Awoken

by Christine Pope

  She moved on from the utility room into the kitchen, which was up to date and spotless, with granite counters and stainless appliances, and a black-painted wooden island in the center of the room with a dazzling array of copper pots and pans hanging from the rack above it. To her surprise, the refrigerator was humming, clearly still working.

  The solar panel, she told herself. It would just keep going, even without someone here to maintain it. Or at least, she assumed that was why the appliance appeared to be operating. All that electricity being generated, with no one around to use it.

  When she opened the refrigerator door, she saw that the shelves inside were nearly empty. A few bottles of wine, white and rosé, all from New Mexico wineries. What appeared to be blocks of cheese, wrapped in plastic. The sight of them did make her frown, because she didn’t think cheese could possibly have survived for two years without going moldy, even if it was refrigerated.

  Maybe someone really did live here. Someone who, against all odds, was another Immune, just like Jordan herself.

  A quick peek inside the freezer revealed packages of what she thought were meat, all neatly wrapped in brown paper. It seemed that someone had been doing some hunting around here.

  Although she wanted nothing more than to get out of there, she was also aware of how her wet jeans clung to her legs, how uncomfortable they were. If nothing else, she needed to change into the spare pair she had in her backpack.

  And what then? she asked herself. Stick a pair of soaking-wet jeans in with the rest of your stuff? That’s a great way to ruin everything.

  Well, hell. Maybe she could hang around for a little while, just long enough to spread the jeans out on the front porch so they could catch some afternoon sun before it set behind the hills to the west. She didn’t see much alternative.

  Even so, she went out into the living room, a sturdy, “guy” sort of place, with its dark brown leather sofa and chairs, and heavy oak furniture and a stone fireplace and an enormous Navajo rug on the floor. At least the walls weren’t adorned with trophy animal heads, but rather oil landscapes of places that had to be located in New Mexico and Colorado — mountains and rivers, jagged cliffs topped with monsoon storm clouds.

  “Hello?” she called out, feeling both scared to death and like a complete idiot.

  Only silence answered her.

  No one seemed to be home. Good. She slid off her backpack and set it on the floor next to the couch, and removed her boots once again, then awkwardly wriggled out of her wet jeans. They hit the wooden floor with a splat, and she winced. She had to get the gun out of the way — at least she’d kept her powder dry, so to speak — so she could reach her extra pair of jeans and a fresh set of underwear, but soon enough she was dressed again and feeling much better about life.

  After picking up her discarded jeans, Jordan went to the front door and walked out onto the porch. The afternoon air was warm and friendly, playing with the damp ends of her long hair, which hadn’t completely survived the dunking. She brushed off a spot on the porch floor as best she could, and laid the jeans out flat. There. The sun was still high enough that it touched the damp fabric, and she hoped the jeans would dry out enough so she could pack them away. Maybe she should have tried the clothes dryer, but since she’d spotted a propane tank out back, she guessed that particular appliance wasn’t electric.

  Instead of going back in the house, she lingered on the porch for a moment, letting her gaze sweep the backyard. Aspen and cottonwood leaves fluttered in the breeze, and the grass, now starting to turn yellow, shimmered in the sunlight, but that was the only movement she saw.

  Satisfied, she headed inside, then paused long enough to pick up the Ruger and slip it back in its holster. There. That way she felt a little better about going upstairs to check things out. She hadn’t seen too many signs of habitation on the ground floor, except for the mysterious food in the fridge, but you often could tell a lot more about that sort of thing by checking out bedrooms and bathrooms.

  At the top of the stairs was a landing that overlooked the combination living room/dining room. Branching off from that landing was a short hallway, with two doors to either side and one at the end of the hall. Jordan chose the door immediately to her left, which appeared to open on the master suite. Her eyes widened as she took in the decor, which wasn’t the sort of thing she’d been expecting in a house that, on first appearance, looked like a glorified hunting lodge.

  At the center of the master suite was a large canopy bed of dark carved wood, maybe cherry or mahogany. From the canopy hung shimmery, gossamer-thin silks in jewel tones. Sari fabric? Maybe, or something similar. The same kind of fabric framed the windows, and moved slightly in the breeze.

  Jordan took in the sight of the open window and frowned. Surely if that window had been open to the wind and the rain and the snow for the past two years, ever since the Dying, then the silk hanging there should have been tattered and stained, worn by exposure to the elements. And yet it looked fresh and brand new. The same with the large Persian rug that covered almost all of the wood floor.

  Frowning, Jordan crossed over to the large wardrobe that dominated one wall and opened it. Inside were long robes of heavy silk, most in shades of blue and teal and green, some bordered in gold, some in silver.

  Her heart seemed to stop in her chest. She recognized those robes.

  Djinn wore those robes.

  She had to get out of here.

  She whirled away from the wardrobe…only to see a tall man blocking the door to the bedroom. His dark hair hung loose to his shoulders, and his deep blue eyes narrowed as his gaze met hers. He crossed his arms, and the dark turquoise silk robes he wore shimmered with the movement.

  “What,” he said, voice calm but still edged with menace, “are you doing in my house, human?”

  Chapter Two

  Hasan al-Abyad supposed that some might have enjoyed this day. The sun was high and bright in the sky, the sky as blue as if it had been carved from one enormous sapphire, and the fish were biting as only fish did on days such as this. He didn’t need to fish, of course, but it was a pastime he’d always taken pleasure in, quiet and reflective, his own skills pitted against the wiliness of the fish.

  And yet….

  He did not want to allow the word to take up space in his mind, but despite his best efforts, it made its way to the surface anyway, like bubbles of black tar rising from an otherwise clear pond.

  And yet…he was lonely.

  Irony of ironies, when he had always prided himself on his ability to thrive on his own. His liaisons with djinn women were brief, only lasting long enough to satisfy the urges of his body before he went back to his solitary habits. Not once had he ever questioned why none of those women seemed terribly saddened to see him go; he had always thought that they were as he was, glad of the chance to reclaim themselves and their lives once the tryst had ended.

  This afternoon, though, he had been thinking of Danya, who had been given the lands near the southern border of what used to be Colorado. A while back, they had shared a few weeks of passion, but they had both moved on, happy to focus their energies on the demesnes that were now theirs, the promise of an earth owned entirely by djinn now come true. No doubt she had already built herself a grand palace of marble and stone, for Danya was an earth elemental, better suited to shaping such things than one such as he, who had command of the air.

  For himself, he had taken the biggest and grandest house in the region that he could find, but, other than decorating the largest bedroom to his tastes, he had done nothing to change it. Why bother? The place suited him well enough, and he had no wish to be like the humans his kind had worked so hard to eradicate. He did not see the point in remaking everything in his image, or into something it was not.

  Once he had a string of fine trout, he deemed it an afternoon well spent, and headed home. Not in the usual djinn way, of blinking himself from one place to another, but walking along, letting the fine breeze blow in his
hair and the warm, heady smell of dry grass fill his nostrils. Soon enough the snows of winter would return, and he would not be able to enjoy the landscape as he did now. True, djinn did not feel cold and heat in the same way that frail humans did, but something about winter made him feel less free, less inclined to explore the territory which was now his. That was one thing to be said for the otherworld, the place where the djinn had been exiled for millennia before finally reclaiming the earth as their own. In that other plane of existence, there was no real weather, no seasons. It was constant, unchanging.

  When Hasan reached his property and mounted the front steps to the porch, he came to a halt, gazing down at one of the last things he had ever expected to see there, spread out against the faded paint of the floorboards.

  A pair of those unattractive trousers the mortals called jeans, laid down carefully so they might catch the rays of the afternoon sun.

  Where in the world could they have come from? Hasan turned and looked all around, but saw no obvious signs of life, other than a pair of jays scolding one another far off in the distance.

  He returned his gaze to the jeans. They did not appear all that large, which meant they probably belonged to a female.

  Eyes narrowing, he went to the front door and let himself in. At first glance, nothing appeared to have been disturbed.

  But then his gaze moved toward the unfamiliar backpack that sat on the floor next to the couch. The pack was made of some heavy synthetic material in a shade of dark green, and had been left partially unzipped, as though whoever it belonged to had been in a hurry the last time she — or he — had taken something from it.

  From upstairs he heard a floorboard creak. He stiffened, while at the same time experiencing a small twinge somewhere at the back of his neck, the kind of twinge that told him a human was nearby.

  What temerity! To invade his house, to act as if the notion of personal property meant nothing!

  At the back of his mind, he had the thought that whoever this human was, they probably had no idea anyone even lived here. Hasan had not left very many traces of his presence. This house looked deserted, no doubt. But still….

  Anger flared along his nerve endings as he made his way up the stairs. This human would soon pay the price for their lack of respect.

  When he reached the doorway to his room, however, he stopped in his tracks, suddenly unsure as to how he should proceed. For standing there, staring into the open doors of his wardrobe, was a young human woman. Her long brown hair hung nearly to her waist, although it had been pulled back and tied into a long ponytail with brown leather cord. Since her back was to him, he couldn’t see her face, but he could see that she was slender and not terribly tall, the jeans she wore clinging to her legs and rear end, clearly showing off the shapeliness of her figure.

  Then, as if suddenly sensing his presence, she spun around. Wide blue eyes, blue as the summer sky, met his.

  Tone quite even, considering the circumstances, he asked, “What are you doing in my home, human?”

  Her eyes widened even further, filling with fear. He took in the graceful oval of her face, the straight little nose, the full mouth. That was all he had time for, because he realized that a silvery gun hung from a holster at her hip, and that she was reaching for it.

  Foolish girl. Didn’t she know that a bullet couldn’t stop a djinn?

  Apparently she didn’t know, or was so desperate that she was willing to try anything. In the next second — far more quickly than he had thought, given the obvious fright in her expression — she pulled the gun out of its holster and pointed it at him.

  “Get out of the doorway,” she said. Her voice was lower than he’d expected, belying her delicate appearance, almost throaty. Or possibly it was merely rough with weariness. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You needn’t worry about that,” he returned, “because you can’t.”

  “Yes, I can.” Her finger twitched on the trigger, but she didn’t pull it back. “Maybe I can’t kill you, but I can still hurt you. I’ve done it before, to other djinn.”

  Interesting. So she’d encountered others of his kind and lived to tell the tale. Had they also hesitated when confronted by her, unsure whether they should harm a thing of such beauty?

  Ridiculous. A human was a human, whether or not she was beautiful. And yet, although Hasan knew his hands were far from clean when it came to killing mortals, he had never taken the life of a woman. Somehow that was a line he didn’t wish to cross, even though he had come close a few times.

  “Then you were lucky,” he told her. “Because even with a gun, a human cannot prevail against a djinn.”

  Her hands shook, and Hasan tensed. He knew she was very close to firing the weapon, whether on purpose or because her nervousness would cause the gun to discharge. Perhaps he should see if he could get her to put the weapon back in its holster. Being persuasive was not one of his talents, but he thought he had better try.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he went on. “I simply want you to put the gun down.”

  Her jaw set. “You think I’m that stupid? A djinn, promising that he won’t hurt a human?”

  Well, she had a point. Yes, there were some humans who had been spared, but only because they were Chosen, were protected by the djinn who had become their lovers. The rest of the survivors, however, had to be hunted down and eradicated, for the good of the world. “I can see why you would not believe me, but — ” He stopped there and decided that the best thing to do would be to blink himself next to her, so he might pluck the gun from her hands before she could do any damage.

  The human never gave him the chance. Perhaps he shifted slightly, or his expression changed — Hasan wasn’t sure what set her off. But renewed fear flared in her eyes, and in the next second, her finger pulled back on the trigger.

  It wasn’t the first time someone had shot at him, but never before had it been in such close quarters. The shot rang in his ears. Indeed, the sound of the gun’s blast was so intense that a few seconds had passed before he became aware of the sharp pain in his left arm. He looked down and saw blood welling up through the silk of his robe, and staggered backward a pace, away from the door.

  That seemed to be the only encouragement the young woman needed, because she immediately bolted through the now open doorway and headed for the stairs. Grimacing, he tore away the sleeve of his robe so he might see the damage she’d inflicted. The bullet had gone through his bicep without hitting the bone, and so he knew he’d heal quickly — probably far more quickly than the human would have liked. Even as he glared down at the wound, the flow of blood started to slow, and the hole began to knit itself closed.

  Good. He took the torn-off sleeve of his robe and knotted it around his arm, creating a makeshift bandage. Then he blinked himself down to the ground floor of the house, which he found empty, the front door standing open. The young woman’s backpack was gone.

  So, too, were her jeans, and Hasan had to allow himself a brief moment of admiration for her resourcefulness, that she would pause to collect such a thing even while running at full speed. And yes, there she was, already halfway across the yard, her long ponytail bouncing against her back as she fled for the safety of the forest.

  Not that its cover would provide her any real sanctuary. These were his lands, and he knew them intimately. He could transport himself wherever he needed to go in the blink of an eye.

  And so he did, materializing directly in front of her when she was only a few yards away from the edge of the cottonwood thicket. She pulled up sharply, her movement so sudden that she stumbled, clearly thrown off balance by the heavy backpack she carried. Hasan took advantage of her disorientation to close on her and tear the gun from its holster, then fling it far away. She let out an incoherent cry and attempted to flee toward the weapon so she might reclaim it, but he reached out and tackled her, the two of them falling onto the short-cropped grass, with her caught beneath him even as the backpack slipped off her shoulders a
nd fell to the ground.

  He wouldn’t let himself think too much about the feel of her body beneath his, the way her breasts rubbed against his bare chest as she struggled in his grip. “Stop it,” he growled. “Do you really think you can escape me?”

  For a moment she went still, her slender frame taut as a harp string. Then her eyes shut, and her jaw clenched. “Do it, then,” she whispered. “Get it over with.”

  A second or two passed before Hasan realized what she was saying. She expected him to kill her.

  He should kill her. She had shot at him, had surely meant to hurt him, even if she’d known that such a puny weapon could never mortally wound a djinn.

  But he had yet to kill a woman, and he didn’t intend to start now.

  “If you wish for death, you will have to find it from someone other than me,” he said.

  Her eyes opened. They were filled with disbelief. “Isn’t that what you djinn do?”

  “Some of us,” he replied. Ah, there was a prevarication, for of course he had the blood of many on his hands. For some reason, though, he didn’t want to tell her the truth. Not yet, anyway. “But now is not your time.”

  She was silent then, clearly attempting to digest his words. Her hair had come loose from its leather cord, and fanned out around her like a cloak of brown silk. Yes, she was beautiful, even by djinn standards. He wondered why no one had selected her as his Chosen. Surely she was young enough.

  Even as he noted her beauty, however, Hasan also realized that her cleanliness left something to be desired. The long hair could use a washing — as could the rest of her, judging by the faint odor of perspiration that clung to her clothing.

  “I am going to get up now,” he said. “Do not attempt to flee.”

  Her mouth twisted. “I think you’ve already proved that running away really isn’t an option.”

  “No, it is not,” he agreed, and pushed himself up to a standing position.