by Rachel Caine
This storm, young and fragile, runs the risk of being killed by a capricious shift in winds coming off the pole, or a high-pressure front pushing through from east to west. Like all babies, this storm’s nothing but potential and soft underbelly, and it will take almost nothing to rip it apart. Even as attuned as I am, I don’t really notice. It’s nothing, yet.
But the weather keeps cooking up rising temperatures and the winds stay stable, and the clouds grow thick and heavy. The constant friction of drops churning in the clouds creates energy, and energy creates heat. The storm gets fed from above, by the sun, and from below, by blood-warm water, and a generator starts turning over somewhere in the middle, hidden in the mist. With the right conditions, a storm system can sustain itself for days, living off its own combustion, an engine of friction and mass.
It’s just a few days old, at this point. It won’t live more than a few weeks, but it can either go out with a whimper, or with a bang.
This one can go either way.
It moves in a wide, slow sweep over the water. A wall of white cloud, drifting gray veils. No rain makes it to the ocean below; the engine sucks it back up, recycling and growing.
As the moisture condenses inside the clouds, conditions get strange. Intense energy sends water into jittering frenzies, producing even more power. The clouds darken as they grow denser. As they crawl across open water they are getting fatter, spreading, spawning, and that engine at the heart of the storm stores up power for leaner times.
And still, it’s really nothing. A summer squall. An annoyance.
But now it’s starting to know that it’s alive.
Chapter Two
By the time we broke up the Great Mall Trek of 2004 for lunch, Sarah, Cherise, and I had enough shopping bags to outfit an Everest expedition, if the climbers were planning to look really, really adorable and hang out extensively at the beach.
Sarah had always been a natural-born clotheshorse. Not as curvy as me, and with the kind of perfect angular proportions that sparked envy and were held up as examples by plastic surgeons to keep them in the lipo and sculpting business.
Life with the French Kiss-Off (as I decided to title Chrêtien) hadn’t ruined her, except that she had some lines around her eyes, a good haircut gone bad, ugly shoes, and a generally sour attitude about men. A nice toning lotion took care of the lines. Toni & Guy bravely addressed the hair issues. Prada was very willing to practice some accessory therapy. I didn’t think anything could possibly help her with the attitude, except massive applications of chocolate, which with her figure she wouldn’t accept. After half a day of it, I was ready to send Sarah to the Bitter Ex-wives Club for an extra session of getting in touch with her whiny inner bitch.
“He was a lousy lover,” she declared, as she was trying on shoes. She had perfect feet, too. Long, narrow, elegant—the kind of feet men liked to think about rubbing. Even the salesman, who surely must have had his fill of stinky, sweaty toes, was looking tempted as he held her by the heel and slipped her into a strappy little pointy-toed number. Personal service. It only happened at the best stores these days, but then, he was trying to sell her shoes worth more than your average television set.
“Who?” Cherise asked, inspecting a pair of kitten-heeled pumps. She must have missed the entire ongoing monologue about the flaws of Chrêtien. I stared gloomily at the ruby red pair of sandals I’d been saving up for, which were likely to go out of style and come back again three generations from now before I could actually afford them again, at the rate Sarah was shopping.
Not that I hadn’t asked for it. And it was in a good cause. But I really needed to introduce her to the concept of outlet malls.
“The ex, of course,” Sarah replied, and tilted her foot to one side to admire the effect of the shoe. It was, I had to admit, very nice. “He had this terrible habit; he’d do this thing with his tongue—”
Okay, that was too much information. I shot to my feet.
“I really don’t think I’m ready for this level of sister-bonding. I’m going to get a mocha. You guys—shop.”
Sarah smiled and waved. As well she should. She had my Mastercard in her purse, and I had exactly ten dollars and change in mine.
Being the younger sister sucked.
As I walked away, Sarah was amusing the shoe salesman and Cherise with an account of something having to do with her husband, a Spider-Man costume, Silly String, and Velcro sheets.
I walked faster.
Outside, the mall was starting to buzz. It was packed with moms, squealing kids, harassed-looking singles clutching shopping bags, and a grim flying squadron of gray-haired mall walkers in heather gray sweats. Some had canes. I had to hug the wall to avoid a rumbling wagon trail of mothers with strollers, and then a flock of businesswomen with scarves and briefcases.
Men, apparently, no longer malled. Or at least, not alone. Every one that I saw had a female solidly by his side, like a human shield.
The coffee shop was busy, but efficient, and I walked away with mocha gold. As I sipped I window-shopped, and I was admiring a dress that was very, very me—and very, very not my budget—when I caught sight of someone in the mirror-reflection of the glass, watching.
I turned and looked. LVPD Detective Armando Rodriguez smiled slightly, leaned against a convenient neon-wrapped pillar, and sipped on his own cup. Smaller than mine. Probably black coffee. He looked like an uncomplicated sort of man, in terms of his caffeine tastes.
I walked right up to him with fast, impatient clicks of my heels.
“Look,” I said, “I thought we were sort of done.”
“Did you?”
“You need to leave me alone.”
“Do I?” He sipped coffee, watching me. Big eyes with warm flecks of wood brown in an iris nearly as dark as his pupil. He was wearing a jacket, and I wondered if he’d worn the gun inside—a pretty big risk, these days—or had stashed it in his van. Not that I thought he’d particularly need it. Even his casual moves seemed graceful and martial arts–precise. He’d probably have me on the ground and handcuffed inside of five seconds, if he were given the least excuse. In the harsher light of the mall, he had rough skin and a pockmarked face. Not a pretty man, but an intense one. Those eyes didn’t blink.
“If you keep following me, I’m going to have to call the cops,” I said, and was instantly sorry I had when he smiled.
“Yes, do that. All I have to do is flash my badge and ask for professional courtesy. Or I might possibly show them the surveillance photos, and request their assistance. I’m sure they’d be happy to help me out in questioning a suspect.” He shrugged slightly, never taking his eyes off me. “I’m a good cop. Nobody’s going to believe I’ve driven all the way here to stalk you. And a word of advice: I don’t think a drowning person really ought to be flailing around in the water. Could draw some sharks.”
I didn’t say anything for a few seconds too long. A runaway five-year-old darted between the two of us, brushing my legs; I took a step back as the mom charged after and veered around us, yelling out the kid’s name. Both Rodriguez and I watched as she caught up to the escapee and marched him back toward the Food Court, where evidently a firing squad of fast food awaited.
Rodriguez said, still looking away from mother and child, “Quinn was my partner. He was my responsibility. Do you understand?”
I didn’t like what I was understanding.
“I’m not going, sweetheart. Mira, you and I are going to get very, very friendly until you tell me what I want to know.” He finally turned his gaze back on me.
Dead-eyed and intense.
“Don’t you have a job? Family? Someplace to be?” I was used to handling difficult situations, difficult people, but he kept throwing me off my stride.
“Come on, this is ridiculous. You can’t just—”
“Quinn had a wife,” he cut in. Those eyes were glittering now. “Nice woman. You know what it’s like, living with that kind of uncertainty? Knowing he’s probably dead,
but you just can’t move on because you can’t really know? You can’t sell the house, you can’t get rid of his clothes, you can’t do anything, because what if he’s not dead? His insurance won’t pay out. His pension’s locked up. And what if he comes walking in the door and there you are, in a brand-new life you made without him?”
“I can’t help you,” I said around a sudden lump in my throat. “Please leave me alone.”
“Can’t do it.”
And I couldn’t give in to him, even if he’d hit me hard and in a vulnerable place. “Fine. Prepare to admire my ass for an extended period of time, because it’s all of me you’re going to see,” I said. “This is our last conversation.”
He didn’t bother to debate. I took off so fast I splashed mocha on my fingers.
As I sucked it off, I looked back.
He was still leaning against the pillar, watching me. Impassive and impartial as a hanging judge.
I met Cherise and Sarah coming out of Prada with a fresh bag. I winced to think what kind of bar tab this latest binge had run up, but smiled gamely and stepped back to admire the effect. Sarah was now dressed in a peachskin sundress in splashes of tangerine and gold, with lavender trim; her makeover at the Sak’s counter, like the wave of a fairy godmother’s wand, had returned her gleaming skin and butter-smooth sophistication. The shoes added just the right touch of sassy cool.
Of course, she was still broke. But she looked damn good.
And now I was broke. The karmic circle of life continued.
“So,” I said. “Lunch?” I walked them through the neon gates of Calorie Paradise.
About thirty culinary choices, everything from Greek salad to Diner Dogs.
“I’m starving,” Sarah admitted. “I could murder a prime rib. I haven’t had a prime rib in ages.”
“It’s the mall, honey. I don’t think the Food Court does prime rib.”
“We could go to Jackson’s,” Cherise piped up cheerfully. She was loaded up with bags, too, mostly having to do with hiphuggers and shiny belts. “They have prime rib. And steaks to die for.”
“Do you know what it costs to eat at Jackson’s?” I said. She gave me a blank look, because, well, of course she didn’t. Cherise wasn’t the kind of girl who picked up her own check. “Think pocket change, people.” I steered them toward the choices I could—barely—still afford. The ones with a bright-primary-color decorating sensibility.
Eyeroll. “Fine.” Cherise marched—how one marched in jeweled flip-flops, I have no idea—up to join the overweight queue standing in line at McDonald’s. “I am not eating anything fried. I have a weigh-in coming up, you know… Do they have anything organic?”
“It’s food,” I pointed out. “It digests. By definition, organic.”
We bickered companionably about the usual food-related topics, which had to do with all-natural and bug-munched versus pesticided and bug-free, as the line wandered up toward the counter. The three sulky teens in front of me giggled and whispered. Two of them had tattoos. I was trying to imagine what would have happened if I’d gone home with a tattoo at their age, and decided I had enough nightmares in my life and besides, it made me feel old. Even Cherise had a tattoo. I was starting to think that I’d missed an important fashion trend.
Someone joined the line behind Sarah. I glanced back at her and caught an impression of a tall, lean man with slightly shaggy caramel-colored hair, and the kind of beard and mustache that always makes men seem to be faintly up to no good even while giving them a debonair kind of mystery. It looked good on him.
He was scanning the menu and smiling gently, as if he thought the whole McDonald’s experience was about to be very amusing.
“Sarah?” I asked. “Anything look good?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What about the cheeseburger? Oh, no, wait… salad … they have so many kinds!” My sister, the decisive one. This, I remembered from childhood. She sounded on the verge of panic. Salad choices apparently unnerved her. “I don’t know what to get.”
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend the caviar,” the guy behind her said in a warm voice—not to me; to Sarah. He had bent slightly forward, not quite intruding. “I have it on good authority that it’s not really Beluga.” Definitely not a Florida accent… British. Not upper-class British, more of a comfortable working-class sound to him.
Sarah turned to look at him. “Were you talking to me?”
He snapped upright and out of her space, eyes going wide. They looked blue or gray, but it was tough to be sure—a changeable kind of color. Depended on the light. “Er… yes, actually. Sorry. I just meant—” He shook his head. “Never mind. Sorry. I meant no disrespect.” He took two steps back, clasped his hands together, and tried hard to look as if he’d never opened his mouth.
Cherise had turned around at the sound of his voice. She grabbed my wrist and squeezed, dragged me close, and hissed, “Jesus, what’s your sister doing?”
“Confronting,” I said. “She’s in a mood.”
“Is she nuts? Look at him! Cute British guy! Hello!”
“She’s on the rebound.”
“Well, get her ass off the court and let me play!” All of this delivered in a fast, rapid-fire hiss that wouldn’t carry even as far as Sarah’s ears, much less those of Cute British Guy, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable as Sarah continued to stare at him.
“Oh, you get enough court time, believe me. Go order,” I said, and nudged Cherise toward the tired-looking order-taker at the register, who mumbled something about being welcome to McDonald’s. Cherise gave me a theatrically harassed look and made a production of ordering a salad, interrogating the pedigree of every tomato and carrot while she was at it.
Cherise’s performance was distracting enough that I missed the historic moment of détente, when Sarah overcame her bitter hatred of men. When I looked back, she was extending her hand to Cute British Guy. “Sarah Dubois,” she said, and I saw a tremor go right through her. I could just hear her thinking, Oh, Jesus, not Dubois, you idiot, that’s Chrêtien’s name, your name is Baldwin!
Unfortunately, it was a little late to backtrack on the surname. At best, it would sound loopy. She covered with an especially glittering smile, greatly enhanced by the new Clinique lipstick we’d bought for her earlier.
Cute British Guy folded his fingers over hers in a friendly grip, and wow, those were some long fingers. About twice as long as my own. Concert pianist hands, well manicured and soft and graceful. “Eamon,” he said, and gave her a slightly shy smile and an inclined head that was like a hint of a bow. “Lovely to meet you, Sarah.”
She glowed like a sun at the attention. I mean, honestly. This, from a woman who was bitching half an hour before about how she’d rip the liver out of any man who tried to buy her a drink. She might have just set a new land speed record for rebounding.
Cherise grabbed my shoulder and yanked me off balance. I tottered on my high heels, caught my balance, and turned as she shoved me up to the order window.
“Get something fattening,” she said. “If you’re forcing me to eat here, I want to see you suffer.”
Just for sheer perversity, I went with the Quarter Pounder with Cheese. And fries.
Sarah, locked deep in conversation with Eamon, ended up snacking on a side salad and bottled water at another table, and forgot all about us.
I half expected Sarah to run off into the sunset, drop me a postcard from London thanking me for the use of my now-devastated Fairy Godmother Card, and live happily ever after until her next marital emergency, but no. The nice lunch with Eamon ended on a handshake parting that looked like no handshake I ever got from a lunch date, all eyes and smiles and long, beautiful fingers wrapping all the way to her wrist.
And then she was back with us. Glowing and smiling like the Madonna after a visitation.
“I’m done here,” she announced. Cherise, who was clearly not enjoying her salad, glared, but hell, at least she’d bought herself some nice hiphugger capr
i pants and matching shoes. Except for coffee and Mickey D’s, I hadn’t spent a dime on myself.
But then, my shopping enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by the dark, relaxed figure of Armando Rodriguez, who had taken up a seat at a table about twenty feet away, sipping even more coffee. Apparently, he intended to never, ever sleep again. Or leave me alone.
“Fine. Let’s go home,” I said, and piled trash on my tray. The place was giving me a headache, anyway. Too many people, too much noise, too many flashing, blinking, spinning lights.
By the time we were out of the mall, the rain was over, but the parking lot shone in slick black puddles that rippled and shuddered in the wake of passing cars. Humidity was murder, closing warmly around me like a saturated, microwaved blanket. I herded Cherise and Sarah and the profusion of bags to the car; by the time we were getting inside, our preferred, close-in space was being scouted by an eagle-eyed old vulture in a shiny Mercedes and a determined-looking teenybopper with the ink still wet on her learner’s permit. I pulled out and fled before the combat could get up to ramming speed. A few sullen raindrops spattered the windshield. Overhead, the sky was lead gray and utterly wrong; the patterns were definitely wonky. There was wobbling all up and down the aetheric, and little sparks of power as some other Warden made slight corrections. Nobody seemed too exercised about it, at least not yet; it was obviously not developing into the storm of the century. What was worrying to me about it was that I was supposed to be the only free-range talent out here. And somebody had messed with the weather to make this happen.
Thunder rumbled on cue. Resentfully.
“His name is Eamon!” Sarah said, leaning forward over the seats as I made my way toward the road. “Did you hear his accent? Isn’t it adorable?” Sarah always had been a sucker for a foreign accent. Hence, the whole French Kiss-Off debacle.
“Yeah. That’s Manchester, by the way, not West End London,” Cherise said, and inspected her fingernails in the sunlight to admire the glitter effect.
