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soundtrack of canned laughter.
    Filip felt Sara’s warmth against his back, but she was still invisible, as silent as he. He pushed his hand down and back in emphatic order that she stay put.
    After everything, the actual rescue would be anticlimactic. He’d strike Khan unconscious, pick up Jay and leave. Before she was properly awake, he’d have her back on her father’s property. He couldn’t carry her through solid walls, but mere geographical distance wasn’t an issue. Vince could then explain—or not explain—the swiftness of her rescue.
    Enough with regrets. Khan had brought this feud to Vince. He’d have to live, and die, with the consequences of his actions.
    Filip stepped into the living room. An agony of fire shot through his bones from feet to skull. He collapsed onto the floor and, too late, with his nose against the carpet, recognised what dirt and stale odours had hidden. Magic. A Persian carpet woven for protection, woven to capture a demon.
    “The stories said djinn were the children of human and demon couplings. When I heard whispers that Vince Ablett had acquired a djinni bottle, I took precautions. My grandfather was a scholar. The carpet was his, a protection and trap for demons. It’s ironic that it survived the journey to Australia when my family didn’t. But then, my family were worthless refugees. The carpet was legitimately imported as an antique.”
    The words fell around Filip, pattering and sizzling against his pain like outback rain on a tin roof. The detachment in Khan’s voice was as inhuman as anything Filip had ever achieved.
    “So now I have two of Ablett’s treasures. His daughter and his djinni. It only needs himself to complete the set.”
    ***
    Sara curled her fingers into the doorframe as Filip contorted in agony.
    Oh, God. She wanted to pull him free, but if she touched him, would the cursed carpet seize her? She wasn’t a demon, but nor was Filip. What if the magic held all spirits regardless of whether they trespassed for good or evil purposes? If she was trapped, as well, who would rescue them?
    “Demons don’t exist.” Jay was awake. She sat up and huddled in her corner, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her blond hair was drawn back in a dishevelled ponytail and she wore jeans and a cream sweater. She stared at Filip but spoke to Khan. “Are you electrocuting him? Did Dad send him?”
    “Yes, your father sent him.”
    “Then he’ll send more.” Her indrawn breath shuddered. “You can’t kill them all. Please. Let him go. Turn off the electricity. You can take his gun. He won’t be able to move anyway. It’s awful.” Her voice broke. She hid her face against her knees.
    On the carpet, Filip’s tendons contracted. His body spasmed.
    “Physical suffering is endurable.” Khan stood between Filip and the window, with Jay in front of him to his left. “He will not die of this.”
    “How do you know? How many people have you tortured?” Jay’s choked defiance was clogged with tears. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “How can you watch him suffer?”
    “I watched my wife die, my son drown.”
    “And does hurting someone make you feel better?” The girl’s scorn was a whiplash. For the first time Khan flinched.
    Human. Sara released her death grip on the doorframe. Baz Khan wasn’t irredeemable. There was still a core of humanity in him. His grief had compressed into diamond sharpness, but he had loved once. He could remember compassion. He’d known honour.
    Sara struggled with the realisation the room held three people needing rescue—the girl, her rescuer and her kidnapper. But, oh God, Filip was the one suffering. The one she cared about.
    “The man on the carpet,” Khan said abruptly. “I can’t free him, anyway. He’s your father’s.”
    “You can stop hurting him.” Jay’s was the simple logic of childhood.
    “No.” Khan moved away. He looked out the window with his back to the room.
    Jay cast him a scared look, then