Jinn Nation Read online

  ***

  That night they stayed in the RV and made love in the former occupants’ bed, surrounded by the sickly body-scents of strangers. For hours they lay beneath a scratchy, hard-wool blanket, arms around each other, smoking cigarettes and telling stories.

  “Why do you live the way you do?” Dylan asked.

  “What do you mean?” Christa laughed, but her tone was dry and flat.

  “Well, you obviously have some power. You were able to convince that girl to come back to the motel. So why stay in shitty motels at all? Why not dazzle the manager of a nice place and live in luxury? Or fuck hotels, you could do it to an estate agent and own your own apartment. Or a mansion with a swimming pool and a gardener.”

  Dylan laughed into the dark but Christa remained silent against his chest. When she didn’t speak he wrapped his arm more tightly around her and stroked her hair.

  “You don’t like swimming?”

  Christa pulled away and sat up, reaching for the cigarettes discarded on the floor. She slowly lit and inhaled before turning back to look at Dylan.

  “No, it’s not that. It just feels like showing off. I don’t like using it all the time.”

  “What?” Dylan almost choked on the word. He pushed himself back against the meagre pillows and reached for his own cigarette. Christa looked away again. He watched her for a time as she gently expelled soft blue smoke, following its progress as it made a wreath around the lights in the ceiling. Finally, he flicked ash into a small plastic plant pot on the narrow window sill and tried a different approach. “What does it feel like when you dazzle people? Is it even a feeling?”

  Christa sighed. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “Fine, I’ll stop.” Then, after a brief pause, “You could still live better than you do.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Christa was obviously trying to sound bland and indifferent, but Dylan detected a touch of sadness in her statement.

  “You don’t have to know, I’ll show you.” He finished his cigarette and discarded it in the makeshift ashtray before stretching and lifting himself from the bed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must eat this guy.”

  Dylan could feel Christa watching him as he approached the balding man, still laid out flat before the door. He was now semi-conscious, eyes roving and desperate. Dylan bent the man’s head, snapping his neck as deftly as a skilled butcher culling a chicken, and set his teeth at his bilious throat. He drank quickly and deeply, grinning at Christa with teeth rinsed in blood when he was done.

  “I think I could help you with this,” Christa said.

  “With my debilitating blood addiction? Afraid not, Sweetness, that one’s with me for life.” Dylan rolled the man over and away from him before standing to wash his hands in the RV’s tiny sink.

  Christa eyed the scar dividing his stomach. “They don’t sit right with you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The jinn stones. They keep trying to latch onto the essence of a man, but only find a cold vampire. That’s why you get the pains. They’re waging a battle inside you: the vampire against the jinn.”

  “Who do you think is winning? I’ve got my money on the vampire, he’s been in more fist fights.”

  “Dylan, I’m being serious,” Christa persisted. “I think I could force your two selves to combine, to work together.”

  Dylan only smiled and returned to the bed, pulling Christa towards him. “You’re welcome to try.”

  ***

  Having discarded the campers’ bodies in the back of their pick-up truck, Dylan and Christa left Devil’s Ridge Campground in the morning, roaring away in the clunky RV. With every mile Dylan put between the RV and the campground his hunched shoulders became a little looser, his smile a little easier. He had never been one to revel for too long at the scene of a crime. His elders had taught him better than that.

  It was almost midday when Christa suddenly woke, as if from a heat-induced trance, and lightly touched Dylan’s arm.

  “Stop here. Just over there, this is the perfect place.”

  “Perfect for what?” Dylan felt irritable and restless. He wished the air was cooler and the sun was lower in the sky.

  “I’m going to try and help you, remember?”

  Dylan sighed. “Look Christa, I’m not really sure about this. I’ve tried it all before. I haven’t just been suffering in silence like some idiot. There was a witch in England and a Satanic priest in Texas. Neither of them could do anything for me.”

  “They can’t do the things that I can do.”

  The simple confidence in Christa’s voice startled Dylan. He glanced at her. “Fine, okay. But I’m not doing any dances, or wearing any cat bones.”

  Christa laughed. “Yuck, cat bones? No, there will be no bones of any description.”

  “As long as we’re clear.” Dylan swung the van from the road and trundled out onto the tired ground, littered with the plastic bottles and coke cans thrown from passing cars. After several minutes, once the highway had become a distant black line in the rear-view mirror, Christa laid her hand on Dylan’s arm again.

  “Stop here.”

  Dylan pulled up sharply and climbed out of the RV to look around, one arm raised to shield his eyes. There was nothing but dry, red earth and stunted undergrowth as far as he could see in any direction.

  “Okay,” Christa said behind him. “Come and sit in the middle of the circle.”

  Dylan turned and did as he was asked, carefully stepping over the line Christa had drawn in the dirt with a pointed stone. He tried hard to keep from smiling, to convince Christa that he was making a concerted effort on her behalf. In reality, any ritual that began with a power circle made Dylan laugh. The Satanic priest had created just such a circle, using the thin blood wrung from a freshly killed chicken. He had chanted and danced while Dylan stood and watched, his neck straining beneath multiple strands of beads and a dozen matted feathers woven into his hair. The priest’s comical efforts were ultimately useless, but he had made a decent meal. Satisfying enough to dull the pains until New Mexico.

  “Close your eyes,” Christa said.

  Dylan closed one eye, saw Christa glaring at him, and grinned. “Both eyes?” he inquired.

  Christa sat cross-legged before him, outside of the circle. “You know very well, both eyes. Do you want my help or not?”

  Dylan relented and closed his eyes. The noon sun was directly overhead, burning hotter than a furnace. It lit the darkness behind his eyelids with fiery gold.

  “Concentrate on your breathing,” Christa said. “Inhale. Exhale. Nice and slow.”

  Christa’s voice soon drifted away and Dylan began to float within himself, letting his mind wander where it would. The intense sun grew stronger and brighter, pricking his skin with searing, white heat.

  He had almost lost sense of where he was when a sudden, choking surge built behind his ribcage. He began to panic, but forcefully calmed himself and kept his eyes closed. Inhale. Exhale. Rinse and repeat. The surge contorted and changed until it was a ripping sensation that made him feel his chest was breaking apart. His eyes flew open and he stared down at his torso, mouth dropping open when he saw a rippling stream of black jetting from his body, thick and gleaming like a river of gasoline.

  He looked up at Christa. Her eyes were still closed. She was serene and radiant, a small smile on her lips. The black force rushing from his aching ribs went through, and beyond her. She seemed to be channelling it away from herself. It fanned out behind her and raced across the flat, mud-red ground, disappearing into the horizon. Around the hastily drawn line of the power circle, a curtain of sandy earth had risen, creating a fine trembling mesh between them. Dylan hardly dared breathe, scared he would interrupt Christa and the dark force raging through him would literally tear him apart. Eventually the sand-curtain fell, covering them both in thin dust. The black stream faltered and stopped, cast away on desert heat. Dylan felt shaky and faint. He closed
his eyes and when he looked again, Christa had collapsed on the ground before him. He crawled to her on hands and knees.

  “Christa, are you okay?”

  She murmured and twitched, struggling to move. Dylan carefully lifted her head into his lap. “What the hell was that?”

  “It’s gone now,” Christa managed, her voice hoarse and broken. “The pain’s gone. Told you I could do it.” She tried to smile.

  “Shit, yeah. You did something, alright.”

  They stayed that way for half an hour, Dylan cradling Christa in his lap while the disturbed earth settled around them and the sun dipped lower. Eventually, Dylan was able to help Christa stand. He manoeuvred her back into the van and they drove away, back towards the long, straight highway.

  Four

  Dylan guessed they were somewhere in the middle of Utah when he pulled into a bland little town called Blue Mesa. It was the sort of town he would gladly have passed by, but they had been driving for two days. He was hot and hungry and tired. He steered the RV down wide, empty streets, sporadically lined with trees.

  “Where are all the people?” Christa asked.

  “Probably too hot for them,” he replied, although he too was wondering about the apparent lack of life. As they passed the storefronts, set into generic concrete boxes on either side of the road, he peered inside. Many of them were closed or boarded up. A pharmacy and a bank had doors thrown open to the street, but both were dark inside.

  “It is strange though,” he said. “Maybe it’s another place where the jobs have dried up.” This theory made sense, but there was a tang in the air, a feeling of hollowness surrounding the town that made him doubt himself.

  At the end of the long span of shops Dylan spotted a large, squat building straddling a corner. The sign blinking on the roof declared it to be The Blue Mesa Trading Post and Coffee Shop.

  “You hungry?” he asked Christa.

  “Starving.”

  Dylan nodded and swung into the car park. He opened the door of the RV, savouring the brief rush of air that greeted him, while Christa neatly stepped down on the other side and surveyed the premises. It appeared to be as empty as the rest of the town, but the interior was lit and welcoming.

  “Come on,” Christa said, poking her head back inside the RV, “they have pie.”

  “Just what I always wanted,” Dylan muttered under his breath. He jumped down from his seat and stretched. “I can’t believe you don’t drive,” he said when Christa turned to look at him. “Seems a bit too convenient to me. Means you get to sleep while I do all the work.”

  “Well, I never learned.”

  Dylan sighed and began walking towards The Trading Post. When he reached the doors he half expected them to be locked, but they swung open easily. Inside, The Blue Mesa Trading Post and Coffee Shop was little more than a collection of bric-a-brac. Posters on the walls advertised ‘Genuine Native American Crafts!’ and ‘Local Books’, but the actual items were tired and dusty, slumped on the wooden shelves lining the walls as though someone had long since forgotten about them. Christa appeared oblivious to this as she moved through the room, towards the scent of stale coffee emanating from the back. Dylan followed reluctantly, wishing they had taken the road towards Las Vegas and the golden Californian coast beyond. At least he could have been sure of a decent meal.

  Christa stopped before a tiny counter set into the back wall, above which was the legend, ‘Best Coffee in Blue Mesa’. Dylan read the sign and snorted. It certainly didn’t smell like the best coffee in Blue Mesa.

  A small, wizened old man bustled towards them from behind the counter. His glittering, bead-like eyes were obscured by a green poker dealer’s visor jammed down over his forehead.

  “Can I help you, folks?”

  “What kind of pie do you have?” Christa asked, picking up a laminated menu from the counter and scanning it.

  “Got some holiday pie left.”

  “What’s in that?” Christa didn’t sound convinced.

  “Chocolate. Spices. Good butter pastry.” The old man reeled off the ingredients lethargically, counting them down on his fingers. “Rest is a family secret. Can’t tell you the rest, I’d be out of business.” He laughed dryly, his face creasing into deep wrinkles.

  “We’ll take some,” Dylan said, curbing the impulse to ask why The Blue Mesa Trading Post wasn’t out of business already.

  “Hey,” Christa said, turning away from the counter. “I don’t know if I–”

  “Just have the bloody pie,” Dylan hissed, making sure the old man couldn’t hear him. “I want to get out of this shitty town, don’t you? Eat the pie and let’s go.”

  “Fine.” Christa turned her back on him and smiled at the old man. “Holiday pie would be great.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful.” The old man seemed overly excited at the prospect of offloading some pie. Dylan wondered if he’d seen any other customers at all that day.

  “Go sit yourselves down,” the old man continued. “I’ll bring you over some coffee, too. Best coffee in Blue Mesa, you know. I grind the beans myself.”

  Dylan chose the table furthest away from the counter and sat down heavily.

  “Don’t be pissed off,” Christa said, seating herself beside him. “You’re the one who wanted to drive out this way.”

  “I just thought it would be better. Quieter places are easier to feed in. Less police, more places to hide a body. I didn’t realise it would be this quiet though. I’ll waste away if I don’t get something to eat.” He tried to smile. “A starving vampire is possibly the most wretched, ugly creature you’ll ever see. Believe me, I know.”

  “You’ll be okay,” Christa said. “We’ll get to larger towns soon, and there’s always Pops over there.” She motioned towards the old man, busying himself over an ancient coffee machine, and grinned.

  “Yeah, bet he’d taste sweet and fresh.”

  Christa stifled a giggle.

  “You’re one strange woman,” Dylan said, shaking his head. It took him several seconds to register that Christa’s easy smile had vanished. He sighed. “What have I said wrong now?”

  Christa refused to answer him. She looked away and crossed her arms over her chest. Dylan began to formulate a placation, some soothing comment to regain her attention with, but he couldn’t quell the anger that had been threatening to break ever since they crossed the Blue Mesa town limits.

  “I’m fed up of this crap,” he roared, startling Christa and making the old man pause and look in their direction.

  “Everything okay over there?” the old man called, the merest hint of fear in his voice.

  “Everything’s fine,” Christa called back, her eyes hardening as she turned to Dylan. “What do you mean, you’re fed up of this shit?”

  “I mean, I’m fed up of you sulking every time I say something you don’t like. You have to face facts, Love: you are strange. An English girl washed up in the Arizona desert is strange enough. Factor in the mysterious mental powers and the ability to laugh off vampires and jinn, beings that most humans would shit their pants over, and the situation is downright bizarre. Like it or not, you can’t pretend you’re normal. No more than I can pretend I’m going to settle on a sheep farm and raise a family of fat, spoilt children to see me right in my old age.”

  Christa seemed to have been stunned into silence. All defiance had left her and her small, pointed face suddenly looked far too young. Dylan felt his anger slipping away.

  “Look,” he said, his voice softer, “I just think that if we’re going to be travelling together, we should know more about each other.”

  Christa thought for a moment before replying. “I’m not the only one with secrets, you know. You’re a pretty strange guy yourself.”

  Dylan nodded in agreement. “Okay, let’s play a game. I’ll answer one question for every question you answer. Deal?”

  Before Christa could respond the old man reappeared, bearing a pot of coffee and two mugs.

  “Sorr
y it took so long,” he said as he poured the coffee. “My fingers aren’t as nimble as once they were.” He caught Dylan’s eye and laughed nervously.

  “No problem,” Dylan said, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry for the raised voices. We’ve had a long day driving.”

  “Sure, sure,” the old man said. He seemed relieved. “I remember how tempers flare on road trips. When my Sarah was alive we often took off for weekends and holidays. One time we even–”

  He suddenly stopped talking, his face blank and his eyes glassy. Several seconds of silence passed before he turned sharply on his heel and marched back to the counter. Dylan stared after him in amazement.

  “Was that you?” he asked Christa.

  She shrugged. “He was interrupting us.” She stirred sugar into her coffee and took a tentative sip. “It’s better than I expected. The coffee.”

  Dylan watched her across the cheap plastic table. Watched the tiny bones in her fingers work as they manipulated the sugar spoon. “I’ll let you go first,” he said, pushing his own mug of coffee away. “Go on, ask me a question.”

  “Okay.” Christa expelled a long, slow breath. “Why did you have jinn stones sewn into your stomach? I can’t imagine you craved the power, you already had that.”

  “You’re right,” Dylan said. “I didn’t crave the power.” He looked down at the table. “I knew you’d ask me that first.”

  “So what did you crave?” Christa pressed. “Why did you let them cut into you?” Her voice still held a sulky edge but her eyes challenged him, refused to look away until he answered.

  “I craved something much more mundane. I craved company, companionship.” He laughed at Christa’s expression. “I know I sound like I’m talking out of my arse. But you have to understand, I haven’t been alone for many long years. I wasn’t always the last vampire in existence. Not so long ago there was a company of us. We looked after each other and shared our hopes and fears. Our dreams. We were starving though, forced to live in the shadows and feed where we could. When we got desperate and took bigger risks, our fears caught up with us. I was lucky to escape with my life.” He smiled. “Such as it is.”