Chosen
The Djinn Wars:
Book 1
by Christine Pope
Paranormal Romance
Date Published: February 4, 2015
It
began as a fever of unknown origin that its victims dubbed “the Heat,” but as
it burned through most of the world’s population, it became known simply as
“the Dying.” And for those left behind, the struggle has just begun….
In
the aftermath of the Dying, survivor Jessica Monroe is protected and guided by
the gentle voice of an invisible being she thinks of as her guardian angel.
When she reaches the sanctuary he’s provided for her, however, she realizes
that her unseen companion is no angel at all. The destruction of humanity was
only the first step in a much larger plan, and now Jessica must struggle to
discover her own role in a frightening new world where everything has changed.
Now
was the time to say a few words, but nothing seemed to come to mind. I couldn’t
even remember the Lord’s Prayer, or more than the first few words of the
Twenty-third Psalm.
“The
Lord is my shepherd,” I began, then shook my head. What came next? The lines
were all jumbled together in my head, nonsense syllables that sounded like
something straight out of “Jabberwocky.” And what did it matter, anyway? We
weren’t a religious family; we went to Christmas Eve services some years and
some years not, maybe Easter. I’d gone to Sunday school when I was really
little, but my parents hadn’t even bothered with that when Devin came along.
For
the longest time I stood there under the oak, the sun disappearing altogether,
deep dusk falling upon the yard. Then I moved, and the motion-sensor light
mounted to the side of the garage flashed on.
“I
love you all,” I said finally, then set the Waterford vase and the football
trophy on top of their grave.
After
that, I went back inside and shut the door behind me. It seemed to echo in the
unnatural stillness of the house, and I realized it was hardly ever this quiet
— someone always had the TV on in the background, or there was music playing,
or somebody talking on the phone. Now the quiet pounded against my eardrums,
and I realized how big a three-bedroom, two-thousand-square-foot house could
feel when you were the only one in it.
The
only one in the world….
The
thought whispered through my mind, and I did my best to ignore it. Surely if I
were immune, and not just having extremely delayed onset for some reason, that
meant other people had to be immune, too. How many? I couldn’t begin to guess.
I didn’t know the mortality rate of the disease. Even if 99.9% of the
population was dead, that would leave around a thousand people still alive in
the greater Albuquerque area, if I was doing my mental math correctly.
I
turned on the overhead lights in the kitchen, then went through the house,
turning on all the lamps. Maybe that wasn’t the smartest thing to do — maybe
advertising my presence would do more harm than good. But I couldn’t sit there
in the dark, not after everything I’d been through that day. Besides, when I
peeked out through the curtains, I saw mine wasn’t the only house on the street
that was all lit up. Most likely the others just had their lights on because no
one was around to turn them off, but it did make mine seem less conspicuous.
“Are
you there?” I asked of the darkness. Even a voice that was only a product of my
imagination was better than this deep, deep silence, the kind of quiet you
should never hear if you lived in a big city.
No
reply, of course. My gaze shifted to the remote control, still lying where I’d
last dropped it on the coffee table. I didn’t quite dare to turn on the
television, not after what I’d seen the last time around. I could only imagine
how bad it must be by now.
But
there was still the stereo, and all the CDs my parents wouldn’t get rid of,
despite Devin and me telling them all that plastic just took up space and that
they should just rip all their music off those CDs and then play it through Apple
TV or something. And now I had to be grateful for their stubbornness, because
that meant I could get up and choose something to blot out the silence. My
father liked country, but old country, like Hank Williams and Willie Nelson and
Patsy Cline, and my mother preferred classical. That sounded better to me right
then, so I found her favorite, Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, and put
that on.
It
actually was better, with the sound of an orchestra and Vladimir Ashkenazy on
the piano overriding that awful stillness. Or at least it was better until I
realized that no one would ever play that piece live again, that there would be
no more symphony orchestras or Arcade Fire concerts or anything, ever again.
“Oh,
God,” I gasped, pushing myself up from the couch and running into the kitchen,
where I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water in my face. As if that
could begin to help. It was all too big to comprehend, so awful and enormous
that I could literally feel the horror of it beginning to sink in, like
some noxious chemical seeping into my
skin.
And
then it was as though strong, invisible arms wrapped around me, bringing with
them a soothing warmth. Unseen lips brushed against my hair, and I heard the
voice again.
Be
strong, my love. Be strong for just a while longer.
Just
as suddenly, the presence was gone. I held on to the tile of the kitchen
counter, feeling the cool surface beneath my fingertips. In that moment, I
truly wondered if I’d lost my mind.
What
other explanation could there be?
Christine
Pope
A
native of Southern California, Christine Pope has been writing stories ever
since she commandeered her family’s Smith-Corona typewriter back in the sixth
grade. Her short fiction has appeared in Astonishing Adventures, Luna Station
Quarterly, and the journal of dark fiction, Dark Valentine. Two of her short
stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Christine
Pope writes as the mood takes her, and her work includes paranormal romance,
fantasy romance, and science fiction/space opera romance. She blames this on
being easily distracted by bright, shiny objects, which could also account for
the size of her shoe collection. After spending many years in the magazine
publishing industry, she now works as a freelance editor and graphic designer
in addition to writing fiction. She fell in love with Sedona, Arizona, while
researching the Sedona Files series and now makes her home there, surrounded by
the red rocks. No alien sightings, though...not yet, anyway!
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