Secret Worlds (83 page)

That changed when I experienced first-hand what a wish does to our brains. Now I'm just thankful no one else is like me. The world has enough monsters.

After the campers finish up their songs, they trail their way to the four cabins and disappear inside. Another thirty minutes or so passes, and a counselor goes by and makes sure all the cabin indoor lights are off. Then the counselors sit around the campfire like it's the office water cooler.

I roll onto my stomach, use my arm as a pillow, and wait.

The counselors talk. They eat. They talk some more.

Then they pour dirt on the campfire and head toward one of the larger buildings. I push up to my knees.

Robert. He is among them. He's a pretty tall dude. Easy to keep track of now that I've spotted him.

I'm vewy, vewy quiet as I pull to a crouch and fix my sight on my prey. My hands are itching to stab a needle into his veins. Maybe he'll like the benzos. Jesse sure does. 

They just make me sleep. I don't really see the point, considering I can do that without treating my arm like a pin cushion.

My brain catches up with what I'm watching, and my heart slams. 

I have a problem.

All five counselors share a single cabin. 

I have no idea how to get to Robert.

Another twenty minutes passes before I'm convinced everyone is inside for the night. I make my way down the hill and come up behind the staff cabin. A window sits high on the side and another sits at the same height on the back. I stretch to peer through them, but I can't see anything.

If Robert is near the front, I might be able to stab a needle into his arm and lug him out without anyone noticing, but I doubt it. Doesn't matter, because I have no idea which bed is his. It's too dark to see inside, and the angle isn't helping.

I could take hostages, but that goes against the low key thing. The only other option rattling around my brain is convincing one of the kiddies to lure out Robert. That kind of goes against the whole not wanting to be a douche canoe thing though.

So I'm screwed.

The hum kicks up, the ever present reminder that my morals have no place in this life.

A door bangs closed. I slink around the side of the counselor cabin. Two kids head toward the building on the opposite side of the camp.

I trail them from a distance, thankful for the lamps on the front of each cabin since I didn't bring a flashlight. 

My foresight is outstanding.

The kids enter the building, the door slamming behind them. I pick up my pace and go around the back. The only window is frosted. This must be the bathrooms.

A plan crops up in my head. It's a little devious, but I think that ship has sailed for me. Hell, I doubt that ship was ever in the harbor.

I rap on the window. Loudly.

A second of silence. Then the kids scream like something right out of a B-rated horror movie.

I expect the kids to go charging out of the bathroom, but they don't. They're just screaming. And screaming.

Good thing I'm not a serial killer out here with a chainsaw. These counselors are worthless.

I rap again. The screams sharpen.

The staff cabin erupts into chaos. The numbnuts have finally heard their charges wailing in terror.

Three of the counselors make a run toward the bathroom facilities. The other two break off and head for the sleeping cabins. 

I squint. Robert is one of the two. He's making his way toward the far end. I bolt for the row. My lungs struggle with the thin air. I push forward, arching wide and coming up behind the cabin.  Robert is inside. His voice carries, asking the kids if they are alright.

I crouch behind the building, then reach up and tap my knuckle against the window.

More screams. 

I have to make this worth my effort. Make sure Robert reacts the way I want him to. So I beat my fist against the wall.

Robert yells, “Stay right here!”

The door slams at the front.

He bounces around the corner. I lunge up and sock him in the gut. He doubles over. 

I grab the syringe from my jacket pocket, yank off the cap, and plunge it into his neck. He tries to rear up, but I swing my knee to his shoulder and shove down. He falters, then collapses.

I clench the back of his shirt and run. My God, I have never run so fast in my life. Uphill. Dragging all one-hundred and eighty thousand convulsing pounds. I think he's trying to struggle, but the drugs are swarming his veins.

At the top of the hill, panting and unable to breathe, I shove him hard. He tumbles down the other side. I hurry after him, my soles sliding on the pine needles.

His form is laying at the bottom of the hill. Just as I reach him, he jerks upright. Then he takes off.

“No, no, no! You're not supposed to run away!” I growl and charge after him. 

He is obviously disoriented, because he's running from the camp and farther into the woods. Here's all the damn trees I wanted.

My hand goes to another syringe in my pocket. I have a brand new set, and I will use every last one to take this pissant down if I have to.

He stumbles on a log and falls into a tree. His head must be spinning. Mine is, and not just from the choir hum. The forest has that effect.

He glances at me. I leap on his back, knocking him to the ground. He tries to push up. I stab the syringe into his arm, followed by one more for good measure.

He falls flat on his face. Hopefully I didn't just kill the guy.

I crawl off and check that his chest is still moving. He's breathing, but his brain is offline. I drag him the rest of the way to my car and struggle to shove his limp body into the backseat.

This is a better workout than the gym.

Once he's shackled, I dodge around the car to the driver seat and floor it.

***

Robert is groaning and making generally unwell sounds in the back of the car by the time we reach the desert. His head rests against the passenger seat.

He mumbles something I can't make out. I suspect he's cursing me and all of my heirs. 

Too late, buddy. Someone else got to that first.

He sits straight. 

I jump, then glance at him in the rear view mirror. “How you feeling?”

His face is a little bloody. Some parcels are damaged during shipping. That's just how it goes.

“Fuck you,” he says, quite clearly.

“That's not a very camp-friendly mouth,” I say.

His eyes lower to his lap. He's just noticed the shackles.

He's either going to try break them like he thinks he's King Kong—some of my victims give an applause-worthy performance—or he's going to sink into despair. I have no preference. It's all reruns.

He clears his throat. “What the hell is going on?”

“You'll find out in a few minutes,” I say.

Something clunks me on the back of my head. My face hits the steering wheel. The car swerves and then slides down a shallow embankment.

I slam on the brakes, burst out of the car, and throw open the backseat. He tries to dodge out, but I shove him back and jab another needle into his arm. He twitches. I yank out the syringe from his flesh and stand, waiting.

He sinks back into slumber.

When I deliver him to the mansion, it's not even sunrise. The guards are ready and waiting.

I have no idea what daylight is going to bring for him. For me, though, the hum is gone. 

For now.

***

The sun is up by the time I pull into my carport. There are no other vehicles. I grab the case file and trudge across the yard.

My muscles ache. My eyes burn. I just want to pass out on my bed for a few hours. Dirt and pine needles fall to the carpet as I step inside. I stop and look down, then sigh.

My fingers have blood dried on them. My hair is stiff with sweat. My arms have scratches from scuffling with Counselor Robert.

I probably should clean up.

I detour to the kitchen to cram the case file into the trash, then force myself through a shower before dropping onto my bed. My whole body protests, from my neck and shoulders down to my knees and calves. Even my knuckles hurt.

With a final effort, I crawl under the blankets and fall into blissful unconsciousness.

A vibrating bang jolts me upright. Someone is knocking on the window.

How the hell did Robert find me? I scramble for the gun in my nightstand.

Then Syd yells, “Hurry up, Dim! It's hot out here!”

I stare at the curtains. She is a raging lunatic. 

“Coming,” I say, though I don't know if loud enough for her to hear. 

I put the gun back in the nightstand, slip on pants, and meet her at the front door.

She tilts her head. “Did I wake you?”

“No, Syd, we were playing hide-and-seek. Congrats, you won.” I step aside.

She leans in for a kiss, then stops. Her eyes fix on my arms. “Rough night?”

“It's always a rough night,” I mutter and head into the kitchen.

She follows and slides up to the breakfast bar. “Do you have to work today?”

“God, I hope not.” I offer her a bottled water from the refrigerator.

She takes the bottle. “I was thinking we should go out and do something. See a movie, maybe?”

My head throbs, but at least it's not the hum. 

“I'm really tired,” I say.

That's an understatement. Zombies look more alive than I do right now. Or at least feel.

She turns her lips up then shrugs. “I kind of figured. That's why I brought these.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls out a stack of DVD's. 

I smile a little as I lumber past her toward the hall. “Come on, we'll watch them on the computer.”

In my room, she boots up the computer and pops in a movie. I sit on the bed, back to the headboard, and drink down another bottle of water. I feel like I spent days wandering the Sahara.

Syd crawls onto the bed next to me.

I hold up the blanket. “Naked and under the covers.”

She grins, and then wiggles out of the black top and long pants with slits up the side. Next goes the red lacy bra and matching panties. They are nice, but what's underneath is nicer. When she slinks next to me, her skin pressing against mine. She's warm and soft and smells like coconut. It's rejuvenating. 

I put the water aside and slide my hand under the blanket to cup one of her breasts. She squirms closer to me, her leg over mine, her pelvis turned against my thigh.

“What are we watching?” My eyes are heavy, and I'm focused on the smoothness of her skin as I trail my fingers around and under one breast then another.

“Aladdin,” she says. “Aren't you paying attention?”

Fantastic. Just what I wanted: a cartoon about a genie. At least Robin William's genie doesn't stuff ball gags in the mouths of businessmen before stabbing them in the throat. If I recall. That doesn't sound Disney to me, anyway.

I move my hand down her stomach. “I'm more interested in the show on my bed.” 

“It's not a show—yet.” She looks up at me and grins, then turns back to her movie.

My hand slides between her legs, and she clamps her thighs, nestling her warmth against my fingers. 

I want this, every day, but my mind is too tired to contemplate how that might happen. 

After a few minutes, she repositions herself so her head and breast are on my lap, the curve of her spine facing me. 

She says, “You know, the word 'genie' comes from the word 'jinn'.”

“I didn't know that,” I say, and I resist adding that I don't care, either. 

She doesn't realize this is an awkward conversation.

“People often confuse them for demons, but it's not the same thing. Not entirely.” Her voice is muffled, but I can hear her well enough. “You know how the Bible says humans were made from dirt or clay? Well, the jinn were made from fire or smoke, or smokeless fire. They had genders and free will, and some were good and some were bad. It's actually still part of the Islamic faith.”

Syd is a walking encyclopedia.

“It started before them, though. Maybe as far back as Zoroastrianism or Sumer. Some people think part of the Islamic beliefs were adopted from pagan traditions that developed long before, in pre-Islamic Arabia. Belief in the jinn even migrated with people to the Canary Islands.”

“Isn't that where those people talk by whistling?”

Look at that, I might have learned something from Phil after all.

She pauses. “Yeah, I think so. Anyway, it's said the jinn lived in a different dimension than ours, but they could travel back and forth. In our dimension, they could take forms of animals and even look like humans. Once Islam took hold, contact between the two races was forbidden. But one of the last pre-Islam poets to write about the jinn was Al-Nabigha, who lived between five-hundred and six-hundred B.C.” 

I stare at her rounded shoulders, my brain only absorbing a small fraction of what she is saying. “I don't think I know what we're talking about, Syd.”

She turns onto her back to look at me, still half sprawled in my lap. “It's just strange how much the story has changed over the years. The jinn date back to probably even A.D. They were considered a separate but equal race to humans.

“Eventually, we started smooshing up the story. So many things impact it. Translation, motive, perspective, and all these other little factors. Then one day we have a blue cartoon character dancing and singing. But there's little bits of the truth in all of it, right? Even this.” She gestures at the movie playing on the monitor. “This has truth in it, too.”

She stares at the ceiling for a long moment, then turns to the monitor across the room again. Her head is propped on her hand, elbow on my lap. It's kind of jabbing into me, but she looks delicate and beautiful laid out like that: her upper half naked and exposed, and her bottom half hidden under the blankets like she's a mermaid.

A genie and a mermaid. We're the start of a bad joke.

I lean forward and press my lips against her shoulder. She stretches to expose her neck, and I move up, one kiss at a time. She turns and catches my mouth with hers, leaning back. I work from underneath her, then wedge between her legs.

Her hand goes to the waist of my pants. My tongue grazes over hers, and she returns the gesture. I press against her so she can feel how badly I want her. Then I slip my arms under her shoulders and neck, and make my way down her chest, lingering on each nipple in turn. Kiss down her stomach, past her belly button, and work my way up the hill.