Windfall tww-4

by Rachel Caine

  And I had to find David’s bottle. I just had to. It couldn’t end this way.

  I uncovered the shattered shell of my dresser. It was too big to move. I cried for a little while, tears soaking into the gauze mask, and then grabbed hold and kicked the damn thing with my hiking boots until it splintered into pieces small enough to drag out of the way.

  As the last one came free, I saw the nightstand, and it was all in one piece.

  I gave a wordless, breathless yell, and hauled it out of the heap of junk it was buried in, leaned it against a rusted-out harvest gold washing machine, and slowly opened the drawer.

  It was full of stuff. Old lotion bottles with half a handful left in each one.

  My out-of-date sale catalogs.

  A zippered bag full of foam cushioning.

  I grabbed it, hugged it like a little girl reunited with her favorite stuffed animal, and unzipped it with shaking gloved fingers.

  There was nothing inside.

  Nothing.

  I screamed, bit my lip, and forced myself to do things slowly. One piece at a time, taken out, examined, and tossed aside. Foam padding last.

  It wasn’t there.

  David’s bottle wasn’t fucking there.

  In the dark, under the glare of the floodlights, I saw the cold green gleam of eyes out in the dark. Rats? Cats? They winked on and off in the shadows, too cautious to come near me, but too close for comfort.

  One of those legendary giant cockroaches crawled out of the heap and began trundling like a shiny brown bus over heaps of metal.

  The bottle wasn’t in the drawer, and it wasn’t in the bag where it was supposed to be. Night was falling. I couldn’t do this once the floodlights shut off, and tomorrow another layer of junk would arrive and bury any chance I had…

  I had to do it. “David,” I said, and closed my eyes. “David, come to me. David, come to me. David, come to me.” Rule of three. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t refuse to obey that, not even as an Ifrit, so long as he was bound to a bottle. I had to know if the bottle was intact, at least. If David was still bound.

  Out in the shadows, something moved. It was unsettlingly like that giant cockroach, the way it caught the floodlights in shiny angles and sharp points.

  Skin like coal. Nothing human about it.

  “David?” I whispered.

  The Ifrit stood there, motionless. I got nothing from it. No sense of connection, no sense of it even existing beyond the evidence of my eyes.

  If he’d come when I called, he was still bound to the bottle. Worst possible news. I felt tears burning in my eyes again. “God, no. David, I’m so sorry. I’m going to find you. There’s got to be a way to make this right, to make this—”

  He moved. Quicker than a Djinn, scarier, he was touching-close in less time than it took my nerves to fire an impulse to scream. His black-clawed hands slashed through me and plunged into…

  … into that golden reservoir of power that Lewis had given me.

  Why? How? Ifrits couldn’t feed on humans, not even Wardens, they couldn’t…

  He was. “No!” I screamed, and tried to back up. I tripped and went down, felt something slash my shoulder, took a sharp angle hard in the back. The impact stunned the breath out of me and made me go momentarily hazy.

  He didn’t let go. When I opened my eyes he was crouched on top of me; black edges and angles, hunger and an absence of everything I knew as human, a Djinn emptied of all that made him part of the world…

  And then, he flickered and became flesh, bone, blood, heartbeat, real. Djinn in human form. Copper-bright hair, burning eyes, skin like burnished gold.

  “Oh, God,” he murmured, and staggered back from me, clothes forming around him—blue jeans, open flannel shirt, his olive drab coat. “I didn’t mean to—Jo—”

  “Where are you?” It was all I could do to form the words; he’d taken so much energy from me that I felt oddly slow, as if there wasn’t enough current left in my cells to drive the process of life and thought again. “Tell me.”

  He reached down and lifted me in his arms, buried his face in the curve of my neck. He felt blazing hot, powered by my stolen life. I felt his agonized scream shiver through me. I stilled him by clumsily putting a hand on his face. “David, tell me where you are.”

  He was weeping. Weeping. Human tears from inhuman eyes, a kind of despair I’d never seen in him before, a trapped and hunted fury. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I told you to stop me, I told you—”

  “Hey! Put her down!”

  I blinked and saw the dump whirl around me as David turned, still holding me.

  Sarah was standing about ten feet away, holding—what the hell was that? A frying pan? Yep, a huge iron skillet. It must have weighed twenty pounds. Her arms were trembling with the effort of keeping it held at threat level.

  “I mean it!” she yelled, and took another step toward us. “Put my sister down right now or it’s batter up!”

  “It’s okay,” I said, and felt the world start to gray out. I held on with an effort. “Sarah, no. This is David.”

  She looked confused. Her knuckles whitened around the skillet.

  “Boyfriend,” I managed.

  “Oh.” She swallowed, dropped the skillet with a clang of metal, and scrubbed her fingers against her filthy blue jeans. “Um, sorry. But—Jo? Are you okay?”

  “She fell,” David said. He sounded shaken. When I looked up at him I saw that he’d formed glasses, and his eyes were fading to human brown. He still looked way too gorgeous to be real, but maybe that was just my prejudice. “I’ll carry her out.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered, and put my arms around his neck. His strength and warmth folded around me, sheltering and protecting. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  “I know.” He touched his lips to my hair, then my forehead. “I wish you didn’t. I wish I could make this—stop. If I didn’t love you, wasn’t part of you, I couldn’t do this to you…”

  “David, tell me where you are!”

  He tried to tell me. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shook his head in frustration and tightened his hold on me as he made his way over the mountains of sharp metal and broken furniture, heading for the metal steps back up to the parking lot.

  “Please. No, wait—I need to get your bottle, we can’t just leave it here—David, I’m ordering you, tell me where it is!”

  He brushed my lips with a kiss, something gentle and very sad. “It won’t work,” he said. “You’re not my master anymore.”

  And that was when I realized that I didn’t feel the draw anymore—the connection of master to Djinn.

  Somebody else had his bottle.

  “Who—”

  Overhead, black clouds rumbled. I felt a breeze ruffle my hair. David moved faster, effortlessly graceful. No longer trying to look all that human. I remembered how he’d been on the overpass, all that unnatural balance and weird, fey control. He took the metal steps two at a time.

  Sarah was still struggling along in his wake.

  David carried me to the minivan and put me in the passenger seat, one hand dragging warm down the curve of my cheek as he settled my head against the cushions. A flash of lightning lit him blue on one side while the floodlights washed him white on the other.

  “Don’t look for me,” he said. “It’s better that you don’t. You’re not safe with me now.”

  He kissed me. Baby-soft lips, damp and silken and hot. I tasted peaches and cinnamon and power.

  When he tried to pull back, I held on, holding the kiss, deepening it, demanding. Drinking a little bit of my power back from him.

  Enough to make me a Warden again, even though not much of one.

  He faded and cooled as I did it, but not quite enough to slide back into Ifrit-state. But he would. As the power faded, he’d revert.

  But for now, at least, we were balanced. The connection—and it was a different one than we’d had as master and Djinn—worked b
oth ways.

  “You didn’t have to answer when I called,” I said, and touched the side of his face, then tangled my hands in the soft strands of his hair. “If I’m not your master—”

  “I’ll always be yours,” he interrupted. “Always. The bottle doesn’t matter.” His forehead pressed against mine, and his breath pulsed warm on my skin. “Don’t you understand that yet?”

  Another flash of lightning blinded me. When I opened my eyes, my hands were empty, and David was gone. I didn’t cry. I felt too numbed and empty to cry.

  Sarah lunged over the top of the metal steps from the junkpile, panting, flushed, thoroughly filthy. She grabbed the open door and looked inside, then met my eyes. Hers were anime-wide.

  “Where’d he come from? Wait… where’d he go?”

  I just shook my head. Sarah stared at me for a long, considered second, and then shut the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine started with a roar, and she began piloting the Good Ship Minivan out of the dump.

  “He’s a Djinn,” I said wearily, and leaned my head against the glass. “Magic’s real. I control the weather. He’s an immortal creature made out of fire, and he grants wishes. I was getting around to telling you.”

  Silence. Sarah hit the brakes hard enough to jerk, and for a few long seconds we just sat there, idling, until the first fat drops of rain began pelting the van with hard, resonant thumps.

  “Well,” she finally said, “at least he’s cute. Are you insane?”

  I sighed. “Oh, I so wish I was.”

  We drove home. I felt exhausted and sick and sore, and refused Sarah’s multiple offers of visits to the local emergency room or mental health center, no matter how rich, cute, and single the doctors might be. I showered away the dump under the new high-pressure massaging bath nozzle—not all of Sarah’s upgrades were objectionable—and crawled into my brand-new bed, too tired to wonder what I was going to do in the morning about all my various enemies, crises, and wars.

  David was, at least, not buried under half a ton of garbage at the dump, or at least I didn’t think he was. That was about as much of a victory as I could aspire to for one day.

  In retrospect, if I’d had half a brain in my head, I’d have never shut my eyes.

  Interlude

  As the storm destroys the island that men called Atlantis, as it strips it bare and devours every fragment of life before sinking the bare rocks under the waves—something strange happens. The explosion of death-energy from the destruction is so huge that, to balance the scales, five hundred Djinn snap into existence, each holding some small measure of the life of that lost, beautiful land. Lost and alone, newborn.

  Powerful, and afraid.

  The storm doesn’t see them as fuel for its fires, and turns north, toward a rich, green land full of energy, full of life, full of fragile things that it can grind apart in its fury.

  And this is when it becomes my story, and my mistake. I can’t stop it. The Djinn can’t stop it, even with the addition of the Five Hundred; the storm is a natural thing, and we can’t fight manifestations of the Mother nearly so well as we fight each other, or things in the world of man.

  The end of the world is on us. We argue, the Djinn. Some of us try to turn the storm aside, but it’s too much for us.

  I realize there is no way for Djinn to help mankind, and no way for mankind to save itself, without making an irrevocable choice.

  So I pull from the Mother and give power to humans to make them Wardens. And I give them the means to enslave the Djinn. By binding the Djinn, the Wardens can direct us, and we can tap the power pooled inside of humanity and amplify it, creating a web of intent and potential large enough to contain and weaken the storm.

  The moment when we join together, humans and Djinn, and defeat the storm at the end of the world… it is, for a moment, the unity of all things. A perfect peace. But perfect peace can’t last, and when it comes time for the Wardens to give up the power I’ve granted them over the Djinn, they refuse.

  Should have seen that coming.

  Ashan and the others are breaking the deal I made, all those millennia ago.

  They’re doing what I never had the courage to do: They’re taking back their freedom.

  And I don’t blame them. I blame myself.

  It’s time for things to be clean again. Scrubbed raw, like the rocks of Atlantis. Maybe what comes out of this will be better. I’ve wanted freedom for the Djinn for a long time, but I’ve never actually been faced with seeing it happen before. Choosing it.

  But it’s the right choice.

  If David were here, he’d tell me I’m crazy.

  But he’s not here. For the first time in my life, human or Djinn, he’s not here to help me. I’m at the end of the road, and it’s all dark out there, and I don’t know that there’s any right answer to anything, in the end.

  Only choices.

  So I think I’ll sit here on the beach, with the waves spraying the sky, watching as that long-ago storm swirls itself back into life again, finishing what it started. The Wardens have been fighting this same storm for thousands of years, whether they know it or not. I always feel something about it, something familiar, when it manages to put on its cloak of clouds and come back for another round.

  I can’t stop it alone. Neither can the Wardens. And the Djinn… the Djinn have had enough of sacrifice.

  I watch as the storm’s heart turns black and furious, and I wish it didn’t have to end this way.

  But I don’t know of any other way for it to happen.

  Chapter Eight

  No surprise: I woke up feeling like I’d had the hell beaten out of me by the Jolly Green Giant. Definitely not one of my better mornings. I tried to get out of bed, ended up more or less leaning on the wall, staring down at my naked body. I’d washed away the dump stains, but the bruises were pretty spectacular.

  Couldn’t see the really painful one, which was in the small of my back; I shuffled into the bathroom, dragged messy hair out of my eyes, and used an awkwardly angled hand mirror to take an appraisal of the damage. It didn’t look as bad as it felt, but then, it felt awful. The bruise was black and blue, the size of a fist. Swollen, too. Ow.

  I took another shower, because what the hell… massaging showerhead… and dried my hair into a more or less glorious shower of curls that didn’t frizz too much, and put on makeup. Why? Hell if I know, except that the worse I feel, the better I want to look. After applying all the disguise, I put on a light bra and a kickin’ peau de soie blouse, and contemplated my choices for things that wouldn’t press agonizingly against the bruise on my back. The low-rise panties and blue jeans seemed the only possible choice, other than walking around half-naked…

  I flipped on the sleek little flat-screen TV that had come with my new bedroom suite, a luxury I’d never even considered before, and tuned to WXTV. Just to see.

  They were finishing up the news portion of the morning show and moving to the weather. They had a new Weather Girl, I saw immediately, and hey, I felt just a little bit bitter about it for a second, because she was stunningly pretty and had a lovely smile and was well dressed in a blue jacket and silk blouse and tailored slacks, and what the hell?

  The anchors were laughing. She was forecasting a storm for later today.

  The camera pulled back, and back…

  … and there was Marvin. Squeezed into a foam rubber cloud suit, with little silver drops hanging off of him, sweating like a pig and glaring like a pit bull. Red with fury.

  “Sorry,” the new Weather Girl said, “but you out there know that Marvin always puts his integrity first, and today, he’s paying off a bet to Joanne, our former meteorological assistant. Love the outfit, Marv. So what’s today going to be like out there?”

  “Cloudy,” he snapped. “Severe storms. And—”

  Water. Lots of it. Dumped from way up high. He gasped, jumped, and they cut his mike before he got more than the first syllable of the curse out, but the camera itself w
as shaking from the force of the laughter on the set.

  Son of a bitch.

  It was probably evil of me to feel so good about watching him dance around dripping and cursing, but, well… I was at peace with it.

  I was feeling almost happy when I walked out into the living room, heading for the kitchen. It was still dark outside—cloudy, with muttering and lightning continuing over the ocean—so I didn’t immediately see my sister’s new boyfriend until he flicked on the light next to the couch.

  He was sitting on one end, sprawled gracefully, head leaning back against the thick leather tufted back. Sarah was curled on her side with her head resting on his thigh. She was wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe that gaped at the top, showing the inside slopes of her breasts. She looked exhausted and vulnerable, and he looked down at her with a careful expression, and touched her very gently. Fingertips tracing her cheek.

  I knew that touch. That was the way David touched me.

  That was regret, and love.

  She didn’t move, even with the light blazing down, and continued to breathe deeply and steadily. Deeply asleep. Eamon’s long, elegant fingers threaded through her frosted hair and stroked the curve of her head in long, soothing motions, as if he couldn’t bear to stop touching her.

  I wondered for a second if he even knew I was there, and then he said, “Good morning.” He looked up. “Did you enjoy the new bed?”

  “Yeah.” I paused, watching him, trying to figure out how they’d ended up on the couch like this when Sarah should have gone straight to her room, tired as she was. Also, when and how Eamon had found his way into the apartment. Sarah had probably given him a key already. She was like that. “Did you guys sleep out here?”

  “I haven’t slept at all,” he said, and it struck me that he was speaking in a normal tone of voice, not keeping his voice down. That was odd.

  Then he shifted a little, and Sarah’s head rolled off his leg, limp as a rag doll.

  Too limp. Her eyelids didn’t even flutter.

  “Sarah?” I asked. No reaction. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with her?”