Smoke, p.1
Smoke, page 1
Smoke
By Amy Spector
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2022 Amy Spector
ISBN 9781685503321
Cover Design: Amy Spector
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Dedicated to three people that taught me to believe in magic.
* * * *
Smoke
By Amy Spector
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Prologue
Saalik’s earliest memories were of smoke and darkness, and of fighting unconsciousness to no avail.
He knew on some instinctual level that it hadn’t always been so. He was sure that he had once walked free like those he served, his dreams being of blue water and warm breezes whenever he closed his eyes.
He felt certain he had walked free in the sunlight, even as there had been a darkness in him. There was always darkness in them, the ones that became the Jinn, but eventually that darkness faded, just as the memories did, and there was just the serving.
His next memory of any clarity was of when the walls that held him had gone from dark clay, warm to the touch, to that of colored glass. He couldn’t exactly see through it, but he got a sense of movement, saw the blur as people passed, made out the murmur of voices.
Even though he had not been released in more years than he could count, he stopped feeling alone.
Saalik existed there in his colorful prison, no longer concerned about falling into another sleep and never waking up. Instead, he watched, memorizing the rainbow spill of light, and waited for the next asshole to set him free.
Well, there may still have been a little darkness in him.
Chapter 1
Abel Walters was dead and the entirety of Picket House was in an uproar.
It wasn’t a big house, the situation had that going for it, but it was still large enough that someone, at some point, had decided to break it up into apartments. Someone without even the most basic appreciation of early twentieth century architecture.
Or at least that’s what Wyatt had always thought.
In the chaos, he and Clay had climbed out onto the fire escape. It was still the early days of autumn and the weather had dipped pleasantly into the sixties, but a hard few hours of rain had left the metal of the steps cold and damp.
Clay offered Wyatt a drink from the bottle he’d swiped from the landlady’s apartment when no one was looking, and he took a hesitant sip before handing it back.
They toasted the old man, taking turns holding the bottle up at the darkened window of his third-floor apartment and blurting out the first thing that came to mind.
Neither of them had particularly liked him, though when he’d been younger, and desperate enough that being groped by the old guy seemed like a fair trade, Wyatt would offer to carry his groceries upstairs for a few bucks.
“For being such an asshole to my grandma.”
“For trying to touch my dick.”
They were laughing, enjoying the few minutes reprieve from their lives, but they quieted, sobering when they saw the flashing lights of another cop car, the quick whelp of its siren penetrating their little bubble.
Wyatt lifted his camera, an old 35mm he always carried, and snapped a few pictures of the chaos on the street that a police car always inspired.
“I heard he was rich.”
Wyatt laughed at the idea.
“I’d swear in court on a Bible.” Clay held his hand up, looking more like a Boy Scout than anything else, and Wyatt snapped a picture of that too. “I heard he had stolen war treasure.”
“What war? What kind of treasure?”
“Whatever treasure you find during a war. I don’t fucking know. I wasn’t his goddamned accountant.”
Clay’s burst of temper had Wyatt laughing again, and after a moment Clay laughed too, grinning and shoving Wyatt with a clumsy hand. He’d never been able to hold his alcohol.
Wyatt couldn’t imagine why someone with money would have rented a room in such a dump. The windows were drafty, the carpets nearly threadbare, and there was a subtle hint of damp and smell of must in nearly every corner of the house.
Sometimes at night he could even hear scratching in the walls. He didn’t know if it came from mice or rats, or even bats, but the Ritz it was not.
Clay pulled his jacket tighter around himself, staring up at Mr. Walters’ window and thinking about who knew what. He seemed to be in his own head, so Wyatt studied the clear night sky and the neighborhood around him.
The fire escape was an ugly metal slash along the back of the house. It, along with the peeling paint and the mostly blacktopped back yard, destroyed the charm Wyatt was sure the old house had once possessed. The ruined beauty of the place seemed appropriate. It added more bleakness to a neighborhood that already felt pieced together with despair. Everything here was ugly, everything except for the clear night sky and Samuel.
Wyatt’s eyes cut to the window that opened into Clay’s apartment. He wondered if Clay’s cousin would climb through and join them, but he didn’t really think he would. Samuel was probably locked away in his room studying, if he was home at all.
Still, the idea of sharing the bottle with him, being able to press his lips to where Samuel’s mouth had been, it made Wyatt ache. It made him wish things were different. It made him wish so many things.
Wyatt looked back to that third-floor window, not wanting to think about Samuel, and instead tried to picture treasure nestled behind the faded floral curtains.
It was hard to imagine.
* * * *
After the squad cars and ambulance finally left, Wyatt and Clay made their way down the steps, dropping the last half dozen feet. The ground had yet to dry out, the grass slick, and Wyatt only just managed to grab Clay before he fell on his ass.
Clay tossed the empty bottle into the neighboring yard and they made their way around the house to enter through the front door.
“Where have you two been?” Mrs. Cain, the landlady glared at them, her faded red hair in curlers and her baby-blue bathrobe tied tight around her skinny frame. “Do either of you know who might have kept an extra key for Mr. Walters?”
Wyatt shrugged. “Don’t you have it?” Shouldn’t she have had an extra key to all the rooms?
“My key’s not working. The bastard changed the locks.”
“Maybe someone in his family?” Clay guessed.
Wyatt didn’t know if Mr. Walters had any family, but it seemed like if he did, they should be the ones rifling through the man’s things.
She said nothing else, just stood there looking displeased, the smoke of her cigarette a sickly gray curl around her, while they headed up the stairs to the second floor.
They weren’t quite out a hearing range when Clay opened his mouth, and Wyatt hushed him. “Don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“What can I say, there’s something hot about judgey older women.”
“Let’s just leave that for your therapist to unpack.”
That made Clay snort.
Upstairs Clay quietly let himself into his room, waving, and Wyatt had to fight the urge to ask to come in too. It was late, and he knew Clay’s grandmother didn’t like visitors after nine, let alone at nearly midnight, and then there was Samuel. But he knew his apartment was empty. His brother kept late hours, and it wasn’t odd for him to disappear for days, sometimes weeks. Wyatt normally preferred the apartment to himself but tonight, with the thought of Mr. Walters found lying dead on the stairs just outside his door, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone.
* * * *
The whirring sounds of a drill woke Wyatt from a dream. It was more of a memory, really; he and Samuel lying together on Wyatt’s bed, legs almost touching, Samuel with a book, Wyatt watching his lips move as he read, not really listening to the words.
Stop that.
Stop what?
Stop staring at me. It’s distracting.
&n bsp; Samuel, can I tell you something?
Wyatt was happy to be dragged back from thoughts of the past.
Pushing up from the couch, he walked to the apartment door and undid the deadbolt and chain.
In the hall the whirring sound started up again, only to stop, and Wyatt leaned over the railing to stare up to the third-floor landing. Mrs. Cain was there, bickering with a workman knelt in front of what had been Mr. Walters’ door, busily packing up his tools.
“What do you mean you can’t do it?”
The door across the hall started to open and Wyatt shrank back, away from the steps and into the shelter of his own doorway.
Samuel’s back appeared first as he spoke to someone inside, and as much as he knew he should, Wyatt didn’t disappear into his apartment. He just watched. When Samuel turned, shutting the door, Wyatt was rewarded with a smile and a quiet hello.
Samuel pointed at his own hat-covered head, trying not to laugh, and Wyatt figured his hair was a comical tangle of knots and curls, and he patted blindly at it, hoping to make it lay flat.
“I was trying something new. Guess the world wasn’t ready.” Wyatt said the words quietly, but loud enough that he could be heard over the escalating argument upstairs.
“No, I guess not.” Samuel laughed and looked as if he was going to say something else when they were interrupted by the shrill ring of Wyatt’s phone from his apartment.
He would have ignored it, let it go to voicemail, but Samuel’s smile was fading and the spell that had them momentarily forgetting there was more between them then a few feet of worn-out carpet, had been broken.
Before Wyatt could shut the door on the noise, Samuel was on his way down the steps, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
Walking back inside, Wyatt managed to answer the phone on the fifth ring.
“Hello?” There was a crackle and a hiss and a hollow quality to the sound when he finally heard his brother’s voice.
“Listen carefully.” Wyatt suspected what was coming next and tried hard to not let his irritation show. “I’ve been arrested.”
Of course he had.
Wyatt managed to hold back a groan but muttered something foul. It was the same shit, different day.
“Shut the fuck up and listen. I need you to call Tabby or Aunt Dot. Someone who can make bail. Use the goddamned rent or sell that fucking camera. Just get me out of here.”
Rent money, it was. Because Tabby had cut her losses, breaking it off with his brother six months before, and Dot had told him to piss off last time he’d come begging. And there was no way in hell he was selling his camera.
“Wyatt!” The bark made him jump and nearly dropped the phone.
“I’m here. I heard you. Bail money.”
“And you need to lay low for a few days. Don’t go outside. There’ll be a guy called Flip, big guy, he’ll be coming around. Thinks I’ve got something of his, but I don’t.”
He was lying. Wyatt could tell, and not just because there were words coming out of his mouth. He could hear it in his voice.
“Is it drugs, Teddy? Is he going to come here looking for some shit you have stashed for him?” It was out of Wyatt’s mouth before he considered from where his brother had been calling.
Instead of an answer, there was a click and he was gone.
Wyatt put down the phone, dropped onto the sofa, and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He wondered if Teddy realized he was turning into their father. He wondered if Teddy would even care.
Still, Wyatt could handle a few days of hiding out. He’d call the store with some bullshit excuse, and maybe, if it was good enough, he’d still have a job when it was all said and done.
Chapter 2
1888, England
The box was wrapped in gold and tied with a satin ribbon.
Saalik stared at it and then squinted at Elizabeth. “This is for me?”
“Why so suspicious?” She was smiling, her snow-white hair pulled into a loose bun.
“Because I know you.” That made Elizabeth laugh, as it was meant to.
“Open it. We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” Saalik touched the box, then pulled his hand away, hesitant. “I take it you plan to tell me what you’ve been up to?”
“Yes.” Since her fall, Elizabeth had been spending more and more time in and out of odd little libraries and traveling to visit mystics and wise men. Her hip was healed but she’d decided she was perhaps too old for riding, and her focus had become quite singular. “I know how to set you free.”
“You’ve been…”
“Yes. I didn’t want to tell you what I was doing and get your hopes up.”
“Was it a curse, then?” They had spent many night speculating on just that.
“Maybe better to say it was a punishment.” At Saalik’s look, Elizabeth laughed. “I know, and you such a well-behaved little angel.”
That made Saalik laugh as it was meant to.
“But I can be free.” Saalik dropped onto the sofa. He couldn’t quite imagine it. He knew there had been a before time, but what memories he had left felt like the ghosts of someone else’s. “But you won’t leave me? You have to promise.”
“No, of course not. For as long as it’s in my power.” She walked around the table, picked up the gift, and pressed it into his hands. “In fact, this box holds two tickets. On Saturday we’re taking a boat to New York where no one will know either of us. We’ll travel as mother and son, and you can start a new life there.”
Saalik gave her a look.
“I know.” She laughed again. “But my Thomas is all grown up now, happy in Spain. He doesn’t need me. And I can’t help but think of you as one of my children.”
“I’m countless years older than you.” Though he didn’t know how many.
“Yes. But you’ve spent nearly all that time asleep in your bottle.” She stepped away to check herself in the mirror. Her hair was white, and there were lines in her face, but Saalik thought she was the loveliest person he’d ever seen. “You could be a thousand years old, but when it comes to experiencing the world, you are barely more than a boy.”
Saalik knew it made her feel better to believe that, but he’d witnessed so much cruelty it was impossible to feel young, no matter how little he’d walked in the world. But these three years with Elizabeth had been good. They’d ridden horses in the country, and strolled city parks, and watched plays from a private box. He’d seen beautiful women in lovely dresses, and handsome men in fine suits. And Elizabeth had allowed him to wander the city alone. He’d ridden in hansom cabs, browsed bookstores, and spent hours in museums. Once he’d even kissed a man with a mustache in an alley behind a playhouse.
The idea of being truly free was overwhelming. It made it impossible for him not to hope and not to want to make plans. He’d see more plays and visit more parks, walk barefoot on the beach, and he’d find another man to kiss.
Elizabeth was smiling at him. She knew him too well not to know where his thoughts were. “How can it be done?”
“Not now. Put on a coat and we’ll discuss it over dinner out.” She grabbed her own from the rack and Saalik dreamt himself up one in a dusty rose with black buttons, exactly like he’d seen on a mannequin in one of the shop windows. “And then you can decide if that is what you want.”
“Why would I decide against it?”
“Because, my dearest Saal, it will take bravery. The unknown always does.”
He nodded.
“And after that I want to visit William’s grave. One last time.”
“Would you like me to go with you?” She always visited her husband’s grave alone, but he always offered.
“No. I won’t stay away long.” She reached for the door, but Saalik grabbed it, holding it open for her. “We have packing to do, and you have a new life to begin.”
Chapter 3
Wyatt sat on the couch, watching out of the front window. It had been one of those pleasantly cool days again, and even in the fading light the kids played in the yards and along the wide strip of trees and grass that separated the two lanes of the road and functioned as a neighborhood park.
Other than the children and someone waiting at the bus stop, the streets were empty, with only the occasional car bumping its way over the potholed blacktop.
