The Spirit Jar

What do you get when you put a vampire in an airplane thousands of miles above the Atlantic?

I swallow hard and try not to think about the punch line to that particular joke. It’s bad enough that Theo is sending me overseas in the first place, but now I’m feeling sick— airsick? How would I know, I’ve not flown since I was a small child—and my brain is sadistically torturing me with every scenario that could possibly go wrong.

There are a lot of things that could go wrong.

At least, that’s what my new roommate cheerfully told me while dropping me at the airport for my Boston to London trip.

I push aside comforting fantasies of Holly crashing her stupid motorcycle on the way back to our apartment, and decide that I may as well settle in for the flight and watch a movie. Yeah, because a movie will take my mind off the fact that we’re flying over water and I’m a freaking vampire.

Crossing running water should be impossible for vampires. This is just one of the many so-called “facts” that proved to be pure myth after I was turned a decade ago. I push up the white plastic blind and look out the window, but the ocean is hidden by puffy purple clouds. Surely you can’t really count the sea as running water. Where is it supposed to “run” to, anyway? I’d crossed plenty of rivers in the last ten years, and nothing bad had ever happened. Whoever makes this crap up really needs to get a life.

Sighing heavily, I lean my forehead against the reinforced glass. I should be reviewing the details of my destination, or maybe ensuring I know exactly what the rare book I need to “retrieve”—an ancient Arabic text—actually looks like. Instead, all I can think about is the fact that I’m flying through the air in a metal coffin.

I slam the cover down over the tiny window and push my sunglasses up onto the top of my head, balancing them among my annoyingly springy black curls. My blue contacts are firmly in place to hide the natural silver of my eyes. The contact lenses hurt like hell and make me feel grouchy.

Well, grouchier than normal.

I begin clicking noisily through channels on the screen attached to the back of the seat in front of me. I ignore the irritated tutting of the fat lady sitting by the aisle. Just let her open her mouth and say one word, then she’ll be sorry she switched seats to come sit over here in the first place.

What did I do to deserve this? But I already know the answer to that. My Maker likes to needle me when he can, especially ever since I’d gotten home from my year-long sabbatical. It’s like he is punishing me for daring to leave him. I remember the particularly wicked smile on Theo’s face while he gave me the details of this crappy assignment.

Flicking past the sequel to a teen werewolf movie that did particularly well last summer, I decide on a romcom starring an actress I don’t recognize. The girl is as cute as a newborn kitten and doesn’t look old enough to drive the expensive car she’s using to get to school. I feel old and out of touch.

This is going to be a very long flight.

I stand in a shadowed doorway around the corner from St. Martin’s Lane—not far from Trafalgar Square with its fierce lions—and watch a young couple stroll past. They are holding hands and, under the gentle illumination of the old-fashioned iron lamps in the narrow, cobbled court where I’m lurking, I can see the loving expressions on their faces. Something cold twists inside of me—somewhere in my chest—and I have to swallow to get rid of the suddenly bitter taste in my mouth.

My mind wanders to the crazy time I’ve had since touching down at Heathrow; getting through airport security was a nightmare of epic proportions. My bad feeling about this entire trip appears to be coming true, and a growing part of me is beginning to wish I could charter some kind of boat to take me over to Ireland. Maybe I could lose myself among my dad’s relatives. Perhaps they wouldn’t even care that I hadn’t aged a day since turning eighteen. They haven’t seen me since I was a kid, anyway. How would they know the difference?

Riiight. Like Theo wouldn’t send ... people to bring me back. He hadn’t wanted to send his “little Moth” on this particular assignment to begin with—where I’d be so far away from him—but I was fast becoming his best Retriever and this was a job that had to be dealt with quickly. It also needed to be carried out by a vampire young enough to walk in daylight, especially during the summer months, and who could travel overseas and pass for human.

Lucky me. I can’t stop the sneer that curls my lip, remembering just in time to hide my fangs for the benefit of any passersby. Dammit, there are too many people around. This tiny street is supposed to be deserted after nine p.m. Sure, “Theatre Land” is just around the corner, but there’s nothing open down here.

I shake my head as though I can shake off the lingering frustration, and focus my attention on the bookstore across the pedestrianized court. The steel gate is only secured with a padlock and would be easy to break, if that’s the entrance I choose. But I’ve done my homework, running reconnaissance earlier today, and discovered an even easier way in.

At floor level there is a delivery hatch where books and other merchandise are brought into the shop. I’d spent the morning staking out the area and watching until a white van pulled up on Charing Cross Road. Its occupant, a stocky delivery guy in blue overalls, wheeled a trolley of boxes to the hatch and dropped them through one by one.

I couldn’t resist smiling to myself and wondering why people made it so easy. Of course the entrance was small, but then so am I—that’s why Theo sends me on these jobs. I hadn’t been able to see all the way inside the little doorway, but from what I could make out it had looked like the deliveries were thrown down a crude wooden chute and into the basement.

Perfect.

I crack my knuckles and slip through shadows pooled around the edges of the street, careful to avoid the light from the closest lamp. I sniff the air, stiffening when I detect a faint animal scent. I spot the mangy-looking fox out the corner of my eye as it pokes its nose into a trash can. Urban foxes are apparently common in London, but I am still strangely invigorated by the sight. It’s like a magical encounter; a shamanic meeting with my totem animal, or something romantic like that. Our eyes meet and we exchange a long look; she’s a tough cookie, this little fox, but I’m a lot tougher.

She turns tail and runs.

I crouch by the hatch and test it. Of course it’s bolted from the inside—maybe with more than one set of locks—but that doesn’t stop me from sitting on the ground and setting the soles of my boots against the forest green paint at the top of the hatch. I lean back on my forearms, using them for leverage, and push with both legs, trying to break the little door.

It’s trickier than I thought it would be; there’s nothing to hold onto. No conveniently placed lamppost or bicycle rail. My arms keep slipping backward on the cold ground, but I dig in with my elbows and kick my legs again, one final time.

The hatch crashes inward with a crack that echoes along the quiet street.

Cringing, I glance in both directions before flipping myself over and wriggling through the ragged opening on my belly. It reminds me of my favorite scene in Star Wars when Princess Leia uses a laser rifle to blast an entrance into the trash compactor, then throws herself through the gap without a second thought.

I heart Princess Leia. Sue me.

“Into the garbage chute, flyboy,” I mutter, before tumbling down into darkness.

The wooden delivery slide turns out to be badly made from shabby plywood, and I’m glad that good sense won out and I’d chosen jeans for this expedition. As it is, I still have to pull several splinters from my hands at the bottom of the makeshift chute, wincing as I wait for the tiny wounds to close up on their own.

There are some benefits to being a Creature of the Night.

I roll my eyes at my own morbid sense of humor and rub my sore palms together. I am in some kind of dispatch room. Piles of books are scattered around on the desks, and almost every inch of floor space is taken up with boxes upon boxes. A machine that looks like it might be for weighing and stamping outgoing mail is precariously balanced on a tall cabinet against one wall, while the other is covered with crooked shelves that have seen better days.

The whole place stinks of something stale and sort of musty, as though a giant wet dog has taken up residence.

I jump down from the edge of the chute and tiptoe to the doorway that leads into the shop. I’d scoped out the shop during the day, wandering among the browsing patrons and tourists but, obviously, hadn’t actually been able to get inside the delivery area until now.

The door is locked, but with nothing more than bolts on the outside—top and bottom. I’d noticed that earlier.

I take a few steps back and then run at the door, aiming my flying kick toward the bottom where one of the bolts should be. There is a satisfying crunch and I feel the shock of impact all the way up both legs and into my hips. I set my shoulder against the door and heave it the rest of the way open—at least enough so I can slip through the gap. I am leaving more of a mess behind than I normally do, but that can’t be helped. It’s not like there’ll be fingerprints that can be traced, and nobody is going to hear the noise way down here in the basement. Not to mention the fact that I’ll be long gone before anyone is even aware that there’s been a break-in.

Of course, I have been known to speak too soon—

Which is when I come face-to-face with a young guy who looks as shocked to see me as I am to see him. We stand staring at each other for an uncomfortable moment, under the faint yellow glow of the tiny spotlights set into the ceiling around the single display case.

He isn’t very tall, though still taller than me—not exactly difficult given that I’m pretty slight. His shoulders indicate a wiry strength, though, and his hands are clenched into fists.

The boy has beautiful tanned skin and hazel eyes that are so luminous they almost appear gold. His black hair is short but messy, and it looks like it would curl if left to grow any longer. It makes me think suddenly of Theo, and how this is what his hair might be like if he ever cut it.

Irritated at myself for thinking of my Maker at a time like this, I attempt to look fierce and give this interloper my best glare. “How the hell did you get in here?”

The guy raises black brows. “I’d ask you the same question, but it seems pretty obvious how you got inside.” He nods at the half-destroyed door to the dispatch room behind me. “Subtle.”

He has an English accent that I might think was sexy under other circumstances, but I refuse to get sidetracked by the fact that he’s totally cute. And young—maybe around seventeen.

It feels as though I’ve already lost control of this situation, and there’s nothing that makes me madder than being out of control. Especially when the kid standing in front of me seems strangely composed after seeing a girl-in-black burst through the door She-Hulk style.

“You’re staring,” he says with a sudden grin. “Didn’t your mum ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

“My mother is dead,” I snap and then immediately wish I hadn’t. Why am I telling this stranger something like that?

I shake my head and then sniff the air, narrowing my eyes against the sudden whiff of magic. “What are you?”

The boy is still smiling. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I have work to do. Stay out of my way and this doesn’t have to get unpleasant.”

“If you’re going to threaten me, I think it’s only fair that I know who I’m dealing with. What’s your name?” I have a sneaking suspicion that he might be laughing at me.

“You first,” I counter.

He shrugs. “I’m Adam.”

“Moth.”

“Interesting name,” Adam says. “Did your parents have a sense of humor?”

I bite back a sudden smile. This is crazy, but I can’t stop the feeling that this guy—Adam—isn’t someone I want to hurt. He seems harmless enough.

My eyes flicker to the display case. It is filled with books, but even a fleeting glance confirms that the particular tome I came to steal is gone. Dammit! I was only here this afternoon, and it was right there. Don’t tell me someone bought it already—not at the price these people were selling it for. The book didn’t even belong in a place like this—an occult bookstore on the backstreets of London. It should be in a freaking museum.

I look at the boy’s hands and my stomach clenches. This is the first time I even notice that he’s holding something. A book.

The book?

“Give it to me,” I say, before I can even think about it. I don’t know who he is or what he might be able to do to me, but I don’t care. I need that book or I’ll never get away from Theo. Each failure is cataloged; every time I don’t quite achieve the impossible tasks he sets me is just one more reason for him to keep me close.

I don’t let myself think of the alternative: that each success also ties me more securely to his side. Why would he ever let me go if I am so damn good at retrieving the items he sends me to find? If I think about that too often, I’ll go crazy. I have to stay strong. The minute I let myself feel the creeping despair, I will lose myself. I will lose the part of me that is Marie—and I’ll always be only Moth.

Adam raises an eyebrow. What is it about the men in my life that they all seem to know that trick? It’s a weakness of mine. My mind wanders to a brief image of Jason Murdoch—all golden hair and deep brown eyes. I push it away and slam the door on it; he is my enemy, and I would do well to remember that.

I have the scars to prove it.

I wonder if the same can be said for the kid standing in front of me right now, with the amused expression tugging at his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. Is he my enemy?

“You want this?” he says, holding up a slim leather-bound volume that has seen better days.

The door to the display case is open. The weak light from above glints on the glass and shows me Adam’s reflection. I take a step back, wondering if he has noticed the fact that I don’t have one. Another part of me that slowly slips away as each day passes.

“I need that book,” I say, trying to sound like a tough guy but only managing petulance.

“You’re telling me,” he says, taking a step forward, “that we’re both here for the same book? I find that a little too much of a coincidence. Don’t you?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I say, even though I’ve never given it a thought. It’s just something to say; something that might distract him. “I only know that you’re holding what I came here for. I’m not leaving without it.”

Adam licks his lips. “I need this book far more than you could ever know.” He looks almost regretful. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do without this one. There are plenty more to choose from.”

This can’t happen, I won’t let it. Rolling my shoulders and cracking my knuckles—a nervous habit that Theo has tried to encourage me to lose—I feel the satisfying creak of my leather jacket and set my booted feet more widely apart.

“You’re not leaving with that book,” I say. “Save yourself some pain and put it down. I’ll let you go and we never have to give this unfortunate incident another thought.”

Adam sneers. “That’s very generous of you,” he says, “but I think you’ll find I don’t scare so easy.”

What a shame, I can’t help thinking. And then I launch myself at him, running the few steps between us and leaping at the last possible moment to make the most of what little momentum I can build up in the restricted space.

We tumble to the ground and the book flies out of his grasp. His hands come up to try to push me off him, but I have my fists gripping the collar of his denim jacket and a knee on either side of his torso. I drag him into a sitting position and bring his face toward mine. Our noses are practically touching.

He doesn’t look surprised that I’m so strong, but I don’t let that phase me. I grin at him and give him a quick flash of fang—let him think he imagined it later, if he wants. He can’t prove anything.

“I tried to do this nicely, Adam,” I say, shaking my head as though I am genuinely sorry that things have come to this. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will be taking that book with me.”

“What do you want with it?” His eyes are a little wide, and he’s lost some of his color; his bravado seems to be drying up. Maybe he got more than just a fleeting glimpse of my fangs.

I brace my left foot on the floor and give him a shake. “That’s none of your business, kid.”

“I think it is my business if you’re going to take the book I’ve worked so hard to find. I don’t just want it—I need it. If you’re determined to ruin my life I deserve to know why.”

“‘Ruin your life’?” I echo. “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” I can’t help the frown that crosses my face. What is with this dude? He seems so sincere, and something about the quiet desperation in his voice is making my conscience prickle and my stomach hurt. I feel like I’m doing something terrible to him, but that’s ridiculous under the circumstances. After all, we’re both thieves.

His voice is suddenly much harder. “Let me go, Moth.”

I shake him again, just because I can.

“Let me go,” he says again, “or you’ll be sorry.”

“Right, kiddo,” I reply, unable to resist the opportunity to bug him. “What are you going to do? Threaten me to death? Take it from me, Adam, if you’re going to make threats you sure as hell better be able to follow up on them, otherwise—”

And then he just ... disappears. My hands are left clutching empty air, and I stumble forward, partly because he’s no longer there but mostly because I’m in a state of shock.

What? Where did he—?

Adam is right behind me and grabs a clump of my curls. My head is wrenched back, and my neck feels like it’s about to snap. He’s stronger than he looks—maybe not as strong as me, but way stronger than his skinny frame would have you believe. He certainly had me fooled.

This time I topple backward as he releases me and steps out of the way, moving faster than any human should move. I’m sprawled on my ass, and for a moment I don’t even care about the indignity of it. I’m curious about this kid. He smells human enough, but there’s something other about him, after all.

“That’s quite a trick,” I say, trying to catch my breath and keep him occupied so he doesn’t think to snatch the book immediately. It’s lying just out of reach. I could stretch and snag it, but there’s no way I’ll be able to do it before Adam stops me.

“I told you not to take it,” he says. He’s not smiling anymore, no longer mocking or smirking. He doesn’t look happy to have proved me wrong.

I watch him carefully, as though he’s an exotic new species I’ve discovered. There’s something fascinating about the way his eyes are shining in the half-light; now I know what people see when they catch sight of my eyes in all their silver glory. We are like two sides of different coins, this boy and me. He’s all fire and nervous energy, and I’m ice and barely restrained power.

I sit up and rub the back of my head where I banged it on the floor. My hair is wild around my face.

“Tell me how you did that,” I say, genuinely curious now.

“What,” he replies, “ this?”

And he disappears again.

Now you see me, now you don’t. Just blinks out of existence and then reappears a second later, right next to the damn book. He bends and scoops it up, cradling it in his arms as though it is something truly precious—a treasure way beyond its monetary value.

I lick my lips and wonder if I could try to glamour him, but I’m wearing the damn contacts and I doubt it would do me much good even if I weren’t. If he’s not fully human, I have no idea if my vampiric gaze will work on him. It’s not like I’m much good at it yet, anyway.

I flip onto all fours and crouch, glaring at this kid who has dared to get in the way of my mission. I have to give that book to Theo. I have to prove to him that he can trust me to do what he wants, that I’m not just waiting for any opportunity to escape him forever. No matter how much you love someone, they aren’t always good for you. Theo is a beautiful drug; he’s like prescription medication I genuinely needed for a while, otherwise I would have died—for real. Now I’m hooked and I can’t stop.

I can survive without him. I have to try.

But maybe he can’t survive without me. I know too little about the way things work between a Maker and the vampires he creates. Theo doesn’t make many new vamps anymore. As far as I’m aware there haven’t been any others in the decade since he made me. And before me? I don’t know. The others in our Family tell me it has been a long time, and they were surprised that Theo turned me—especially given how young I was at the time. They still don’t know why.

All this is whirling in my mind as I watch Adam watching me. His black hair holds blue tones under the flickering light of the display cabinet; his skin the color of pale golden sand, and his eyes almost matching. I wonder where his family came from, originally.

He is edging toward the stairs. I remember that I don’t know how he got inside the store in the first place. Of course, he probably just did that handy teleportation thing. What was he? Some sort of spirit? I had to speak to Theo about this.

“Don’t try to follow me,” Adam says, his voice suddenly less confident. He sounds terribly alone. “I have to use the book.”

Now it’s my turn to look confused. “You know what it’s for? How can you ‘use’ it, anyway? I thought it was written in Arabic.”

“It is.” He is backing slowly up the stairs, almost to the corner where the narrow staircase turns and heads up the final short flight onto the main floor of the shop.

“So you can read Arabic, now, as well as do impressions of Houdini?”

“I can read it well enough,” he replies, stumbling on the uneven shape of the step that curves around the bend.

And there’s my lucky break; that minor slip is sufficient. I suddenly burst into action, bolting up the staircase and reaching toward him. I move so quickly that everything around me seems to happen in slow motion. My hand is stretching, fingers fully extended; the book is almost in my grasp. Adam is still wobbling, one arm flailing for the banister, the other trying to tuck the book inside his jacket.

But I am fast. Faster than him. As my fingers brush the old leather of the cover and I feel the grit of almost a century on my skin, Adam disappears.

I scream with frustration—I was so close! What will I tell Theo? How will I ever track down a kid who can teleport, seemingly at will?

I stop freaking out when I realize that I am holding the book after all. Adam has gone, and the book is in my hand. I’m so surprised that I almost drop the stupid thing, juggling for a moment to retain my grip on one corner of the slim volume.

Running to the top of the stairs I gaze around the store, my night vision not necessary up here thanks to the miniature display lights lining the bookshelves at intervals. Not to mention the added illumination provided by the streetlamps outside the huge front windows.

I can’t understand where he’s gone. Why would Adam just ... leave? Especially without the book he claimed to need so desperately. I’d believed him when he said how important it was. I’d actually felt guilty. But he flipped out the minute things got tough. Okay, so it wasn’t like we were best friends after a few minutes of brawling in the basement of an occult bookshop, but he’d—

Something flies at me from the shadows, and I feel a bone-crunching impact on my right shoulder. My quick instincts save me from broken bones as I throw myself out of the way just in time. I still get walloped, but it could have been a lot worse.

Rubbing my arm and cursing because I’ve dropped the freaking book, I face off with Adam. Again.

So the kid isn’t giving up. He’d simply teleported farther into the shop and waited for me to come up the stairs. It was simple enough for him to hide behind the counter cash register; there are no lights in that area, and I was distracted by his supposed “disappearance.” He is holding a heavy wooden tube of some sort. It looks like a bizarre musical instrument made of bamboo. It’s big, and I can certainly attest to the fact that it is heavy. The feeling is only just beginning to return to my right hand after Adam smashed his makeshift weapon into my shoulder.

The book is on the floor between us. Someone is going to have to make a move for it, and then the other will have an opening to attack. I eye him with irritation verging on respect, and I can’t help noticing that he no longer looks afraid. He looks kind of pissed.

“I told you, I’m not leaving without the book. Why can’t you just let me have it? What do you want it for?” His voice trembles with barely suppressed rage.

This has possibilities, I think. Maybe I can get him so angry he’ll slip up. “I have to give it to my employer. It belongs in a collection overseas, not here in London.”

“What collection? What are you talking about?” His fingers twitch convulsively around the wooden baton, and he raises it as though he might attack me again.

“I’m retrieving it,” I say. “That’s what I do. Retrieve things and return them to their rightful owners.”

I watch the delicate flesh of his throat move as he swallows. “Maybe we can make a deal,” he says.

This surprises me. I like deals; deals can be good, so long as I end up getting what I want out of them. “What kind of deal?”

“Let me use the book tonight, and I’ll give it to you afterward. I won’t need it after that.”

I snort. “Right. And I have reason to believe you’ll actually give it to me because...?” I let the words trail off and can’t help smiling at his nerve. This kid certainly has balls, I’ll give him that.

“Because...” His face creases in frustration, and then his expression clears and turns triumphant. “Because you can come with me and keep an eye on it. If you don’t let me—and the book—out of your sight, then you’re not risking anything.”

“How do I know you won’t just pull a disappearing act again?” I don’t know whether to believe him, but Adam has something intriguingly sincere about him. He’s either an excellent liar or he’s telling the truth.

“Well, I suppose you don’t know that I won’t disappear, but at least you’ll know you won’t lose the book.”

I raise my eyebrows, silently encouraging him to continue.

“Why do you think I dropped the book on the stairs when I teleported? I can transport myself and anything I’m wearing—as long as the clothes are made of natural materials—but I can’t take man-made objects with me.”

This would make a lot of sense, except for one little problem: “The book is made of leather. That’s a ‘natural material.’”

He looks vaguely embarrassed. “I thought so too, but either there are other materials used in its construction, or it has some sort of magical protection on it. Maybe both.”

I let my eyes leave his face for a moment and glance down at the book. It doesn’t look very magical. I shrug and meet his almost desperate gaze again. What do I know about sacred Arabic texts? It’s all Greek to me; I’m just an Irish-American girl brought up in Boston. This was my first trip out of the country since I was a child, back when we’d gone on regular trips to Ireland to visit Dad’s family. Mom’s had disowned her after she’d gotten pregnant with Sinéad out of wedlock and then dared to marry the man who was responsible. Bad enough to be a slut, worse still that she’d lived with the consequences and made a life with Rory O’Neal—a man my mother’s family had considered far beneath her.

“Okay.” I square my shoulders and meet his gaze. “Say I believe you. What then? What exactly do you need this thing for?”

Adam is staring at the book again. There is a muscle flickering in his smooth cheek. “I have to help my girlfriend move on,” he says. His voice is almost too quiet to hear.

“Move on?” I’m confused. A crazy image of a young couple clinging together flashes into my mind. Is he having trouble shaking loose an unwanted girlfriend? Surely that can’t be what all this is about.

“Her soul is trapped,” he says. “I have to free her, otherwise she’ll never find peace.”

My mouth is suddenly dry. “Is she sick?” It sounds like maybe she’s in a coma.

“No,” he replies, and I realize that he is crying. “She’s dead.”

We are sitting in a café at Victoria Station. Adam has been as good as his word and hasn’t tried to disappear on me. Not yet, anyway.

I’d insisted on being the one to hold the book, just to be on the safe side. I tucked it inside my messenger bag and kept a tight hold on it as we walked along St. Martin’s Lane, heading for the bus stops beyond Trafalgar Square. Before I arrived in London, I had only ever seen those four huge lions in movies; the statues are even more impressive in the “flesh.” I wonder if it’s true that they are called John, Paul, George, and Ringo, or if that is just one of Theo’s little jokes.

The bus ride—my first ever on a double-decker—should have been more exciting, but I felt nothing but a heavy sense of melancholy. I rested my cheek against the window as I looked out at the familiar-yet-strange city streets from the top deck of the red monstrosity, and wished I was back home in Boston. I was glad when we reached our destination after the short journey, and I steered my new companion into the comforting warmth of the first coffee shop we saw.

The rain began to fall as I closed the door behind us.

I am nursing a mug of hot chocolate, and Adam is absentmindedly stirring packets of sugar into his black coffee. I wonder how much sugar will be enough for him and begin to make bets with myself on whether he will go back to grab more of the brown paper packets. He takes a sip and doesn’t even flinch.

“So tell me,” I say, sticking my finger into my drink and popping a scoop of cream into my mouth. “Tell me about your girlfriend.”

Adam smiles wistfully and puts down his cup. “Hasna? She’s the most ... was the most beautiful girl you’ll ever see. I loved her the minute I saw her. She started in Year Twelve after her family moved to the area. I was assigned as her ‘buddy,’ and I had to show her around. We had so much in common: both of us from Moroccan families; both struggling with learning Arabic to make our fathers happy, but really just wanting to fit in with our friends.”

He goes quiet for a moment, and I don’t say a word. I want to ask if “Year Twelve” is the same as junior or senior year in high school, but it’s like there’s a magic spell on our table. We’re tucked against the window with a view of a line of black cabs like giant beetles crouching outside the station.

“Meeting her was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Adam says. He’s not smiling any more.

This is all very moving, I want to say, but what about the book? Why were you stealing an ancient text from a bookstore, and why were you willing to risk getting your throat torn out by me to keep it? And how the hell do you do that cool disappearing trick?

I don’t ask any of these things. Instead, I push away my mug of delicious but empty calories and put my hand over his. “How did she die?”

He swallows and tears well up in his eyes again. For a moment, I consider taking the book and running. Just leaving this kid and his tragic life behind—he is nothing to me. What do I care about a so-called magical book and a dead girlfriend? My shoulders slump and I stay put.

Who am I trying to fool? I’m still me; still Marie.

“Tell me,” I say, giving his cold hand a squeeze. I wonder if he notices that my hands are even colder than his. I haven’t taken blood in too long and already knew it was going to be a problem on this trip. Theo gave me a list of “safe donors” before I left, including the contact details of the head honcho vampire in London. Like he actually thought I’d use any of those lifelines? Forget it, Theo. No way you’re making me more of a monster. If I can’t feed from blood banks or from my Maker, I won’t feed at all. The longest I’d gone was six days, and I still remember how weak I’d been when Theo finally found me, curled up and whimpering with hunger and misery outside Subterranean.

I swallow and drag my mind away from those memories, not wanting to remember how Theo had force-fed me. Instead, I listen to Adam as he tells me about his lost love and why he needs Arabic magic to free her soul.

“She was murdered not far from here,” he begins. “We were at the theater; I’d saved up for weeks. Hasna wanted to wait at the stage door after the performance, try to get her program autographed. We ... took a wrong turn, somehow. I don’t know what happened, but we went out of a fire exit and ended up all turned around. I took us down an alley that I thought must come out behind the theater but...” He shakes his head, unable to continue.

Giving him a moment to collect himself, I listen to the busy sounds of the coffee shop. There’s music playing, not the usual musak like in my local Starbucks back home but something funkier, something I haven’t heard before. The murmur of voices reaches me from the surrounding tables along with the familiar hiss of milk being steamed at the counter, just across the aisle. It’s late, but people are still walking in and placing orders. I pull my china mug closer toward me, wondering how much longer the café will stay open.

Adam fixes me with those disturbing hazel-gold eyes. They are more hazel again, as though being out among the masses forces him to blend in and look like the human being that I initially took him for. He still smells 100 percent human to me, but now I know different. I want to know what he is, how he can do what he does. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen some weird crap in my life.

He says, “It was over before I knew what was really happening. I can move fast when I have to, and there’s the whole teleportation thing ... but even with all that, I couldn’t save her. I would’ve done anything to save her life—even if it meant revealing my powers.”

My internal bullshit detector beeps. “Wait,” I say. “You mean she didn’t know?”

He looks embarrassed and squirms in his seat. “We hadn’t even been together a year. I was going to tell her.”

I can’t stop the snort that escapes me. Sure, I think, knowing I’m being uncharitable. A guy insisting that he was going to “tell his girl the truth.” I want to shake this kid and tell him I know a thing or two about that line.

He is angry now, and I think I prefer that to the broken young man who was sitting here only moments ago. “I was going to tell her. You don’t know anything about me, Moth.” He makes my name sound like a curse. “I loved her. Hasna was my whole life.”

“Keep it down, Romeo,” I say, my gaze darting around the café. Adam is almost shouting, and we’re drawing attention. “I’m sorry, okay? Just tell me what happened so we can put it right.”

“We can’t ‘put it right,’” he replies, but at least he isn’t yelling at me. “She’s dead, I already told you that. She was murdered. It wasn’t until after that I found out it wasn’t quite the random act of violence that I thought it was. We were an unlucky statistic according to the police.” His lips twist with disgust. “Useless bastards.”

I wonder how fair it is to blame the police for not being able to deal with a supernatural crime but keep my mouth shut and wait for Adam to continue.

He tells me about the murder; about the knife in the dark and the bearded man who spoke Arabic while he sliced Hasna up like she was nothing more than meat at his dinner table. The man had been tracking Adam for a long time, attracted by his unique biology and magical heritage. And yet it was Hasna who turned out to be the victim—the human companion of a half-human boy, sacrificed in order to summon a dark spirit. Adam tells me that he couldn’t move—not even to teleport—and how he had to watch his girlfriend die.

“But what are you?” I finally ask. I can’t resist butting in anymore, and he is taking too long. “You look human.”

“So do you,” he counters.

I shrug. “You even smell human.”

“I’m half-human. That might explain what you’re sensing.”

I nod slowly. “So, you’re also half...?”

“Djinn. On my mother’s side.”

“Gin?” I can’t stop the sudden image of a dark green bottle of alcohol superimposed over Adam’s face. “ What? ”

A slight smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “Djinn, Genie ... you know.”

Oh. I lean forward, interested despite myself. “Like in Aladdin?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, just like that.”

I still can’t shake the Aladdin-connection and realize with a jolt of misplaced humor that I wasn’t so far off with the imaginary bottle. Aren’t Genies kept in bottles?

Adam frowns. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” I say, too quickly. I feel guilty for making light of things. This kid has lost someone he loved, and that’s something I understand. I take a steadying breath and think of Mom.

Now it’s his turn to lean forward. He searches my face. “I saw your teeth,” he begins, voice hesitant. “Back in the shop.”

“Thanks.” I smile sweetly. “I try to keep them clean and shiny.”

“You know what I mean. Are you...?” The sentence trails off. Maybe vampires are too crazy for him to contemplate, even considering what he is and what he knows of the world.

I decide to go easy on him. “I am,” I say. I glance around the café quickly, checking that nobody at a nearby table is looking our way, and show him my fangs again. They’re currently in their THE SPIRIT JAR 83 “dormant” state, retracted as far as they will go—but they’re still wicked sharp.

I sit back and give him a cheeky wink.

“Woah,” he says, his golden eyes shining. “That’s so cool.”

I stare at him for a moment that stretches on and on. I don’t understand this boy. He is unlike anyone I have ever met before. He smells human, but he is most certainly not human—at least, not all of him. His mother was a ... a Djinn. Whatever next? I am beginning to learn that the strangeness of my life only scratches the surface of the otherness of all the things that make up this world. It’s exhilarating and scary all at the same time.

I think I like it. I think I like him.

No, not in that way. He is good-looking—handsome, even, in a very clean cut sort of way. He smells delicious, it’s true. But he’s not—

I shake my head and focus on what Adam is saying. He’s been talking for a while, and I’m forced to play catch-up; this could be important and here I am comparing him with my Maker. And if I’m going to be honest, I’m also comparing him to a guy I met just two short months ago. I don’t want to think about Jason Murdoch now.

I don’t want to think about Jace ever again.

Adam gives me a strange look. “Have you even heard a word I’ve said?”

I shrug. Well, I was half listening. “Sure. Dead girlfriend; evil magician; spirit thing; magic book. That about sum it up?”

He doesn’t smile, and I can hardly blame him. I could stand to take a lesson or two in sensitivity. Humor makes for an uncomfortable shield.

“Are you going to help me or not?” Adam asks, his hazel eyes like two stones.

A magician called Bilal had killed Hasna as part of a ritual to release a particularly nasty sort of Djinn that he wanted to control. Apparently, spilling the blood of an innocent can create a portal through which Afarit can escape from their plane of existence and into ours.

Only things hadn’t gone to plan for Bilal and the Afarit was too strong for him. It killed the magician and stole his body before escaping the scene of the crime—leaving Adam cradling the lifeless body of the beautiful teenage girl he loved.

“Well, are you?” Adam repeats, his voice trembling with too many emotions to name. “Hasna’s funeral is two days from now, but Bilal—actually, the Afarit impersonating Bilal—took her soul away in a glass jar. Will you help me to set her free?”

“I already said I would, didn’t I?” I toss my hair, impatient to get moving. “Is it possible that we can ... bring her back somehow?” I have no idea how Djinn magic works, but if a teenage boy can teleport and the bad guys can summon spirits with the blood of humans, who knows?

He shakes his head. “No, she’s gone. We can’t just put her soul back in her body. It doesn’t work like that. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

I’m tempted to remind him that my existence contradicts his rather black-and-white view of mortality, but decide to cut him some slack. “Okay, so what do we need?”

“This.” He opens his denim jacket and shows me the dagger in its leather sheath strapped around his ribs. Nifty. He gets up and heads over to the napkin stand.

I follow, pulling on my jacket with a satisfying rattle of zips. Adam grabs a fistful of salt packets and tucks them into his pocket. He hands me some more.

“Here,” he says, “we’ll need these.”

I raise my eyebrows. “We’re going to eat him? Really, Adam, you should’ve warned me.” I flash him a grin and give him another glimpse of fang. “I would’ve brought floss for after.”

He scowls. “Very funny. No, this is how you trap an Afarit—I’ll show you. We summon it with the book and then kill it with the knife Bilal used to murder Hasna.”

I’m still wondering what the salt is for when he heads out of the café, not even bothering to see if I follow.

I do.

We are in a rain-slicked alley behind the theater. Plastic bags flutter like multicolored ghosts, and the wet ground shines black under the single streetlight.

Adam is frowning at the bright light. “That’s not going to help.”

“You mean you don’t want to be able to see what you’re doing?”

His eyes meet mine. “I can see in the dark well enough.”

“Oh goody,” I say. “Me too.”

I climb the lamppost in seconds and hang on single-handed at the top. My legs are wrapped around the heavy iron, but it’s pretty slippery and not easy to maintain my grip. I have to be fast. I make a fist with my right hand, pull the leather sleeve of my jacket down with my teeth to give me a little protection, and punch out the light. There is a sad buzzing sound and then silence.

I slide down the metal pole and grin at Adam. My cheeks are flushed, and I have to remember that we are here to do something serious. He has already turned away and is crouched on the ground.

He looks up at me. “I think it was here. Where she died, I mean.”

I hunker down next to him and touch his shoulder. The mood is deadly serious now, and even I know when to quit messing around. I close my eyes and reach out with my senses, trying to catch a scent— her scent.

I shake my head. “Too much rain.” I gesture helplessly at the soaked ground. “Sorry, I can’t smell anything that isn’t wet weeds and dog shit.”

“It has to be the exact spot.” His voice is shaking, and I don’t know what to say. “I think it was here. How could I forget something like that?”

Adam moves his hand a few inches to the right. “Or maybe here?”

I watch his fingers tremble and bite my lip. I hate this. I hate what I am, but if it can help him, I might as well try.

“Do you have something of hers with you? Something that will still hold her essence? What about the knife?”

He shakes his head. “I cleaned it pretty thoroughly.”

I swallow. Poor guy. That can’t have been easy for him. “Anything else?”

His eyes widen as he fastens onto my gaze. There is hope in the golden depths now, which is better than the misery they held before. “I have her charm bracelet! The clasp broke when we came outside, and I put it in my pocket. I was going to get it fixed for her.”

He bows his head and takes a deep breath. Regains control.

I nod, trying to keep him focused. “Okay, good. Give it to me.”

Of course, the bracelet is silver. I should’ve known. I almost laugh but manage to keep my mouth shut. I tug down the sleeve of my too-big jacket once more and cover my hand. “Put it here.”

Adam raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. I wonder if he knows that the silver will burn me. I wonder if he noticed the scars on my arms while we were inside the coffee shop.

Swallowing, I carefully—very carefully—raise the charm bracelet to my face. I’m not too keen on getting a bunch of silver burns on my nose. I take a cautious breath and then another. I try to separate the faint smell coming from the delicate silver chain links. I need to pinpoint that and ignore Adam’s signature scent—spicy, like a hot summer sun—and the leather of my coat.

I think I have it and slide the bracelet back into his waiting hand. Adam clutches it in his fist for a moment and then pushes it back into his pocket.

“Did you get anything?”

I nod, not wanting to tell him that I’m not sure. I get on my hands and knees on the wet ground and try to trace the remnants of this girl’s murder. Her blood was spilled here just three nights ago—that’s what Adam said—even if it had been cleaned up; even with all this goddamn rain, I should be able to pick up something. Anything. Murder leaves more than just a ripple.

“Here,” I say, my nose almost touching the concrete. There are stone slabs with overgrown weeds creeping out of the gaps, as though trying to drink in the rain. I point at the intersection of two large, flat stones. “Right here.”

“You’re sure?” Adam is almost on top of me.

“As sure as I can be,” I say, not wanting to get his hopes up.

He watches me for a moment, looking as though he is about to say something else. But he closes his mouth and nods. “Okay.” He pulls out the dagger. “Okay,” he says again, almost a whisper that only I can hear.

I wonder what he would have done if the “exact spot” had been on stone rather than the gap between slabs, but I figure he’s due a bit of luck. It’s not like Adam’s had it easy these past few days. I sit back and watch him work.

First, he begins opening salt packets and tipping out the contents in a rough circle around the site of the murder. It takes a lot of packets to cover the area with a thick enough layer of salt, especially because it keeps dissolving into the ground. Maybe that was why he’d given me extras.

As that thought crosses my mind, Adam nudges me and holds out his hand. “Salt.”

I pass it over, grumbling as I see that one of the paper packets has split inside my pocket. I toss a handful over my shoulder for luck, and wonder if Adam will be pissed that I wasted some.

But he’s not watching me at all, concentrating solely on his task. It’s like he is preparing some kind of ritual. It reminds me of something from one of those old black magic movies. He pushes dark hair out of his eyes; the damp air has given him a cute curl resting on his forehead that makes him look like a half-Moroccan Superman.

Adam senses me watching him and glances up. “What?”

I sit back on my heels. “Nothing. I’m just curious.”

“You’ve never seen magic before?” His face tells the story of his disbelief. “You’re a vampire.”

“So?” I feel suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze. Getting turned into one of the undead doesn’t make me an automatic expert on all things paranormal.

He frowns but doesn’t pursue it. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“For what?” I have no idea what to expect, and yet here I am in a deserted alleyway with a complete stranger who is trying to trap an Afarit. This is pretty weird even by my standards. I wonder if I can get away with asking Theo for a raise.

Adam has the book open in one hand and drives the blade into wet earth with the other, whispering words I don’t understand. A high-pitched screeching fills the air and drives me to my knees.

I clamp my hands over my ears, but I keep my eyes wide open. That’s how I see the black cloud take shape before me. It is like a plume of soot, and it smells of death. I choke on a cough, and I want to cover my mouth, but then I wouldn’t be able to block my ears against the horrendous screaming.

The cloud-thing starts to take human shape, and I try to look round it—hoping to see where Adam is. For one gut-clenching moment I think that maybe he’s tricked me. Has he summoned a monster and then teleported out of here, leaving me alone to face it?

But, no. He’s back, appearing in front of me, the blade is in his hand. He strikes at the creature before it can take human form, but the dagger passes through it.

“What are you doing?” I shout at him, over the shrieking wind that is whirling dust into my eyes and mouth. “There’s nothing to hit!”

Adam seems confused. He looks scared, which doesn’t fill me with confidence. “I thought—”

But I don’t get to hear what he “thought” because the next moment the black smoke becomes solid and a giant fist slams into the side of Adam’s face and knocks him to the ground. The only reason his head is still on his stupid shoulders is because he managed to twist to the side, just in time.

He’s still out cold, though.

Great, I think. Just perfect.

I look up at the smoke creature and wait for it to swat me like the insect I am.

But the smoke thing doesn’t attack me, not right away. Instead it swirls and becomes smaller and more dense. The wind that seemed to spring from nowhere drops, just as quickly as it arrived, and I wipe dirt from my eyes. I pull out the stupid blue contacts while I’m at it and take great pleasure in tossing them away.

I watch the black cloud take the shape of a man. I watch as it coalesces and winds around and around like a miniature whirlwind, until the magician, Bilal, stands before me. He bows and then reaches out a beautifully manicured hand. “Give me the book, little vampire, and maybe I will let you return to your master.”

Maybe it’s his use of the word “master” that makes me so angry, or maybe it is the way he so easily recognizes what I am. Adam lies quietly on the ground. I am wet and tired, and I don’t know what the hell is going on. All I know is that Theo sent me for the book, and I am going to take it back to him. No magician or Afarit or smoke monster is going to take it away from me.

I bare my teeth and clench my fists. Maybe I can’t fight a funnel of black smoke, but I can deal with a middle-aged guy in a suit.

The Djinn-in-human-form grins at me. Its mouth is sort of reptilian. I don’t quite know where I’ve got that image from, but the more I think about it the more perfectly it fits. It licks its human lips. “How does it feel to be the lowest creature on the food chain, little vampire?”

“What do you know of vampires?”

“I know enough.” Its voice is smooth and laced with an exotic accent that I don’t recognize. “You are beginning to smell dead, did you know that?”

My stomach lurches, and I suddenly feel sick. I don’t want to hear this.

It smiles a secret smile. “Your soul is too old for your body.”

What am I supposed to say to that? I can only watch this strange being as it toys with me, trying to manipulate my emotions as though I’m nothing. It reminds me of how I feel when my father speaks to me.

The Afarit cocks its head to one side. “Give me the book, and perhaps I will kill you and your little friend quickly.”

Another one who wants the damn book. I shake my head and give “Bilal” the finger. “Go screw yourself, Smoky.”

And then it raises both hands—human-looking hands—and blasts out with a column of black smoke that lifts and carries me across the alleyway, slamming me into the fence that runs along one side.

I am on my knees with my face pressed against the rough wooden fence. I can feel a splinter work its way into my cheek, and the sharp pain shakes me out of the weird sort of coma. I am staggering to my feet, as though I’m drunk, though it has been a very long time since I was last drunk. The Afarit—if that is what it is—lunges forward before I can turn.

Something sharp hits me in the ribs, just below my heart, and the sickening sound of blade on bone makes me want to puke. I fall forward and the Afarit catches me and, almost tenderly, lays me down on the cold ground. The dagger sticks out of me and ohmygod it hurts; it hurts so much and I want Theo to come and take it away and make the pain stop. I can’t draw breath to scream, and then I remember that I don’t even need to breathe—not all the time. Not anymore. I discovered that last year, and it had taken me several weeks to get used to the idea. Of course, I do still make myself breathe. I need to at least seem human. That is important to me.

I lie on the floor in a growing pool of my own blood and wonder why I am thinking of this now. I feel cold—colder than I have ever been, maybe even colder than when I died. Surely the dagger can’t kill me, I think. Not again.

It is getting more and more difficult to concentrate.

I try harder. The blade isn’t made of silver—I know that much. Adam said it was made of iron, which would hurt the Afarit. So why is it burning between my ribs as though I will break in two at any moment? It must be magic, I think dully, trying to focus on some way I can get myself free. There must be something—I refuse to just lie here like a victim. I feel hot tears leaking out of my eyes. They roll down my temples and into my hair, and I can’t stop them.

The Djinn, in the shape of the magician called Bilal, crawls on top of me and lowers his body over mine. I try to shake him off but there is no strength in my limbs; they feel like overcooked spaghetti.

The Afarit’s breath is hot on my face, and I feel its neatly trimmed beard touch my cheek. I want to push it away—get it the hell off me—but I can’t move and the dagger hurts so much. And anyway, he is almost lying on top of the hilt. He will push it even deeper into me if I struggle too much. Large, hot hands press mine against the concrete, and I can feel chunky rings digging into my fingers.

It whispers in my ear: “You stink of fear, little vampire.”

Its face is pressed against mine, and I feel a flicker of wet warmth against my temple. I try to jerk away but his weight holding me down is too much. What is it doing? Something inside me shivers as I realize that it is licking me—lapping up my tears. Its tongue feels long and sharp as it collects every drop of warm, salty moisture from my face and I resolve, in that moment, to never cry again. It will remind me too much of this nightmare.

I feel sick and helpless. I want to kill this thing. Just thinking about sinking my fangs into its throat makes me feel a little better. I test my legs, trying for any sort of movement. I only need leverage, just enough to get my knee up and give this asshole something else to think about.

Bilal’s face leers at me, and I wish he would get a little closer. Maybe I can bite off his goddamn nose if I let him think I’m beaten. I slump and allow him to feel the shaking in my body. Let him believe it’s fear, I think savagely. Let him think I’m trembling because I’m afraid of him. I almost forget to play victim but manage to swallow the snarl that is building in my throat.

I think that maybe the creature sees murder in my eyes because it pulls back and stands over me. The pressure on the knife eases, and I take an experimental breath. The pain is turning into a dull sort of ache and I wonder if the wound is beginning to heal around the blade. That’s probably not a good thing.

The Afarit looks like it is done playing with me for a while. I follow it with my eyes as it finds the book lying in a puddle by Adam’s side. Stupid freaking book. I am tempted to burn it rather than deliver it Theo—if I actually manage to survive this and get it back from the spirit thing standing over me.

I can’t help thinking of the Afarit as Bilal, even though I know that the magician is long gone. Its white teeth are gleaming as it smiles at me. “Thank you,” it says in Bilal’s smooth tones. “All of this unpleasantness could have been avoided if you had just given it to me in the first place.” He sounds so calm, so reasonable.

I want to kill him.

I smile back. I can’t help it, because my legs twitch and I am getting the feeling back in my knees. That seems like something to smile about.

Bilal’s mud-spattered black shoe is close to my heavily booted foot. Close ... closer...

I take a deep breath against the burning pain in my chest and strike with the hardest kick I can manage. Under the circumstances, I think I do a pretty good job. I hit Bilal in the ankle and he howls with shock and staggers backward. Bones might not have broken but that’s got to hurt like hell.

I grip the dagger’s hilt with both hands and pull. It doesn’t matter that it feels as though I’m pulling out an internal organ or two, it only matters that I survive.

It only matters that I am free.

I fling the knife away, watching with fascination as my blood flies above me in a crimson arc. It sprays across Adam’s pale cheek, several stray drops landing on his lips.

His golden eyes snap open. He wipes away the blood and licks his fingers. He grimaces at the taste and then drags himself to his feet. Adam seems to take in the situation: me on the ground, starting to pull myself to my knees. Bilal is running away with the book, escaping with the only thing that matters here. Not just for Theo, I am surprised to find myself thinking, but for Adam. For a dead girl named Hasna.

I hurt all over. It feels as though something crucial is missing from my body, and I’m afraid to look at the wound left behind by the blade. I press a hand against the ragged hole over my ribs and use the other to help me regain my balance against the fence. I am pleasantly surprised to find that I can stand.

Adam is visibly torn. He is taking a step toward me, while at the same time turning to look at the fleeing magician.

“What are you waiting for?” I shout. “Go after him!”

He responds to the command in my voice, running to the corner of the alley and moving out of my line of sight.

I am still relearning how to breathe. I hope my ribs are all in their right places, otherwise healing is going to be a bitch even with my abilities. I look up and almost scream with frustration. Adam has returned and is hovering over me, his face filled with horror and something else it takes me a moment to recognize.

“This is all my fault,” he says. His eyes are wild as they swivel between me and the ground—alighting on the exact spot where Hasna died.

Of course, he thinks that I am the second girl he didn’t save from the magician’s knife. I swallow pain and bile and know I have to reassure him. Apart from wanting to help Adam, I can’t stand being fussed over like this.

“I’m okay, you should’ve gone after him. It.” I correct myself. It seems important that I remember the thing that stabbed me—almost in the heart—is a monster. Maybe it’s even more of a monster than me? That is a bizarrely comforting thought.

He nods his head toward the end of the alley. “He went through the stage door.”

“What? Why would he do that?” It was the middle of the freaking night. Unless London shows had special midnight performances, the Afarit wasn’t going to achieve much in a deserted theater.

I am furious with Adam for letting the book go. Idiot. I want to punch him, but I am suddenly feeling weak again. I’ve lost a lot of blood and will need to feed, but the last thing I want to do is to have to use Theo’s contacts. This job was supposed to be straightforward, dammit. It was meant to be easy.

And then I fall to my knees again and wonder why everything is spinning. Even Adam’s face is spinning around in slow circles. He crouches down with me and his golden eyes look like twin suns.

I manage to force words from my parched throat. “Why do I feel so sick?”

“Djinn magic,” he replies. His hands are underneath my elbows, holding me up. “The knife was a conduit for a death spell.”

“It can affect vampires?” I can’t believe there is such magic in the world, and yet here I am on the verge of collapse.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know there really were vampires until today. It certainly looks like it can hurt you, even if it can’t kill you.”

I choke on a laugh. “Already died once.”

“What can I do?” he asks.

I take a shuddering breath, trying desperately to steady myself in his arms. “What you should have done was stop that bastard before he got away with my book.”

His eyebrow rises in response, and I could almost swear that he is smiling. “Oh, it’s your book now, is it?” He shakes his head and the smile is gone, if it was ever there to begin with. “I couldn’t leave you, Moth. Not after you trusted me.”

I slump a little further. “Yeah, and look where that got me. Tossed around and stabbed.” He props me up and my cheek rests on his shoulder. I take in the strange dry scent of him, and the hunger gnawing at my belly gets stronger.

Adam turns his head slightly so that his chin touches my face. “Are you going to bite me?”

“What?” I raise my head, surprise shaking me out of this half-drugged stupor. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re sniffing my neck,” he replies, and I can’t decide if he sounds afraid or curious. I wish he was more afraid of me—it would be safer for him.

I sigh and drop my head again. He’s so warm, even out here in the chill night air. “I guess I do need to feed.” I don’t know what to do. I should phone Theo, but that means admitting that I’ve failed.

I’m not ready to do that.

He nudges me so I have to pull back and look at him. Our eyes meet: gold on silver. I catch my breath; I can’t help it, he is so beautiful.

He touches my cheek with warm fingertips and something inside me breaks. The tide of loneliness that I hold back, day after day, rushes through the breach, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from crying. Remember what you promised, I tell myself. No more tears. Never again.

He is stroking my face, pushing my tangled hair out of the way, and his eyes are filled with compassion beyond his years. It reminds me, just a little, of the way Theo looks at me when he is in one of his better moods. The lump in my throat expands to the size of a fist.

Adam’s expression is deadly serious. “Feed from me,” he says. His voice is steady and sure.

I blink and try to push him away. This isn’t what I expected. I thought maybe he’d help me find one of Theo’s London contacts. Or even that he might offer to steal hospital supplies with me—his Houdini superpowers would come in very handy for that—but this ... this strangely innocent offer is a surprise.

I shiver against him and shake my head. “No, you’re too young. You don’t know what you’re offering.”

Adam puts his fingers beneath my chin and forces me to look at him. “I don’t care. You got hurt because of me—let me help you.”

“There are other ways you can help, Adam. You don’t have to open a vein.”

“I don’t mind a little blood,” he replies. “Djinn have a long and complicated relationship with it.”

We don’t have time for a history lesson on the Djinn. I frown at him and once more attempt to wriggle out of his arms, but I am weak and he is stronger than he looks. He is also determined.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I tell him. I mean it, too. I didn’t think I would care about him so quickly. I wish I could toughen up. All very well to be able to talk the talk, but if I can’t walk the walk when it counts, then my attitude is all for shit. My image was taking a pounding right here in the back alley of a London theater. How embarrassing.

Adam shrugs out of his jacket and bares his throat. “Go on, do it.” There’s a challenge in his voice, but no fear that I can detect. This boy is something else.

I lick my lips and breathe him in. He smells of cinnamon and sunshine. His scent reminds me of the hot spices that drift from the Indian restaurant down the block from Holly’s apartment.

My fangs extend, and the hunger grabs hold of my gut. I cry out as my whole body spasms and rips open the slowly healing gash below my chest. I snarl with helpless need and pull Adam toward me.

“Give me your wrist,” I pant, barely able to get the words out. “That will be enough.”

He shakes his head and puts burning hot palms on either side of my face, pulls me toward him and presses his dry mouth to mine. My fangs nick his bottom lip, and a bright bead of blood wobbles there for what feels like centuries. I watch with fascination as the dark crimson blooms and begins to flow.

My hands are in his hair, and I press against him, kissing him back, not stopping to think about the fact that he’s a lot younger than me. Okay, on paper it’s only a year. In reality? No, I really wasn’t going to let that thought take hold in my head. Not when he kisses like he really knows what he’s doing.

I wonder if he is thinking of Hasna.

Adam kneels on the wet ground, and I straddle him, overcome by the rich scent of his blood. It is like nothing I have ever experienced before—he tastes exotic and other. My body opens up with need as I wrench his head backward with both hands and plunge my teeth into his throat.

We are standing outside the stage door, having followed the badly concealed trail that the Afarit left behind. It obviously wants to be found, an insight that doesn’t sit well with me.

I cleaned as much of the blood off Adam as I could before we crept out from behind the tall buildings, and he did the same for me. Although we don’t speak about what happened between us back there, the awareness is palpable. Not just awareness of the act but of how we both feel about it afterward.

How do I know what Adam is feeling? Because I can feel it. My heart beats in time with his, and I can taste his pulse on my tongue. We are connected in a way that I never imagined could happen with anyone other than Theo. I don’t mean that after one random feeding we are suddenly in love. That’s ridiculous. He’s a half-human and I’m a vampire, not to mention the fact that he’s mourning his girlfriend’s death.

So, no, not love. But something else almost as strong. His blood is inside me, and it feels wicked-good. Normally, after I’ve fed from my Maker I feel ashamed. It’s as though I’ve done something wrong and twisted; as though I am a monster and my desire for Theo’s blood just goes to prove it. No matter how many times he tells me that it’s natural to feed from the vampire who made you, I cannot allow that to be true. I worry about what that might mean.

I never let Theo feed from me; not since the day he turned me.

With Adam it’s different. This is the first time in a decade that I don’t feel suffused with shame after feeding. I glance at him through the dancing shadows, and he takes my hand in his. He is no longer as warm as he was ... before. I have stolen some of his heat, and I feel deliciously alive. Adam told me there are legends that Djinn have fire running through their veins. After feeding on him, I can almost believe it.

I could get used to feeding on Djinn blood. My wounds have healed, and I’m glowing with the power of the sun.

Seems we have to stop the Afarit from taking the “next step.” The book contains incantations that will free the creature. Adam tells me: “The Djinn love to travel. Think about it ... As Islam spread West, so did the old legends and stories. Only, the Djinn aren’t just mythical creatures after all—I’m evidence of that. My mother is a powerful Djinn; I’ve only met her twice in my whole life, and the first time I couldn’t possibly remember. That was after she’d given birth to me and left me with my father. Dad, in turn, handed me over to an endless supply of nannies and carers while he worked overseas as an anthropologist. Afarit, however, are creatures of habit. They love their homes, and many of them live in the Middle East.”

So the darkling that wears Bilal’s face wants to go home. And to do that, it needs to remove the binding placed on it—a binding that holds it here on English soil. It can’t travel over water until it breaks that spell.

Which is where the book comes in; the same book that Adam needs to save Hasna’s soul. The same book that I must retrieve and deliver to Theo.

Adam can teleport inside the theater, but I’m not so lucky. However, what I lack in Djinn powers I more than make up for with vampire attitude and a recent intake of fresh blood. I kick down the door without a second thought and feel like Wonder Woman. I don’t care whether anyone hears, though Adam looks at me with wide-eyed horror and makes exaggerated “shushing” motions.

I roll my eyes at him, crack my knuckles and stride into the darkness. I’m tired of sneaking around. There’s an Afarit inside that’s long past due for an ass-kicking, and I’m damn well going to be the one who delivers it.

Shaking off Adam’s restraining hand, I push on ahead and allow my nose to guide me. My senses are supercharged right now, and I don’t want to waste the additional power. I’m not afraid of anything, not with the heat of Adam’s blood still warming my belly. He knows it, too, and doesn’t argue with me. He seems subdued, and I wonder if it’s because I’ve weakened him or whether he is simply thinking of Hasna.

We walk through narrow corridors and work our way into the theater itself. It is strange being here after hours; there is a magic in this place that is all its own. Not Djinn magic, but the kind of enchantment that inhabits old buildings dedicated to art. Maybe that’s why the creature chose this place—there must be a ton of residual energy in the building, from its foundations to the concrete pillars and all the way up to its beautiful arched ceiling. We talk in hushed voices as though we are in a church, and there is definitely something sacred in the dusty air.

We reach the main auditorium, and I am unsurprised to find it lit by an ethereal brightness that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. And why not? After all, we are chasing a spirit in possession of a human girl’s soul. We left “normal” behind way back in the basement of that occult bookstore.

The old-fashioned velvet curtains are open, and the stage is empty of any kind of set or backdrop. Empty, that is, apart from a richly designed blood red carpet spread over the wooden boards.

Empty, apart from the Afarit sitting cross-legged in the center of the carpet, surrounded by a ring of stubby white candles.

My mind shows me a fleeting image of flying carpets and Arabian Nights. I remember fairy tales Mom used to read to me, so many years ago.

The Afarit grins at us with white teeth that shine behind Bilal’s black beard. “How kind of you to join me,” it says. It doesn’t look surprised to see us.

Adam steps forward. He is pale but composed, and I can’t help admiring his courage. “Just let Hasna go. You don’t need her now.”

“Foolish boy,” the creature replies. “Of course I do. Her spirit allows me to walk this plane of existence. I cannot release her without killing myself.”

“I could just rip your goddamn head off,” I say, keeping my voice pleasant and conversational. “How do you like them apples?” (I’ve always wanted to say that.)

“I think,” Bilal says, “that you are very lucky to be alive.” His eyes are cunning. “If we can call what you do ... living.”

I swallow anger and keep a smile pinned to my face. “Let’s see you finish the job, Ugly.”

Adam glances at me from out the corner of his eye, but I pretend not to notice. He’s trying to tell me something, but as far as I’m concerned the time for talking is officially over.

My fangs extend, making my gums ache. I have already fed too much tonight, but I am going to end this one way or another.

I leap up onto the stage in a single movement, stride across the carpet, and lunge at the spirit-possessed magician—

—only to bounce off a barrier that surrounds him like an invisible bubble. I fall on my butt and try to catch my breath. My hands are tingling from the impact, and it feels like one of my wrists has snapped. I test it by clenching both hands into fists. Thankfully, everything seems intact.

The only thing damaged is my pride.

I look up and see that the ceiling over the stage is painted dark blue and scattered with silver stars. Somehow, this seems appropriate.

Adam is beside me on the stage, helping me to my feet. “I tried to warn you,” he whispers.

“No you didn’t,” I retort. I’m not really angry with him, but right now he’s an easy target.

“I did,” he says with exaggerated patience. “I gave you ‘The Look.’”

“What look? I didn’t see any look. You’re just—”

“Amusing as this is, children, I am ready to complete the ritual now.” The Afarit stands in an inhumanly graceful movement. The invisible shield begins to shimmer around him, kind of like a city street under intense heat—the sort of heat I have to keep out of now.

We stop quarreling and stare. The Afarit raises its right hand to the fake night sky and begins chanting in a language I don’t understand. He is reading from the book and, as he continues to chant, smoke begins to rise from the aged pages. Theo once told me that not all magical books actually contain magic, but maybe this one does. Maybe that’s why it’s so important to him. I can’t help wondering if the stupid thing is going to burst into flames.

Light glints off something in the Afarit’s raised hand and, just for a moment, I think it is one of the rings that Bilal was wearing.

Then I see that it’s a small glass jar; the sort that might hold honey under normal circumstances. Adam notices at the same time and grabs my arm.

“The spirit jar!”

He is practically crushing my bicep through the padding of my jacket. I shake him off with ease and push him behind me. “Stay back,” I say, trying to sound like I know what I’m doing. “I have a plan.”

Anyone who knows me knows that when Moth says she has “a plan,” they should keep their heads down and stay as far away from ground zero as possible. Sadly for him, Adam doesn’t know me, and he insists on sticking to me like freaking glue. Fine—it’s his damn funeral.

I almost surprise myself with the knowledge that I really do have a plan. It’s not a very sensible one—in fact, even based on my colorful history of crazy ideas, this one is probably the worst I’ve ever come up with. Still, in the last few hours I’d already been beaten, thrown around, stabbed, and licked... Tonight could surely not get any worse. I’d just have to deal with the consequences when I got home.

The Afarit places the book down gently on the floor but continues to chant all sorts of mumbo jumbo. The spirit jar is in both hands now, and I’m sure I can see something silver white swirling inside. I frown and blink my eyes, wondering if I’m imagining things. As a young vampire I have genuinely struggled with the concept of “the soul”—do I still have one? Why doesn’t my reflection show up in mirrors if I do have a soul or spirit? But tonight I’ve had my perceptions shifted.

Not only can I see something in front of me that looks a whole lot like it could be a human spirit trapped in a freaking jar, but back in the alley the Afarit told me my soul is “too old” for my body. This indicates that not only does the human spirit exist as a potentially separate entity, but maybe I still possess one.

I push these philosophical ponderings aside, but resolve to think on it later; this isn’t the time or the place for existential angst.

Adam is pounding on the outside of the invisible shield, his eyes deepest gold and his mouth set in a grim line.

I grab his shoulder and swing him around. “Can’t you just teleport through it?”

“That’s the first thing I bloody well tried. It doesn’t work.” He shakes his head and gives the barrier a savage kick. “What’s this plan of yours? We’ve got to hurry—the ritual must be almost over by now.”

I take a slow breath, enjoying the feel of air in my lungs. I still feel strong as hell thanks to Adam’s generous donation. “Have you ever tried to transport someone else?”

Confusion crosses his face. “You mean, take them with me when I teleport?”

“No, I mean send someone or something else away ... independently of you. Without you actually being the one who teleports.”

“I don’t think it’s possible,” he says. He sounds disappointed, as though my Great Plan has already been shot down in flames.

“But you’ve never tried, right?” I am feeling more excited as each moment passes. This could work. I really think that this crazy-ass plan of mine could work.

Adam isn’t convinced. “I can teleport myself and anything I’m holding or wearing that’s made of natural materials. I told you that. It only works over short distances. And we found out earlier that if an object has magical protection on it, no matter what it’s made from, then it won’t travel.” He nods at the book inside the barrier of candles.

I hold him by both arms and make him look at me. It is important that he knows I’m deadly serious. “Adam, I want you to try teleporting me inside the barrier.”

“No way.” He’s already trying to pull away. “You could get hurt.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” I flash him a grin. “Already dead, remember?”

“I said no —you’re crazy.”

“This is our only chance,” I say, anger heating my face and making me wish I had the ninja skills to glamour him.

He glares at me. “You mean it’s your only chance to get the book back for your boss.”

“Adam, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the book any more. I want to save Hasna’s soul.” I am genuinely surprised to discover that I mean it, and if Adam knew what I was planning he’d know I meant it, too.

“I don’t understand how my powers work,” he says slowly, “but I do know that it only works on me. It has to be my essence that travels.”

I want to slap him for being so dumb. “I just drank a whole load of your blood, you moron. I’d say that qualifies me as possessing your ‘essence.’”

Comprehension dawns and his expression is suddenly clearer than I’ve seen it all night. “Oh,” he says. Then: “Wait a minute ... why would it work on you and not on me? I already tried to teleport and got bounced.”

I shrug. “Look, this isn’t a scientific experiment. It might not work. I just have a feeling that it will.”

Because although I fed on Adam’s blood—and despite the fact that an evil Djinn said I still have a soul—there’s no denying the fact that I did die when I was eighteen years old. My very unscientific plan involves somehow “confusing” the magical barrier.

And speaking of that, I’ve been keeping half an eye on whatever Bilal is doing, and it doesn’t look like we have any more time. The spirit jar’s contents are going crazy, swirling like a tiny tornado on crack.

“Stop arguing and do it,” I say, turning my back on him. The Afarit is bringing the jar to its lips. Oh my gods, I think. Is it going to do what it looks like it’s going to do? My eyes focus on the spirit jar’s lid; the magician’s hands are slowly unscrewing it, and the creature wearing his image has finally stopped chanting. I resist the temptation to look back at Adam and instead draw the knife out of my messenger bag.

What? You think I’m not prepared? I’d remembered to grab it before we left the alley.

You never know when you might need an iron blade to kill an Afarit.

Adam has his eyes closed. Anytime now...

The knife still has my blood on it, which is probably why it successfully teleports through the barrier with me—I’d hoped it might (I’m not just a pretty face, you know). The world disappears, and for a second my stomach is upside down and my head is spinning and I have no idea where I am. One minute I am at Adam’s side, hoping that his Djinn mojo will somehow catapult me inside the bubble, and the next I am right there next to the Afarit. Up close and personal with a killer wearing the face of a power-hungry magician.

“How—?”

I cut off its question with the dagger.

I’m not interested in trading witty repartee or gloating over how clever I am. I only want this to be over.

The iron blade sinks into Bilal’s heart, and the creature screams. Black blood pours hot and thick onto my fist, but I ignore it and keep hold of the wooden hilt. My other hand grabs the jar before it falls to the ground, my reflexes only just quick enough to snatch it out of the air.

I have to be fast. Luckily, girls are good at multitasking.

I let go of the knife and screw the lid back onto the spirit jar. The Afarit falls to its knees and tries to pull the blade from its chest, but I’m not finished yet. The candles are my next target—I begin kicking them over one by one. As the circle is broken, so the magic breaks and the barrier drops.

Adam practically falls on top of me. He’s been waiting with his nose all but pressed against the invisible shield.

“Where is she?” he gasps. “Please...”

“Here, it’s okay.” I hand him the precious container and turn my attention to the book. That stupid, goddamn book. Everything began with it, and now everything is going to end with it.

I force myself to take a deep breath. I am terrified and exhilarated just thinking about what I’m about to do. Theo is going to kill me.

Oh no, I think, smiling to myself like a smartass. He already did that once.

You won’t get me to admit it out loud, but I take a huge amount of guilty pleasure in picking up the only candle that’s still alight. I touch the flickering flame to one of the brittle pages of that sacred Arabic text and watch it burn. I hold onto it until the last possible moment and then let it fall, still burning, to the crimson carpet.

The Afarit is crawling on the floor in agony and its eyes—Bilal’s eyes—widen as it sees the bright flames consume the book: the book that we used to summon it in the first place. Adam and I step back and enjoy the drama unfolding on the stage. How appropriate that this is where we should all end up. It’s the perfect final curtain call.

Black smoke begins to roll off the creature in choking waves, but it’s still not dying, or disappearing—whatever is supposed to happen. I glance at Adam, wondering what I missed. He is cradling the spirit jar, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears. I swallow my own sadness at the sight, and I know what else we have to do.

But this is not my role. There’s only one person who can complete this part of the ritual. I step farther back, giving him space while still keeping the dying spirit in view. We don’t want any last minute surprises.

My senses are good enough that I can easily hear what Adam says to Hasna before he releases her forever. I will take those words with me wherever I go, for the rest of my very long life. I will keep them close to my heart and share them with nobody. They are not my words to give.

Adam smashes the jar and white light flies like a comet from the glittering shards. The impossible brightness hangs in the air for a moment, shivering like a swarm of beautiful fireflies or a miniature firework display especially for us.

Cool air brushes my face like a blessing, and then the light fades. I look down at the carpet, and there is nothing left; nothing but broken glass, candles scattered like strange confetti ... and a large pile of ash.

We are silent for a couple more minutes, although I can hear Adam’s soft breathing. I think we’re both saying good-bye to Hasna, even though I never knew her. It seems like the right thing to do.

I take Adam’s hand and lead him slowly away. I wonder what the theater employees will think when they arrive for work tomorrow, but we’ll be long gone by then. I’ll be on a plane across the Atlantic, on my way back home to Theo. I’ll have a lot of explaining to do, but right now I just don’t care.

Tonight, at least, I know that I did the right thing.

Tonight, I am still Marie O’Neal.