I'd pass. Sort of.

I jogged through the parking lot, trying to look as if I were enjoying the exercise instead of wincing with every step, went the long way around to work up a good coating of sweat, and then jogged into the lighted portico. Uniformed doormen held open double glass portals, and I threw them a jaunty wave and walked in without so much as a raised eyebrow. Bent over to pull in some deep, gasping breaths, which weren't at all feigned.

"Glad you made it back, miss," one of them said pleasantly in a lovely British accent. "Quite a storm out there."

"Was there?" I put my hands behind my back and stretched. "Didn't notice."

I tossed him a grateful smile and escaped into the lobby. Most of the desk clerks were off duty; only a couple maintained the graveyard shift. The casino continued its constant money gulping, to the accompaniment of pleasant electronic beeps and the glittering metallic tinkle of change. I turned and walked down the endless stretch of carpet, to the hallway that held the elevators.

There was still a uniformed security man on duty. I made a production of wiping sweat from my face as I walked toward him, gave him my most vapid smile, and waved. He ignored me. Evidently no self-respecting hooker would go out looking quite so bad.

I punched the button from memory and leaned against the wall, trying not to catalog the ways I hurt, starting with the still-throbbing headache that was reasserting its claim, and the various aches, bruises, and near-death experiences. I needed a week at the spa, with deep-tissue massage and hot stone therapy. Not to mention some intensive chocolate care.

The floor was deserted when I arrived, a long channel of expensive carpet and closed doors. No sound. I walked down the hall to the door where Kevin and Jonathan had made their little home-away-from-hell.

When I reached out to knock, it swung open. Very Addams Family.

"Hey," Jonathan said. He was sitting on the couch, exactly as I'd first seen him-lean, athletic, military without the uniform. A black round-necked knit shirt that was somehow more formal than a simple tee, some kind of khaki cargo pants with lots of pockets. Sturdy lace-up boots. "Jo," he greeted me, and nodded at the armchair across from him. "Come in. Take a load off."

I did, without comment.

His salt-and-pepper eyebrows quirked as he gave me the merciless once-over. "Bad day?"

"Not the worst I've ever had. Which doesn't say a lot for my life, does it?"

"You look like you could use a beer."

There were two bottles on the end table next to him. I twisted off the cap of one and took a swig. A little harsh and hoppy, but acceptably cold and refreshing.

"Nice cuts and bruises," Jonathan said pleasantly. "How's it going?"

"Good. You?"

"Can't complain." His eyes were dark, dark like the space no stars could ever shine. "And that takes care of the small talk. You do understand that I'm going to kill you if you so much as think about getting in my way, right?"

"I don't want much. I want a halfway decent massage, an herbal scrub, and to put a stop to this before we all get killed." I leaned back and kicked a leg over the arm of the chair, casual as could be. After the night I'd had, Jonathan didn't really bother me all that much. "You knew about the Djinn with the Demon Mark. You let Kevin set him free."

He didn't confirm or deny. He just tilted his beer bottle slightly in my direction, and I saw the Djinn's past go by in a blur. Enslaved to a bottle. Working for a hated master. Being called one day and commanded to stretch out its hand…

… and take a black scorched Mark on its master's chest as its own.

Locked away in a bottle, sealed for all eternity with an enemy it couldn't defeat and couldn't ever surrender to. Dying, but never dead. Infected.

The bottle being grabbed and stuffed in Kevin's pocket, at the Wardens Association vault in New York. A distorted, wavering view of Kevin, Jonathan, David, Lewis…

… me.

"Not that you care," he said remotely, "but that's a friend of mine trapped and dying."

"I can't save him."

"No," he agreed. "You can't. Neither can I. Sucks, right?"

He tipped his beer back upright and took a sip. Dark eyes never leaving me.

I sighed. "Come on, Jonathan, let's quit playing games. What do you want from me?"

"You trying out the Rule of Three? I wouldn't." His smile warned me of all kinds of unpleasantness. "How's it feel when the chickens come home to crap all over you?"

I leaned forward, rolling the beer bottle between my palms, and looked him directly in the eye. "David's here. In Las Vegas."

"Bullshit. You don't have his bottle."

"Somebody does. Maybe it's the same guy who's been bogarting Djinn for the past decade. You know, the one you're looking for?"

"You're lying."

"I could be." I deliberately upended my beer and drained it dry. Burped. "Explain something to me. You didn't give a shit about freeing him the whole time he was Bad Bob's property." The second the words left my mouth I wished I could rewind the tape, but he didn't react. Much. "You didn't rescue him when Bad Bob was whoring him out to Yvette Prentiss for her little games. It occurs to me to wonder why you're so hot to protect him from me. Who doesn't mean him any harm, as well you know."

He shrugged and took a pull off of his own beer.

His eyes never left me. "He hated Bad Bob," Jonathan said. "He hated Yvette. You…" He kept the heat off the words, but the air felt electric and harsh. "I can deal with the others. They only enslaved his body. You've gutted him."

"And you want things back the way they were?" I set the bottle down on the shiny antique side table. "That's not mine to give, Big J. Take it up with him. Oh, wait, you did, right? And when you told him to choose, he picked me. Wow. Bummer."

I felt a sharp pain go through my chest. Arrhythmia. Jonathan took another casual sip of beer.

"How's it feel, being back in the old body again? Working out for ya?"

"Famously." I wasn't going to beg. Another stab of agony, this one longer. "I need your help."

"Kinda figured you might."

"If you care about this kid at all, you need to help me get your bottle away from him."

Jonathan raised his eyebrows. "So you can be my new owner? Sorry, I dance with the one that brung me."

"You mean that you're not through with him yet."

"You've got to admit, the kid has talent. And one hell of a lot of power."

"Which he stole."

"Some of it." Jonathan shrugged. "Hey, his idea, not mine. Don't shoot the messenger."

"Not that it'd do any good to shoot you."

"There's that… The Ma'at are ready to move, is that what you're telling me?" Jonathan adjusted his position slightly, rolled his head to the side, but kept me pinned in his stare. "Time's up?"

"They'll kill him," I said softly. "You know they won't hesitate if they think there's no alternative."

No answer. He tipped his beer up, and his throat worked.

And he smiled.

"Hey, kid," he said, and put the bottle aside. "You're awake."

I looked around to see Kevin standing in the bedroom doorway. He looked pale and nervous and small, hair stuck up at odd angles as if it had never seen the toothy side of a comb. Next to him stood the thin tattooed girl, her short red hair gleaming, her hands clasped around Kevin's arm. Siobhan. The hooker.

Kevin stared at me with dead eyes. "I thought I told you to kill her," he said.

"Didn't tell me when," Jonathan pointed out, and when Kevin opened his mouth to rectify the mistake, Jonathan held up a single finger and waggled it.

Kevin shut up.

"Hey!" Siobhan glared, and took a step forward. She had cheap plastic high-heeled hooker shoes, but great balance, and the orange toenail polish was all that. She was too sharp in the chin, too narrow in the eyes, but the whole package was effective as hell in a knit top and low-rise jeans. "He owns you, man! You have to do what he says!"