I started the engine and drove, checking my rear-view mirror every few seconds, expecting something or somebody to follow me home. I gripped the steering wheel and tried to keep my eyes on the road. Within a matter of blocks, the sky cleared. I turned on the news station, expecting to hear talk about a storm, but there was nothing.
***
I pulled into the driveway of the small, shotgun cottage Grandpa and I had shared for the last five years. It was a modest house with a pretty porch that was covered in a roof apron. Periwinkle blue on the walls and white on the trim had once made the place feel like a dollhouse. After Grandma’s death, though, things started looking rough, not whimsical. Even her once-beautiful rose bushes stood dry and ragged, now.
I stepped onto the porch and stopped, remembering no one waited inside. I looked back and let my eyes wander the neighborhood. Other quaint houses lined the cracked sidewalks, although all in better shape than ours. Across the street, Mrs. Vance sat, rocking and knitting away on her porch, wearing her mandatory house robe. The Neely kids played soccer further down the street. Other than that, things were quiet.
Unlocking the door, I let it swing open. I peered inside and waited, almost expecting someone to greet me. But there was only darkness and silence. I hurried in and closed the door, before the urge to run away took over me. I stood in the middle of the small living room, feeling like my head would explode.
I was all alone, and the house was a mess. The Djinn was real, and I needed to clean and to think, think, think. And take out the garbage. And dust. But maybe I wasn’t alone. Maybe he’d followed me home . . . Oh God, but I was alone.
A scream caught in my throat.
Hands shaking, I set my messenger bag on the recliner. I walked into the kitchen, ignoring the urge to pull out the stone and look at it. My eyes darted around, and in seconds, found the tasks that could keep my hands busy and my mind numb. I pulled out the garbage can from under the sink and swept an armful of medicine bottles inside of it. I put that away and started moving clean dinnerware from the drying rack to the cabinet.
One, two, three plates.
One, two cups.
I gripped the edge of the counter, biting my lower lip. No amount of work in the world could wipe out the storm raging inside my head. Denial wouldn’t get me anywhere.
Fine, then!
I marched from the kitchen into a small hall with three entrances. One led to the only bathroom in the house, another to Grandpa’s bedroom, and the third to a flight of stairs and to my room, up in the “camelback” second story.
When I opened the door to Grandpa’s bedroom, a hollow sensation settled in my stomach. Everything inside was as he’d left it. The queen size bed neat. A pair of slippers at the foot of the bed. A dresser in the far corner with more medicine bottles on top.
I resisted the desire to get the trash bin again. Repressed emotions, OCD traits. I’d soon need a bin myself. A loony one.
I knelt in front of a small bookshelf and pulled out an old photo album. I rushed past the first few pages and stopped when I found what I was looking for: copies of the photos Grandpa kept in the shack, mementos of some random cocktail party.
I examined the first one. Grandma Eloise stood in a pretty blue dress. She held a glass and faced a man I didn’t recognize. In the next one, a young couple looked straight into the camera, wine glasses raised. Behind them, Mom sat on a sofa by herself, eyes lost in faraway thought. She was young and beautiful, wearing a miniskirt that left nothing to the imagination. Behind her, a bit blurry, a group of people stood in a circle, men in dark suits and indistinct faces. One of them caught my attention. He didn’t seem to be following what the other men were saying. Instead, he was staring at Mom.
A chill descended down my back. His features were fuzzy, but the olive complexion and erect, slender body sent a jolt of recognition through me. I desperately flipped through the other pictures. The photo on the last page confirmed my suspicions.
Faris Nasser’s dark eyes peered at me, sending another cold wave down my back. Standing in between my grandparents, smiling his devastating grin, he stood looking exactly the same as he did today, from his tailored suit down to the shiny ebony hair and inscrutable, almost pupil-less eyes. All three were in relaxed poses, looking like good ol’ pals.
My mind reeled with the implications. Grandpa never said anything about being friends with Faris. If he made one thing clear, it was not to trust the Djinn. Had Grandpa learned the hard way? Had he trusted Faris just to be betrayed? Or maybe this person in the pictures wasn’t even Faris, and he’d plucked the image out of the photos and made himself look that way.
I stood up, gripped the album to my chest, and paced around the room. My legs felt weak and my stomach churned. A small piece of yellow paper slid out of the album and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and unfolded it. My heart took a nosedive. It was a telephone number.
My father’s!
I sat on the bed, album forgotten on the pillow. A lump went down my throat. Robert’s phone number! What was it doing here? Had Grandpa known how to get in touch with him? I shook my head. For all I knew, the number was old and didn’t work anymore. Against my better judgment, my hand inched toward the cordless phone on Grandpa’s bookshelf. In a trance, I dialed the number, my heart tightening a bit more with every beep. I waited.
“Hello?” A familiar voice said.
I clutched the receiver with white-knuckled force.
“Dad?” Robert asked.
My lungs seized.
“Dad, is everything—?” Robert started.
A small puff of air escaped my lips as I placed the receiver back on its base. I stared at the phone, feeling numb, then removed Faris’s picture from the album. The phone rang as I left the room. The answering machine picked up and a computerized female voice asked to leave a message. Silence lingered, then the call dropped. I closed the door, anger simmering in my core.
If Grandpa had been here, he’d have gotten an earful so bad he’d need intensive therapy afterward. How dare he hide this from me? Whether keeping me in the dark was his idea or Robert’s request, Grandpa should have told me. Now he was dead and I didn’t have the courage or the decency to tell his son. Now I had nothing.
I grabbed my messenger bag and went upstairs to my bedroom. In the distance, I heard the phone ring again. As an afterthought, I placed the stone in the top compartment of my chest of drawers. I was too disgusted to even look at it.
I held the photograph with shaky fingers, looking at Grandpa’s still, blue eyes.
“What else did you not tell me? I’m not a child, you know? I can handle the truth. As a matter of fact, I can handle the truth much better than . . . much better than the pile of lies you told me.”
As soon as I said it, I knew it wasn’t fair. Grandpa hadn’t lied, just omitted a couple of things. Hopefully, it wouldn’t turn out to be more than that.
I set the picture on the bed and started up my laptop. Its cheery background of sunflowers against a clear blue sky taunted me. I shook my arms and stretched my neck to relieve the tension, then typed “Djinn” in the search engine.
For the next two hours, I browsed, clicking on many links. Finally, I gave up. The information was useless. So Djinn were supernatural creatures in Arab folklore and Islamic teachings. So they occupied a world parallel to that of mankind. So they were created from fire. So . . . so . . . so what?! None of it helped me figure out what to wish for—especially not when most of the links that mentioned wishes were really cautionary tales about greediness.
Eyes burning, I closed my laptop and pulled out a notepad instead. I stared at the blank page. Three wishes. I huffed. All the things I wanted broke Faris’s rules. Mom and Grandpa couldn’t come back to life. Robert couldn’t be persuaded to love me. What else was there but greed? It would have been nice if Grandpa had told me his wishes, but he’d never been willing to share them. He’d said they were private. Still, his advice about not being greedy made s
ense. The things that mattered in life weren’t material.
I threw myself on the bed, pen and notebook in hand. I picked up the photo, looked at it one last time and slipped it between the pages of the pad.
“Okay,” I said, putting pen to page. “Wish one, a boatload of money. Wish two . . .”
My eyes closed and my stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten in hours, but sleep was what I needed most. Strange dreams swept me away, and even their strangeness felt better than the pain and loneliness the real world now held for me.
5
The chime of the doorbell pulled me out of uneasy sleep. My alarm clock read 6 A.M.
Maven!
I groaned and stumbled out of bed.
Downstairs, I opened the front door without even checking to see who it was. Maven stood with a startled look on his face. He held a white envelope and wore his usual black basketball trunks and white t-shirt. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
I rubbed my eyes. “Sorry, I fell asleep. Let me change.” As I turned to go upstairs, he closed the door behind him and discreetly placed the envelope on the end table.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Um . . . sympathy card.”
“Oh, thanks.”
The moment was awkward, so I hurried to my room, changed into a pair of shorts, a sports bra and running shoes, and went back downstairs.
“Ready?” I asked.
“We don’t have to go if—”
“No. It’ll be good. Take my mind off things, you know?”
We went outside and started jogging. I eased into our routine and Maven’s calm company, forgetting that anything was wrong with the world. When we finished our five-mile run, he walked me to the front door.
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked.
“Sure.” His blue eyes examined mine, brimming with compassion. He opened his mouth, surely to offer me words of comfort I didn’t want to hear. But I wasn’t having it. I’d successfully avoided everyone at the funeral, and I wasn’t going to stop trying.
“Great! See you then.” I turned toward the door.
Looking frustrated, he closed his mouth and descended the porch steps in two leaps. Once at the bottom, though, he stopped, drew a huge breath and rushed back up the steps.
“I know we haven’t known each other for long,” he said, “and I’ve got the impression that you don’t like to talk about feelings and stuff, but I want you to know that if you need me . . . I’m here.”
Overwhelmed by his intensity, all I managed was a nod. He waited for something more, but I couldn’t talk. If I did, my voice would crack. And if my voice wavered, I would crumble. Eyebrows pinched in concern, he leaned forward. I tensed. Even my face went rigid. I could feel it and knew he saw it.
I didn’t need to be comforted. I didn’t.
He pulled back with some effort, eyes showing a mixture of sympathy and frustration. “I hope you know you can trust me.” He waited for me to reply. When I didn’t, he sighed and walked away, wiping the sweat off his forehead and pushing blond hair aside.
I wanted to call out and say something, but all I had was a, “see you tomorrow,” which would be a slap in the face after his sincere offer of support. I closed the door and picked up the envelope. I didn’t want to open it, but I owed him that much.
I’m sorry about your grandfather. I respect your desire to grieve privately, but I’m here for you. If ever you need help, you should know that I would do anything for you. You don’t have to go through this alone. Maven
I set the card down and stared at it for a long time. Grandpa had liked Maven—never Jeremy. “He has Paul Newman eyes,” he’d said fondly. I didn’t get it until I saw a picture of the actor in his prime. I wondered if Grandpa’s instincts were better than mine. My chest ached as I sensed his absence.
I shook myself. Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop . . . I needed to get to work!
Heading toward the bathroom, I peeled off my sports bra and hopped out of my shorts. After a quick shower, I ran upstairs wrapped in a towel. I donned a pair of denim shorts and layered two tank tops.
For breakfast, I scrambled an egg. After taking out two plates, I flinched and put one back. I felt restless and wished I hadn’t listened to Javier when he suggested taking a day off from the nursery. Mondays weren’t big money-making days, but still. A busy workday would have kept my mind off things.
When I finished eating, I found the business card for Grandpa’s lawyer and called his office. The secretary answered, took down my information and said they’d call back to set up an appointment. With that out of the way, I spent the next few hours racking my brain, thinking of possible wishes. None of them seemed any good. I only had three more hours before my meeting with Faris, and I was still stuck. What was I going to do?
Maven! Maybe he could help me. It was his day off today. Before I could change my mind, I grabbed my bag and rushed out the door. Two blocks later, when I spotted his brick house, I slung my messenger bag across my torso and walked resolutely.
As I stepped onto the walkway, I came to a halt, startled by a black cat blocking my path. Its yellow eyes zeroed in on mine, piercing and eerie. It sat in that neat way cats usually do, heavy on its haunches, light on perfectly aligned front paws. My skin rippled with a chill.
“Hey, Voodoo,” I said, remembering Maven’s pet. But weren’t Voodoo’s eyes blue? The cat stared impassively for a few seconds, then walked away, tiptoeing through the grass, tail flicking high in the air.
Faris Nasser’s irritating smile flashed in my mind. “I told you to leave me alone,” I growled at the cat. I didn’t peel my eyes away from the animal until it disappeared around the corner. After a deep breath, I reached the front door and knocked. Maven answered. His clear blue eyes sparkled. This was only my second visit to his house, and I felt awkward.
“Hi,” I said. “Can I come in?”
He stepped aside. “Sure.”
With one last look over my shoulder, I walked in.
Sunshine spilled through a set of bay windows in the living room. Across from a big screen television, an L-shaped sofa wrapped around the far wall. I sat on the short end, Maven on the longer one. He examined me, a shy smile on his lips, anticipation in his eyes.
I scratched the strap of my messenger bag with one fingernail. It did nothing to calm me down. The scraping sound filled the silence, while he waited patiently for me to say something.
Why was I even here? I bit my thumbnail.
If you had three wishes, what would you ask for? That’s what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it—not out of the blue. My eyes darted around the room.
He pushed to the edge of the sofa, possibly sensing my desire to flee. “Everything okay?”
“Um, sure.”
“You know I’ve . . . been worried about you, up there by yourself. I don’t think . . .” He paused, moved his hand in a beckoning motion as if to call words out of the air.
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” I finished for him.
“It’s not that—”
“Then what?” My words clipped whatever he meant to say.
“I don’t think it’s . . . healthy.” He winced and waited for the onslaught he seemed to know would come.
“It’s not like I have a choice.” I spoke between clenched teeth. “I’ll be fine. Grandpa left me the nursery. I can make a living. And I don’t need anybody. I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came. I should go.” I picked up my bag and stood.
Maven stood and put a hand on my shoulder. The gesture took me aback. I stared at his fingers. The sudden intimacy was just too much.
“You don’t have to do this by yourself,” he said.
“I don’t have anybody else.” I shrugged his hand off.
“I’m here. I can help you. We can work something out.”
Work something out? What was he thinking? It’s not like he was my therapist. He had no right to meddle in my life. I shook my head.
I wanted to tell him to stop, but my throat felt huge, unmovable.
“And you loved him very much,” he continued. “And he loved you, like a father. But every time I see you, you act like nothing’s happened. When there, in your eyes, the pain . . .”
A tear rolled down my cheek.
“My family and I can help. We’re here for you—anything you need.” His voice dropped an octave as he put his index finger under my chin and forced our eyes to meet. “Please. Let me help you.”
Something intense burned in his eyes. Spellbound, I held my breath and allowed the heat of those eyes to warm me for just an instant. His lips parted, and he blinked as if in slow motion.
“Marielle,” he whispered. “I can—”
A male voice, much like his own, cut him off. “Maven, can you give me a hand?”
His brother, I guessed. I’d never met him before, and it was about time. Maven grimaced for a split second, then turned. I stepped aside to greet the newcomer. At the sight of him, my eyes swept down his body, and, even though I tried not to, I couldn’t help but stare. A small gasp escaped me when our eyes locked. My brain struggled to understand the unexpected, eerie sight. Across from me, an exact replica of Maven sat in a wheelchair, staring up like an animal that suddenly finds itself trapped.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a visitor. Never mind,” he said. A pair of tennis shoes rested on his lap. His hands maneuvered the chair deftly as he made his escape.
“You don’t have to leave, Samuel. Look, this is Marielle, our neighbor. Marielle, my twin brother, Samuel.”
Samuel and I looked at each other for a few long seconds without saying anything. Then we both spoke at the same time. “Nice to meet you.”
Awkwardness floated in the air. I struggled to understand why Maven never told me his brother was his twin, or handicapped.
One Wish Away (Djinn Empire Book 1) Page 4