Jinn Nation Read online

  “What are the stones?” Dylan said.

  “I thought you said you’d met a jinn before?” Ian said. “In Rio.”

  “I did, but at the time we were surrounded by tanned women in bikinis and the most outrageous cocktails I’ve ever tasted. The subject of where he got his power from didn’t come up, we were far too busy placing wagers on who would get the waitress into bed first. I won, naturally.”

  “The stones are what make us jinn,” Phil said, sitting back and stretching his legs out in front of him. From a certain angle the men looked like a group of muddied hikers, gathered around a bloody pulp of a campfire. “Jinn stones contain the ancient power of the jinn, the Fire Gods. We have them stitched into our stomachs and then their power becomes ours. We become fierce and agile and all we have to do is rip open a few little lovelies like Vanessa, here.” He nudged the body beside him with his foot. “Our power is replenished when we feed, then we carry on with our lives. It’s really quite simple.”

  “There’s more to it than that, Phil,” George said. His face was kindly, the corners of his eyes crinkled, but his tone was serious.

  “Well, of course there’s also tradition, the passing on of sacred power, the worship of the gods who blessed us with the stones, community, blah, blah, blah. You get the idea.”

  “So you’ve all got jinn stones sewn into your stomachs?” Dylan said. The idea seemed preposterous.

  The three men glanced at each other before, one by one, they each lifted their shirts to display the long, jagged scars traversing the length of their bellies.

  “I got mine done in Plymouth,” Ian said proudly. “They didn’t want to at first, said I was too young, but I talked them round.” He pulled his shirt back down. “So, what’s your story?”

  Dylan shrugged. “The usual. Impoverished man gets seduced by a beautiful woman, has his blood drained during a demonic ritual and wakes up to find he has an incurable thirst for human blood. It’s boring, really.” He looked around at the three sets of wide eyes all fixed on him and laughed. “Although you obviously don’t think so.”

  “I can’t believe vampires are real,” Ian said. “This is mad. Hey, can you turn into a bat and fly? Do you sleep in a coffin?”

  “No and definitely no. I like a nice soft bed with thick cotton sheets, thank you very much.”

  “What about garlic, does that repel you? Is that the right word, repel?”

  “Look, Ian,” Dylan said, holding up a hand to silence him, “you can’t believe everything you’ve seen in the movies. Hollywood likes to believe that we’re dirty, low creatures, content to sleep in the ground like animals. Quite honestly, I find that offensive. We can walk in the daylight and do as we please, although many of us prefer to stalk our prey by night.” He winked at the younger man. “It’s easier to take a life if you’re cloaked in shadow.”

  “But you have fangs, you drank that girl’s blood.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Blood is a necessity for vampires, just as those rather interestingly coloured body parts you extracted from young Vanessa are for you. But I have standards. You’d never catch me wearing a cape, for instance. Sleeping in a coffin would be cold and uncomfortable and if something as innocuous as a small, smelly onion frightened me, quite frankly I’d fear for my sanity.”

  “I like you, Dylan,” Phil suddenly announced, sitting up and startling Ian beside him. “Are you staying here long?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dylan said. “Kind as your hospitality has been, I suppose I should try to find more of my own kind.”

  “You’re travelling alone?” Phil said. “That’s not much fun. The main reason I sought out the stones was to become part of the jinn family. We always travel together. You’re never alone when you’re packing a stone.” He grinned, seemingly deeply amused by his own joke.

  “I did have a family once,” Dylan said, unsure if he wanted to divulge all the agonising details to these bloodstained, gurning men he’d only just met. “But nothing lasts forever.”

  “The jinn will,” George said. He leaned towards Dylan, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner. “The jinn are becoming stronger, more widespread. Our family will only grow larger.”

  ***

  Dylan soon took his leave of the three jinn. After all, they were uneducated and roughly groomed, certainly not the type of individuals he would wish to associate with for any length of time. Yet as he negotiated the short walk back to his hotel, careful to avoid street lamps and brightly lit windows lest anyone glimpse his blood streaked visage, he idly wondered what it would be like to be part of such a rapidly evolving race, multiplying in strength and numbers.

  Over the following weeks he made his way north, searching out the comforting lights and anonymity of a large city. He rented a small, sparsely furnished flat in Bristol and busied himself with night clubs and beautiful women. He slept for most of the day and prowled the streets by night, secretly hoping he would run into another jinn, maybe even another lost vampire. He knew there were other immortals in the world, immortals yet to become weak and succumb to subsisting on the herbs and ancient lore that cured their lust for blood. Dylan knew those kind of immortals existed too, but he had always believed that was no way to live. An eternity without the chase, without beautiful death and the golden taste of blood was an unforgivable waste.

  He became wise, stealthy as a practised assassin as he strode Bristol’s streets, learning anew to spot the vulnerable, to assess the city’s darkest corners for cameras and crowds. They were lessons that Gwyneth and his kin had refused to learn, believing the modern world should bend to their whims and desires as it had always done. Dylan now knew better.

  Soon though, the inevitable call of the road would tug at him once more, prompting him to walk new, exotic streets, to dance beneath different stars and taste unfamiliar blood. The call always came, sooner or later.

  Part One: The Solemn Hypnotic

  One

  Arizona, USA – One Year Later

  The girl looked tired. She walked to the bar and perched on a stool, barely glancing up when Larry approached. He had been tending the same bar for a decade, he’d seen all types pass through its doors. He knew the girl didn’t belong here, she would probably be dead by closing time. Still, he wasn’t paid to indulge his conscience.

  “What are you having?”

  For a moment, he thought the girl hadn’t heard him.

  “Hey, Lady,” he tried again. “What do you want?”

  A group of men leaning against the bar had already seen the newcomer. They nudged each other as they stared at her, a sudden air of anticipation spreading their mouths wide with leering grins.

  “What beer you got?” the girl asked.

  Larry waved his arm at the trio of pumps in front of him. “What you see is what you get.”

  The girl indicated the nearest pump and Larry set a glass beneath it. It’s a shame, he thought as he poured the beer, she’s pretty too.

  ***

  Dylan drained the last from his cigarette and tossed it to the floor. He exhaled, his face turned to the burgeoning moon. He loved nights like this. Nights when the moon was full and the sky strung with stars. They sang out across the miles of desert, cold and still and full of portent.

  He turned back to the bar, skirting the line of shining motorbikes racked up outside. Inside, the light was dull and heavy with smoke. The patrons preferred to deal their business in shadow.

  Dylan made his way to the bar and sat beside a pretty brunette, glancing at her before ordering a beer. He briefly wondered what she was doing here, out in the middle of nowhere. She didn’t look lost. She stared down at her glass with her shoulders hunched, as if daring someone to approach her. It wasn’t long before someone did.

  “Let me buy that beer for you.”

  The girl looked up at the stranger, surrounded on both sides by his jackal-eyed friends. She appeared emotionless, devoid even of simple human interest. “I’ve already paid.”

&
nbsp; “Then let me buy you another.”

  The girl ignored him. She turned back to her drink, took a long swig. The smile vanished from the man’s face. He demanded respect in this bar. Everyone in it knew who he was: Ernie, leader of the Coldbloods. Feared, reviled, but never ignored. He reached out and grasped the girls’ arm as his pack crowded closer, blocking the exit.

  “You’re rude, Girl. I thought we could have a little fun before I split you open. But fair’s fair, let’s forget that and get straight down to business.” He laughed and his friends followed suit, sniggering amongst themselves.

  Behind the bar, Larry pretended not to notice. He had seen this played out many times before, with many different girls. It always ended the same way. He just hoped they took it outside this time, he hated cleaning up after them. They liked to play with their food.

  The girl didn’t flinch. She continued to stare, her eyes cold and steely.

  “You like that idea?” Ernie said, his mouth contorted in an ugly sneer. “Why else would you come all the way out here? Do you want to die, Girl?”

  Quick as a darting fish, the girl made a grab for Ernie’s hand, pinning it to the arm he held even as he tried to pull away.

  “My name’s not Girl,” she said. Her voice was calm, measured, jarring with a British accent.

  From his vantage point, Dylan couldn’t see the girl’s face. She was turned towards Ernie, her body twisted on the stool. He wondered what it was they could see in her eyes, Ernie and his cronies. Their faces fell, flushed with fear and confusion. Their laughter died away and they began to back towards the door. The girl remained still, her hand unmoving, unwilling to release Ernie. Eventually, he managed to pull free. He staggered towards his friends, his hand clasped to his chest, hardly daring to lift his eyes to the other patrons. The girl waited until the roar of departing motorbikes sounded from outside before turning back to her beer. The hush that had descended on the bar dissipated. The sounds of talking and glasses banging down on tables returned. Normality resumed. As normal as The Starlight Lodge would ever be, anyway.

  Dylan relaxed and drank his own beer. He didn’t want to know what had happened, he could do without that sort of hassle. Still, he kept sneaking looks at the girl over the top of his glass. He had never seen anyone scare the Coldbloods that way. He had believed she was human, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

  The girl’s eyes suddenly snapped to him, obscured by drifts of unkempt hair. “Did you want something?”

  “What?”

  “You’re staring. It’s rude to stare.”

  Dylan reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. “Well, I didn’t mean to. I was curious about what you did, actually.” He laughed. “I’ve never seen Ernie Coldblood look like that.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “Is that his real name?”

  “He’s the leader of the Coldbloods.”

  The girl looked blank.

  “A jinn pack,” Dylan continued. “You do know what kind of place this is, right?”

  “Well, I didn’t think it was a karaoke bar.”

  Dylan smiled. “Any day but Wednesday, and you would be right.”

  “You’re kidding?” The girl glanced behind her, at the solidly built men wearing their tattoos and facial scars with pride, at the women with shaved heads and nose rings, as if trying to imagine them with a microphone, belting out ‘I Will Survive’.

  “It was all Larry’s idea, wasn’t it Larry?” The bartender grunted. “Brings people in on a slow night.”

  “Do you sing?” the girl asked.

  Dylan shook his head, horrified. “Absolutely not. I’d clear the place out with my voice. It’s reserved for the shower only.” He regarded the girl for a moment before extending his hand across the bar. “I’m Dylan.”

  The girl almost turned away, almost ignored his gesture to resume drinking her beer in silence, but something made her pause. She put her hand in his and shook it, quickly and neatly. “I’m Christa.”

  Dylan picked up his cigarettes and shook one loose, relieved he didn’t seem to have pissed the girl off the way Ernie had. “You smoke?”

  “Sure.”

  He lit Christa’s cigarette before extracting one for himself. “So you’re from England?”

  The girl nodded, but didn’t offer further explanation. She blew out a long column of smoke and drained her glass, watching as Larry retrieved it wordlessly and set it back beneath the pump.

  “I was in England a while ago,” Dylan said. “Nice place. The food didn’t agree with me.” He laughed to himself.

  Christa didn’t look up, but she smiled. “Magic in the blood. Made your head vibrate.”

  Dylan stopped laughing. He looked around the bar, glanced at Larry. The bartender was busy serving a hunched-looking man, standing several paces away from them. “That’s a strange thing to say,” he said.

  “It is, isn’t it?” This time Christa looked at him, startling green-grey eyes clear and shining in the half-light, not quite seeing through, but into him.

  Dylan felt something pull deep inside, as if nimble fingers were prying apart the corners of his psyche, probing to see what lay at the very centre of him. He sat back, unnerved.

  “Jinn don’t eat blood,” Christa was saying. “They tear at more substantial things. Livers and kidneys. Not the stomachs though, that makes them sick.”

  “You know a lot about them,” Dylan said. He finished his beer and signalled to Larry, pointed at the bottle of cheap bourbon behind the bar. Larry filled a glass and waited while Dylan fumbled money out of his pocket and paid him.

  “I used to watch them,” Christa said. “I like to learn.”

  “Yes, learning’s good.” The bourbon was warm, filled with rich fire. Dylan drank deeply and felt his limbs begin to loosen, heavy with alcohol. He looked at the girl again. She was small against the dank of the bar, her clothes cheap and ill-fitting. Her hands trembled almost imperceptibly against the glass she cradled. Dylan leaned towards her. “Why are you here?”

  Christa looked confused by the question. She thought for a moment before replying, “Why are you?”

  ***

  Dylan wasn’t surprised by the cheapness of the girl’s motel room. It seemed to fit with the odd clothes and untamed hair. This was not a girl who lived for the finer things in life. Or could afford them, at any rate.

  He stared around the cramped space, searching for any clues as to Christa’s identity. His curiosity remained unsatisfied. There wasn’t so much as a hairbrush on the nightstand.

  Christa remained standing just inside the door, head cocked, appraising Dylan’s shadowy form in the dark.

  “I hate these places,” Dylan said. “So impersonal and joyless.” He walked to the television facing the bed and jabbed at the buttons below the screen. “Did you know your TV’s not working?”

  “I don’t watch TV,” Christa said, head still cocked, eyes glittering. “People on TV are stupid, it annoys me.”

  “I think it’s a stipulation of the entertainment business, stupidity. If your IQ’s too high, you’ll never make it.” Dylan began to laugh but stopped when he saw the strange way Christa was looking at him. He briefly wondered if it was too late to edge past her and escape.

  “I’ve decided that I like you,” Christa said. The statement was bald, simple. It caught Dylan off-guard. He stared at her for several moments.

  “Does that mean I win something?” he finally said.

  Christa began moving towards him. She had the look of a cat stalking prey, her hips swung from side to side and her face darkened with intent. Dylan waited for her to reach him, to lift her hands to his face. He braced himself for impact, for inevitable pain, and was pleasantly surprised when she only shoved him hard in the chest, pushing him down onto the bed. He began to speak but one hard-edged look silenced him. Christa was obviously not a woman who liked to be interrupted. Instead, Dylan let her undress him. He relaxed beneath her, let her hands wander where they
wanted. She lifted her shirt over her head, legs wrapped around him, pinning him down. Dylan smiled. She was much better looking than her baggy clothes suggested. He closed his eyes, content to bow to her will. It had been a while since anyone had wanted him this way.

  ***

  When Christa woke and found Dylan still sprawled beside her, one arm thrown across her body, she was surprised. She turned her face to the bright desert light filtering through the grimy glass of the window. Her head ached dully and her eyes strained. Her mouth still tasted of beer. She wondered how long she should lie there before attempting to move and waking Dylan. She wasn’t used to finding men in her bed in the morning. Usually she would collapse, utterly exhausted, and never notice them gathering up their clothes and making a hasty getaway. She never cared that they didn’t want to stay. This though, was different.

  She turned back to look at Dylan. He was sleeping peacefully, blue-black hair fallen across his forehead. Her gaze travelled down, rested on the thick scar marring the skin across his stomach. Brand of the jinn. Tentatively, she moved her hand and rested her palm against his taught abdomen, against the scar’s jagged, raised surface. There was something about Dylan that jarred, grated against the jinn stones sewn inside the soft meat of his belly. He had a power that shone icy blue against his skin, cold and ancient as glaciers. A power that didn’t sit comfortably within his new jinn-self. She sensed conflict and pain. Christa retracted her hand and Dylan stirred, opened his eyes.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Christa replied. “What are you still doing here?”

  Dylan sat up and stretched, pushing himself back against the headboard. “That’s nice,” he said. “You asked me to stay, remember?”

  “Well, yes but–” Christa stopped herself. “I didn’t think you actually would. I was just being polite.”