I don’t know why—why do I do this to myself?” I yell to the ifrit in the park. I can’t get the scent of Aaron’s cheap cologne and the expression in Viola’s eyes out of my head, even though it’s been hours—the sun has long set into a dark night seeded with stars. I’m jealous. What’s happening to me? Viola is angry at me and I care. I shouldn’t care. “You always had a soft spot for mortals, I think,” the ifrit answers, a defeated, disappointed look in his eyes. “It’s what kept me from becoming an ifrit,” I mutter. I pace back and forth in front of the oak tree, while the ifrit calmly leans against its trunk, arms folded. There’s no fear in Caliban. I wouldn’t feel like this in Caliban. Jealous. There’s definitely no jealousy in Caliban. “You’ve got to get home, my friend. You think this is what matters, but getting home is what’s important, your kind are important. Look at me—look how I’ve aged here! We were once the same age, remember? This isn’t what you want, to die as a mortal.”
