Jillian paused there, and wouldn’t look him in the eye. For a few seconds, Aldair could not quite comprehend her sudden quiet. Then he understood the reason for her silence. The Dying had begun less than week before that. There would have been no show, for the artist and anyone who would have attended had surely perished days earlier.
And what did Jillian expect him to say? He would not offer her words of reassurance or condolence. Certainly not of apology. What had happened, happened. He could not change any of it…and indeed, he did not know if he would, even if he were suddenly given the miraculous power to go back in time and change the events that had led up to the Dying. Mankind had nearly ruined this world. Why would he wish to have all those teeming billions back, just so they could continue their work of destroying God’s creation?
True, he thought as he gazed down into Jillian’s lovely, troubled features, some humans were probably worth saving. Perhaps even the artist who had once lived here. But again, he could not change what the world had become.
“That would explain the art,” he said, his tone as dispassionate as he could make it. “And the house, I would suppose, if she was successful. This home would have been rather costly, would it not?”
For a second, Jillian’s lips pressed together, as if she was annoyed by his response but didn’t want to show it. “Yes, I think so. Not that I ever priced real estate in Madrid. But still…it’s large and fairly new, and sits on a lot of land and has its own well and solar power. It’s certainly nothing that Jack and I — well, our place in Albuquerque was nothing like this.”
Was she saying that she had been poor, back in that world before the Dying leveled everything? Now there was no such thing as rich and poor. Only djinn and human, alive or dead.
Aldair had the perverse thought that he was glad he had been able to offer her a place so much better than what her late husband had provided for her, and then told himself that was a ridiculous notion and thrust it aside.
“It is well suited for our needs,” he admitted, although he would say nothing more.
But even that inoffensive statement appeared to annoy her. Once again he saw that tightening of her mouth, and her brows drew together. “And what exactly are our needs, Aldair? How long do you plan to stay here?”
Another unspoken question hung in the air. How long do you plan to keep me here?
He would not answer that, for he did not know himself. He only knew it was far too early to set her free, or for him to venture forth from this place. If he went too close to Santa Fe, the djinn there would surely detect his presence.
“For as long as is necessary,” he said curtly. Because her lips parted slightly, he knew she wasn’t about to let it go, was going to ask another of her infernal questions. Annoyed by her persistence, he blinked himself away to the place she had called the Mine Shaft before she could ask any further questions.
He might have been a djinn, but in that moment he was experiencing an all-too-human-urge to have a drink.
Chapter Seven
Jillian stared at the space Aldair had just occupied, then remembered to close her mouth. Typical. Ask a question he doesn’t want to answer, and off he goes. She’d dated a few guys like that in college before she met Jack. They’d annoyed her back then, and Aldair was annoying the crap out of her now. Some things never changed.
Her irritation only increased as she realized it was beginning to be truly hot in the house. Did she dare turn on the A/C? Probably not.
Instead, she went to the refrigerator and got out the pitcher of cold water and poured herself a glass. Patches, who had finished his kibble, watched her with some interest but then wandered back to the living room when he realized she wasn’t going to produce anything except water.
Jillian realized it was probably around lunchtime, but her appetite seemed to have disappeared. Just as well, since she didn’t know how much of what they had would be edible without having Aldair around to fix it. Or conjure it. Or whatever the hell it was that he did.
Glass of water in hand, she went to the living room window and looked out. The porch was still deceptively shady, since the sun now hung almost directly overhead, but she knew it would be much cooler in here, even with only the ceiling fans going. Outside, everything seemed dead quiet, not even a bird in sight, the only sign of life the fluttering of the leaves in the trees that surrounded the house.
She was alone. Did she dare leave?
Problem was, she didn’t know where Aldair had gone. He could just be out in the shed, poking around, or he could have blinked himself away to the next town over, tiny Cerrillos, site of a former turquoise mine. She doubted he would have gone any farther than that, not with his obvious reluctance to get close to Santa Fe.
But if he was still here in Madrid somewhere, then it was far too likely that he’d see her trying to make her way out of town. There was only one road in and out. Maybe an ambitious hiker could have headed up and over the hills that ringed Madrid, but Jillian had no real experience when it came to that sort of thing. Beyond the town lay miles and miles of open country. Most likely, she’d wander there, hopelessly lost, until Aldair caught up with her…or the coyotes did.
Neither prospect sounded very appealing. An angry djinn might be just as frightening — if not more — as a pack of hungry coyotes.
So she stepped away from the window and sat down on the couch. Patches, who had been sleeping only a few feet away, opened one eye and then shut it again when he saw that she didn’t plan to do anything more interesting than sit on the sofa.
At least in here there was the ceiling fan to keep things from getting too uncomfortable, and the porch and the trees just beyond it also helped to shield some of the room from the late August glare. If they were lucky, the few clouds hanging around the area would continue to gather, and storms would develop to help tone down the heat of the day.
Some time passed. Jillian wasn’t sure how long, since the clock sitting on the mantel had long since wound down. It was too dim in there to read, but she’d just about decided she would grab something from the bookshelf in the upstairs hall and go into the family room — which wasn’t as shaded as the living room — when the quiet of the space was broken by an odd little pop. Aldair stood in the opening of the hallway that led toward the dining room, arms crossed. As his gaze fell on her, though, a small smile touched his lips.
“You did not try to leave.”
“Would there have been any point?”
The smile broadened. “No.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Her reply only made him shake his head. “You are an unusual woman, Jillian Powell.”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m probably the most ordinary person you’ll ever meet. But maybe that’s the problem.” She got up from the sofa and smoothed out her skirt. “Can we turn on the air conditioning now?”
He had been so certain she would at least make the attempt. No, she would not have gotten very far, since he had sat at one of the tables by the window in the bar while he consumed his brandy and would have seen her the second she came down the street…and probably sensed her before that, since his kind had the ability to detect when a mortal was in the vicinity. But still, he found it interesting that she hadn’t even tried to escape. Fear of his reaction, or…?
Or perhaps she was intelligent enough to realize that a single human woman simply didn’t have the resources to outrun a djinn, especially an air elemental such as himself.
Whatever her measure of intelligence, it didn’t seem to be enough to prevent her from being angry with him. After he had made the cooling system turn on, she thanked him briefly and then went upstairs. Almost immediately afterward, the door to her room was shut with sufficient force to be almost a slam, but not quite.
He did not much care whether she was angry with him or not. Had she really expected him to tell her the truth? How could he, when he did not know for himself how long they would linger here? He supposed he should be glad that
she had not continued to press the issue, but instead had taken herself off to her room.
Where he guessed she must be sulking now. No matter. She was still here, and that was the important thing. Their refuge had not been compromised.
Jillian did not seem inclined to come downstairs, even though the noon hour had passed and he assumed she must be hungry. Again, her choice if she did not want to eat. He went ahead and put together a light meal of fruit and sausage and bread, at the same time giving a few pieces to Patches, who watched the entire procedure with great interest and an equal amount of hope.
And afterward he went to the living room, because it was cool and dim in there, and he needed to think. More than anything, he wanted to know what had been happening in Santa Fe during his absence, and also in Los Alamos. Clearly, the survivor community there still thrived. He wondered if the two settlements cooperated in any way, or whether they led entirely separate existences. Probably the former, just because he knew that Zahrias al-Harith possessed a soft heart and would wish to provide whatever help he could to the humans who still lived. A weakness, but perhaps one that could be exploited, if Aldair could only think of the correct way to go about things.
Which, he decided, could be best served by prying more information out of Jillian. She had not said much about Los Alamos, or her life there, so he would have to coax those details out of her. Unfortunately, she did not appear to be in a very coax-able mood at the moment. That should be easy enough to remedy, however.
He would make her a fine dinner, and open some of the wine he had found in the kitchen. Humans had nowhere near the capacity to hold alcohol that djinn did, and so he thought he should be able to get her in a relaxed and biddable state easily enough. Then she would tell him whatever he needed to know, and he could formulate his plans from there. Most likely she would not even be able to decipher his real reasons for giving her such a good meal. All the better. He did not wish for the two of them to be perpetually at odds. She might not believe it, but he did not wish her any particular harm. He only wanted to be done with this place so he might reclaim his life.
And after that, she could do what she wished with hers.
Once upon a time, Jillian would have been glad of the luxury to be able to read uninterrupted for hours. There was always so much to do in Los Alamos — the long hours she put in at the lab, and also the volunteer work she did with the children. She didn’t have the training to be a teacher, but she loved kids and helped out where she could, teaching them some of the needlecraft her own grandmother had taught her. With things the way they were now, sewing was a skill they could all use one day. Sooner or later, the world’s human survivors would have to learn how to make their own clothes, and not continue to rely on what they could scrounge from the items their former civilization had left behind.
At any rate, in Los Alamos many days had passed where she felt as if she was running from dawn to dusk, helping out where she could. By the time she returned to her house, she barely had the energy to scrape together something to eat before she collapsed into bed. Her situation here was exactly the opposite. She didn’t know if she could come up with enough activities to keep herself occupied all day long.
Now, however, the book she’d retrieved from the bookcase in the hall outside her door — a political thriller, set in a world now gone forever — couldn’t do much to hold her interest. Was it silly of her to have sequestered herself upstairs like this? Maybe she should have taken the book and gone downstairs to the family room, put her feet up on the couch and read her book there, acted as if none of this was unusual at all. Aldair didn’t seem overly inclined to share her company, so he probably would have left her alone.
Possibly.
From outside she heard a muffled bark. The windows had been shut tightly to keep the cool air inside, but they weren’t exactly soundproof. Jillian set down her book on the bed and went to the window so she could peer out into the yard.
Aldair stood there, moving his hands in graceful arcs so he could…well, at first she wasn’t quite sure what the hell he was doing. Then she realized that with each wave of his hands, another clump of weeds became flattened and fell to the ground, as if he was using the air itself as a sort of scythe. When he finished one area, the fallen vegetation rose into the air in a single mass and then drifted away from the djinn, presumably being sent to the no-man’s-land beyond the property lines.
This whole procedure seemed to fascinate Patches, who ran after the weeds as they drifted away from the yard. His tail wagged like crazy, and he even snapped at the airborne vegetation, as if he wasn’t quite sure what it was but had determined he might as well let it know that he was watching closely.
And Aldair — well, he stood in profile to her, so she couldn’t see his expression fully, but she at least was able to tell that he smiled, and even appeared to chuckle as Patches circled back and pawed at his leg. The djinn bent down and scratched the dog behind his ears, which of course made Patches writhe in ecstasy.
Watching them, Jillian couldn’t help smiling a little, too. She didn’t know what impulse had driven Aldair to tidy up the yard, but maybe he was a neat freak who wanted the house’s grounds to match its interior. Or maybe he simply didn’t want Patches picking up any more goatheads and prickers from the rough scrub. She’d plucked out several already today as she was petting the dog.
Whatever the reason, she found herself liking Aldair a bit more because of it. And also because of that smile, which, even in profile, looked genuine and unforced. Around her he always wore an air of faint superiority, even when he smiled, but in that moment, he couldn’t know she was watching. He was merely being himself.
Jillian wondered if she should go down to be with them, play with Patches some more, now that a clear area had been created. More clouds had gathered, dimming the bright sunlight just a little, so maybe it wouldn’t be so unbearably hot in the yard.
But no. She didn’t want to watch Aldair’s smile fade into something far too close to a smirk, with that slight lift at the corner of his mouth and the way those bright blue eyes of his seemed to look at her and detect every fault, every flaw.
Better to stay up here and try to read, and let him enjoy his time outdoors. She still had no idea what his crimes had been, precisely, but she thought he’d earned a few moments of happiness in the sun.
Jillian did not come downstairs, which suited Aldair’s plans. After he had cleared the yard so they wouldn’t have to see such an overgrown jungle every time they glanced out the windows, he went back inside, glad of the rush of cool air that greeted him as soon as he entered the kitchen. Patches went over to his bowl and began gulping greedily at the water within, consuming so much of it that Aldair was compelled to refill the bowl with more water from the tap.
By that point, late afternoon had come upon them, and the sky grew darker — not because the sun would set anytime soon, but because the clouds he had been watching all day had thickened noticeably. He could feel the energy within them, the building moisture. By the time full dark came, they would probably let loose with thunder and lightning, but Aldair did not mind that so much. If anything, a thunderstorm might create a more intimate atmosphere for the dinner he had planned, a sense that he and Jillian were very much drawn together in this place of shelter.
He had mocked her for the candles, but in fact he thought they would serve him very well. The sideboard in the dining room boasted a number of candle holders in varying shapes and sizes and materials — dark bronze, and ceramic gleaming with glazes of deep red and brown, and carved wood, and even slightly tarnished silver. He set them on the table and the sideboard itself, and judged the effect rather interesting.
A deep red cloth to cover the table, handsome against the dark stoneware the owner of this house had selected for her own. Simple, heavy silverware. Compared to the more ornate styles of his people, these items could be thought of as lacking in sophistication, but when viewed together, they did have a certain charm. H
e hoped Jillian would see them in the same light.
The same with the meal he planned to serve. Nothing too elaborate, because then she might become suspicious that he had gone to too much effort, although of course he did not need to use much energy to summon the components he required. He did not know what they ate in Los Alamos, but surely she should welcome a dinner of roast chicken and almond rice and squash with butter dill sauce.
In the middle of these preparations, he paused to allow Patches outside so he might relieve himself before the storm hit. The dog ran outside, sniffed around the newly cleared yard yet another time, and then took care of things before trotting back inside. Not a moment too soon, for he entered the kitchen just as the first roll of thunder rumbled overhead.
Good. Aldair glanced into the dining room one last time, assured himself that all looked well, and then headed up the stairs so he might knock on Jillian’s door.
She did not answer right away, and he wondered if she was still annoyed with him for disappearing to the Mine Shaft in order to avoid her questions. Her opinion did not matter all that much to him, but he did wish to avoid having to coax her out of her room.
But then the door opened, and she looked up at him, one eyebrow lifted at a quizzical angle. “What is it?”
“Are you hungry?” he asked politely. He knew he must act as pleasant as possible so she would have less of a reason to demur. “Because I thought you might like some dinner, especially since you had nothing for lunch.”
“I — ” She hesitated for a long moment, so long that Aldair feared she might refuse, even though that surely meant she would go hungry. “I suppose I should eat something.” Thunder crashed overhead, and she winced. “I guess it’s not the sort of night to be alone.”
Was she bothered by the storm? She seemed as if she was made of tougher stuff than that. In any case, she had agreed to come eat, even if in a rather grudging manner. “No, I suppose it is not. And,” he added craftily, thinking that perhaps he should appeal to her obvious affection for their adopted dog, “I do think Patches would like it better if we were both downstairs with him during the storm.”
Forbidden (The Djinn Wars Book 6) Page 8