Firestorm tww-5

by Rachel Caine

  She looked away, and after a few seconds I realized that she was embarrassed by what she was going to say.

  "It's a little like hearing music coming from the car next to you—you can hear the bass notes, but you can't make out the tune. It's not all Father's doing. There's a lot of you in me, and it holds me back." Her eyes flew back up to meet mine, stricken. "I didn't mean—"

  "I know what you mean," I said. "I'm a handicap."

  Even though I was, of course. I'd worked out fairly quickly that Imara wasn't fully Djinn… Right now, that was an advantage, with the other Djinn more or less susceptible to control by the waking Earth, and pretty much unreliable in the free-will department. But what did it mean for her, long-term? How would she be accepted by the other Djinn? And what would happen if—God forbid—she ever had to go up against them in a real battle?

  I couldn't think about that. I couldn't stand to imagine her going up against someone like Ashan, who had the morals and kindness of a spider.

  She was watching me steadily with those bright, inhuman eyes. I had a cold flash. "Can you tell what I'm thinking?" I asked.

  Her eyebrows rose. "Will it make you angry if I say yes?"

  "Yes."

  "No."

  "You're lying to me."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "You really are David's child, you know that?"

  She smiled. "He really loves you, you know. I can feel that, too. It's the warmest thing in him, his love for you."

  "I thought you said he'd cut you off."

  "He has. But short of killing me, he can't cut me off completely." She shrugged. "He's my father."

  I felt my throat heat and tighten, and tears prickled my eyes. I swallowed and blinked and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. "Right. So, am I doing the right thing here? Heading to New York?"

  In the absence of any other ideas, I was heading for the relative safe haven of Warden Headquarters, where those of us who'd survived the last few days were sure to gather. All hell had broken loose among the Wardens, with wholesale mayhem from the normally compliant and subservient Djinn. I just hoped that I wouldn't be coming back to find… nothing. The last thing I wanted was to be the last Warden standing, with the Earth waking up and Djinn running crazy. Granted, it would be exciting. It would just be a very short story, and a very ugly ending.

  "I don't know if it's the right thing to do or not," my daughter replied solemnly. "I'm only a day old."

  Great. I had no idea whether I was doing the right thing, I had a smart-ass immortal kid, and Cherise for a wingman.

  Yeah, this was going to end well. No doubt about it.

  Four hours later, it was dark and I was exhausted. Twenty-two hours in a car, even a Mustang, will do that to you. The Mustang purred around me like a contented tiger. Not the Mustang's fault that I was so tired that I wanted to weep, or that my world was falling apart, or that I was driving where my head sent me instead of my heart. My heart was back in Florida, where I'd last seen David. Where I'd last seen my sister Sarah, who was now officially a missing person, last seen being carried off by a British madman named Eamon. (I'd made use of my cell phone to report the abduction to the FBI. If that didn't screw up whatever escape plans Eamon had made, I couldn't imagine what would.)

  Nope. None of it was the Mustang's fault. I liked the Mustang just fine. I was wondering how exactly I could arrange to get it as a permanent lease, once it was repainted, of course.

  The Mustang's real owner stirred and smacked her lips the way people do when they wake up with monster morning breath. Cherise blinked at the pastel wash of late-night lights as we came out of the Lincoln Tunnel, and she stretched as we cruised to a halt at a stoplight a few blocks later. Guys in cars all around us watched, even though Cherise wasn't at her well-groomed best at the moment. Some girls just have it. Cherise had so much of it, the rest of us needed time-shares just to get by.

  "Nurgh," she said, or something like it, then dry-rubbed her face and threw back her hair and tried again. "Whatimesit?" Or a mumble to that effect.

  "Almost one a.m.," I said. Since we'd traveled directly up the eastern seaboard, the Mustang's dashboard clock hadn't been fazed by our twelve-hundred-miles-in-just-under-one-day jaunt. I eyed it with the numbed disbelief of someone who couldn't quite fathom where all the hours had gone. Straight into my ass, it felt like. "We should be there soon."

  Cherise turned and peered over the leather seat at Imara, who was stretched out like a cat over the backseat, comfortable and indolent. "Oh. You're still here?"

  "Obviously."

  "I was kind of hoping you'd gone back to the mother ship by now."

  I smothered a chuckle. "Cher, she's not an alien."

  "Right," she said. "Not an alien. Glowing eyes, disappears at the drop of a hat. But not from another planet, got it." Cherise, needless to say, was a fervent devotee of The X-Files and alien invasion stories in all shapes and Jerry Bruckheimer sizes. She had a little big-headed gray alien tattoo to prove it, right at the small of her back. "Is Pod Girl going with us all the way?"

  Imara raised a single eyebrow, in imitation of either everybody's favorite Vulcan, or at least a popular former wrestler. "Going all the way? Is that a euphemism for something else?" she asked.

  "Honey," Cherise said, "you're not that cute. Well, okay, maybe if I was really drunk and your eyes didn't glow, but—"

  "Hey!" I snapped. "That's my kid you're talking to." And besides, my kid was pretty much the spitting image of, well, me. So I was a little weirded out. "Are you going with us, Imara?"

  I She looked frankly astonished. "I have a vote?"

  "Of course."

  "Then I'll go with you. As a dutiful child." She still looked too grave and self-contained, but I could see a twinkle of humor in there, buried deep.

  Cherise responded to that with a dubious snort for both of us. "Whatever. So, tell me again where we're going?"

  "You remember how I told you about the Wardens?" I asked.

  "Organization of people like you, with all kinds of superpowers, who control the weather and stuff. Speaking of, weren't we in the middle of a hurricane that was about to kill us about twenty-four hours ago? If you could control the weather, what was up with the hundred-mile-an-hour winds? I meant to ask earlier, but I was, you know, dealing with my trauma."

  "It's not as easy as just waving a hand!" I protested. "And anyway, I wasn't supposed to interfere right then.—Oh, fine. Maybe I was having an off day. In answer to your original question, we're going to my office. Warden Headquarters."

  "In New York City."

  "Midtown, to be exact. First and Forty-sixth." She had a look of incomprehension. "In the UN Building."

  Her expression didn't change.

  "You have heard of the UN, right? United Nations? Bunch of guys who get together, talk about world peace?…"

  Imara murmured, "Even I know what the UN is, and I really was born yesterday."

  Cherise shot her a dirty look. "Shut up! I know what the UN is!"

  "Sorry."

  "But… the UN controls the weather? Because I thought they were all about that whole world peace thing."

  I reclaimed the conversation from the bickering—ah, children. "No, they don't control the weather. They lease office space to the Wardens, who do."

  Cherise didn't bother to say, "You're insane," but the expression on her face was pretty clear, and considering this was coming from a girl who half believed aliens had abducted Elvis, that was special. She even edged a little bit more toward the passenger-side window. I was wishing that I'd left Cherise at any of the various gas stations we'd blown past along the way, but it would take only one unhappy phone call from her claiming I'd stolen her car to end my trip real quick. Hadn't seemed prudent, given the priorities.

  "You weren't kidding," Cherise said, studying the building as we got closer. "We really are going to the UN. Is it even open?"

  "Trust me, the Wardens never close." My whole body ached, and I
really, really needed a shower. I'd scrubbed cleanish in a truck stop restroom a lifetime ago, because I just hadn't been able to stand it anymore, but I wasn't what you might call business-meeting ready. My eyes ached and watered from the glare of streetlights. I was grateful that at least it wasn't full daylight. That would have been much, much worse.

  I made the turn to the special security-controlled parking garage, which was locked up like Fort Knox. There was a scanner on the driver's side. I rolled down the window and extended my hand. A green laser jittered over my exposed skin, and the door silently rolled up. I gunned it, because in seconds the door reversed course and began its downward journey. Down a corkscrewing Habitrail of a parking ramp, to a floor marked only with the sign AUTHORIZED PARKING ONLY. I was authorized. I slid into the first available parking slot.

  It worried me that there were so many parking spaces unoccupied.

  "Come on, we have a special door."

  "We do? A special door? Cool." Cherise scrambled out of the car. Imara emerged after her, elegant and tall, tossing long black hair back from her face as if she were ready for a photo shoot. I decided she didn't look like me at all. I'd never looked that glamorous. Well, I'd never felt that glamorous, anyway.

  There was supposed to be a special guard on the special door. There was certainly a special-made guardpost, and as far as I knew it was supposed to be manned 24-7. Only nobody was there. Maybe the guard had gone for a call of nature, but I doubted it. I tried the steel door to the hut. Locked. Lights glowed on panels inside, but the windows were covered with steel mesh. That left us standing in a hot white wash of light, looking suspicious. I looked around, and sure enough, there was a surveillance camera—as ubiquitous as houseflies in the modern world. I waved, then turned to the door again.

  "There's no lock or handle," Cherise said. "Don't they have to open it from in there or something?"

  "Or something."

  I held up my hand and concentrated. A faint blue sparkle moved across it, lighting up the stylized sunburst that was the symbol of the Wardens. It was magically tattooed into my flesh, and it couldn't be faked.

  I ran it across a scanner inset next to the door. I waited, but nothing happened. If there'd been crickets around, they would have been chirping. I sighed, looked at Cherise and Imara, and shook my head. I ran a hand through my tangled hair and pushed it back from my face, back over my shoulders, and wondered what my chances were of bluffing the regular UN guards into granting me admittance.

  I didn't wonder very long. They'd raised paranoia to an art form around here, and for very good reasons.

  "Right," I said. "I guess we'll have to wait until someone decides that we look safe."

  "Yeah, and when will that be?" Cherise asked, with a significant look at our generally less than presentable turnout, Imara notwithstanding.

  The door let loose with a thick metallic chunk and swung open about a quarter of an inch.

  "Now." I grabbed the edge and moved it wider. It was heavy. Bombproof, most likely. I ushered the girls inside, grabbed the inner handle, and pulled it tight behind me as I entered the building. The lock engaged with a snap and hum of power.

  "Um… Jo?" Cherise sounded spooked.

  When I turned, there were two people standing in the industrial concrete-block hallway facing us. Both were in blue blazers with a logo on them—UN Security—but with the additional graphic touch of the sun-shaped Wardens symbol pinned to their lapels. Man and woman, both tall and capable-looking. I didn't know them.

  I'd seen guns before, though, and they had two great big pistols pointed right at us.

  I put my hands in the air. Cherise followed suit, fast, and laced her hands behind her head without being asked. Too many episodes of police shows, I was guessing, or some indiscretions that I didn't want to know about.

  Imara didn't raise her hands at all, just looked at the guards with those ruddy-amber eyes and raised her eyebrows, as if they amused the hell out of her.

  "Djinn!" the woman in the blazer yelled to her partner, and took a step forward to get an angle on Imara. She had a nice two-handed shooting stance, and a voice hard enough to shatter diamond. Her eyes darted rapidly from Imara to Cherise, and then landed on me. "Warden, put your Djinn back in the bottle. Now!"

  I looked at Imara, wide-eyed. She looked back. "Back in the bottle," I said. I didn't own Imara, and she wasn't bound to a bottle anyway, but she was bright enough to realize that this might not be the time to debate the issue. She misted away, off to someplace safer, I hoped. The Wardens were a little paranoid these days. Love me, hate me, want to kill me… it all depended on the mood of who I was talking to, seemed like.

  But I understood their paranoia about Djinn. I'd seen the change come over David, on a beach in Florida, and it had terrified me in ways that I'd never thought possible. Nothing more frightening than seeing someone you know, someone you love, go mad.

  I focused on the two guards and tried for a wan, friendly smile. "Okay, no problem, right? Djinn's in the bottle. You guys know me. Joanne Baldwin? Weather Warden? I'm here to see Paul Giancarlo."

  Whether it was my name or Paul's, something made the two guards exchange a look and relax. They didn't holster their weapons, but they didn't look actively menacing anymore, either. And they pointed the barrels vaguely toward the floor.

  "Baldwin," the man repeated. "Right. We've been expecting you." He was a tall fellow, thin without being skinny. The physique of a basketball player under the wool jacket, white shirt, and conservative tie. "Follow us," he said, and turned to walk down the hallway.

  I shrugged and followed, Cherise obediently hurrying along with me. I hoped I hadn't dragged her into the middle of something really, really bad. I had to believe the Wardens wouldn't hurt her. They treated normal people with kind, despotic benevolence.

  They only ate their own.

  Well, even if they tossed her out on her ear, she'd be okay. Cherise would survive. She was the kind of girl who could stand on a New York sidewalk looking helpless, and in under thirty seconds, a dozen guys would dash to the rescue.

  We went to the back elevators, which were operated by key card; my minders kept exchanging significant glances, but I didn't think I had much to fear from them. Wardens were never really unarmed, of course, and for the first time in a long time, I was feeling strong and confident. If this turned into a straight-out fight, I was willing and able to oblige. Provided I could get Cherise out of the line of fire—and in Warden terms, that was literal.

  The elevator rose up smoothly and deposited us with a muted ding at our destination. The doors opened…

  … on a floor I didn't recognize. One that looked like it was under construction, only construction would have been orderly, at least. No, this was under destruction. Paneling in splinters, pictures reduced to smashed frames and piles of glittering glass. Puddles of dark liquid that I really didn't want to examine too closely in the emergency lighting. I'd been to this place recently, and I hardly recognized it at all. It had been a hallowed, hushed center of power.

  Now it was the gruesome aftermath of a war zone.

  "Oh my God," Cherise murmured behind me, and edged carefully around a pile of splinters and glass that had once, I remembered, been a huge photo of the senior management of the Wardens.

  "Watch your step," our male guard said, and ducked under some low-hanging grids dangling from cables. "We're remodeling."

  The dry gallows humor didn't thaw out the cold shock in my stomach. "What the hell happened?"

  The woman shot me one of those looks. The kind a mother uses when she's out of patience with a child's bullshit. "Guess," she snapped.

  It hit me with a vengeance. They'd had a visit from some very motivated Djinn. Hence, the panic over Imara.

  I kept my mouth shut as we moved slowly around obstructions to the conference room about halfway down the hall. On the way, I spotted the big marble shrine to Wardens who'd died in the line of duty. It was only lightly chipped, and my name w
as still on it. I supposed, with all of the furor of the last few months, they hadn't gotten around to chiseling off the writing. Or maybe they just figured my death was inevitable, and why waste the effort…

  "In here," the guy said, and pointed through the open conference room door. I say "open," but it was more of a "missing." Sharp fresh-bent hinges sticking out from the wall, no sign of the doors themselves.

  The room was lit with emergency lanterns and chemical lights, the kind the Wardens recommended for use in hurricanes and tornadoes. It gave everything a post-apocalyptic glow—splintered heavy furniture, a blizzard of paper scattered over the floor, dark splashes on the shredded carpet.

  The surviving Wardens were gathered around the splintered conference table. I counted heads. Nineteen. I made an even twenty.

  I remembered the hundreds of Wardens who could have been here, should have been here, and felt a sick jolt in the pit of my stomach.

  "Jo." Paul Giancarlo—my old friend and mentor—looked as bad as the room. He was a big guy, well muscled, but he was looking terrifyingly banged up as he limped toward me. I met him halfway in a hug that was careful on my part, desperate on his. He was bandaged around the head, dark hair sticking up in thick unruly clumps on top, and his skin was pasty yellow. He had Technicolor bruises over half his face. "Thank God you're okay."

  His pupils were hugely dilated. Pain medication. He was doped to the gills.

  I let go and stepped back, and our fingers wrapped tight. He wasn't Lewis, and our various powers didn't amplify and rebound; I felt little to nothing from him, hardly even a whisper. Drugs could do that, but this was something else. He'd drained himself to dangerous levels. I knew how that felt. I'd done it myself, more than once.

  "I wish I could say the same about you," I said, and his big hand tightened around mine. "Paul. What happened here?"

  "They went crazy," he said, and closed his eyes for a second. "What the hell do you think? Not a damn thing we could do, except try to keep them off of us. Too many Wardens died. Way too many."

  I felt cold, imagining it. Djinn were like tigers, I'd always thought: beautiful and sleek and deadly when out of control. And this had definitely been way out of control. I remembered David, back on the beach in Florida—