Djinn: 10th Anniversary Edition

By Laura Catherine

She has spent her whole life on the run with her father. But will a handsome boy who can shift into a Labrador be her undoing?

 

Kyra Lockhart is starting over … again. New town, new name. Looking for a friend and wanting settle down, the seventeen year old book nerd befriends the charming Labrador who bounds into her life. And when the playful pup turns out to be a handsome boy with golden eyes that match hers, Kyra is dragged into a world of magic she never knew existed.

 

Introduced to her real family, Kyra discovers she is a Djinn and has magic of her own. But there are politics at play: royal families, classes of Djinn, and rules that Kyra would have break in order to be with her golden boy.

 

Can Kyra be with the man she loves even if it's forbidden?

 

Enjoy this 10th Anniversary Edition of the bestselling YA Urban Fantasy novel, Djinn. With bonus introduction by the author, fun facts about the Djinn world and including the Will Power novella, where you can experience the start of the book from Will's point of view.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Catherine
• Release date: Apr 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215192115

Book preview

More by Laura Catherine

Introduction

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

Chapter 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

Will Power - A Djinn Short

10 Random Djinn Facts

DJINN SERIES

Djinn

Blooders

Bloodjinn

Guardjinn

DJINN NOVELLAS

Will Power

Will Choose

Will Survive

HEARTED TRILOGY

Hearts of Frost and Flame

STANDALONE

A Witch’s Mark

GUARDIANS OF IVALICE SERIES

Guardians of Ivalice

Under Control

She's been on the run for as long as she can remember and her father is the only stable thing in her life, but everything changes when the people pursuing them finally catch up.

Kyra is abducted by the handsome and mysterious, Will. He takes her to a secret compound where she is told the truth: She's a Djinn, a genie-like creature with super powers and a love of dogs.

Kyra has to adjust to the Djinn and their rules, but her new life is far from perfect. Everyone is hiding something and the one person Kyra cares about most is forbidden to her.

There are secrets around every corner and more dangers than Kyra could ever imagine as she struggles to find herself and be with the one she loves.

-Original Djinn Blurb

Hello wonderful readers,

I cannot believe I first published Djinn 10 years ago! I cannot believe I’ve been publishing books for 10 years and writing them most of my life. Djinn was the book that made me a published author and so it will always hold a special place in my heart as one of my favourite stories. I could never believe how well Djinn would sell and how much people would love it. I’m so grateful to be able to write stories and people actually want to read them. It never ceases to amaze me.

I would be nothing without my readers and I want to thank every one of you for your love and support over the last 10 years. Thank you for taking time to read a little indie fantasy author with big dreams.

I thought as part of this introduction, I’d share the story of how Djinn came into being, which I wrote back in 2013 when I first published. I hope you all enjoy this 10th anniversary edition as much as I do.

Love,

Laura

I’ve had a love of YA Fantasy for a long time and writing one had been one of my many writing goals, but I could never find the right idea. I didn’t to write about the usual Vampires and Werewolves (though I still plan to write my own vampire novel one day). I wanted to write about something different, really put my own spin on a creature that wasn’t usual seen in books.

It was 2012 and I was working at Bakers Delight part-time to earn money while I wrote. It was late May with Camp NaNoWriMo coming up I really wanted a solid YA story idea to work with, but everything I seemed to think of was cliché and overused. I stood out the back scrubbing wires in the sink, one of my favourite jobs because it gave time for my mind to wander. As I washed and rinsed my mind caught hold of something; a small idea, a simple one.

Why not a story about genies?

It passed through with the millions of other thoughts whirling around in my brain, but something about that thought stuck with me. I held it in my mind, thinking about what were genies like, what powers did they have, what if my protagonist didn’t know she was one of them?

I dropped the wires in my hands and ran for a brown paper bag and pen. I scribbled on the bag vigorously as the ideas flowed like someone had uncorked a waterfall. The ideas for Djinn came easily to be and by the time my shift was over I had rough plan for a trilogy of books about Djinn (though it evolved into four books later).

Heading home that night I started reading everything I could find on genies/djinn. Their powers, their personalities, their myths and legends. I twisted the stories to my advantage in order to fit into the world I was creating for Djinn. Suddenly I had this unique story that was my own, not like anything I’d read on the market.

June 1st came around and I was set to write. More than set, I was excited beyond belief. By the end of Camp NaNoWriMo (30 days later) I had finished Djinn, reached the 50,000 word goal and was gearing to writing the second book.

Since Djinn’s beginnings it has grown (now over 80,000 words) and changed so much for that initial idea, but the core differences I started with remain and I am still very proud of what Djinn has become.

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 battle 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.

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.

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.

I had to say, I did quite like this house. It was a lot nicer than some of the shacks we'd stayed in over the years with its two-storeys, windowpanes and locks; everything you need to live a happy normal life. Except my life wasn't exactly normal.

Dad hobbled around the cramped kitchen fixing us some ham and cheese sandwiches while I put away the groceries in various cupboards. I took a seat at the small, Lino, fifties-style table and broke out the first aid kit. There wasn’t much I could do for the bruises already coming up, but I also had some scratches and cuts. I dressed the wounds and stuck Hello Kitty band-aids all over my body.

Dad only struck me in places that wouldn't show when I wore clothes, so people wouldn't get suspicious and think he was beating me or anything. That happened once in another town, and one of my teachers called child services. We had to leave in the middle of the night before they arrested Dad but, to be honest I was glad; I didn't like living in the crappy motel room, and the school library was almost non-existent.

I cleared the first aid stuff off the table when Dad went to hand me the sandwich and glass of water. I bit into the bread like I'd been starved for a week. Training always made me hungry.

What's the plan for the rest of the day, kiddo? Dad asked.

I have some homework to do, I replied. But it's math.

Dad chuckled. Math isn't that hard.

Maybe back in your day, old man. I punched him playfully on the arm.

Dad shook his head, smiling, as he swallowed the last of his sandwich. He placed both our plates in the sink.

I couldn't help but smile looking at him; I couldn't have asked for a better father.

I'm going to take a shower, he said.

Shore fing, I replied, my mouth full of bread.

He stroked the top of my head down to my cheek as I give him a wide open-mouthed grin, exposing all my chewed food.

That's my girl, he said, and headed out of the kitchen into the hallway. I heard his feet hit the creaky staircase, the eerie orchestra starting up.

Don't fall over in the shower or anything, I called after him. I don't want to have to help you and see you all naked.

Very funny, Kyra. But I knew he was smiling.

I picked up my school bag from the couch in the adjoining lounge area and sat it on the chair next to me, weighed down by all my books. I pulled out my math homework and spread it over the kitchen table until the flat surface was entirely covered and fiddled with the pen in my hand, staring blankly at the gibberish in front of me.

I had never understood math. I mean, sure, I could put one and one together and get two, but anything the slightest bit complicated and my mind went blank. Teachers had tried to help me, and failed many times. My brain just wasn't wired to work out those kind of problems.

Seconds later, the phone rang like a chirping bird.

Oh, thank god, I said and jumped to answer it. Hello?

Hey, Sally. Is Bill there?

Hi, Kenny. Yep, I'll just go get him.

I placed the phone on the bench and headed up stairs. Sally was not my idea for a name, but Dad said we had to change it every time we moved. The least he could do was let me pick my own. Once I was called Tiffany. I wanted to kill myself.

I walked down the hallway to the bathroom door on the left. I knocked twice, watching the steam flow between the gap at the bottom and the floor, like mysterious fog in a horror movie.

Dad? I called through the door.

Yeah, kiddo?

Kenny's on the phone.

Give me a sec, he said. Just got to put my contacts in.

You don't need to see. He's on the phone. I shook my head and smiled.

I'll be there soon.

I shrugged and headed back downstairs. I jumped the last couple of steps and skidded along the kitchen floor, stopping in front of the phone.

Kenny? I said into the receiver. Dad will be down in a moment.

Thanks, Sally.

I sat back at the table, flicking my pen between my fingers again. Dad stomped down the stairs and pulled his shirt over his head. I just caught a glimpse of some of the many scars on his chest as his shirt came over it. His brown hair stuck out in all directions—even as he patted it down, it sprung back up. He picked up the phone.

Hey, Kenny.

Dad walked off to his room upstairs. He worked as a builder for construction companies wherever we were. It was the type of job where people were always looking for help, so he could easily get a contract in whatever town we stayed.

I wondered what Kenny wanted with Dad; work didn't usually call on weekends, but I tried to ignore my curiosity and turned back to the first math problem that barely looked like it was written in English.

I sat at the kitchen table staring blankly at my homework until the sun had set and Dad came in to turn on a light. I squinted, not realising just how dark it had become. Out the window I could already see the moon rising over the treetops, like a great orb.

You can't study in the dark, he said, ruffling my hair. His action would have annoyed me if didn’t know it was one of the few ways he showed affection.

I can't study at all, I replied, putting down my pen and fixing my hair back into place. Despite the hours I'd spent on the math homework I'd barely done any of the questions. The borders of my page were filled with little doodles of stars and dogs.

Time for a break, I think. Dad closed my books and kissed my forehead. "How about some dinner and then we can watch The Karate Kid?"

I'd like that. I smiled, thinking how well he knew me.

Right! He smacked his hands together and rubbed them. Chicken wraps for dinner?

Sounds great. I stacked my books back in my backpack.

I helped Dad make the chicken wraps. We worked as a team in the kitchen, as we did in almost everything. Dad chopped and I placed the food in the wraps—we moved like a well-oiled machine. I loved that we always seemed to know what the other was doing, there was no awkward bumping into each other.

We sat on the couch and Dad put The Karate Kid, original version, into the DVD player. It was one of the few DVDs we owned, and it was my favourite.