This is my first published story, so please give me constructive feedback! The next chapter will be coming soon.

Chapter One

I Set Off on a Quest

Today, I decide wearily, is not my lucky day.

It's roughly three o'clock in the afternoon, and I'm currently wandering around New York City in pursuit of a pair of rogue djinn. Despite the fact that fall has only just begun, the air is damp and chilly, and the looming thunderclouds overhead hold the promise of rain.

I shiver and pull my pale grey jacket closer around myself, silently cursing the circumstances that forced me outside in such miserable weather. Two djinn of the Ghul tribe had recently run wild, abandoning all pretenses of authority and creating a massive path of destruction in their wake. The results had been so disastrous that it had attracted the attention of the Great Blue Djinn, Faustina, who for whatever reason had decided to assign me to the case.

As I wait impatiently for the bus to arrive, I can't help but wonder what on earth inspired Faustina to pick me of all people for this particular mission. After all, the Blue Djinn and I are not exactly known for getting along. Actually, the last time we met face to face had resulted in explosions, minor earthquakes (because Faustina has a nasty habit of making the ground rumble when she's angry) and a two-month imprisonment in a very disgusting beer bottle for me.

Also, tracking down and restraining two full-sized djinn is no easy task, and definitely not one usually entrusted to a fifteen-year-old girl with obedience issues and a reputation for being a loner. The more I think about it, the more suspicious it seems the Faustina would give me such an important (not to mention perilous) assignment. Could this be her way of giving me a second chance after our last encounter? Judging by the obvious hostility in her voice as she explained the mission over the phone, I'd say not. Perhaps she merely thought I was the best djinn for the job. I had demonstrated an extraordinary sense of responsibility and power on my last adventure with John and Philippa, after all. Maybe Faustina finally decided to overlook her dislike of me in light of my incredible skills and intelligence.

Yeah, right.

Then again, I'm attempting to locate two malicious djinn in a city of well over a million people. Even if I do manage to find them, which would pretty much take a miracle at this point, there's a good chance that I wouldn't be able to impede the rogues, much less overpower them. Actually, there's every chance that it will be me, and not the Ghuls, who ends up in some dingy bottle for the next century or so. Looking at it that way, this mission seems more like a self-inflicted punishment than a reward.

And that, at least, explains why Faustina gave me the mission in the first place. Either way, it's a win-win situation for her. If I succeed, two troublesome djinn will be safely contained until she can pass judgement on their fates. If I fail, it means I'll be out of her way for quite some time –assuming I survive at all.

I scowl and cross my arms. The knowledge that this mission may be Faustina's more or less subtle way of getting rid of me doesn't exactly make me eager to do it, but it's not like I have much of a choice in the matter. Once the Great Blue Djinn issues a command, you either fulfill it or die trying. Failing, giving up, or refusing –it doesn't matter. Either way results in shame and quite possibly death.

My scowl deepens. This is why I do my best to avoid other djinn and their strict rules and customs regarding the Balance or the amount of good and bad luck in the world or whatever's got their panties in a twist now. The mere idea that that stuck-up, pointy-nosed prat (I call Faustina a few more creative names that probably would get me exiled if I said them to her face) is using me for her own benefit makes me want to stomp all the way back to Berlin and inform her exactly what I think of her schemes.

Unfortunately, that isn't possible, so I content myself with finding a way to complete my mission without getting killed or stuck in a bottle and screwing up little Miss Perfect's plan, also preferably without dying.

The arrival of the bus interrupts my complicated plots for revenge. I jostle my way onboard amid a stream of other passengers and make my way to the back of the bus, keeping an eye out for a free seat. Naturally, there isn't one (even for me, this is seriously a bad day) so I resort to standing behind a clump of black-clad teenagers, who all seem to be completely engrossed in their cellphones.

Honestly, this is why I avoid people.

The last of the passengers file in, filling the already packed bus to the limit. People crowd each other for room amidst the chatter of voices and the muffled roar of the engine as the bus pulls away from the station and swerves into the hectic New York traffic.

I start to sweat despite the chill outside. The inside of the bus is stifling, a cramped metal box full of strangers. I'm acutely aware of people everywhere, sitting around me, swaying to the rhythm of the bus ahead of me, brushing against me whenever the bus takes a turn.

My mouth goes as dry as sandpaper. The crowd is pressed up against me, touching me. An arm rustles the back of my sweater and I stiffen, my heart jumping into my throat at the contact. Something flicks upward at the edge of my vision and I make the mistake of glancing up.

The corrugated metal ceiling presses down on me. The walls creak and groan, threatening to give way any second, closing in to crush me slowly-

I clench my fists and struggle to control my ragged breathing. The feeling of intense claustrophobia overwhelms me, making me want to scream and run outside into the fresh, wide-open air, but I resist the impulse. Barely.

My blunt nails dig into my palms. I stay like that for what feels like an eternity, frozen, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths, until I've calmed down enough to reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a small plastic container. My fingers fumble with the catch for a desperate moment, then a small dark grey pill falls into my palm. I swallow it as inconspicuously as I can, almost choking on it, and take a shuddering breath as the feeling of claustrophobia vanishes, replaced by a sensation of light and warmth that spreads steadily down to my toes. I sigh with relief and sag against one of the metal poles. A few people shoot me curious glances, but no one accuses me of illegal drug use or anything, thankfully.

Unfortunately, the nervousness and irritation at being surrounded by people remains, but there isn't really much I can do about that. Having spent most of my life in secluded places like lakeside cabins and assorted coca cola cans, I'm unused to small groups, let alone the massive crowds that traverse New York's streets every day. I sigh again and brush my dark hair out of my face, turning my attention back to the problem at hand. Now that I can think clearly again, I'm faced with how hopeless the whole thing is. It's insanity to think that I can possibly find two people, djinn or not, in a city of eight million people. In my briefing Faustina had said that Central Park was the last known location of the rogue djinn, but they're long gone by now –even an idiot knows better than to hang around when the Blue Djinn's after you.

Then my earlier wish for a miracle reoccurs to me, and I grin. If I'm lucky, I might just be able to get one.

A sudden vibration in my back pocket jerks me rudely out of my thoughts. I flinch and twist around, flushing as I try to spot the asinine idiot who'd dared to touch me there. To my slight surprise, I can't see anyone who looks particularly guilty. The teenagers are still deeply absorbed in their electronics. As far as I can tell, none of them have so much as twitched since I entered the bus. Two businessmen in dark suits sit on either side of me, one typing furiously into his laptop, the other muttering into his Bluetooth. Neither appears likely to have been the culprit.

I frown and slump back against the pole, running a careless hand through my hair, which is rapidly falling out of its messy ponytail and now resembles the aftermath of a minor hurricane. To my absolute outrage, something moves again in the exact same place. I swat at it, meaning to catch whoever's causing it…and feel the angular outlines of my new cellphone. Oops.

My cell vibrates again. I hastily take it out, hoping fervently that no one had noticed. I had only bought the stupid thing a couple of days ago, and I'd completely forgotten about it until now. Checking the screen, I'm flabbergasted to find two missed calls and six text messages. I'd only had the thing for two days, for goodness' sakes. Who the heck wants to talk to me this much?

To my relief, the first message is from Faustina's secretary, Abigail, asking for a report on my progress. I contemplate responding, and decide against it. Better wait until I have an actual lead, especially when it comes to Faustina. Besides, I'm not overly concerned with easing her impatience. Who knows, letting her pace around and grit her teeth over my tardiness might be good for her, if it means not instantaneously getting what she wants. Right?

With that thought in mind, I cheerfully delete Abigail's voice mail and move on to the second message. Tapping the screen, I'm startled to hear a very familiar girl's voice emanating from my phone.

"Hi, Emma? This is Philippa. Nimrod told us you got a cell phone, so we thought we'd check up on you and see how you're doing…call me when you get this. We're hoping we could maybe meet up sometime if you're in the area. So, um, call me. Thanks."

I hesitate, my finger hovering above the 'reply' button. It would be nice to see John and Philippa again, admittedly, if only to see two friendly faces in this swarm of strangers. If I remember correctly, their house is only a few miles away from my destination. Maybe I could stop by, or even stay the night if my search lasts that long. The thought's more tempting than I care to admit, even to myself. After spending so much time alone, just the thought of seeing the twins again is tantalizing.

I sigh and lean back against the pole again, switching to text messages with a quick flick of my finger. Maybe, after I finish my mission, I'll stop by the Gaunts' place. But until then, seeing my friends again is a luxury I can't afford. Faustina's patience won't last forever, assuming she hasn't already sent someone after me, and the longer the Ghuls are allowed to roam free the more destruction they'll cause, which is something I'm technically supposed to prevent. At the very least, I'll have something to look forward to when all this is over.

The first text is some note or other from the phone company, offering freebies. I delete it idly and move onto the second. Ditto. The third is a text from John (how do they know my number?) asking if I know the forty-second chapter, section B of the Bagdad Rules. Amazingly enough, I actually vaguely remembered it, something about the specifics of a duel between two djinn of the same tribe.

Actually sending a text message is a bit harder than I expected, but after some experimentation -and feeling like a complete idiot when it comes to modern technology- I manage to reply with a more or less comprehensible answer (yes, why?) That done, I quickly flip through the last four, which comprised of a note from Nimrod, informing me that I was invited to some party or another, another message from Abigail, and a text from Philippa, asking if I was interested in attending the Astaragali tournament this June.

The last text has no address or subject. Curious, I open it and find two words: Hello again.

I read the cryptic message, my dark brows knitting together in a puzzled frown. There's no return number or name, nothing to show who could have sent it, just those two words. With a shrug I turn off the phone and tuck it back into my pocket. I'll solve that particular mystery sooner or later. Right now I have way bigger problems to deal with.

The loudspeaker crackles overhead. "Main Street," announces an electronic-sounding female voice. The bus jerks to a stop. I stumble forward into the stream of people as they rush to exit the bus and get caught up in the swarm, moving with the crowd as it sweeps out of the snorting vehicle and into the station.

I maneuver my way over to the shelter of a nearby bench and plop down under the dirty plastic roof, glancing up at the looming clouds. True to their promise, a light rain had begun to fall, sprinkling the pavement with tiny raindrops that quickly coalesce into a smooth sheet of liquid. I straighten with a sigh and unsling my backpack off my shoulder and dig through it, searching for a map. I could've sworn I'd put one in here before setting off, but either it's migrated to the very bottom of the pack again or I'd forgotten it. I sigh again and glance around to make sure no one's looking, then mutter "Sephoris."

A detailed map of New York City appears in my backpack. As an afterthought I repeat my focus word and tuck my newly acquired mini umbrella into my bag, then unfold the map and spread it over my lap.

To my surprise, I had actually navigated the bus stops correctly; the place I was looking for is only a few blocks away. Feeling slightly more cheerful, I open my umbrella, toss my backpack over one shoulder, and step out into the drizzle and begin to make my way through the packed streets of one of America's busiest cities.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at the homeless shelter on Fifth Avenue. The plain, white-washed one-story building with graffiti scrawled across is relatively dinky compared to the battered shops on either side of it. A small group of people hang out around the sheltered entrance, out of the rain, smoking and chatting. They fall silent as I approach, eyeing me like they're weighing the benefits of mugging me. I quicken my pace, unable to help the stirrings of trepidation inside of me, even though I know there's nothing they can do to hurt me, but it's harder than I thought to ignore the mundane instincts that are screaming for me to walk away. Apparently self-survival is dominant in all races, not just humans.

I halt in front of the entrance and furtively scan the faces of the ragged people gathered around me. In a sudden moment of panic, I realize that I don't recognize any of them. This is bad. I hadn't planned for this. Where did homeless people hang out when they weren't at the shelter? I don't have time to search every street corner on the block, much less the entire city.

I chew on my lip uncertainly, thinking hard. At last, having no other alternative, I turn to the nearest person, a big black guy in a battered leather jacket, and ask tentatively, "Excuse me, do you know where Charlie is?"

He gives me a suspicious look and chews on his cigarette. "What d'you want w' Charlie?"

Well, at least he knows who I'm talking about. "Um, I need to ask him something," I say truthfully. The low mutters that greet my response are not encouraging, but I plow on, "It's really important. In fact," I add meaningfully, "I'd be willing to compensate anyone who gives me the information I need."

Crap. That sounded weird. This is the problem with learning how to talk to people from books. I have no idea what constitutes a normal conversation.

The group exchanges looks. I can't exactly blame them –I probably sound like I came from seventeenth-century Britain. One of the younger ones, a tall boy about my own age, steps forward and gives me a crooked smile. "Sure. Charlie's in the park somewhere." He gestures back in the direction I had come from. "Ya can find him by the statues."

"Statues?" I echo, puzzled. The older man I had been talking to before stares at me like I'm a complete idiot. "Yeah, the statues in Central Park. You ain't ever gone there before?"

I hadn't, but I nod anyway. "Oh. Right. Well, thank you for your help." I dig into the pocket of my jacket and pull out a couple of twenty-dollar bills. I divide the amount in half and hand them to the man and the boy, enjoying their expressions of astonishment as I stroll away. Apparently they hadn't actually thought I'd meant it.

According to my map, Central Park was just a little over a mile away. Normally I would've just walked the distance, but since I'm in a hurry and there's no way I'm taking the bus again (I shudder at the thought) I do what any djinn in a rush does. I turn into a bird.

Okay, well, technically I could transform into a squirrel or rodent or any other small animal in the area, but birds are far more conventional, not to mention fun. All I have to do is find one. I was hoping for a falcon or osprey, but since those are a little scarce in New York City, I settle for a pigeon. There are hundreds of the winged creatures all around me, strutting on the damp pavement and chasing pedestrians, bobbing their heads and making that ridiculous sound somewhere between a throaty coo and a croak. I sigh and head for the nearest alleyway. They definitely aren't my favorite kind of bird, but they'll do in a pinch.

Once in the alleyway, I find a spot where I'll be invisible to most passersby and crouch down behind an overflowing dumpster to wait for the first unsuspecting pigeon to wander by.

My patience rapidly expires in about the first five minutes. None of the pesky birds look tempted to venture into my shadowy enclosure, so I resort to drastic measures: I wish for some pigeon feed and scatter it at my feet.

Instantly I'm mobbed by flocks of the feathery rodents, all squawking and flapping about wildly and smacking me with their wings. I sneeze and back away from the cloud of dust and feathers, and take advantage of the distraction to concentrate on a bird with dusky wings and dark plumage. I whisper my focus word.

One moment, I'm crouched in a dirty alleyway surrounded by pigeons, and the next, I find myself ruffling my grey-plumed wings in preparation to take off. My backpack had vanished, but I knew it would reappear along with my body as soon as I transformed back.

Feeling a little strange, I hop a few steps and experimentally raise my wings. A light breeze gusts beneath them, and the next thing I know, I'm soaring up between two towering skyscrapers towards the sky.

The sensation is so exhilarating that I laugh, but the sound comes out as a throaty coo. The breeze sweeps along my feathers, streaming across my back as I angle my wings and change direction, heading northward against the wind. Being a pigeon is a bit different from being an eagle or osprey, but flying is basically the same. I fumble for a moment, flapping against the wind, then remember the trick to it and swerve downwards again, swooping in a wide arc towards my destination.

I had known that Central Park was big, but I still experience a sense of awe as the first glimpse of leafy green comes into view. The park is massive, an isolated world of lush greenery intersected by branching paths and dotted with wooded copses. Compared to the monotonous view of grey office buildings surrounding it, it's like seeing a flourishing oasis in the middle of the Sahara.

The sight is so breathtaking, I almost forget how to fly. I've seen many spectacular landscapes before in my travels around the world, but few strike me as much as the glimpse of that solitary sanctuary of nature striving to endure in the modern world.

Landing is a bit of an issue, but after a few failed attempts I manage to alight on an outstretched branch and study my surroundings. There's no one nearby at the moment, so I glide down to the ground and waddle behind the tree, a few of my tail feathers still sticking up crookedly from my unsuccessful landing endeavors.

When I walk out from behind the tree again, it's in my normal body once more as a slender dark-haired girl in jeans and a pale grey jacket, my only abnormality being a few dusky feathers garlanding my curls.

I groan and stretch, wincing as bones pop in unusual places. Transformation can be tiring, and it often leaves behind side-effects such as inhuman senses and an occasional misplaced limb. That's usually why most djinn are cautious when it comes to changing shape, unless it's into their sacred animal. Each tribe has one, something they can transform into easily and for an unlimited amount of time.

As a member of the Marid, though, my sacred animal is unfortunately the camel. I mean, seriously? Even the Ifrit could at least change into snakes. Anytime I needed a long-term transformation, it had to be into a gross, smelly camel. Worse, they're not exactly stealthy like a snake or lizard. I figure that's why you never seen any of the Marid sneaking around –a big, bumbling camel in a dark alleyway is pretty much the opposite of inconspicuous.

Anyway, there doesn't seem to be much wrong with me other than a few stray feathers and a lingering desire to eat pigeon feed, so I find the closest pathway and set off through the park, keeping an eye out for any statues.

It doesn't take me long to spot my query. The path opens up into a courtyard of sorts, just a circular clearing lined with benches and rusty statues of famous people I probably should recognize. The benches are mostly full of elderly men tossing birdseed to the pigeons, but lounging on the stone pedestal of the largest statue is a young homeless guy, apparently napping.

He looks out of place in the green, neat park. His clothes are mostly rags, two or three tattered shirts patched together and ragged jeans that look as though he dug them out of a nearby dumpster, all thrown together without any visible discrimination. His sandy blonde hair is a curly mess, and up close you can see the beginnings of a scruffy beard spotted with crumbs. He looks pretty much like the average homeless guy hanging out in the park for a day or so, right up to the nauseating odor that drifts off him like an overhanging cloud of skunk stench.

I stroll up to the statue and sit down next to him. Bad idea. The small almost makes me gag, but I hastily mutter my focus word and temporarily lose any sense of smell (without losing my source of oxygen along with it, to my pleasant surprise –wishes like that are tricky to pull off).

At the sound of my voice, the guy cracks open one eye and gives me a careful once-over. I grin and lift a hand in a tiny wave. "Hey, Charlie. Long time no see."

Startlingly bright blue eyes open fully and consider me for a moment longer, then Charlie sits up and returns the grin, running a hand through his disheveled hair and covering a yawn. "Hey, Emma. What brings you to Central Park? Last time I saw you in New York, you and the twins were chasing down a mystery and needed answers."

I sheepishly rake my fingers through my hair. "Well, this time isn't too different, except John and Philippa aren't with me right now," I admit. Charlie grunts. "Some things never change. How's Faustina treating you?" he adds abruptly. "She won't be happy if you go back without the rogue djinn."

I shake my head. "I will never get used to you doing that, you know."

His grin broadens. "I know. But it's a good thing that I can, isn't it? Since that's what you came for. Information on the rogue djinn." His matter-of-fact tone makes it a statement, not a question.

"Should I even bother answering that?"

Instead of replying Charlie leans back and folds his hands behind his head, the picture of relaxation. "The better question is, why should I help you?" His voice is flat, emotionless. I think carefully before responding. "Aren't you supposed to help people? The rogue djinn will cause destruction, chaos, maybe even massacre. Don't you want to prevent that?"

"We are 'suppose' to keep an eye on things only. Perhaps test people of merit. Not interfere."

I huff in exasperation. "Fine. What can I do to prove my worth?" I paint quotation marks in the air around the words.

He hums thoughtfully under his breath. "For information of that caliber…a quest."

"I have to find them by tonight!"

Charlie straightens again and looks at me seriously. "This is the only way I can help you. Do you accept?"

I sigh. "Fine. So what's this quest?"

Charlie shrugs dismissively. "There's been sightings of a demon near the church of St. George on Seventh Avenue. Find it and get rid of it."

I raise my eyebrows. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

He shrugs again. "Holy water usually works. If not, try luring it inside the church. If the demon touches the alter, it should vanish."

"I hate 'shoulds'," I grumble, climbing to my feet. Another question occurs to me. "And why is a demon even haunting a church, anyway? I thought things like that avoided those places."

Charlie's voice is deceptively casual. "They do."

"So this one's different?"

He just lifts one shoulder and lets it fall again in a shrug, which isn't much of answer, but I'm getting interested now. "Why do you think a demon would haunt a church?" I ask curiously.

Charlie sighs and gets to his feet, brushing himself off briskly. "I hope you find out," he says gravely. His serious expression vanishes again as he gives me a cheerful grin and winks. "See you around, Emma."

A wind gusts out of the nearby woods and engulfs us. I smell rose petals. "Wait!" I say, but it's too late; the homeless young man who had been standing in front of me a few seconds ago is gone.