Master of None Read Free Page A

I straightened and approached the scattered pile of stuff Trevor’s thugs had left behind. Some of it looked salvageable. They’d even missed a few stacks of cash. Idiots. They’d smashed my cell phone. That didn’t bother me as much as the mangled remains of my scrambler and the twisted-beyond-salvation lock jock. I couldn’t see calling anyone in the near future, but I suspected I’d have to boost a ride. I pocketed everything that appeared intact and deliberately avoided looking in the stranger’s direction.
    “We are not through.” The stranger spoke just behind me. I didn’t turn. “I have business with you, and I’ll see it carried out.”
    “Good luck with that.”
    “You will cooperate. Did you forget what happened to your quick-tempered friend?”
    The cool front seemed to be working. I picked up the last remaining item—the wire spool, slightly bent—and slipped it into a pocket of the windbreaker. Straightening slowly for effect, I flashed a wry smile. “First, Skids is no friend of mine. I suspect you know that. And second, I didn’t forget. But if
you
did that to Skids, it won’t happen to me.”
    “I would not be so certain of that,” the stranger growled.
    “I would.” My smile stayed put. “You need me. Remember?”
    A flush suffused the stranger’s face. He didn’t correct me.
    “That’s what I thought. The way I figure it, you’re the one who has to cooperate with me. So start cooperating, or I’m dust.”
    “You would be, if I had my way.” The stranger’s tone took on a silken edge that held more threat than his barbs. “Very well, Gavyn Donatti. What do you want?”
    “Answers. Who are you?”
    “You may call me Ian.”
    “Is that your name?”
    “No.”
    “Fair enough.” The people in my world didn’t always use their real names. Skids’s mom sure as hell hadn’t named him after underwear stains. Probably wasn’t what Skids had in mind when he took the handle, either, but I thought it suited him.
    I let the name thing pass and stared at Ian’s chest. The wounds still glistened red, their edges puckered and drawn. He shouldn’t be standing—
couldn’t
be—but I’d learned to believe what my eyes told me, no matter how impossible it seemed. “How do you know my name?”
    “From the telephone book.”
    “Nice try. I’m not listed.”
    “I know because it is my business to know. I cannot explain further.”
    “Fine. I have a more important question, anyway.” I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer, but I had a feeling it was a need-to-know kind of thing. “What are you?”
    Ian hesitated. He stared at me, as if he was trying to gauge my capacity to handle the news. A few insane ideas flashed through my head: werewolf, vampire, figment of my imagination. I would’ve preferred the latter. At last, he said, “I am djinn.”
    “You’re digi-what? Can you say that in English?”
    “A djinn, you blithering idiot. What you Americans call
genies
.” Ian managed to infuse the word with more contempt than he’d shown for me, a feat that couldn’t have been easy.
    I laughed. “Seriously. What are you?”
    Ian extended an arm and waved long and slender fingers at my dilapidated coupe. A spot of gleaming chrome burst on thefront bumper and spread to become glossy turquoise along the body. Within seconds, a sleek two-door sports car—no brand I’d ever seen and no logo or name to identify it—stood in place of my former heap.
    “I am djinn,” Ian repeated.
    I shut the flytrap that had replaced my mouth, surprised I wasn’t drooling. “Right. Digie-inn. Got it.”
    “Imbecile! Just call me Ian. Surely you can pronounce that, at least.”
    “Sure,” I said, not really listening to him anymore. I wandered to the car and ran a hand along the smooth roof. Cool, solid metal. My hand didn’t go through it, and the paint didn’t rub off. Okay, so maybe this Ian guy really had turned my rustbucket into a . . . whatever this was. Cinderella never had it