"Its fine," Dylan said, "My friend just isn't very gentle."
The girl stood up, lightly placing her hands on the front of Dylan's shirt and massaging his nipples through the thin fabric. "Not like you, I suppose? You seem like a big teddy bear." She smiled again and leant forward. Her lips were inches from Dylan's when he reached for her throat with a growl, snapping her head back with one hand and exposing her neck. The girl gasped and struggled, hands flailing before Dylan's face.
"Be good," he soothed, stroking her cheek with his free hand. "I just want a taste."
Slowly, he moved against the girl, licking the tender spot at the base of her neck before opening his mouth wide and piercing her skin with his teeth. He let the blood wash onto his tongue a little at a time as the girl cried and attempted to kick him, wanting to savour the moment, to enjoy the illusion of privacy the whore house provided. Eventually, the girl ceased fighting and simply hung, suspended in his arms. Dylan continued to drink as the blood cooled, finally pushing the body to the floor when the taste became too thick and cloying. Coagulating blood made him nauseous.
He met Rob outside in the hall, a grin stretched wide on his lips and a long streak of blood painting his left cheek.
"Wipe your face," Dylan hissed.
As they reached the exit and opened the door to rejoin the street, a large, sharply tailored man bustled forward from the shadows. "I trust everything was to your satisfaction, gentlemen?"
"Well, I'm satisfied," Rob said.
Dylan shook his head and pushed him out into the bustling roads of night time Soho.
"I can't believe we paid for that," he said. "I've never had to pay."
"Oh, come on," Rob said. "They practically pulled us in off the fucking street, they were begging for it."
As if to demonstrate his point, a young Asian woman, her surgically enhanced breasts poured into a skin-tight halter neck top, appeared in a doorway to their right. She leant forward to amplify her considerable assets. "Want to have some fun?" she called.
Rob laughed. "No thanks, darling, we're full. Maybe in an hour or two?"
The woman seemed unperturbed. "I'll be here," she said.
"This place is revolting," Dylan said as he strode away. Rob had to jog to keep up with him. "Why did Bredia want to come here? If it's possible, I think the people were more civilised in New York."
"What are you talking about?" Rob said. "I think this place is fucking great."
Dylan was glad Rob seemed to have accepted his acquaintance with the jinn goddess, but the inane exuberance he had displayed ever since stepping off the plane was beginning to wear thin. He had never been to Europe and insisted on flouncing around London like an over-excited tourist. Dylan kept expecting him to show up at their apartment wearing a Union Jack hat and an England football shirt.
"I need a drink," he said, pushing past a huddling group of smokers into a tiny pub straddling a corner. He breathed in the smell of stale beer, of dried sweat and toilet bleach, and smiled. British pubs smelt like nowhere else on earth. He had spent many long years in the country and thought of it as his adopted home. The smell was comforting and familiar. The last time he'd been in a pub like this, Gwyneth had been at his side, her shining blonde curls and alabaster skin brightening the dank of the room.
Dylan stopped before the bar and ordered two beers.
"Should we toast to something?" Rob asked.
Dylan lifted his glass to his lips, drinking most of the beer in one long swig. "No."
"What's your fucking problem, man?" Rob turned away from him with a sulky expression, his own beer clasped in his hands. "You got everything you wanted. Bredia asked you to come to London with her and now you're her favourite boy toy."
"Watch it," Dylan warned, slamming his empty glass down on the bar.
"No, I won't fucking watch it. This is bullshit. You wanted to be with Bredia, and you're with Bredia. You wanted me to come with you, even though I hate the fucking jinn and I'd happily see your new girlfriend put in the ground, and I still came with you. So what the hell is wrong with you? You've had a fucking bug up your ass ever since we left New York."
"There's nothing wrong with me." Dylan ordered two more beers, making the bartender pause as he moved away to retrieve clean glasses: "And a whisky chaser, mate." The man nodded and Dylan sat back on a stool, feeling Rob's eyes on his face but unwilling to return the stare.
"You planning on getting drunk?" Rob said.
"Why the hell not?"
"I think you miss Christa."
Dylan reached for the glass of neat whisky the bartender set before him and slugged it back, his face devoid of expression. Rob waited patiently for his answer, refusing to look away. "What is there to miss?" Dylan finally said. "She was out of her mind, she destroyed half of New York."
"Were you in love with her?"
"Jesus, Rob!" As Dylan's voice rose, several of the pub's patrons turned around in their seats to stare at him.
"Just answer the fucking question," Rob persisted, ignoring the uncomfortable atmosphere they were creating. "Or are you too much of a pussy to admit it?"
Dylan finished his second beer before turning to Rob. He leaned towards him, his eyes bristling with venom. "Don't talk to me like that," he said. "And don't ever mention Christa again. Do we understand each other?"
Rob's own eyes flashed with barely suppressed rage, but the expression was fleeting. He stepped backwards, forcing a smile to his lips. "Take it easy, man. We're just talking."
Dylan turned back to the bartender who was eying him warily. “Another beer please, mate.”
***
Dylan sat cross-legged in a large leather armchair as the sun rose over London’s washed-out high-rise. He still felt intoxicated, his senses pleasantly numb, buzzing with warm whisky and golden beer. Rob was right, he should have been happy, yet his traitorous mind kept conjuring up images of Christa. She had looked so small the last time he had seen her, stricken amid the falling concrete dust like a lost child searching for her parents in a crowded street.
When the door buzzer sounded it startled Dylan from a slow-moving, clouded place between the dream world and reality; a place where Christa was curled up asleep in the bedroom, her smooth skin warming the sheets, making them smell of honey and spices. He sat up with a grunt, forced back to wakefulness, to the realisation that instead of Christa in his bed there was Rob, filling the apartment with the sounds of snoring and intermittent yet insistent scratching. He stood slowly, his head swimming, and made his way to the intercom.
“Who the hell is this?”
“It’s Lindy. Let me in, Dylan.”
Dylan pressed the button that opened the building’s front door with a sigh. It was far too early and he was too hung over to deal with Lindy. She was Bredia’s right-hand woman, the curious, pink-dreadlocked creature he had first encountered on the top floor of the goddess’s high-rise in New York. He hadn’t taken much notice of her at the time, he had been far too preoccupied with memorising the perfect lustre of Bredia’s hair, but it had since transpired that Lindy was a personal assistant of sorts who rarely left her mistress’s side.
Dylan slid back the bolts on the apartment door and let it swing open as he returned to his chair, grabbing a half-bottle of whiskey from a coffee table. It took Lindy less than five minutes to reach his floor and when she entered the apartment, she looked around with a look of disgust on her freckled face.
“This place stinks. What have you been doing in here?” She shut the door behind her and turned to face him, one hand on her hip.
“You wouldn’t want to know, sweet Lindy. It would give you nightmares.”
“I’m sure.” She didn’t sound convinced.
Dylan settled back into his chair and slugged from the whisky bottle. “So, to what do I owe this exquisite pleasure? Have you finally come around and realised you’re in love with me? I can’t promise much right now, love, but I might be able to manage a quick fumble.”
&nbs
p; “Don’t make me vomit,” Lindy said. She moved into the room and perched on a chair opposite Dylan. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if she couldn’t bear to touch anything for fear of germs or disease.
“Don’t keep lying to yourself, Lindy. You know you want me.”
“Look,” she said, briefly closing her eyes, ”I’m just here to tell you that Bredia wants to see you.”
“At this time in the morning?”
“Shall I tell her you’re busy? Perhaps I’ll say you were too drunk on the alcohol she paid for to drag your carcass out of this stinking pit.”
“You have such a way with words, sweet Lindy. Have you ever thought about writing a novel?”
Lindy simply stared at him until he relented and shrugged, a whisky soaked grin on his face. “Okay, keep your pretty little knickers on. Of course I’d be honoured to visit with the great jinn goddess. Who wouldn’t be?”
“I suggest you take a shower first,” Lindy said. She stood abruptly and exited the apartment without a backwards glance.
***
Bredia was lodging in a smart townhouse, set behind black railings on a tree lined avenue. The red-blazered guard behind the door barely acknowledged Dylan as he passed inside. He bounded up the thickly carpeted stairs and knocked at the door of Bredia’s suite - an impressive set of rooms overlooking a park, each creaking with heavy antique furniture.
“Please come in, Dylan.”
The door was opened for him, the jinn guard behind it blank-eyed and impassive. “Good morning,” Dylan said. The man ignored him so Dylan walked past him into the reception room, swathed in thick red velvet that sighed with golden dust in the early morning light.
“Come through,” Bredia called from the adjoining room. “I’m in the bedroom.”
Dylan turned back to wink at the silent guard before making his way into the bedroom, a swagger loosening his hips. “Your Unholyness,” he greeted Bredia as he entered the room, “what can I do for you?”
Bredia was lounging on her four-poster bed, dressed only in an extremely short, red satin robe elaborately embroidered with a multitude of gold flowers. The ebony woodwork of the bed was hand carved, fashioned to look like a woodland bower, the structure so tall and imposing it blocked out much of the light flooding through the open windows.
“I have something for you,” Bredia said, beckoning. “Come here, and close the door, would you?”
Dylan did as he was asked, approaching the shimmering creature on the bed with some trepidation. Although he tried his best to disguise it, Bredia still made him nervous. The soft blue of her skin shone against the dark, wine coloured bed sheets, making her look like a precious jewel set within rock. She held out her hands to him, smiling when he took them in his own.
“Now, close your eyes,” she said.
When Dylan complied she withdrew her hands and gently wrapped his fingers around something hard and cold. He opened his eyes to find he was holding a glass, filled with a shining, amber liquid.
“It’s wine,” Bredia said when he looked up at her, confused. “The finest Tokay wine I could find. I had it imported from Hungary, especially for you.”
“Tokay wine?” Dylan held the glass up to the light, turning the liquid inside as he inspected it. “I don’t know what to say. I haven’t tasted Tokay wine since I was last in Budapest.”
“I know it’s early to be drinking,” Bredia said, “but seeing as you prefer to live your life by night, I assumed this would be more of a night cap for you.”
Dylan nodded, a grin of delight spreading across his face. Slowly, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a tiny sip, wanting to savour every moment. The wine was as rich and sweet as he remembered, the taste warming his tongue like the most fragrant honey. “It’s incredible,” he said. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s entirely my pleasure.” She patted the bed. “Now, come and sit with me.”
Dylan lowered himself beside her, careful not to sit too close. He took long swallows of cold wine as he watched the goddess’s face. Her eyes gave nothing away; they were fathomless, gated chasms, devoid of light and dark as jet.
“I’m worried about you, Dylan,” she said. “Since we arrived in London, you’ve simply not been your usual charming self. Please, tell me what is bothering you.”
“Nothing’s bothering me,” Dylan said. “The apartment is perfect and I’ve always enjoyed London. Honestly, you have nothing to worry about.”
Bredia frowned, a minute spark of flame igniting in her opaque eyes so briefly, Dylan was sure he must have imagined it. “You are lying to me,” she said. “I do not tolerate liars, Dylan.”
Dylan shifted his weight on the bed, tightening his grip on the wine glass. He thought about attempting to soothe Bredia once more, to fob her off with an overly cheerful affirmation of his supposedly contented state, but decided against it. He knew she wouldn’t believe him and he had no desire to find out how black her temper could become. “Truthfully,” he said instead, “I’ve been missing New York.”
“Do you mean the city? Or the people you left behind?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know how you can read me so well. We really haven’t known each other for very long.” Bredia was silent, staring into his eyes with an intensity that made his dead heart quicken as she waited for him to answer her question. “You’re asking me if I miss Christa,” he eventually said. “Well, I’m ashamed to admit that the answer is yes. I don’t want to miss her, of course I don’t. I feel honoured to be here with you, to be by the side of a queen. But Christa was a very sweet girl.” He shrugged. “I’ll forget her in time. It’s inevitable.”
“She tried to bury you beneath a thirty-five storey building.” Bredia’s tone was even, her expression flat and impenetrable.
“She knew she couldn’t really hurt me, though. I’m already dead, remember?” Bredia looked away, her head lowered and her dark hair obscuring her face. Dylan laughed, attempting to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere. “It was wise to leave her, of course. She’d clearly become unstable.”
Several moments passed before Bredia turned back to face him and when she did, her entire demeanour had changed. Her eyes sparkled and her rose bud lips were curved into a soft smile. “Let us forget her,” she said. “We have so many more interesting things to talk about. It’s an exciting time for my people, Dylan. We’re stretching our power across the globe, sharing the gift of the stones with those who deserve it. In just this past week alone, thirty-five new jinn have been born to the streets of London. We should be happy.” Her smile curved higher. “We should celebrate.”
She leant forward to retrieve the glass from Dylan’s hand, letting her robe fall open to reveal a glittering hint of full breasts. Dylan sat statue-still as the jinn queen crept towards him on all fours, rising before him and shaking out her long hair. For all their constant flirtation, Bredia had never consented to be intimate with him. He was as apprehensive as he was deeply aroused. She placed her hands on his shoulders and drew him towards her in a kiss, making Dylan tremble as heat flared through him like a static charge, warming his cold skin and stirring his blood to frenzy. With a roar, he cast aside his initial uncertainty and pushed Bredia back onto the bed, pulling her thin robe apart to reveal the acres of taut, dusky skin beneath. She writhed before him, an intense heat rising at the centre of her being that matched his own. When she reached for him, drawing him down inside her, the light in the room seemed to contract and dim, pulsing with the power of something ancient and malevolent being awakened and freed.
Eighteen
Molokai, Hawaii, USA
Christa stood on the beach barefoot, her eyes closed, hands cradling her swollen belly, letting the fragrant breeze play in her hair. In the space of just a month, her pregnancy had become all too obvious and she could no longer deny it to herself: she was carrying Dylan’s child.
Darrell had noticed before she did. In the dry, dusty heat of Mexico he had put an arm aroun
d her and frowned, moving his hand down to her stomach.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Christa?”
Christa moved away from him, wondering why he was fondling her in such a strange manner. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s okay, I won’t be angry,” he replied, struggling to maintain eye contact. “But you have to tell me, Chris. Who else are you going to confide in? It’s just you and me now.”
Christa stared at him, shaking her head, thoroughly perplexed. “What are you going on about, Darrell?”
Darrell gaped, realising she really had no idea what he was alluding to. He looked away before asking in hushed tones, “You must have noticed that you’re, well, late?”
Christa laughed at the acute embarrassment etched on Darrell’s face, colouring his cheeks and scorching the sides of his neck. “Late for what?” As her friend grimaced, nodding and urging her to understand what he meant, the penny finally dropped. She looked down at her stomach, touched the place where Darrell’s hand had been. “But I’m very rarely late because I very rarely have a period.”
Darrell looked confused.
“Well, I never questioned it,” Christa said, suddenly feeling the heat of her own embarrassment brush her face. “It didn’t seem like a great loss.” She attempted to laugh again but could only manage a strangled noise that jarred against the silence of the sleeping desert. “I thought I’d been eating too many microwave burritos,” she said, her voice low. “I didn’t imagine I could be–” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Uttering that word would make it a reality.
“Perhaps we should get you a test or something before we start to panic,” Darrell said. “You never know, maybe it is burritos.” He sounded as hopeful at this prospect as Christa felt.
Half an hour in a badly ventilated doctor’s surgery and a combined smattering of Spanish confirmed their worst fears. Christa was at least four months pregnant. She hadn’t wanted to know any more and after exiting the surgery with barely a pause to convince the receptionist she didn’t need to pay a bill, had sat on the curb outside, not even looking up when Darrell lowered himself to the pavement beside her.
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