“That’s nice of you,” Jordan said, which she knew sounded sort of foolish. There wasn’t much she could do about it now, though. “I noticed that everyone seems to have their own jobs to do.”
“Oh, yeah.” Brent set down the trash bag and came a little closer to her, but not so close that she had any sense of him invading her space. “Julia actually set a lot of that up before she went to live in Santa Fe, so mostly Shawn just has to make sure he keeps the schedules going.”
Jordan knew he must be referring to Julia Innes, whose voice she had heard over the shortwave radio back in Colorado Springs. Jordan wished she could have gotten a chance to speak to the woman who’d once run Los Alamos; it would be another opportunity for continuity. Like Miles Odekirk, Julia could have offered another way to bridge Jordan’s time in Colorado Springs to the life she found herself in now. “And squeeze in latecomers like me,” she offered, smiling a little.
However, Brent didn’t smile. His gaze moved toward the open countryside miles below, to the faint smudge that was Española, now empty, its only purpose to serve as a salvage yard for Los Alamos. “We don’t get many latecomers,” he said. “Not anymore. Not for months and months. You’re kind of an anomaly.” This time his eyes tracked back to her, too kind to be speculative, although Jordan could still see him wondering inside, trying to figure out how someone like her could have survived all those months after the Dying, could have crossed the empty, djinn-haunted miles to get here.
“Oh, I’m pretty ordinary,” she protested. “Maybe just a little luckier than some.”
“If you say so.”
She really didn’t want to disagree any more than that, because she’d be lying to him, too. Maybe she should just come clean and confess, tell the truth about Hasan. But wouldn’t they recoil then, these nice, civilized people who were doing their best to re-create a world that was now gone? Wouldn’t they look at her in disgust when they learned that she’d given her heart to a djinn — and not one of the friendly djinn in Santa Fe, but a being whose goal had been to make sure no human walked or lived or breathed outside that safe zone?
Hell, she couldn’t even explain it to herself. She sure couldn’t begin to tell them what she’d seen in Hasan, that he wasn’t cruelty embodied. How could he be, when he’d driven off wolves to save her little goat, had dutifully gone with her into town to rescue the rest of the herd? If he was truly a soulless monster, he wouldn’t have behaved in such a way. If he thought humans were so useless, he wouldn’t have listened to her pleas…or kissed her and told her she was beautiful.
Brent had continued to watch her as she stood there in silence, his expression now curious. “Did you leave someone behind out there?”
Unshed tears burned in her eyes. She wanted to blame them on the wind. “Didn’t we all?”
Hasan went to the barn and looked in at the goats. He would let them out to eat their fill, then bring them back inside and set out as much hay and water as their accommodations would allow. Shut the door, but not lock it. He had to hope he wouldn’t be leaving them alone so long that they would starve. However, goats were determined little creatures. If they got hungry enough, they could probably kick their way out of here. Once again they would be prey for the wolves and the coyotes, but better for them to take their chances in the wild than to remain trapped in the barn.
That was borrowing trouble, he knew. Miles Odekirk’s devices and the field they generated wouldn’t kill him. At least, that was the rumor amongst the djinn. They avoided the protected areas because entering them was painful, and, once inside, a djinn was stripped of his powers, no better than a human. Worse, really, because the energy-sapping power of the field actually weakened djinn physically in addition to blocking their elemental talents.
It would not be pleasant. But it also would not be fatal.
Unless, of course, the humans in Los Alamos made it fatal.
He would do what he could to shield Jordan, of course. If the field’s effects weren’t too detrimental, then he could pretend to be human. He would cast off his silken robes, and wear the uniform of a mortal man in this part of the world — jeans, a plaid shirt, work boots. With any luck, he could deceive them long enough that he might have a chance to speak to Jordan, to tell her that he had made a mistake and that he wanted her to come home with him. The mortals in Los Alamos would probably think she had come there following a lovers’ quarrel, and not because she was escaping a djinn.
Surely once she saw his sacrifice, she would accept his apology, and would return to his house in Chama.
These pleasant fictions kept him occupied as he took care of the goats, then went back into the house to change his clothing. He did not even have to conjure the items he needed, as they existed here already, part of the wardrobe that had belonged to the home’s previous owner. Yes, they needed a bit of pinching, pulling, and tucking to make them fit, as that mortal had been shorter and stouter than Hasan, but such minor alterations were child’s play for a djinn. It was better to do this than conjure new clothing, because these garments had some wear to them, and therefore would be more believable.
Most human men in this region wore their hair short, but Hasan did not see any reason to carry the charade quite that far. He settled for pulling his shoulder-length locks back with a piece of string, and deemed that a good enough compromise.
Then it was time to bring the goats back inside, to take care of their food and water. They seemed to know something was happening, for they milled around him, blocking his route to the door, and the little one, the one he had saved from the wolf, butted its head against him. He scratched behind the animals’ ears, knowing that Jordan would have wanted him to show them this little bit of affection. After a few moments, though, he let himself out, and made sure the door had caught securely, even though he didn’t latch it.
Just in case.
The first part of the journey was simple enough. He went directly to the place where he had left Jordan, then retraced her steps so that he came to the edge of the djinn-repelling field in more or less the same spot.
He could sense the energy of the field, pulsing, daring him to enter. For the longest moment he stood there, feeling the hairs on his arms lift under the scratchy human-made shirt he wore. An odd little breeze danced down the canyon and pulled a strand of hair loose from the string that held it away from his face. He tucked the wayward lock behind one ear, then took a breath.
Time to go.
It was as though a thousand needles pierced his flesh all at once. He didn’t quite gasp, but the air he had just inhaled escaped his mouth in a shocked little gust. Jaw clenched, he forced himself to take another step.
And then he was through.
The stabbing sensation was gone, although he could still feel phantom pinpricks all over his body. Worse, though, was the way it seemed as if some essential part of him had been stolen away, leaving him limp and shaken, barely able to stand upright.
This was the effect of Miles Odekirk’s device. No wonder his kind had left the Los Alamos survivors alone. No djinn could prevail against a human while feeling so absolutely wretched, so completely useless.
Not entirely useless, though. He could still force himself to move forward, to put one foot in front of the other, even though it seemed as if he was wading through a river of mud. His breath came short and shallow, but he could breathe. He could do this.
Another step, and another. Hasan found if he focused on the movements of his feet, then the other discomforts tended to recede. Not all the way; he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to get a deep, cleansing gulp of air again, but he could function.
And curiously, as he made his slow but steady progress along the abandoned road, he found his mood improving. This was good, in its own strange fashion. Like the shamans and the wise men of old, he would cleanse himself in this barren landscape, would cast aside all the evils that had held him back — fear, and hatred, and resentment. When he finally reached Jordan, he would be
purified, would be the man she deserved. At least, he hoped she would see it that way.
How long would this journey take, given his halting progress? He couldn’t guess for sure, because of course his kind did not have to worry about such concerns. They could blink themselves from one place to another in an instant, and elementals of the air such as he could use the wind’s currents to take them to scout a new location, if they were unsure of their destination. Either way, travel was not a laborious thing, one which could consume days and days.
Now, though, he would have to manage his best guess as to how much time might elapse before he reached Los Alamos. The thought of the climb to that hilltop town made him quail slightly, although he hoped he might encounter one of its residents before that point, could get a ride the rest of the way.
In which case, he had better prepare a story so he would have something to explain his presence when they began asking questions. His given name would be…Hank. It was the name of the man who had owned the house where he now dwelled; Hasan had seen it on various papers while he was clearing out all traces of the home’s former occupant. And his surname? Hasan had never paid much attention to such things. He thought of the landscape around him, the country he’d just passed through. Not too far behind him was the plateau the mortals called Black Mesa. Very well…his surname would be Black. Hank Black. And he was…a rancher, with a spread up near Chama. Jordan had come across it while fleeing Pagosa Springs, and had stayed with him for a few days. In the end, they had quarreled, and she had left.
That all sounded plausible enough, as long as none of his story contradicted what Jordan had already told the people in Los Alamos. Explaining how he’d managed to stay alive all this time would take a little more work, but who was to say that other survivors didn’t hang on here and there, in the world’s more desolate corners? After all, Jordan’s group had managed to live in Pagosa Springs for well over a year before they were discovered. A lone man in a house in the middle of nowhere…it wasn’t so strange that the djinn might not have ever stumbled across him.
It helped to ruminate on these things as he walked, because that way his mind was focused on the tale he would tell, and not the way his heart seemed to pound in his chest, and how his legs and arms felt far too weak, as if his shallow breaths did not provide quite enough of the oxygen they required to keep moving. He had heard, however, that the djinn in Taos — now Santa Fe — had lived with these infernal devices operating day and night to protect them from the rogues who sought their destruction, and so he knew this discomfort would not kill him.
Even if he almost wished it would.
He passed a sign that told him Española was still five miles away. At this rate, there was no way he would be able to get to Los Alamos before sundown. Very well. His knowledge of this part of the world was scanty at best, but he thought Española was large enough that it must have had at least a few small inns, someplace where he could lay his head for the night. Yes, there would be plenty of abandoned houses, although he would consider them only as a last resort. He did not like the idea of sleeping someplace that had once belonged to a mortal. Contradictory, perhaps, when one could say the same thing about the house he now called his home, but he did not think it was the same at all. He had been given that land, that building. It was his. These places…no. They existed now only as monuments to those who had died within their walls.
The sun began to drop behind the hills, and the air grew chillier. Hasan tried to ignore the cold as best he could, although he berated himself for not bringing a jacket. Such human contrivances had never entered his mind, because in the past, heat and cold had had no effect on him. The device had taken that protection away as well, it seemed. He didn’t know whether that was by design, or whether all these debilitating side effects were just a happy coincidence. Put together, they almost…well, they almost made him human.
That thought made him scowl, and he crossed his arms and hunched his head against the wind, which came from the northwest, searching, cold. He was thirsty, too. Like a fool, he hadn’t brought any food or water, not realizing how badly his body might betray him on this journey.
Off to one side, he noted a large structure, what appeared to have been some kind of oversized center of commerce. The sign above the parking lot, now cracked and pitted from several years’ worth of weather and neglect, proclaimed it to be Walmart.
Hasan didn’t know what a Walmart was, but perhaps it might contain some of the items he needed. Or had it been looted?
If nothing else, going inside would give him some protection from the wind. He could shelter here for the night. Certainly no one had ever called this place home.
He shuffled his way across the parking lot and went inside. The interior of the building was dark and cavernous, and although his eyes strained against the gloom, he couldn’t see all that much. Just another one of his talents that he wished he could use, for all djinn had the ability to see in the dark. Perhaps not as clearly as a cat, but well enough that they could get around without tripping over anything.
Hands outstretched to prevent himself from bumping into anything solid, he moved slowly, waiting for his vision to adjust to the change in lighting. He began to see the outlines of tables and racks, all of which must have once held a variety of merchandise. Now, however, they appeared to be mostly empty, although whether their ransacked state was due to looting that had occurred during the Dying, or because the Los Alamos community had done its own “shopping” here in Española, he couldn’t say.
Perhaps this had been a mistake. A store like this would have been an obvious target. He would be lucky to find enough unsold clothing to gather together to create a makeshift bed, let alone any blankets or cots or other more useful items. As far as he could tell, the shelves in the grocery section were likewise empty.
It would have to be one of the abandoned houses after all.
Frowning, he turned back toward the entrance — only to be blinded by the beam of a flashlight shining directly into his face.
“Stop right there,” said a rough human voice.
Chapter Fifteen
It would be better once she was given her work assignment, she was sure. Shawn and Katelyn probably thought they were doing her a favor by giving her a few days to settle in, but Jordan realized she didn’t need nearly that much time. After telling Brent Sanderson goodbye, she’d gotten back on her little Vespa rip-off scooter and headed for home. Well, the home she’d been given. Maybe after she’d lived here for a few months, it would begin to feel like hers, but right now it seemed more as if she was staying in an impersonal residence hotel.
She needed to suck it up, though, because she couldn’t ask Lindsay to act as her babysitter, not when she was due to become a mother any day now. This would get better. She’d start in with her work, get to know more people, start to rebuild her life. Then she’d be able to make plans, get together with friends at Pajarito’s, just as she’d seen people doing the night before when she’d gone to the restaurant with Lindsay and Miles and Brent. Soon enough, the rough edges would be smoothed over, and she wouldn’t even think about Hasan anymore, except possibly as an odd little interlude between the life she’d had in Colorado and the life she was living now.
In the meantime, she might as well make herself an early dinner. Nothing in the pantry looked all that interesting, but she made herself get out the can of pork and beans and set it on the counter next to the stove. Some scrounging in the kitchen’s drawers produced a can opener; a minute later, she located a small saucepan in the lower cupboards.
And really, it was sort of a miracle to be able to turn on the stove and heat up the pork and beans and get out a spoon to stir them, to act as if it wasn’t crazy that she could do something so ordinary two years after the djinn had ended the world. The tangy aroma of the beans drifted up to her nose, reminding her of the times when she was a kid and her mother had to work, so Jordan had been in charge of making her own dinner. Both she and her mot
her knew she wasn’t old enough to be left home alone, especially at night, but her mom couldn’t always afford a sitter. Jordan had been taught to be careful around the stove, to clean up after herself, to turn off the TV at nine and put herself to bed, to never answer the phone or the door.
The ringing of the doorbell startled her so much, she almost dropped the spoon she held. For a second, she couldn’t quite orient herself, as if being lost in her memories had actually transported her back to the ten-year-old child she’d been, rather than the woman she’d become. Then she realized she was in Los Alamos, in the townhouse she’d been assigned, and that someone really was at the door.
She put down the spoon and hurried toward the front of the house, flicking on lights as she went, since by that point the sun was nearly down and the interior of her borrowed home quite dim. When she got to the front door, she turned the deadbolt and unlocked it, then opened the door.
Standing out on the front stoop were four men. Three of them she didn’t know at all, although she thought she vaguely recalled seeing the tall, thick-set one — the one who appeared to have rung the doorbell — at Pajarito’s the night before.
The fourth man…well, at first she didn’t recognize him, either, because his night-dark hair was pulled back from his face in a severe ponytail, and he wore a plaid flannel shirt, worn jeans, and brown lace-up boots. Then she really looked at his face, at the fine, high cheekbones, the deep blue eyes under the level brows.
Oh, God.
It was Hasan. A pale and drawn Hasan, clearly doing his best to bear up under the continuous assault of Miles Odekirk’s djinn-repelling devices, but definitely him. Just the sight of his face was enough to steal the breath from her lungs, although she knew she had to try to remain calm, to avoid showing how much his sudden appearance here had shocked her.
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