Djinn

by Laura Catherine

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chater Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  About the Author

  Thanks

  Coming Soon...

  DJINN

  Laura Catherine

  Djinn

  Copyright © Laura Catherine 2013

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, electronically shared or uploaded without permission of the author.

  Editor: Lauren Mckellar

  Cover Design: Phat Puppy Art

  Ebook Formatting: White Hot Ebook Formatting

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For more information visit:

  www.quillwielder.com

  Dedication

  To Lyall and my Mum.

  This book would not be possible without your love and support.

  Prologue

  Malcolm Lockhart drove down the stretch of windy road at breakneck speed. His black Commodore was near invisible in the dark and he wished he could drive with the headlights off so no one would see him at all, but in this storm he couldn't take risks—not with his precious package in the backseat.

  The night was a near hurricane with wind stripping the trees of their branches, throwing them hundreds of yards away. The rain came down in sheets like curtains flowing over the earth, beautiful and dangerous.

  Malcolm spun the wheel sharply to turn a corner. The car skidded on the wet surface and his hands gripped the wheel his white knuckles showing. He regained control, but his grip remained tight and his breathing unsteady as he slowed the engine just a little and cursed the storm for slowing him down. Malcolm's gaze was caught by the reflection in the rear view mirror, the small golden eyes staring up at him from the back seat.

  Kyra was barely two-years-old. Her tiny fingers grasped the edges of the yellow woolen blanket she was wrapped in, as snug as a glove. She stared at Malcolm with glimmering golden eyes and he couldn't help but notice how much she looked like her mother. The same eyes, the same dark brown locks and pale complexion: his little Kyra.

  "Don't worry, kiddo," Malcolm said. "We'll get out of this."

  He tore his eyes from Kyra and flicked them back to the road ahead.

  "Shit!"

  A figure appeared like a ghost from the darkness in front of the car, illuminated only by the car's headlights. Malcolm hit the brakes, pushing back into his seat as if he might somehow merge with the cushioned space that was protecting him. He swerved in time to miss the man who seemed unfazed by almost being run over. The car skidded along the wet road and, as hard as Malcolm tried, he couldn't avoid the oncoming tree.

  * * *

  Malcolm's eyes fluttered open as drops of water fell from the twisted metal of the car above him. He'd hit the tree with enough force to total the front. The windscreen was shattered, barely held in place. Malcolm groaned; his right leg ached from the tear down his calf. Blood pooled with the rain on the car floor but Malcolm's thoughts were not for his own safety; his thoughts were for Kyra.

  He squirmed, craning his neck Most of the damage was located in the front of the car with just some broken glass on the back seat. Broken glass, but no Kyra.

  Malcolm's heart jumped. The back door was wide open, rain splattering the leather seats.

  Malcolm yanked at his seatbelt until he tore it from the holster and pushed open the door, only to have it fall off its hinges with a loud clunk. He crawled from the wreckage on his stomach, not wanting to put weight on his injured leg. Leaning against the car, Malcolm glanced around, but the rain was too heavy to see anything further than a few feet away. Malcolm had to get on his feet and search for Kyra, but he knew he had to fix his leg first.

  He ripped the right leg of his tattered pants off and tied it just under the knee to stop the blood flow. Water soaked his hair and dripped down his brow, but Malcolm ignored it and focused on his task. He tore his shirtsleeves at the shoulder and wrapped them around the deep gash on his calf. The cloth stained with blood and he winced, but he could move now, and he had to find Kyra.

  Malcolm grabbed hold of the car and pulled himself to his feet, wiping his face with a bloodied hand. He tested his leg, putting pressure on it; he couldn't stand too well, but he would fight through the pain to get her back. His face was a smudged mess of blood and mud; wild, like a savage. Hobbling up the muddy bank, Malcolm was filled with sheer determination. Nothing would stop him. Nothing.

  "Where's Ivan?" called a gritty male voice.

  Malcolm could just see the figure that had caused him to run off the road a few feet ahead of him. He was dressed in a black trench coat, and had his phone held to his ear with one hand, and Kyra wrapped up in his other. Kyra wailed like any scared two-year-old would, despite the stranger bobbing her slightly in an attempt to settle her. It was clear the stranger's main concern was the phone call.

  "Hurry up and bring the car around. I'm catching a chill," he continued. "Yes, I've got the girl … Him? He's lying unconscious and bleeding in the car. Don't worry."

  Malcolm clawed at the earth, dragging himself forward. He picked up speed, knowing reinforcements were not far off. He sneaked behind the man who was too busy to notice him and put one grubby hand on Kyra's bundled blanket, smudging the bright yellow.

  Malcolm grabbed Kyra's blanket with one hand to ensure she wouldn't fall and reeled back then swung, punching the man with a clenched fist. The man moaned, holding his nose as blood streamed down over his lips. The phone was lost to the darkness with a clatter and Kyra landed safely in Malcolm's arms.

  Malcolm hobbled back to the car to put some distance between them and buy some time. Sliding the last few feet, he arrived and placed Kyra in the back seat after sweeping the broken glass away. He looked into her golden eyes and wondered if she recognised him with all the mud and blood. His question was answered by Kyra's sniffles silencing.

  "That's my girl," he said.

  Pain exploded in Malcolm's nose as he was pushed from behind, head slamming into the car frame. His nose was broken, the hot metallic taste of blood was in his mouth.

  He spun and caught the man's fist mid-punch. Malcolm gritted his teeth, a wild survivalist feeling rising inside him. He swung back at the man, but missed by inches.

  "Give her up, Malcolm," the man shouted over the rain. He was about his age with black hair, pointed face and broad shoulders. He didn't know him from a stranger in the street.

  "You can't have her," Malcolm growled back.

  They each struggled to hold the other back, pushing with a battl
e of strength and will. Malcolm knew he would win, he had to—there was no other choice, and the thought drove him to push harder.

  The man fell, landing in the mud, and struggled to stand again. Malcolm didn't let him recover and dove straight in for a tackle. They wrestled, black mud mixing with crimson blood and rain. They were covered, head to toe.

  The man held Malcolm down with hands on his throat. Malcolm choked against the strong grip, feeling every wisp of air slip away. His hand slapped the ground in search of something, anything. It landed on a long piece of twisted car metal. His fingers curled around the end and, in a last ditch effort, he swung it.

  He stopped moving, his eyes bulging in a death stare. His grip loosened and Malcolm's eyes followed from his own hand, to the metal, to the man's head.

  He jerked his weapon back, but it was stuck tight in the man's skull. Malcolm released it, realising what he had done and tried to squirm free. The lifeless body toppled to the ground, but he continued to stare at Malcolm with dead eyes. Malcolm did his best to avoid the gaze but it was burned into his memory.

  Malcolm's bloodstained hands shook as he turned them over, every inch covered in red. He had never killed anyone before, let alone with his bare hands. They trembled and he slowly clenched them, but it didn't seem to help. The images replayed in his mind, over and over, as if he was trying to make sense of what had happened, but he pulled the thoughts away when he saw the flash of headlights approaching.

  He rubbed his hands on his pants, getting rid of most of the blood, and ran back to the car wreck to scoop up Kyra. Thank god she hadn't seen what he had done. He held her close to his chest and crouched a short way away from the wreckage in a tangle of bushes. The blue Mercedes approached, stopping where the skid marks ran off the road. Two men exited from the passenger side and back seat.

  "Where's Grant?" one shouted.

  "I don't know? We lost connection." The other man pressed buttons on his phone and threw his arms up, groaning. "Piece of crap."

  "That idiot!" Malcolm recognised Ivan's voice; it always held that slight hint of anger. "I know this has to do with Malcolm. Grant should have killed him."

  "Look down there." The other man pointed to the skid marks.

  They followed the tracks to the edge of the road, stepping with caution and watchful eyes. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the wreckage of the car.

  "Let's check it out," Ivan said.

  Malcolm watched them move until they were out of sight. He needed to get away from these people, and their car was his only chance for escape.

  He scooped up a handful of mud and smeared it over Kyra's blanket to hide the rest of bright yellow colour. He moved in the shadows, working his way around the back of the car, and leaned against the boot. The red parking lights glowed on his face.

  Malcolm knew his plan had to be preformed with precision. He placed Kyra by the back wheel. Rain fell on her nose and she twitched.

  "Stay here," he said and kissed her forehead. Crouched by the driver's side, Malcolm took a deep breath to calm his nerves. He yanked open the door, catching the driver by surprise. Malcolm grabbed the man's head and slammed it against the steering wheel once, twice, three times. The third time he hit the horn and a burst of sound ripped through the night.

  Malcolm popped his head over the top of the car, but he couldn't see the other men through the rain. Surely, they'd heard the horn. He pulled the unconscious driver from the seat and threw him to the road. Malcolm scooped up Kyra and strapped her into the passenger seat, the low rumble of the engine causing her eyelids to droop.

  "Hey!"

  "Malcolm!" Ivan yelled.

  Malcolm could see Ivan and the other man running for the car. Diving into the driver's seat, he put the car into gear and pressed the accelerator—hard. The car roared off with screeching tyres.

  Looking in the rear-view mirror, Malcolm watched the two men disappear into the darkness, but he knew that wasn't the last he'd see of them.

  From now on, they would be on the run.

  Chapter One

  "Ufffgh," I moaned as I landed hard.

  I blinked, trying to focus on the clear blue sky above me. Shooting pain ran from my shoulder to my lower back. It really was a beautiful autumn morning, warmer than usual, which I would have enjoyed a whole lot more if I didn't keep getting thrown to the ground.

  "You need to keep your guard up, kiddo," Dad said.

  I flicked my eyes from the sky to him standing over me, his hand extended to help me up. I smiled, despite the pain, and took his hand willingly.

  "My guard was up," I complained. "You used a cheat move."

  I folded my arm across my chest as Dad's mouth broke into a wide grin. Despite being in his late forties, he looked really good for his age. He was fit and muscular, even though he had a slight limp from some old injury and a crooked nose that I thought made him look handsome. Only a few wrinkles around his brown eyes and his greying hair gave his real age away.

  "Not everyone will fight fair," he said and I knew he was right … again, but I'd never tell him that.

  He picked up two long sticks and threw one to me. I caught it in one hand and took up a fighting stance, just as he taught me: feet apart and hands up, ready to defend yourself. We were practicing in the front yard of our house, an old weatherboard built place that looked more run down then it was. The paint was peeling, and every board seemed to creak when you stepped on it, like some sort of eerie orchestra. It barely kept the heat in, but it was home … for now.

  "Very good." Dad nodded at my stance. "But your feet should be further apart."

  I groaned, knowing he was only doing it to bug me, but I moved my right foot an inch further back to please him.

  "Good," he said. "Ready?"

  "To see you fall on your ass? Hell yes."

  He stepped forward to strike from above and I raised my stick to block. The sticks made a clunking sound as they smacked together, and the noise rang in my head after the fall I'd had. Dad spun his stick to strike from the side, but I anticipated and slid my feet like a dancer out of the way, moving the stick to protect my ribs.

  "Nice footwork," he praised.

  "You want me to say it's because you fixed my stance, don't you?" I replied, striking low.

  He blocked and countered with a flick to my side. I winced, but composed myself quickly.

  "Don't lose concentration," he said in his husky drill sergeant voice. "But if you wish to thank me, you can."

  That was so like Dad. He got really serious about his training, but he still knew how to keep it light. I thought he would have been a great leader in another life, both strong and inspiring. Who knows, maybe he was.

  We sparred for half an hour and, as usual, I was hit more times than I cared to admit while Dad remained mostly unscathed.

  He'd been training me since I was thirteen. You'd think, after working at it for four years, I'd be able to hit him by now. I guess it came down to that whole no-one's-better-than-their-mentor thing.

  He must have been a soldier before I was born; he's just too good, but then I see the various scars he's always tried to hide running down his body and wonder who gave them to him. Who could be better than my dad?

  "You're doing better," he said, patting me on the back. He leaned over, out of breath, or maybe his leg was hurting him. Dad didn't like to whine; he'd rather fight it out in silence.

  I put my hands on my hips. "Better?" I shook my head, and slivers of my long brown locks fell from my ponytail. "Look at this muscle." I flexed my arms and pouted my lips.

  "All skinny muscle," Dad corrected, waving his finger. "You're only seventeen, Kyra. You're still growing into your body."

  I dropped my arms and screwed up my face. "Dad. Gross."

  He chuckled. "It's true. You'll be a woman soon—"

  "Whoa, whoa!" I put up hands in defence. "Let's not have another talk about me or my womanliness. It's like when I got my period all over again."

&nbs
p; "That was worse for me than it was for you." He pretended to shiver at the memory. "Come on, let's go for a run."

  "Dad, I can see you're in pain. Can't we just skip the run today?" I said, more for his benefit than mine.

  Dad stood up straight to show he was okay. "You're not getting out of it that easily." He started hobbling down the driveway, and I could only shake my head. He was the most stubborn person I knew—besides myself, of course. We would run until our legs fell off if it meant beating the others.

  "Don't hurt yourself, old man," I called and ran after him.

  We jogged all the way into town, which was a good half hour away. I lead the run for the first leg, but, to my amazement, Dad managed to overtake me just as we hit the shopping strip.

  There weren't many shops in such a small town: a gas station, grocery store, some clothes shops and other odds and bobs—the essential supplies for the town to survive. We stopped at the gas station and bought bottled water and an energy bar and sat outside on a long wooden bench used for smoke breaks. Cigarette butts littered the ground below my feet

  "You know I'm going to beat you one day," I said.

  "One day," he agreed and smiled with his whole face, the way he did when he was really proud of me.

  "I know all the moves." I punched my fists out at an invisible foe. "I'm totally prepared."

  Dad remained silent. His face had changed and a cold stare claimed his eyes.

  "Dad?"

  "You can't always rely on training," he said, as though he wasn't quiet there, but off thinking about something else. "Sometimes your training goes out the window and you have to rely on instinct."

  I didn't like the way Dad acted, like he was holding a heavy secret in his heart, taking him over so he wasn't my father anymore.

  "Excuses," I replied and punched him in the arm. He snapped back, and suddenly was my father once again. A smile seeped onto his face and I let out the breath I had been holding.

  * * *

  I held the front door open for Dad as he limped inside and dumped the groceries on the table. I felt a pang of guilt for not stopping him on the run earlier, but Dad always said everyone was responsible for their own actions.