“Don’t track mud on the rug, please,” he adds, and I glance down to make sure that I haven’t. It’s a traditional Romanian rug, patterned with brightly colored roses and leaves and probably about two hundred years old.
Skinner busies himself making tea and then brings it to me in a plain white teacup before sitting across from me. “Are you here to discuss a contract with the school? Have you decided to sign over ownership of the djinn?”
“Absolutely not. Go ahead and get that idea right out of your head.”
He grins. “Then I’m especially curious, Miss Black.”
I take a sip of my tea. He put way too much sugar in it. I have to keep from making a face as I set it down.
“You’re a contract expert, I hear.”
His grin turns smug as he adjusts his tie. “I’ve been called that, I suppose.”
“So you must know about djinn contracts.”
That seems to catch him off-guard. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Surely you’re not thinking of making your own contract with the djinn?”
He’s right to the point much too quickly. He’s certainly clever, this one.
“That’s none of your business,” I tell him coldly. “I just want some information.”
He sighs and picks up his pen. “Djinns are tricky monsters. Contracts with them are complicated and difficult to navigate.” He taps his pen on the table. “It’s been centuries since the last recorded djinn contract. They’ve mostly disappeared now, or at least, they don’t come out much. As it is, the djinn are very good at writing and agreeing to contracts that are meant to trick the people signing them. I know that technically, the djinn and its phylactery are still under your ownership,” he adds. “But as a lawyer—and really, as a person—I would advise you to avoid making any sort of deal with the djinn.”
I’m surprised at the genuine concern in his tone. He’s frowning across the table at me, still tapping his pen. “Do you think there’s a contract keeping the djinn in its phylactery?” I ask him.
“Without a doubt.” He’s back to his usual crisp, bright tone, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Djinns like being free. They don’t willingly imprison themselves.”
“So, what kind of contract is keeping my djinn inside his phylactery? Is there any way to know?”
At this, Skinner sighs heavily. “Trust me, I’ve looked into it. Your parents would have had to make some sort of deal with it, but the contract was never found. And with the relevant parties deceased, there’s only one source of information: the djinn itself.” He starts tapping his pen again, and his gaze shifts past me. “With no written record, there’s no way to tell what the actual terms are.”
“We could ask the djinn, can’t we?”
He gives a bitter chuckle. “I’ve just told you that djinns are tricky creatures. It’s under no obligation to tell us the truth, and so it won’t—not if it doesn’t suit it. So yes, Miss Black,” he says, fixing me with an amused look, “you can ask the djinn. If you want to be lied to and manipulated.”
I sigh and sit back in my chair. I feel more stuck than I was before. With no contract, there’s no way to tell what rules govern the djinn’s imprisonment.
Outside, I hear the wind howling, and I feel almost like it’s my own mind
screaming in the cold.
Chapter Nineteen
I slip into the warmth of the tavern just as the wind picks up so mightily I’m sure it would have picked me up and sent me flying if I had remained outside a moment longer.
“Oh, thank god you’re okay.” Owen sidles up next to me, holding a beer. “We were really worried. It’s getting bad out there. The TV says it’s a blizzard.” He points to a television mounted in a corner of the bar. The few customers that are still here are gathered around it, watching with rapt attention as a weatherman speaks in rapid Romanian.
I unwind my scarf from around my neck and shake snow out of my hair before Owen leads me to the bar to sit with him, Piers, and Bennett. “Any news on when it’ll stop?”
“Not until late tonight,” Piers says.
“We should get a room here.” Bennett takes a swig of his beer and signals for another. “It’ll be safer than trying to walk back in a snowstorm.”
“Yeah, all right,” I sigh. The bartender brings both Bennett and me a beer, and I get started on catching up with the boys. “They still have Valentine’s Day decorations up. A little late, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah, I asked about that,” Owen says. He gestures toward the bartender, who’s now serving a different customer. “Florin says they don’t celebrate that around here until later—tomorrow, I think.”
“The bartender doesn’t speak English, does he?” I ask. Sure, I could make my way through an exchange as I have before, but I’m pretty wound up after my visit with Skinner. Sure, I got more information from him regarding the djinn … but I’m no closer to finding a way to kill it.