djinn wars 01 - chosen by Christine Pope

we had some leftovers in the fridge that might as well get eaten before they spoiled.
    I let the curtain drop and went to open the front door. The morning air was cool, but carried with it the smell of smoke. Something in the city was burning. Here, though, we seemed to be safe enough, at least for the moment. I’d worry about the fire later.
    Crouching down slightly, I called out, “Dutchie! Dutchie!” Hector Munoz had been a professor of Spanish literature at UNM, and I think Dutchie’s original name had been Dulcinea. The Munozes’ little girl, Jaclyn, couldn’t pronounce the name, though, and so Dulcinea had sort of degenerated into “Dutchie.” A sharp, knifing pain went through me, though, as I thought of little Jaclyn and her big brown eyes and her endlessly asking “Why?”
    I had a feeling she wouldn’t be asking any more questions.
    The dog lifted her head and looked over at me, one ear cocked slightly. No one was completely sure of Dutchie’s heritage. Best guess was part German shepherd, part border collie, and part Lord knows what, but she was a beautiful dog, with a silky black and tan coat, and one blue eye and one brown eye. The blue eye seemed to focus on me particularly.
    She gave a little shake and then trotted obediently over to me, pushing her head against my knee and giving the faintest of whines. Poor thing had to be hungry.
    “You want some breakfast?” I asked her, and both her ears went up. Just like our old dog Sadie, who’d passed last winter. Debates had still been raging at my house as to when would be a good time to get another dog…not that it mattered now.
    But Sadie had had an extensive vocabulary when it came to anything food-related, and it seemed as if Dutchie was the same way. She padded after me as I tucked the revolver into my waistband, then went into the kitchen, got a bowl from one of the cupboards, and poured her some water.
    At least, that was what I intended to do. When I turned the tap, however, nothing happened. A few drops sputtered from the faucet, but that was it. So the water was gone, too.
    That fluttery feeling of panic returned, and I forced it down. When we were at home, we got our water from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, but we always kept a couple pallets of bottled water in the pantry for road trips or even just running around town. I wasn’t going to die of thirst anytime soon.
    I fetched one of the water bottles and poured its contents into the bowl. Dutchie began slurping it up greedily, so while she was occupied, I got out a plate and then retrieved one of the covered storage bowls in the fridge, the one with the leftover roasted chicken from the weekend. Taking out one of the chicken legs and shredding it onto the plate relaxed me a little, made me focus on something other than the dry tap. If I attempted to turn on one of the burners on the stove, would it light? Or was the gas out, too?
    Most likely. Which meant there would be no heat. Yesterday had been warmer than normal, but I’d heard that temperatures were supposed to start dipping toward the end of the week. Conditions might become downright uncomfortable.
    Oh, like they’re so wonderful right now , my brain mocked me as I bent down to give Dutchie the plate of chicken. She immediately abandoned the water and wolfed down the bits of chicken leg, then looked up at me with pleading eyes when she was done.
    “There’s no more, you little pig,” I said with some affection, reaching to scratch her behind the ears. Her fur was soft and silky, and infinitely reassuring. Somehow everything didn’t seem quite so bad if I could have Dutchie with me.
    She whined, and I remembered we still had some dog treats up on the highest shelf in the pantry, left over after Sadie died. I got out the step stool, then climbed up and retrieved them. Dutchie watched the entire procedure, tail wagging, and I gave her one of the biscuits.
    “Better?” I asked.
    No reply, of course, but I figured the