Wraithblood: The Elixir, Episode 8

You race to the edge of the coffee house’s rooftop and stare down into the bazaar. Raggan looks up at you, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Raggan!” you shout, intending to draw his attention with an insult. “Due to your immense incompetence, your plan has a high chance of failure! Your lack of intelligence, physical strength, and basic hygiene are all well above the median! In addition, the statistical probability that you will ever satisfy a woman is extremely low!”

Nasser sighs.

It takes Raggan a minute to work through that.

“For the gods’ sake!” he bellows. “Take her.”

Raggan’s men stream towards the coffee house, and you turn and run along the edge of the rooftop, speeds and distances flashing through your head. You turn towards the alley, and Raggan’s men follow…just in time to crash into Zosimus’s gang.

A melee ensues.

“Well done,” says Nasser. “Let us make our escape.”

###

Nasser leads you to Istarinmul’s Nhabati Quarter, through a maze of narrow streets and alleys, the blazing sun choked off by the crowded buildings.

“My competitors,” he says, “are fools. They knew Callatas would keep his Elixir Rejuvenata behind Strigosti locks – hence their need for you. They failed to account, however, for his other defenses. As if a Master Alchemist would rely upon mere steel to guard his treasures!”

“Sorcerous defenses?” you hazard. You really don’t like sorcery – its presence invariably screws up any equations.

“Indeed,” says Nasser. “Specifically, Callatas has made a contract with a powerful djinn, a mighty prince of the spirit world. The djinn will slay anyone who trespasses within Callatas’s mansion.”

“And you have a way around it,” you say.

Nasser smiles and lifts the corroded bronze bracelet from his coat. “One of the djinn’s seals. With the seal, I can summon the djinn and negotiate a new contract. Which is where you come in, madame.”

“I don’t understand,” you say.

“The djinn is named Samnirdamnus,” says Nasser. “And he carries a powerful spell upon him. Any mortal who stands in his presence for longer than nine hundred and ninety-nine heartbeats will die.  You are going to count my heartbeats and let me know when the time approaches to break off negotiations. Can you do it?”

“Of course,” you say, and do some quick multiplication. “It has been two hundred fifty-seven thousand four hundred ninety-two minutes since I last had a vial of wraithblood.”

And sometimes you can feel every one of those minutes, pressing down on you, pulled through your skin like needles.

“Capital,” says Nasser. “Then let’s get on with it.”

He opens a narrow door and leads you into a gloomy brick chamber, the only light coming from a single narrow window. Nasser busies himself by drawing a chalk circle on the floor, adoring it with numerous symbols. From a chest against the wall he produces a pair of candles, which he lights.

“Ready?” says Nasser.

You check his pulse, nod.

“Then be on your guard,” says Nasser. “I’ve dealt with the djinni before, and they are always crafty.”

He lifts the bracelet and recites a chant in Anshani. Then he claps his hands and speaks the name “Samnirdamnus” three times.

You hear a crackling noise, the air shimmers, and a man appears inside the chalk circle.

For a moment you are so shocked that you almost forget to keep count.

It’s your father. Niall Strake looks just the way you remembered him on the day his business rivals murdered him – the same lean, gaunt face, the same fine clothes, the same ragged gray hair. Except that his eyes burn with fire – smokeless fire. And in the stories, the djinni are fashioned of smokeless fire.

Samnirdamnus, for whatever reason, has taken the form of your father.

“Welcome, most noble Samnirdamnus,” says Nasser, sweeping into a grand bow. “I am Ibrahaim Nasser, a gentleman of fortune, and I seek to open negotiations with you.”

Nine hundred seventy-two heartbeats left.

“I know who you are,” says Samnirdamnus. His voice seems to echo, as if coming from a long distance away. “But you are simple. You are a seeker, questing for that which was lost.” The burning eyes shift to you, and your father’s face splits in a wide smile. “But, ah. What a marvelous toy you have brought to me, Nasser. She is not simple.”

You say nothing. Nine hundred thirty-nine heartbeats left.

“Look at you,” murmurs Samnirdamnus, like a man appreciating a fine artwork. “You have drank deeply of the blood of the night, your very soul is scarred with it, yet you still live. For now. Your mind is a fractured razor, jagged and sharp. It is a weapon. A blade to uncover secrets never before known. And it will either burn you to ashes…or set the world itself aflame for generations yet to come. Marvelous.”

Nine hundred twelve heartbeats left.

“I am pleased to introduce you,” says Nasser. “And I hope to come to a mutually profitable arrangement, most noble djinn.”

Samnirdamnus’s smile is humorless. “I know. You seek to steal Callatas’s Elixir Rejuvenata. A dangerous task – for a mortal, Callatas is no fool. But you are simple. She is complex. I will give you everything you want, seeker – if she answers one question of my choice.”

Eight hundred seventy-nine heartbeats left. Both your heart and Nasser’s have sped up.

“What kind of question?” you say.

The burning eyes seem to drill into you. “I will let you choose. I could ask you a question, and you must answer honestly. Or I could pose you a riddle, and aid you in exchange for the answer. Or I could give you a mathematical puzzle, and repay you should you solve it.” He smiles. “And if you answer wrong…we will have to run out the clock, I’m afraid.”

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