better than they remembered her ever looking before, even, it has to be said, more than a little glamorous. She was
wearing some very expensive clothes and a new set of pearls, and her hair had been done in a way that reminded the twins of their mother’s hairstyle. Somehow Mrs. Trump seemed more graceful, too, and hardly like a housekeeper at all.

Their father was much recovered, too. His hair was gray rather than white. And he was able to stand rather than sit in a wheelchair. He was even a little taller than they remembered. His hands had stopped shaking and the pungent, musty old-people smell that had once hung about his person was now gone. So near back to normal was he that Marion Morrison had now left New York to go and look after another victim of a malicious djinn binding. Mr. Gaunt’s voice had recovered most of its strength, too. Not to mention its authority.

“John,” said Mr. Gaunt. “Why don’t you go upstairs and reclaim your body? And Philippa, why don’t you go and recover your djinn power. When you are both quite yourselves again, I want you to meet me in the library. I think we should have a little talk. It’s been so long since we had a proper conversation as a family, and so much has happened that we need to sit down and catch up with all that’s taken place. You, me, and Mrs. Trump.”

Intrigued, Philippa ran quickly upstairs. John thanked her politely for the ride and then stepped out of his sister and back into his own body.

“Oh man, that feels good,” he said. “I am myself again.”

“Before you get too comfortable,” said Philippa, “you still have to blow in my ear.”

“What?”

“So I can get my power back,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

“All right,” John said grimly. “Let’s get it over with.”

When it was done, John spat on the floor, several times.

“You don’t have to make such a song and dance about it,” said Philippa, wiping her ear daintily.

“Don’t I?” muttered John.

But Philippa hardly cared. She had djinn power back in her body. Not having djinn power was exactly like having just one arm. John had been right about that. She felt great. She took off the golden slippers the great Khan had presented to her and sniffed them. It was true, they smelled of fresh strawberries.

“Did you notice?” said John. “That’s the first time Dad ever mentioned djinn power in front of Mrs. Trump.”

“You’re right, he did, didn’t he? And Mrs. Trump. She seems different, too. Don’t you think? As if a blow on the head did her a lot of good. I never saw her looking so good. I wonder what Dad wants to tell us.”

“When a parent summons you to a meeting like that,” said John, “it’s never good news. Perhaps Mom isn’t coming back after all.”

“What about the letter? It said she was coming back very soon, didn’t it? I’d recognize her handwriting anywhere.” Philippa shook her head. “I wonder what Dad wants to tell us,” she said again.

“Perhaps it’s about Mr. Rakshasas,” said John. “Did you notice? His body is gone.”

“Of course I noticed,” said Philippa. “But I can’t imagine Dad wants to talk about that, can you? After all, he’s not a djinn. He leaves all that kind of stuff to Mom. Always has. It makes him feel uncomfortable.”

“Well, whatever it is he wants to talk about, you can bet it’s going to be something weird,” said John. “There’s nothing normal about this family.”

A minute or two later, he and Philippa were sitting in the library facing an awkward-looking Mr. Gaunt and a strangely serene-looking Mrs. Trump. Monty the cat had even turned up to witness the scene.

“Is something wrong, Dad?” asked Philippa.

“Is it about Mr. Rakshasas?” asked John.

“Where’s Mom?” they said in unison.

Mr. Gaunt looked at Mrs. Trump and nodded. “Under the circumstances, Mrs. er …” he said. “Perhaps this had better come from you.”

Mrs. Trump smiled kindly. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Not from where I’m sitting, anyway. But yes, something has happened. No doubt about that. Something important. Something peculiar. Something that might take quite a bit of getting used to. Yes, indeed. You see, children, the thing is, you’re going to have to get used to a few changes around here. We all are. From now on, things are going to be a little different. Let me explain how.”

P. B. Kerr was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, where he developed a lifelong love of reading. Although the Children of the Lamp books are P. B. Kerr’s first for children, he is well known as the thriller writer Philip Kerr, author of the Berlin Noir series, including most recently
The One from the Other, A Philosophical Investigation, Gridiron, The Shot
, and many other acclaimed novels. Mr. Kerr lives in London with his family. You can visit him on his Web site at www.pbkerr.com.

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Copyright © 2008 by Thynker Ltd.
Cover art by Petar Meseldžija
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi

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First paperback printing, December 2008

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