THE PRESENT
Djinns are playing bongos in my head when I wake up the next morning, sprawled in the bed where Daji and I slept on our previous visits to the djinn palace. Daji curls around me, vinelike, moaning in her sleep.
When the djinns broke out their special wine, I had a glass just to be polite. Then I felt so euphoric that I kept asking for refills. Ugh. I didn't even do that after Hades' and Persephone's and my own wedding.
Thank goodness we weren't live when all this happened. That would torch the Wendigo's reputation, especially if the Consortium got its hands on the feed.
Daji's hair looks like several wind gods and goddesses styled it. Her face is as red as her fox tails, which spill all over the bed and drag on the floor where our clothes are strewn.
