Three days later, Smith brought the djinn. Evershaw didn’t know what to expect, though he’d heard from Henry that djinn were the formal names for genies, the old “trapped in a bottle” spirits who granted wishes. The blue genies were apparently the oldest and most powerful, or the most dangerous, depending on what sources he chose to believe. Much like with shifters, there wasn’t a lot of factual information available—since most humans didn’t realize such things actually existed. 

It would have been very useful to have a handbook for how to deal with djinn, particularly ones who’d been trapped and made to do all kinds of fucked-up shit, since Iskander had been held captive by the BadCreek alpha for some time before he was trapped in the Betwixt or whatever in-between place held him before Deirdre freed them. Evershaw tried to prepare himself for the worst, although he couldn’t decide what would be worst—that the djinn couldn’t do anything, or that he could and wouldn’t. 

From what Smith said, the guy didn’t want to be found or deal with any other supernaturals in the city. Evershaw couldn’t blame him, not after what BadCreek did to him, but he’d do anything and pay any price to save Deirdre. He just had to convince the dude to cooperate. 

Evershaw sat on the front porch, Mercy next to him, and watched as Smith’s sleek sedan pulled up on the street and parked. The ErlKing didn’t get out right away, but when his door opened, the passenger door opened as well. Evershaw left Deirdre and Henry inside for safety, though Mercy had instructions to protect Deirdre at any price and to leave Evershaw on his own to handle his business. He didn’t think she’d actually follow his orders if he was about to die, but it made him feel a little better that his pack would protect his mate. 

And he didn’t want to overwhelm and intimidate the djinn, not when Evershaw needed his help. So he intended to take the exact opposite of his normal approach, which would be super aggressive, and instead just have a conversation with the dude. He was a different man than he’d been before Deirdre—both knowing her and possibly losing her. He couldn’t just steamroll everyone and intimidate them into doing what he wanted. 

He felt oddly calm as they walked up the new stone path that Henry put in, and Evershaw eased to his feet as Smith reached the porch and paused to wait for the stranger to catch up. The djinn was a big dude—olive skin and black hair, though there was a faint blueish cast to his hair and even to his skin as the shadows fell across his face. His eyes were a golden brown and very sharp and watchful, flicking around to each of them in turn in a constant rotation as if he searched for more threats with each beat of his heart. 

Evershaw didn’t blame him. He gestured at the empty chairs and stepped back to give the guy room. “Thanks for coming. You want something to drink?” 

A soft conversation blurred between Smith and the djinn, then Iskander shook his head. “No. Thank you.” 

The accent softened the man’s deep voice but made Evershaw think of faraway deserts. The things he wanted to ask Iskander grew by a country mile, but he held it all back as he eased back into his chair and introduced Mercy. She blinked and stared at the djinn, apparently dazzled by the guy’s good looks and clearly buff build, until Evershaw knew he’d be able to tease the living shit out of her for months to come. 

Iskander either didn’t notice or was great at pretending. “This one says you are in need of assistance.” 

Right to the point. A man after his own preference. Evershaw nodded and gripped the arm of his chair until his knuckles ached. “My mate is a witch, the one who helped release Smith and you from where you were trapped. Another witch…did something to her and severed our connection. She is not there, in herself. It’s like her spirit or soul or personality is just gone. The witches are not able to help her, and neither is Smith. He thought you might be able to do something.” 

The man didn’t seem to blink. Ever. He just watched Evershaw and breathed, as if he waited for something, but no one else moved or spoke. Finally, the corner of the djinn’s mouth twitched and twisted into a dark smile. “I was waiting for the command. It has been many years since anyone asked me to do anything. I fear I may be... socially awkward.” 

“We don’t mind,” Mercy blurted out. She blinked too much, as if to make up for all the eye movement the djinn lacked, and sat forward as she practically elbowed Evershaw out of the way. “We’re kind of quirky. All of us. Our whole pack, really. We’re the oddballs. But no one bothers us because we’re stronger together and Evershaw is a great boss and—” 

“Mercy,” Evershaw said quietly, wanting to smile a touch himself, and ran his hands through his hair. “Breathe, girl.” 

She flushed crimson and sat back, pouring a glass of iced tea to thrust into the djinn’s hands. He watched her with detached interest, like studying a species he’d never seen before in a zoo, and peered at the tea for some time before he lifted the glass to drink. Evershaw wanted to stomp his feet and demand an answer or drag the dude inside to show him Deirdre so they could fix everything. But the quiet certainty that settled over his soul that morning, knowing that he was a different guy and didn’t have to be an asshole, evaporated the impatience. 

He wouldn’t get anywhere with the djinn by shouting. He got the impression Iskander had spent centuries, maybe longer, being yelled at and controlled and tormented by crueler bastards than even BadCreek, if some of the stories were close to true. They all waited in silence, though Evershaw almost vibrated with the need to move or speak or fly apart. 

Iskander took a deep breath and another deeeeeeeep chug of tea, then handed the glass to Mercy and folded his hands formally at his stomach. “She freed me and set the stage for me to be... entirely free. It is an unfamiliar situation. I find myself adrift in a world I know nothing about and surrounded by people I do not know if I can trust. You understand this is an overwhelming situation.” 

“I do,” Evershaw said. His gaze drifted to the front yard and a large, ornate birdbath that Mercy found in some hoity-toity “up-cycling” place—which meant a garage sale that charged fucking outrageous prices for crap covered in questionable coats of paint and gaudy knobs. But it drew all the birds in and Cricket liked it, so he knew Deirdre would like it. His heart ached a little more. Maybe he was more like Iskander than he cared to admit: adrift in a world he didn’t understand, where he—Miles fucking Evershaw—fell in love with a woman and she loved him back. He’d been rendered powerless by a magical spell he didn’t understand and couldn’t fight. 

He leaned forward slowly as the weight of his future without Deirdre pushed him down, gravity itself dragging at him, and rested his elbows on his knees. “I do, man. Regardless of whether you’re able to help Deirdre, you’re welcome to stay here, to join the pack. Or just crash here as long as you need to. I vouch for every person in my pack. They’re good people. They’ve lost and been lost and fought tooth and nail for everything we’ve got. We have a building in the city but we purchased this city block and we’re building it up. There’s the garden here and a bunch of extra rooms in this house, Deirdre’s house. It’s calm as hell and…relaxing. Healing. I don’t know where you’re staying now, but if you want to crash here, you’re always welcome. Even if you can’t help Deirdre or don’t want to or whatever.” 

Smith’s eyebrows rose and Mercy turned even darker red. Iskander didn’t react for long enough that Evershaw wondered if maybe the dude hadn’t understood, but eventually the djinn nodded. “That is a generous offer.” 

And again everyone lapsed into silence. Evershaw expected that he’d be as high-strung as Mercy, waiting for someone to immediately fix Deirdre, but instead that eerie calm settled over him and everything else slowed down. He was a glacier. He could drift as long as necessary if it meant eventually getting Deirdre back. He’d waited weeks already. A few minutes, a few hours... was just the last few steps of the marathon. 

Cricket gave up on stalking the birds in the birdbath and sauntered across the sunny lawn to hop up the steps of the porch. He ignored Evershaw, of course, but instead of heading straight to Mercy—the one person most likely to have treats of some kind on her—and went to stare up at Iskander. 

Evershaw held his breath. No telling what the cat would do—although Evershaw sincerely doubted the beast would do anything to jeopardize getting help for Deirdre. It just wasn’t clear that the feline knew the djinn could help. Cricket typically didn’t welcome any new males into his domain. Which made Evershaw want to snort at himself with laughter, since it was a hundred and eighty fucking degrees from where he’d been only a month ago. He’d have booted the cat off the porch and pissed on every corner of the house to establish his own territory. 

Iskander’s head tilted as he studied the cat, unmoving, and Cricket stared back at him. The cat’s tail twitched, the tip flicking back and forth, then Cricket’s eyes half-closed and he started to purr. Evershaw held his breath. 

The djinn smiled just faintly, raising his eyes to Evershaw once more. “The beast does not think highly of you.” 

“The feeling’s mutual,” Evershaw said. 

Mercy muttered under her breath about stubborn males but otherwise kept her cool when Iskander glanced at her, and Smith chuckled as he stroked the hint of beard on his chin. “The beast is... unique.” 

“Indeed. He thinks very highly of the witch who waits inside. He would like her healed as well.” 

Evershaw nodded. “He’s her familiar, or something like. Have you…seen a familiar like that before?” 

“Not quite.” Iskander finally blinked, like his eyelids weighed a metric fuck-ton. “Although it has been many years since... Well.” 

Smith smiled and studied Cricket’s serene indifference. “It would be accurate to say there is no familiar quite like a feline familiar.” 

Evershaw snorted, shaking his head. “No fucking kidding.” 

Mercy was about to jump in and defend the cat, but Iskander heaved a sigh and started talking instead. “I do not know if I can do anything. Normally the granting of wishes is contingent on me being owned or captured or held by the one with the wishes. I cannot remember a time when I might have done something for someone without being compelled to.” 

“That’s so sad,” Mercy whispered. 

Evershaw held his breath, uncertain how the djinn would respond. 

Iskander’s head tilted as he looked at her, nothing in his expression. “Is it?” 

“Yes,” she said. And her eyes shone as she held back tears. 

The djinn made a thoughtful noise and returned to his calm consideration of the cat sitting on his feet. “Interesting.” 

Evershaw shook his head and figured it would be a long slog to figuring out whether the djinn could help Deirdre, and wondered if he should just get them all inside so they could figure out what the fuck to have for dinner—or maybe put the djinn to work in the garden, since the dude looked like he could bench-press the entire shed on his own. 

But Iskander slid to his feet like he had ball bearings in his joints, all fluid and disconcerting, and turned his attention to the door that led inside. “Then let us determine whether we can do anything to right it.” 

Smith blinked and Mercy bolted to her feet but Evershaw felt that intense calm move over him once more. He’d either get a step closer to getting Deirdre back or have one other avenue closed off. Knowing would make the difference. Knowing would help focus his efforts. He steeled himself for the bad news, resisted the urge to roll Cricket off the porch with his foot, and led the way into the house.