Driven

Chapter 2

Two

One of the items Bailey had taken during her foraging expeditions was a small wall calendar, the kind of thing auto parts manufacturers used to give out for free. Thank God that this one only had innocuous images of iconic Los Angeles locations, rather than girls in bikinis, since she’d seen enough of those hanging on the walls of the garages where she’d worked to last her a lifetime. But she would have taken the calendar even if it had included gratuitous T&A, because she wanted to make sure she kept an accurate record of the passage of time. It was now early May, and she’d left the Caltech group only a few days into October.

By any sort of estimation, that was a hell of a long time to be alone, she supposed, but Bailey had a feeling her solitude was part of what had saved her. At any rate, it wasn’t the date itself that disturbed her now, but the realization that the new djinn had come on the scene ten days ago, and it had been four days since she’d last seen him. Had he, too, given up?

Who knew djinn could be this lazy? she thought as she drank the last of the water from her bottle and then carefully stowed the trash in the trunk of the Porsche. At first it had seemed almost criminal to use her beloved 911 for that purpose, but she made sure to bag everything before she disposed of it elsewhere. There were plenty of dumpsters around downtown, and she figured it was smarter not to leave trash behind in the places where she crashed. At least that way the djinn couldn’t track her simply by the garbage she created.

Well, if this latest djinn had bailed, for whatever reason, then she could be pretty sure that another one would show up soon enough to take his place. Too bad, because he was damn cute.

Not that it mattered one way or another, of course, but it was always nice to have something pretty to look at in her rearview mirror.

Once the place where she’d slept was tidied up, she went ahead and got in the Porsche and started it. The fuel gauge read that the tank was three-quarters empty. She carried a gas can in the trunk, but that was for dire emergencies.

Time to go out siphoning. It was a lot easier than going to a gas station and setting the pumps to manual. Bailey knew how to do that, but there weren’t a lot of gas stations in the downtown area, and she felt hinky about getting too far from any of her hidey holes. Better to just grab what she needed from one of downtown’s abandoned vehicles. God only knew that there seemed to be an unending supply of those. In her bug-out bag, she carried a small notebook to keep track of the cars she’d already drained; leaving any kind of physical mark on those cars might have given the djinn a clue as to her whereabouts. Having her own private diary seemed safer. At the back of her mind lurked the constant worry about what she’d do when the gas contained in those abandoned cars finally began to go bad, but she told herself she had far bigger problems to deal with right now. After all, while she of course preferred to drive, she knew she could always get away from Los Angeles on foot if need be.

She eased the car up the ramp of the parking garage and paused for a second to look around and get her bearings. As always, the streets were empty. Today, though, the morning felt dreary and almost creepy, thanks to a thick fog that had moved in overnight. Typical for this time of year — “May gray” often gave way to “June gloom,” thanks to the marine layer that tended to lurk off Southern California’s coast — but she hated it all the same. When the weather was like this, it always aroused thoughts of zombie apocalypses and hordes of undead crowding the streets, although intellectually Bailey knew this wasn’t that kind of end of the world.

The fog was just thick enough that she couldn’t see farther than a few blocks. It wisped around the high-rises, transformed the sun to a pale, ineffectual disk. As much as she would have liked to turn on her low-beams, she knew that wasn’t a very good idea. No, she’d just have to creep along until she got to an area that she hadn’t drained dry yet.

Luckily, she didn’t have to drive more than a few blocks. Spotting a big Mercedes S-Class parked in front of the U.S. Bank Tower, Bailey came to a stop and got out of the Porsche, then hurried back to the trunk to get out the hose she used for siphoning gas, along with the gas can that traveled everywhere with her. While the 911 could run on lower-octane fuel, it was always better to get the premium stuff if she could, which was why she’d made the Mercedes her target.

The S-Class wasn’t locked. She saw why soon enough — a neat pile of gray dust on the driver’s seat, presumably the car’s former owner. Ignoring the dust, she went back and popped open the little door in the right rear of the vehicle, then removed the gas cap.

It was hard to find something that tasted fouler than gasoline, but she was so used to siphoning the stuff that by this point, she hardly noticed. The liquid began to pour into the gas can, pattering against the plastic. On a dim, foggy morning like this, every sound seemed amplified, and she winced at the noise she was making. Then again, who was around to hear? Even her latest pursuer seemed to have decamped, tired of pursuing her, just like every other djinn who’d crossed her path.

But then a low, growling noise reached her ears, one that seemed to grow louder with every passing second. Bailey glanced around but saw nothing, only wisps of fog curling their way around the corners of the buildings, shrouding the tops of the high-rises in gloom.

A pair of headlights raked through the fog. She startled, so shocked by the unexpected sight that she dropped the siphon hose to the ground. Gas began to spill onto the pavement, but she realized that the leaking fuel was the least of her worries as out of the fog came a flash of bright red, a car so preposterously sleek that it took a moment for her shocked brain to register what it was.

A f*****g Ferrari?!

Instinct kicked in, and she ran to the Porsche and jumped inside, foot hitting the accelerator even as she slammed the door shut, the abandoned fuel can and siphon hose still lying on the street. She didn’t stop to think that possibly the Ferrari’s driver could be another survivor. Somehow she knew it couldn’t be, not when she hadn’t seen another human being for more than six months.

The headlights were in her rearview mirror, coming closer. Bailey fought with the seatbelt as she drove, at last hearing it click into place as she careened around the corner at Third and Los Angeles Street, heading north and east. The fog had dampened the road surface just enough that it was faintly slick, and she could feel the rear tires begin to slip. Luckily, the traction control caught, but her fingers tightened on the steering wheel nonetheless. At these speeds, it didn’t take much to end up in a world of hurt if you weren’t careful.

Just drive, she told herself, forcing her eyes away from the rearview. Driving by mirror was an easy way to screw up. She needed to keep her focus forward, on the road ahead. Obsessing over what her pursuer was doing would only slow her down.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder where the hell he’d gotten a Ferrari. If her faceless pursuer was even the “he” she was thinking of. For all she knew, that really was another survivor coming after her, and she was going to feel like a complete i***t once the truth came out.

Her instincts were telling her otherwise, however.

Screaming onto Grand now, taking a loop around the music center complex that included the Ahmanson and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and the Mark Taper Forum. Bailey knew those venues only as names, since she’d never had the cash or the inclination to attend the kinds of performances that used to be held there. The fog seemed thinner in this part of town, and she risked a quick look back at the Ferrari, now only a few yards away from her rear bumper. It was close enough that she could see through the windshield, could see the sharp, handsome features of the djinn who’d been her pursuer up until a few days ago.

Shit.

Since when could djinn drive?

Since now, apparently. Bailey wanted to believe that her eyes were deceiving her, but she’d always had 20/20 vision, so she knew what she’d seen was real. That was a djinn behind the wheel of the red Ferrari, and the only thing left to do was pray like hell that her driving skills were better than his.

As she turned down Hope Street, she saw a carve-out to her left, one that had probably once been used for valet parking at the Music Center. It was unoccupied now, only a few abandoned cars left to mark its former purpose. However, past it was a wide open space, one that still held a few kiosks and concrete picnic tables, the umbrellas overhead now faded and torn after spending months and months out in the wind and weather. Bailey didn’t care about the umbrellas, though. What she cared about was the obvious escape route that open expanse offered her. She could cut across there and drop back down to Grand, lose herself in the streets she knew so well. The djinn pursuing her would never expect that kind of crazy maneuver.

Without stopping to think, she took her foot off the gas, manually downshifted into third, then made a sharp left, pushing the Porsche over the curbs that separated the valet area from Hope Street. The car bounced but kept going, its traction control making sure that she experienced only the tiniest bit of oversteer before the 911 righted itself and kept going.

From behind her, she heard a squeal of brakes as the Ferrari turned to follow. Damn it. Another quick glance in the rearview, one that told her the djinn had no compunction about pushing a quarter million dollars’ worth of Italian engineering over those same curbs. True, she’d abused her Porsche, but at least she knew how to fix it if something broke.

No time to worry about that now. She careened across what used to be the Music Center’s famous in-ground fountain, her teeth gritted against the further jouncing caused by the uneven surface, fingers clenched on the steering wheel. Grand Avenue was coming up fast.

Only —

Shit. s**t.

Stairs.

Steep, steep stairs, heading down from the Music Center’s level to Grand Avenue below. She’d forgotten about the complex’s underground parking, the way it was carved into the hillside.

Foot off the gas, hitting the brakes, downshifting frantically into second gear. The Porsche slowed, but not enough. The tires hit the top step, slipped, the traction control finding nothing to latch onto. Tilting now, rear end fishtailing on the damp cement. Bailey bit her lip, bit it so hard she could taste the metallic tang of her own blood. A sickening sensation hit her stomach as the Porsche began to roll, crunching its way down the steps.

After it crashed into one of the retaining walls to either side of the staircase, the front end crumpling like a giant’s fist had just smashed into the metal, darkness descended and took her far away.

Nasim saw the bright blue car hit the stairs, tires screeching. In horror, he watched it begin to flip, then roll its way down the steep staircase that led to the street on the south side of the Music Center complex. He might have suffered the same fate — he’d taught himself to drive but couldn’t consider himself an expert — if it weren’t that he used his djinn powers to gather the air and use it as a cushion to slow down the vehicle he drove, helping the brakes do their job. Because of this, the car stopped a few inches from the steps that had proved to be the young woman’s downfall.

Without hesitating, he blinked himself out of the Ferrari and down to street level, where the Porsche had landed on its side. The sleek metal was now horribly scored and crumpled, but the center of the vehicle seemed more or less intact.

Thank God.

He hurried over to the car, grasped the driver-side door, and wrenched it open. The young woman was still in her seat, held in place by the safety belt she wore. Her eyes were shut, and blood obscured half her face.

But he could tell she still breathed.

At once his fingers were on the seatbelt, unfastening it so he could lift her out of the wreck of the Porsche. Her body was so limp that he feared the worst, but after he’d laid her down on the asphalt and put a shaking hand on her throat to feel her pulse, he could tell she was still alive. How badly injured, he didn’t know for sure. She could have broken bones, internal bleeding…in which case, there was not very much he could do for her. His people, blessed with endless health and eternal youth, had very little need of healers.

Still, he would have to try.

He gathered her in his arms. She did not move, made no protest, which told him she must be lost in deep unconsciousness. And while he understood why she had fled, he could not help but feel a flash of irrational anger at her for doing this to herself. If she had not tried so hard to run away….

No, that was being unfair. She had no reason to believe she would not have suffered the same fate as all her people, if he had managed to catch up with her.

A blink, and they were in his loft. Nasim carried her over to the bedroom and pulled aside the bedclothes, then laid her gently down. He did not wish to wound her further by struggling to remove the leather jacket she wore, or her heavy boots, and so he snapped his fingers and whisked those troublesome items away to the closet. Another snap, and a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth appeared.

He bent and carefully wiped the blood from her face. There was a gash on her forehead, probably caused by flying glass from the Porsche’s windshield. It could have been much worse, although the wound bled freely enough, as such things often did. He dabbed at it until the flow of blood slowed and then seemed to stop. Good. That was better.

Now that her jacket was gone, he could see that the flesh around her collarbone was already beginning to turn rather alarming shades of purple and blue. Very carefully, he laid his fingers against the bone beneath the skin, could feel the broken edges grind under his fingertips.

No wonder she had fainted. It had probably been a defense against the pain.

Nasim was glad that she was safely unconscious, because he doubted she would have liked what he had to do next. Just as he had whisked away her jacket and boots, he did the same with her blood-soaked T-shirt and jeans so he might see what other injuries she had suffered.

However, as he ran his hands over her arms and then her legs and sternum, he could find no other signs of anything broken. Bumps and bruises, of course, but those would heal quickly enough. It was the broken collarbone that caused him the most concern.

It had fractured on the left side, which meant he should keep her left arm immobile. More than once in his journeys around the city, he’d noted the hospital on the outskirts of downtown. It required only a few seconds to blink himself there, a few more to read the directory and locate the orthopedic ward. A bit of rummaging in the supply room provided the sling he sought. To be safe, he took several, along with a couple of hospital gowns, then returned to his loft.

The woman was still unconscious. Even so, he was careful when approaching the bed. He guessed she would not be happy with him for removing her clothes, and so he put one of the gowns on her, then eased her left arm into the sling. As he worked, she made a few whimpering sounds, but those must have been born of reflex and nothing else, since she showed no sign of waking.

Then he was done, her left arm safely immobilized, her slender body now modestly covered once more. Nasim tried not to think too much about how beautiful that body was, even bruised and battered from the accident. Her legs were long, her waist slender, her breasts — what he could see of them in the plain white bra she wore — rounded and full.

And her face….

Nasim had been in Florence during the Renaissance, had seen the magnificent art created there. If Botticelli had caught even a glimpse of this lovely young woman, he would surely have wished to paint her.

But there were few mortals left to paint now, and Nasim knew he did not possess that particular skill. He could only be relieved that the young woman had survived the crash. Her recovery would be slow, he assumed, but since she otherwise seemed healthy enough, he thought she should be fine, given enough time.

However, he doubted she would be pleased to find herself here when she awoke.