A House of Cards  •  Act 1

Krissy bounded up the stairs, still sweaty and pink-cheeked from her morning run. Confident in the knowledge that there was only one other occupant in the house, she let her voice ring out.

“Vahaadi!” she sang, delighting once again in the sound of the djinni’s name, as she had been ever since he’d relinquished it to her the day before. “I’m hooooooome!”

She barreled through her bedroom door and right into a wall of smoke.

“Whoa, what the—” she coughed, squinting through stinging eyes. The djinni looked up at her from his roost on her bedroom floor. The pipe of a hookah rested in his hand. Krissy drew a scandalized gasp that was almost too big for her petite frame.

“Are you SMOKING in my ROOM?! You’re gonna set off the—”

They both flinched as the room erupted in horrible, frantic beeping. Krissy hissed through her teeth and clapped her hands over her ears. “Put that out!” she snapped at Vahaadi. She vaulted over a packing box and hurried to throw open the window. On her way back through the room, she grabbed a piece of fabric that lay on the floor before Vahaadi and began whipping it in front of the smoke detector on the ceiling.

“Oh man, my parents are gonna think I’ve been playing with matches again,” Krissy said. She hacked another cough. “Or firecrackers!”

She hauled her desk chair over and scrambled on top to reach the smoke detector. After a moment of strained fumbling, the detector gave a final chirp and fell silent. Both Vahaadi and Krissy sighed in relief.

“What in the world was that?” Vahaadi asked, glaring up at the smoke detector and massaging an ear.

“It’s a fire alarm,” Krissy said, dropping down from the chair and frowning at Vahaadi. “It goes off like that if it senses smoke. And it smells like an ash tray up here!”

Vahaadi scoffed and snatched the piece of fabric from Krissy’s hand. “Can you blame me for preferring it to the smell of teenage girl?” he said, moving back toward his workspace on the floor.

“If you’re going to smoke, you hafta do it outside,” Krissy bossed. “And you really shouldn’t smoke, anyway. It’s bad for you—”

“Bad for a human, maybe,” Vahaadi said, exasperated. “I won’t do it again. I’m not about to have the ceiling scream at me like that.”

He settled on the floor, and Krissy finally took the time to examine his work. He had cleared the clutter from the center of Krissy’s room and replaced it with clutter of his own. Swatches, reams of brocade, spools of thread, and measuring tools were arranged all around.

“Whoa…what are you doing?” Krissy asked.

At the moment, he was readjusting a piece of an embroidery on his lap and running a thread between his lips. He cocked an eyebrow impatiently at her.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Are you…sewing?” Krissy began to laugh a little in surprise.

“Do you think that’s funny?” he said, an edge of venom in his voice. It didn’t go unnoticed by Krissy.

“I just…never saw you as an arts and crafts kind of guy,” she said apologetically, still trying to reconcile the sight of the insufferably cool djinni surrounded by the trappings of abuela’s hobby room.

Vahaadi vanished and reappeared at her side. “Well, Spark, I happen to live on a very short leash.” He snapped a long cord—an archaic tape measure, from the look of it—with his hands, making it crack like a whip. Krissy jumped.

“I have to do something to keep myself busy,” he finished, stooping to his knees to reach for another piece of fabric.

“Oh,” Krissy said, fidgeting. “Well, I guess that’s kind of cool…Hey! You should make me something!”

Vahaadi didn’t even look up. “For a wish, I can make you anything you’d like.”

“Pft, no, not for a wish! I wouldn’t waste a wish on something like that,” she dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “You should make it for me because we’re friends!”

His gaze swerved on her in disgust.

“Is that what a friend is to you? Someone who does things for you just because you ask? Little wonder you don’t have any. Besides me, of course,” he amended with a roll of his eyes, though he didn’t sound particularly friendly.

Krissy balked. “I—I do too have friends!” she said. “Sort of. Well…OK. Not very many. I did kinda just move here…”

She drew her phone from her pocket and plopped down beside Vahaadi on her knees. “Back in Austin, I used to hang out with my cousins all the time,” she mumbled, flicking through her phone’s gallery. “We used to go to the skate park, or get food, or raid the mall—and on really good days, we’d do all of that!”

She looked up at him.

“And I haven’t done any of those things with you,” Krissy said, deflating. “No wonder you think I’m a rotten friend.”

True, she’d only known him for a grand total of three days, but they hadn’t exactly had the team-building training montage she’d envisioned yet. She fiddled with her ponytail. Her usual brashness slipped into something milder, perhaps even shy.

“Do you…Do you—maybe—want to hang out with me today?”

“Hang out?”

“Yeah! I have school off today, so we can go to the mall, and to the movies, and, you know—friend stuff!”

The corner of Vahaadi’s mouth quirked up in a doubtful smile. “I think I’m a little old to be your playmate, Spark,” he said.

Krissy stuck out her tongue. “Pffft! Age is a state of mind! And it’s Krissy, today. Unless the loretreaders call, we’re officially off-duty, and that means it’s time for some good ol’ R&R! Even Arrowman has to go shopping sometimes, you know?”

Vahaadi was beginning to sense that he wasn’t going to get a choice. “But, I don’t know what the mall is, or the movies—” he attempted to argue.

Krissy leaped up. Her bold signature grin had returned. “Well, you’re about to find out!”

It was a bright, sunny morning—potentially the last before the Wyoming winter set in with its icy fervor. Rosetta Preparatory High School had scheduled a three-day weekend for students to allow the teachers time for benchmark training. Mr. Cliffords was among the poor souls sentenced to “professional development.” Mrs. Cliffords had classes to teach at the city gym, and that left Krissy with a full day to get into whatever mischief she could conjure.

She intended to take full advantage of this.

“OK, so, I think the first order of business is going to be ditching the Aladdin getup,” she chirped to Vahaadi as she led the way downtown. “Not that you aren’t totally working the Hammer pants, but I think we should at least get you a real shirt.”

He was wearing a new ensemble of grays and teals, conjured from his so-called “aetherealm” after the number he’d done to his other clothing in Westerwild Gorge. Krissy wasn’t sure how big this magical wardrobe of his was, but if today’s look was any indication, it was likely all in the vein of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves—silks and linens accented with precious metals.

She turned to eye him as she continued to walk backwards. “Oh…we should probably do something about your ears, too…” she said, tapping her chin.

Vahaadi touched the pointed tip of his ear. “I have other covers that conceal my ears,” he muttered.

“We need something that doesn’t fall in the turban and cowl variety. Something more modern! LUCKY FOR YOU, I happen to be a fashion aficionado.”

Vahaadi swept his gaze over her skinny jeans and light-up shoes, far from convinced. This was, after all, the same girl who’d wished for a fire-engine red bodysuit, glove-sleeves, and platform go-go boots.

“Of a truth, I think I’d rather go stark naked than trust your wardrobe tastes.”

Krissy burst into giggles, turning scarlet at the thought. “Oh my gosh! HELLO, UNPLEASANT MENTAL IMAGE. Relax, Vahaadi, I’ll let you pick! We’ll hit the mall. People always kinda look like freaks at the mall, so I think we’ll be OK.”

“Ah, good to know. I’ll fit in with the freaks.”

“Not for too long. We’ll find you something nice to wear, don’t sweat!”

“Well, I do like clothes…” Vahaadi said.

That Vahaadi liked clothes proved to be an understatement. Krissy thought she saw him stop breathing when they stepped into Gordon & Stein Menswear—though that might have been due to the miasma of expensive colognes.

“Alright, dude, let me know if you see something you like.” She waved a wallet decorated with Arrowman stickers at him. “I’ll have you know that I normally ­stick to thrift stores and bargain bins, but I get the vibe that you like expensive stuff,” she teased.

Krissy let Vahaadi wander at his own pace through the store, drawing curious glances from clerks and other shoppers. Vahaadi, evidently used to being stared at, met them with his mysterious, haughty glower until they looked away. Out-of-place as the djinni was in a plebeian department store, he had a way of making the humans feel as if they were the strangers.

His mystique deteriorated when it came to actually choosing clothes. Though Krissy didn’t doubt that Vahaadi was the epitome of haute couture in Azharia, he required some coaching in modern American fashion. He possessed no sense for the difference between sporty teen clothing, business attire, or pajamas. For his sake, Krissy tried her best to suppress her laughter when he became fixated with curiosity on a pair of fuzzy slipper-socks, which he mistook for a bandana.

“No, they—they go on your feet, Vahaadi,” she snickered, pulling them off his head. “Besides, these are only for nighttime, really, and only if you’re the kind of guy that sleeps with socks on.”

“Ah, gods forbid I be one of those guys,” he said, mimicking her judgmental tone of voice.

“You? Never.”

“I always did prefer sleeping nude, anyway,” Vahaadi said, sifting through a rack of graphic tees.

Krissy groaned. “AGAIN WITH THE MENTAL IMAGE.”

“You should be thanking me; I cut quite a pretty figure. Ah, speaking of which…” Vahaadi began quizzically, pulling out a tee plastered with a model all but falling out of her clothes.

“Oh my gosh,” Krissy spluttered, pushing the shirt back onto the rack. “Not that one. What the fritz? C’mon, Vahaadi, there’s weird stuff over here. This section is for jerks.”

“But, I am a jerk,” he said, even as he let Krissy propel him out of the jerk section. “Although, admittedly, there’s a certain irony in wearing clothing depicting a woman who is hardly dressed at all….”

“Trust me, Vahaadi, the guys that wear naked-lady shirts are definitely worse than the kind that wear socks to bed,” Krissy said, though she felt herself smiling at the absurdity of this conversation.

He suddenly dug in his heel, and Krissy plowed into him. His attention had caught on a display of three mannequins, modeling autumn fashions in shades of crimson, charcoal and umber.

“Tell me, what kind of guy wears clothes like that?” he asked, gesturing to the smartly-dressed plaster effigies.

Krissy regarded the display. “Hmm. Definitely the kind of guy that’s secretly a djinni trying to pass for a stylish human,” she said. “Look! This hat would even cover your ears! And this scarf would cover the collar…ooh, but we’re mostly going to be inside; you might get kind of hot…”

“I’m a being of fire, Spa—Krissy. I don’t mind heat.”

“Oh? Well, perfect! Do you want to try them all on, and see which of these outfits you like best?” Krissy said, perusing for the racks that held the items the mannequins modeled.

Vahaadi sized them up. “I like the middle outfit the best, but the pants are too long for me. I’d need to hem them…”

“No, no, we just need to get you a smaller size. See? Here’s the same pants, just in different sizes.”

Vahaadi looked intrigued. “Is this the way all humans make clothes? Just an assortment of sizes with the assumption that they’ll fit somebody?”

Krissy’ s brow furrowed. “Well, yeah, I guess. It’s faster and cheaper than making all the clothes custom. Viva la Industrial Revolution, and all that.” She clicked her tongue, thinking. “Hm, we need to figure out what size you wear…”

“I’ve been sewing clothes for myself for a few centuries; I should think I’d know my own measurements,” Vahaadi said. He took two of the pairs of pants from Krissy’s arms and glanced over them. “These,” he announced, selecting one and piling the other pair back on Krissy’s arms.

They collected the rest of the items displayed on the center mannequin, pausing occasionally so that Vahaadi could judge the sizes against the length of his hand.

“OK, I think we’ve got everything!” Krissy said, after comparing their haul to the outfit on display. Their selections were largely the same, but Vahaadi had chosen a different color of shirt, and Krissy added a few leather bracelets to the pile once she convinced Vahaadi that most human men didn’t wear golden bangles. “Now, we just need to pay!”

“Do we?” Vahaadi asked slyly. He rested his hand on top of Krissy’s armload of clothes, and the outfit sublimed into vapor as it disappeared into Vahaadi’s aetherealm. “No one need ever know,” he whispered, a little lilt in his voice.

Krissy looked around in horror. “Vahaadi, that’s stealing! Give them back, quick, before anybody notices!”

“Nobody saw,” Vahaadi said.

“You don’t know that! There’s probably cameras in here! Besides, we’re superheroes, and that means we’re upstanding, law-abiding citizens,” she lectured, prodding his chest.

Vahaadi huffed and plopped the clothes back into Krissy’s arms with a whiff of scented smoke. They were warmer now than they had been before. Krissy let out a puff of air in relief.

“Let’s just hope they don’t notice that on the camera,” she said, rearranging the items in her arms. “C’mon, you fashion filcher, let’s go buy these.”

“What is a camera, anyway?” Vahaadi grumbled.

It was Krissy’s turn to stop short. Vahaadi collided with her, but rather than simply bounce off as she had, he melted to mist and reformed in front of her. Krissy gasped at the odd sensation of Vahaadi’s incorporeal form passing around her.

“Stop doing that,” Krissy hissed. “They’ll catch that on the camera, too! You don’t even know…look, they’re these little devices that people can use to watch you, you know, to make sure you don’t do things like steal.”

Krissy dug into her pocket for her phone. “Look, this is a camera, see?” she said, facing the phone toward the two of them and tapping the recording button. “Say hello!” she prompted him, waving at herself.

Vahaadi frowned at the sight of his own image. “A mirror,” he said, unimpressed.

“Not a mirror.” Krissy tapped the replay button.

“Say hello!” sang her voice from the phone.

“A mirror,” said the Vahaadi on the screen.

The real Vahaadi stared. “What…how is this possible?”

“Uh. I don’t really know the science behind it, but, the point is, they’re everywhere! That means no stealing, and no magic when we’re out in public, all right? Or else we’ll get clobbered by security, and maybe you’ll get carted off to some science lab to get dissected.”

Vahaadi scowled deeply. “I do not like this world very much.”

Krissy backpedaled. “Uh, cameras aren’t as creepy as they sound,” she cajoled. “They can be fun, too! Here, let’s go buy these clothes, and then you can change and we’ll take some selfies in your new duds!”

Vahaadi didn’t dare ask what a “selfie” was.

Unbeknownst to the pair, Vahaadi and Krissy were indeed being watched, though not by a camera. A singular eye with a square iris traced after them as they left Gordon & Stein Menswear. How the big man could pass unnoticed by the patrons of the mall as he lounged with his feet propped on a food court table would be anybody’s guess. Mr. Sabo sang a little ditty under his breath and shook a pair of dice in his hand. They rolled and clicked together and came to rest.

A two and a three.

“Fever Five,” Mr. Sabo said. “Well, well, ponytail,” he chuckled to himself, catching one last glimpse of Krissy as she shepherded Vahaadi around a corner. “You like fire, doncha, girlie? You certainly know how to dish it. Let’s see how well you can take it.”

He tapped the ash from his cigarette.

Krissy hadn’t been wrong about Vahaadi’s taste for expensive things. She nearly gagged as she reviewed the final markup on her receipt while she waited for Vahaadi to change his clothes. There would be no new comic books or action figures for her for a while!

Ah, well. It was worth it to see the look Vahaadi had given her when she’d handed him the bag. Just for a moment, the sharpness of his features had relaxed into something thoughtful and disarmed. Krissy almost wondered if he’d ever been given something before.

He emerged from the bathroom, adjusting one of his own linen sashes like a scarf over his new clothes to hide his collar. It was quite tattered, but he’d refused to go without it—or most of his jewelry. The little details would distinguish him from the average Wyoming Joe, but he no longer looked like he was wearing a costume.

“How’s this? Still a freak?” he smirked.

“The perfect level of freak,” Krissy said, grinning. “Just keep your hat down snug over your ears, and I think your eyes will pass for those funky contact lenses. You look nice!”

She brushed at his shirt to reduce the appearance of the fresh-off-the-shelf creases, liking the way the scent of the new clothes mixed with the spicy-sweet aroma that always hung on him. “Everything fit OK? You made sure the tags were in the back, right?”

“Yes, mother,” Vahaadi responded, batting at her hand. Krissy stuck her tongue out at him and batted back.

“I believe you threatened me with a ‘selfie,’” he reminded her.