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I realize that when I posted the prologue I said, come back next week for Chapter 1, and it's now weeks later and I haven't posted the chapter. My apologies. While I live with a certain amount of organized chaos, occasionally (I may be glossing over reality with that word) it's more chaos than organization. But my good news is that I have been busy and my latest WIP, a science-fiction is set a couple of millennia later in the same universe as the Saoirse Saga, is now with my wonderful editor, Lois Dacus. So, without delay, here, as promised, if a bit belatedly, is Chapter 1 of Ally & The Djinn.
CHAPTER 1: SEISMIC SHIFT
Allie waited on the sidewalk,
clenching her fists, her fingers—nails bitten down to the quick—pressing into
her palm. Chris was late. As usual. Allie cursed him under her breath. The
sudden scraping sensation under her skin, the painful crawling down her spine,
the squeezing sensation in her lungs—all were a red alert. The urge to scream
pushed up from her belly, through her chest, and swelled in her throat. She
swallowed half a dozen times, pushing everything down and silencing the
assault. No way was she going to have a meltdown in the middle of Main Street,
despite her entire body crawling with ants, each possessing razor-sharp,
red-hot pincers that tore at her flesh.
Where the fuck had her dealer gotten to? He’d insisted on
ten o’clock. She turned and peered into the coffee shop behind her at the clock
on the wall. Ten past, and no sign of him. The blazing sunlight gave her a
massive headache, even after borrowing Jenny’s black sunglasses. Sorry, Jen. My
eyes are way more bloodshot than yours. She tossed the mental apology in her
friend’s direction. Jenny had recognized her in the street one evening and
taken pity on her, and she’d experienced Jenny’s sudden bursts of temper more
than once. The idea that she might throw Allie out was unwelcome because she
preferred not to think about the crack house she had lived in previously. Yet In
any event, she would be back at the apartment before Jenny got home from work,
as long as Chris appeared soon. If he didn’t, she would be well and truly
screwed, and annoying Jenny would be the least of her worries.
A frisson of electricity shot through her. Her hair stood on
end. She shivered as goose bumps ran up and down her arms, as if an alien
presence had passed by too close. Her mother’s witchy genes rarely manifested,
yet when they did, she knew to pay attention. Granny’s hunches and sightings
were more serious, and she’d spent her final days in a nuthouse. Right now, something
freakish had ratcheted up her heightened state of hypervigilance to new levels
of of suspicion.
She straightened up, aware of the soothing sensation of the
morning sun warming her face and body. Hell’s bells, she was hungry. Hell’s
bells and a bunch of parsley! Hell’s bells? Where had that come from, let alone
the parsley? She’d never said that phrase in her life. Some kind of change had
taken place; she could feel it down to her joints, as Granny liked to say. How
had it happened, and why, and what did it mean? As a white fog clouded her
mind, she focused on her scuffed sneakers, the stains on her torn jeans, and
caught a whiff of herself. Man, she stank. There was another smell, too, that
she couldn’t quite place.
†
Son
of a starving djinn, Quareem thought, the aroma evoking memories. Marketplaces,
conversations of many kinds, some more pleasant than others, people telling
stories, jokes. A quick flash surfaced: sipping strong brown liquid from a
small, delicately painted china cup as he sat on a balcony overlooking a city of
pale domed buildings glinting in the sun as slender golden-skinned beauties
served fragrant sesame seed cakes and refreshments. He had been there with
someone. Who? A woman? The slice of memory faded, while the scent tickling the
nose of his current host remained tantalizingly real. Yes, he remembered. The
substance emitting that enticing, irresistible fragrance was coffee.
†
Another wave of… sparkly lightness with a flash of dazzle…
passed through her. As she stared at the busy pedestrians, the traffic noises
reduced to a buzzing in her ears, she wondered where the odor drifting up her
nostrils and into her olfactory centers came from, because it was driving her
crazy. She turned and, with no conscious volition, strode toward the door and
entered the shop. As she approached the counter, the server looked up, eyes
widening as he registered her grimy gray T-shirt, the sweat staining her
armpits, and the auburn dreadlocks gathered in a loose bun on the top of her
head. He spoke to a point over her shoulder. “What can I get for you today?”
His disdain made her want to smack his smug face, but then
she wouldn’t get what she wanted. She smothered her irritation. “A venti
Blonde, black. Extra shot.”
The man’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “For here or to go?”
“For here, and two of those.” Allie pointed at a tray of
golden, curved pastries.
“Plus two chocolate croissants. That will be eight thirty.”
Allie dug in her jeans pocket and fished out a
hundred-dollar bill. What the hell? Where…? She blanked. Nothing was important
except sipping that heavenly beverage.
He took the cash, handing her change over. “Name?”
What was this? The inquisition? “Alicia.” This was weird.
Nobody had ever called her Alicia except her mother, and she only used her
eldest daughter’s full name in a particular tone to express her displeasure.
“Wait at the end of the bar.” The barista signaled his
dismissal by turning to the next customer.
Where else did he expect her to wait? Hover near the
ceiling? The whimsical thought brought a smile as she pictured herself—no, it
wasn’t her; it was… the memory vanished. Fuck. If withdrawal had begun, she
would kill Chris and skin him alive when she got hold of him. An image of
lightning zigzagging from her fingertips and Chris crumpling to the ground
flashed before her, followed by a sharp stabbing pain in her head. She swayed.
“Are you okay?” the stylishly dressed businessman standing
behind her asked.
None of your business. Fuck off, she thought. “I’m fine,”
she muttered, saved by the barista’s shrill tenor calling out her name. Nothing
worse than what she considered a waste of time and energy—a conversation with
someone who had no relevance to her life, now or ever.
Half an hour, two more croissants, and another giant cup of
the primo barista brew later, she sat back, amazed at the satisfaction and
contentment flushing through her. The corner window seat had a view of the
street and the other customers in the bar. While eating, she checked both out,
eyes swiveling left, then right, finding only the usual hustle and bustle. She
scowled at the leather-jacketed, bald guy standing on the sidewalk glaring at
her. He seemed familiar, and when she tried to work out why, her ability to
think had ceased functioning.
With his shrewd, beady eyes glued to her, the man stabbed a
finger at the watch on his wrist and, with a sharp, aggressive gesture,
beckoned her.
Whoever he was, he wasn’t anybody she wanted to be friends
with, and if he was still there when she finished her breakfast, then she would
give him an earful. Mmm…that might not be for a while, because she was thinking
of having a final pastry and a last gigantic cup of that beautiful beverage. First,
though, the bathroom. She stood up, refrained from giving him the finger, and
instead ignored him and headed for the bathroom.
She was alone, washing her hands, squinting at herself in
the mirror, thinking what a mess she was and wondering when she last had a
shower, when she heard the voice.
†
A
female. Young, yes, that could work. Not that he had a choice. A nearby Hunter
meant he was safer to stay where he was until there was less risk. What’s more,
he’d never resided with a female before. The Fates must have offered him this
chance for a reason. Aside from the subtle promise of her magic, would she want
to dominate and manipulate others to fulfill her desires as most women did? A
human full of material ambition made the ideal keeper, as their greed enabled
him to shape them to his will. This human appeared to have no aspirations for
position or money. The only images he picked up from her befuddled mind
reminded him of wealthy patrons lying on comfortable couches, smoking opium
from pipes, while her disheveled clothes and erratic, scattered manner of
thinking, jumping from topic to topic without a break, had more in common with
those he’d seen collapsed in alleyways, their pipes glowing in the dark as they
inhaled. She put on a good show. In contrast, he was not sure what he might
find behind the shield she had erected between herself and the world. Fortunately,
it had taken no time at all to remove her obsessive craving for crack—whatever
that was—which placed her in his debt.
He
would do a thorough analysis of her thoughts and memories when she slept and
her barriers were down. Most important, and rare to find, she possessed an
immense amount of dormant magical ability. Regrettably, she had no idea of her
untapped talent, so he was unable to use it. He would teach her; she would be
grateful and grant him permission to access that glorious energy to replenish
his own somewhat depleted store.
More
essential to his survival, though, she could mask his presence from those who
hunted him. He shuddered at the memory of the Hunters’ flickering scarlet
cloaks. They would shackle him more tightly if they caught him again. Better to
die than return to the emptiness, the nonexistence, of a Hunter’s prison.
Right
now, he had to connect and entice her into agreement, because he needed to
hide. Preferably with somebody who would submissively comply with his orders.
An accomplice, really. Did he even have enough power to take her over? He shook
his head. How had his life and safety come to depend on a mortal woman? One
who, apparently, did not appreciate a steaming bath and fragrant soap.
He
fixed his attention on the present. Alternating the bitter, smooth, hot liquid
he sipped along with the delicious taste of combined flour, butter and sugar
sent his tongue into long forgotten drools of ecstasy. He gazed around and,
while the café’s occupants wore unrecognizable and bizarre outfits, he
understood the status of those imbibing alongside him.
He
decided that the females dressed bizarrely in skin-tight leggings and short
cropped tops and wondered, what was the point in having an imagination? Perhaps
that faculty had dimmed, and men in this society needed to see every lump and
bulge of flesh to arouse themselves. The men, in contrast, seemed to wear
looser pants of a rough-looking material and baggier tops. How odd. The women
revealed their assets while the men hid theirs. He saw no ragged clothing, or
signs of dirt or obvious disease. Their auras indicated satisfaction and low
levels of worry about money, love and other such mundane concerns, which he had
solved for himself an eternity ago.
However,
the foul pungent stink of urinals had not changed, in spite of the overlay of a
chemical designed to mask the pungent aromas. He watched his host study her
reflection—and judging by how her nose wrinkled—even she didn’t like the rank
pong of her body. Oh, well. Here’s hoping she won’t have a heart attack and
fall dead, ‘cause that would be a serious inconvenience for me. Here goes.
“Greetings, fair one.”
***
Thank you for reading and I hope you are enjoying the story so far. The next chapter will be posted soon(ish). If you don't want to wait to find out what happens next, Ally & The Djinn is available for FREE from my Shopify store: teagankearyey.com and from all major retail sites such as Amazon, Kobo, B&N, etcetera.
Stay safe and well,
Warmest wishes,
Teagan. 😊
