Gale Force tww-7

by Rachel Caine

  An hour later, I was in a smoked-glass limo—not a stretch, but one of the anonymous, though perfectly well-appointed Town Car varieties—clutching a bottle of mineral water and watching chaos on the tiny built-in television screen in the back of the seat. CNN was running Talking Head Theater; the Wardens were staging additional demonstrations, including Fire and Earth, and people were starting to actually pay attention. I wondered if anybody had considered the legal implications. Talk about malpractice insurance . . .

  “Paul’s dead,” I said, out of absolutely nowhere. I turned the cold glass bottle in my hands, remembering that moment so vividly it hurt, that moment when Paul turned to face me, guilt and anger in his face. “I killed him, Cher. He got in my way, and I killed him.”

  Nobody had told her. I watched a tremor run through her, and she bowed her head for a second. When she raised it, her eyes were clear and bright. “I knew he was the walking wounded,” she said. “You didn’t see him like I did, when he thought nobody was watching. He was scared all the time. And angry. And he never really stopped hurting. He shouldn’t have been in charge. All those people dead under his watch—he couldn’t take it, Jo. It wasn’t his fault, and it’s not yours, either.”

  It definitely was my fault that I’d killed him, but I didn’t argue the point. I was going to have the rest of my life to reconcile myself with that, although I wasn’t sure how much time that would be—maybe no more than a couple of hours, in which case I’d be one of those tragic tales for the ages, slain by the bad guys at the altar and taking a couple hundred innocent lives with me because I was arrogant enough to think my life was somehow so important, such a beacon for change. . . .

  No. Cher was right. Hiding was wrong. Reacting the way the Sentinels wanted us to was wrong.

  This might be wrong, but at least it was wrong in the right direction. Somebody had to be the symbol. I was just filling the dress.

  I looked in the rearview mirror. We were being followed by black chase cars, probably federal or private security. There was a helicopter overhead, sleek and military looking, that kept the chubbier news choppers at bay by its mere presence. I couldn’t see the paparazzi, but I knew they were out there. Waiting.

  “Hey,” Cher said. “You with me?”

  “I’m getting married,” I said. “Jesus Christ, Cher, I’m getting married to a Djinn. What the hell am I thinking?”

  She smiled. “Oh, good. You’re with me.”

  The Palms was a blur: smiling faces, people saying kind things, Cherise running interference. She ensconced me in a penthouse the size of most houses, with a breathtaking ocean view, and I sat numbly on the couch, worrying. I know, most brides worry, but I had considerably more to worry about than whether or not I was going to trip over the hem of the dress I didn’t yet have.

  I was worried about Rahel, first and foremost. I’d been trying hard not to think about her. I knew that David was focused on her; how could he not be? She was a friend. She was in trouble. And I felt as though I was horribly betraying her, even though I knew that tactically, we were doing the right thing.

  He’ll hurt her, part of me said. He knows we’ll come if he hurts her.

  It was kind of odd, actually, that he hadn’t done it yet. What if he has? What if David is hiding it from you? That wouldn’t be too hard for him to do, because I hadn’t seen him since before we’d left the FBI building. No. He’d tell you. Unless he thought I couldn’t handle the pressure.

  Or unless he tore off to do something crazy, which was entirely possible.

  “Hey!” Cherise snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Fashion show. Here. Have some coffee. Nod when you see something you like.”

  Thus began the most surreal experience of my life, and with my life, that’s saying something. How she’d done it I have no idea, but apparently my current CNN celebrity status had upgraded me to the temporary level of an A-list star. The bridal shops hadn’t just sent dresses; they’d sent teams, with models who were fresh off Paris runways, apparently, far prettier and sleeker than I’d ever be. I felt dull and slightly nuts, even with the freshly brewed coffee sipped from a delicate china cup. The dresses ranged from something Cinderella would find too ruffly to something better suited to the wedding night than the glare of the spotlight. I mean, I’m daring, but I’m not that daring.

  In the middle of the parade, a model who bore a striking resemblance to Heidi Klum (couldn’t really be Heidi Klum, could she?) entered, and for a second, I just stared, shocked. I shot Cherise a look; her mouth was curved in a triumphant smile. She’d requested that one specially, I could immediately see that.

  And she was right. It was The Dress. The one that I’d bought, the one that had been ripped apart in the Sentinels’ last public attack on me.

  Maybe-Heidi-Klum swept to a graceful stop in front of me, and the silk fluttered to perfect layers, slightly angled and draping to that gorgeous, dramatic train in the back. When she turned, the corseted back displayed the deep V of skin that had so entranced me the first time. Sexy, yet demure. Sophisticated, yet still startlingly innocent.

  Hopeful.

  “Yes,” I said. Bridal Shop Team Number Three— I’d forgotten the names; Cherise had been keeping track—high-fived one another. Maybe-Klum gave me a cool smile and rustled out, back straight, chin high. If I could look half that good in the thing . . .

  Well, that took care of the dress.

  Cherise did all the work, reassuring the runners-up that we still liked them and would mention them fondly. She signed a just-in-case-of-damage credit card slip, discreetly proffered by the winning team, and slipped the copy into a black leather binder.

  “How much?” I asked. She shook her head sadly.

  “Really, you don’t want to be asking that today,” she said. “Just go with it. Besides, we can return it unless, you know. Now. You go take a shower. We’ve got the stylist coming in forty-five minutes.”

  Stylists made house calls. I was learning a lot today.

  I cried in the shower, where it didn’t show. I cried about all the doubt, all the craziness. Cherise was doing a good job of keeping me moving, but this was like standing on the train tracks, watching the Heart-break Express rocket toward you. I was in the crosshairs, and I’d given up my safety to other people. Worse, I’d given up Rahel’s life to the gods of chance and fate.

  I arrived on time for the stylist, who was a temperamental, gorgeous young woman with not one but two assistants, one of whom took charge of my nails while the others waded into the misery that was my hair. I closed my eyes and focused on the weather, moving in slow, peaceful waves outside the thick window. The aetheric was almost artificially calm; the Wardens were keeping their heads down, and the Ma’at had done a fantastic job of smoothing out the ups and downs of the day.

  Whatever problems came about, they wouldn’t be rain-related.

  I’ll skip the rest of the rituals. By four o’clock, I was laced into the dress, staring at myself in the floor-length mirror of the Palms penthouse, balanced on shoes rushed to us from one of the most exclusive boutiques.

  I was seeing a stranger. My hair was up, piled in loose, sexy, complicated layers, secured with diamond pins and a veil as soft as fog. My face was my own, only perfected with expert cosmetics. The dress was, as I’d thought, exactly right.

  My eyes were the only things that gave the lie to the whole illusion. They were wide, dark blue, starkly terrified.

  Cherise squeezed my hand and stood next to me, sharing mirror time. She looked absolutely, deliciously adorable. “You should see Lewis,” she said. “That man was born for formal wear. I’d totally be all over him, except he’s way too tall. I have a fear of heights.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “For complimenting Lewis? Trust me, that’s a freebie.”

  “No, for—for all this. For keeping me sane. I couldn’t—” My hands were shaking again. I closed my eyes and concentrated on calm. “Whatever happens, thank you. I couldn’t ask fo
r a better friend. I love you.”

  “Love you too, sweetie, but I’m not marrying you.” Cherise cocked a perfect eyebrow. “You notice I didn’t mention what David looked like.”

  No, she hadn’t. That wasn’t exactly like her.

  “You’ll see,” she said smugly.

  There was a discreet knock on the door, and one of the incredibly intimidating security gentlemen stuck his head in to nod at Cherise.

  Time to go.

  “I don’t think we should do this,” I said.

  But I let her lead me out, anyway.

  I was taken through deserted hallways, feeling more and more isolated and surreal with every moment. Was this how most brides felt, or only those with targets painted on their chests? Hard to say. I just tried to swallow the growing, acrid lump of dread in my throat, and followed the confident shimmy of Cherise’s stride.

  Holding open doors, hotel staff smiled at me as I passed. I had no idea where we were going, so it was a surprise when the last set of doors opened on blinding sunlight. The strains of a highly accomplished string quartet—good enough to overcome the barrier of surf noise, conversation, and humidity’s effect on wood and strings—hung luminously in the air. It was an absolutely perfect day. The sky was a breathtaking ceramic blue, washed clean of all imperfections.

  I felt so much dread that I was afraid my knees would collapse underneath me. They’ll hit us. They can’t not hit us. And there were so many people to protect. So many people I couldn’t swear wouldn’t be hurt in this.

  Cherise squeezed my hand one last time and said, “Stay fierce, Jo. We’ll get through this.” And then she moved through the rose-covered archway, taking the arm of a tall, elegant man who I only after the fact realized was Lewis. A drastically different Lewis. Smoking hot, in fact. She was right: He was made for formal wear. The severe black-and-white tailoring made him look extraordinary.

  I fidgeted slightly, clutching the small, perfect bouquet of ivory roses that Cherise had handed me, and the security men on either side of me scanned the perimeters for any threats. I spotted Wardens, Wardens everywhere, waiting. If the Sentinels were coming, they were coming into the teeth of the buzz saw.

  If the Wardens watching me aren’t undercover Sentinels . . . I had to leave that terrifying thought behind. It was too much.

  I knew mere security wouldn’t stop Bad Bob, or the thing that was wearing his face. The bigger the clash, the bigger the boom; he’d love to smash us here, in this most public of settings.

  The string quartet shifted into the traditional bridal march, and the security man offered me his arm. He looked good in a tux, too. A little beefy, but you really wanted that in a quality bodyguard.

  We passed under the arch and began the long, long walk down the rose-petal-strewn path to the graceful, arched gazebo.

  For some reason, I hadn’t thought about who’d be here. Mostly Wardens, of course, mostly friends. Cherise had even managed to get some of our old TV station colleagues here at the last minute, including some of the crew, who were looking highly uncomfortable in their suits and jackets, but were beaming at me in universal accord.

  In the front row was my sister. Sarah looked elegant, perfectly coiffed, and terribly pissed off. She was glaring hard at Cherise, and if looks could kill, there would have been a warrant out for her arrest. In fact, now that I thought about it, I was a little surprised there wasn’t a warrant out for Sarah. She’d scammed a lot of money, and if her old boyfriend (psycho but strangely honest) was to be believed, she’d been one step short of Master Criminal status. I hadn’t planned on inviting her, but in retrospect, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d shown up anyway. If there was any chance of notoriety coming from the day, she’d be right in front to tell her story to the cameras about growing up with the Freak.

  I forgot all about that momentary stab of distraction, because Lewis moved aside, and David turned to look at me, and the world just . . . stopped.

  I knew why Cherise hadn’t said anything about how David looked. There simply weren’t words in the human language to describe his vividness, his presence, his—his beauty. He was wearing a tuxedo, very much like the one Lewis was modeling so effectively, but no matter how flattering the clothes, it was David, and David’s essence, that blazed forth in that moment.

  I saw it clearly: all his love, all his hope, all his commitment. He was immortal, and this was no act for him, no temporary amusement. I’d been told Djinn loved intensely, but in that single, crystalline moment, I knew.

  It felt like a dream. I extended my hand—no longer trembling—and his fingers closed around it, drawing me to his side. I felt the aura fold around me, warmer than sunlight, and the euphoria was like nothing I had ever felt.

  Somewhere, the minister was speaking. I had no idea what kind of service Cherise had cobbled together on the spur of the moment, and I didn’t care; the words didn’t matter. I understood why David had asked this of me now; I understood so much more than I’d ever thought I would. It wasn’t just words.

  It was a vow. And vows among the Djinn were law, immutable as physics. I could feel the forces gathering, as the words progressed; I could see the shimmer spreading through the aetheric.

  The minister had gotten to the heart of the matter. “Do you, David, take this woman as your only true lover, now and for her lifetime, forsaking all others, in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty, in hardship and in joy?”

  I saw the aetheric flare hot gold, so much power gathering, more than I’d ever seen, and David opened his mouth to reply. . . .

  “No,” said a new voice, before he could reply. “He doesn’t.”

  Ashan had crashed our wedding.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The power on the aetheric went wild, currents flowing around us like whirlpools, lashing and foaming in distress. David and I turned together and saw Ashan standing behind us. From the forbidding expression on his face, I was guessing he hadn’t brought us any wedding gifts, or at least none that wouldn’t explode.

  “I can’t allow this folly,” Ashan said. “Maybe you truly believe this is right, but we can’t take the chance. You expose us all to slavery, David, not just yourself. No.”

  The minister looked justifiably bewildered, and not just by the sudden popping in of supernatural guests. I was thinking his brain had skipped right over that part. The human race was absolutely stellar at plausible deniability. “But I haven’t asked for any objections, ” he said faintly. “We don’t do that anymore. Really, this is most—”

  Ashan ignored him. Ignored me, too. He was focused only on David, and if David was a glorious bright star, burning with potential, Ashan was his polar opposite: leached of color; pale as an undertaker; grim as impending death. He was even wearing black—a severe suit, with a black tie paired with a white shirt. His idea of formal attire, I guessed. It might have even passed, if it hadn’t been for the bitter expression and the cold, cold fire in his teal-blue eyes.

  “You have no place here,” David said. I felt the power of the Earth rising up in him, rich and thick and irresistible; Ashan was a Conduit, yes, but this was David’s territory, David’s home ground, in a sense. Ashan was an intruder, uninvited and unwelcome. “Leave us.”

  Ashan slowly shook his head. “I don’t come for myself,” he said. “I come for all of us, to ask. Don’t do this, David. Don’t destroy us again, for your personal satisfaction.”

  I’d expected assault, not a plea, and especially not a plea that had the ring of sincerity to it.

  David didn’t respond. He gazed at Ashan, fire in his eyes, but he didn’t lash out.

  Ashan said, even more quietly, “I also didn’t come alone.” He didn’t move, not even his gaze, but I felt the shocking flare on the aetheric, and suddenly there was a presence beside him. It was human in shape, but not human at all—a wild power, barely contained by flesh. His skin was hot red, shifting with patterns of color, and his eyes were the pure white of the hott
est flame. I’d never seen him take human form before, but I knew him.

  The Fire Oracle had left his protected home in a crypt in Seacasket. I hadn’t even known he could.

  With a whisper rather than a flare, another presence shaped itself out of the air on Ashan’s other side. Milk-glass skin, a vessel containing fog and ice. The Air Oracle was only barely human as well, and androgynous in form. Two of them. The Air Oracle had no fixed abode that I knew of, but still, it took a major event for it to manifest so publicly.

  I knew, without even asking, that it had never happened before. Not in all the history of the Djinn.

  Another surge of power, this one familiar, so bitterly and sweetly familiar. My daughter, Imara— human and far more than human, beautiful and unreachable and remote. She looked sad, but sure of herself—a mirror of my face and form, but with a totally individual core she’d inherited from both me and her father.

  She was standing with the others, against us.

  David closed his eyes, and I knew it hurt him as much as it did me. When he opened them, his eyes had gone dark, almost human. “You’re sure,” he said. “Imara?”

  I thought for a few heartbeats that she might defect, might throw her support to us, but then she bowed her head. “I’m sure,” she whispered. “Too dangerous. So much at risk. You can’t, Dad. You just . . . can’t.”

  Silence. The audience was whispering. I couldn’t imagine what they were making out of this. Lewis had moved Cherise out of the line of fire, in case there was going to be any, but somehow I knew this wasn’t going to come to fireworks. Not this time.

  David slowly turned back to me and said, very simply, “I do.”

  My mind went blank for a second, and I felt the seductive flow of power wash over me. Half done. This was an exchange of vows; his was powerful, but not complete without my consent. The minister nervously cleared his throat, eyes darting from David, to me, to Ashan, to the three Oracles.