by Rachel Caine
I couldn't stop scrubbing my hand against my skirt, trying to get the phantom feel of the Demon Mark off me. I hadn't been infected. I knew that, intellectually, but it still made my stomach lurch when I thought about how close I'd come.
We stopped for breakfast at a truck stop, and I bought a couple of pairs of blue jeans and tight-fitting T-shirts. My shoes were missing altogether, so I added a sturdy pair of hiking boots and some feminine-looking flip-flops. Best to be prepared.
I paid extra to use the showers, rinsing off grime and mud and exhaustion under the warm beat of the massaging showerhead. Luxury. I wanted to curl up in the warmth and sleep for days, but instead I toweled off, blow-dried my hair into a relatively straight, shimmering curtain, and dressed in the jeans, T-shirt, and hiking boots.
It looked appropriate for Seacasket, anyway.
Back on the road, I fought an increasingly jittery desire to meddle with the weather hanging out to sea. Storms, of course. Big electrical storms, packing loads of wind and swollen with rain; I didn't sense any lethal tendencies in the front, but those were no fluffy happy clouds out there. Black thunderheads, trailing gray veils over the ocean, illuminated from within by constant pastel flutters of lightning. It was, as storms went, nothing more than a surly kid, but it could pack a wallop if it got aggressive. Right now, it was content to glare and mutter, out there at sea. Kicking the tops off waves. That was good; I didn't need more to handle.
Imara had my taste in music. That wasn't too much of a surprise, but it was gratifying. We both belted out the chorus to "Right Place, Wrong Time," both aware of just how appropriate that song was in the radio playlist.
We cruised into Seacasket at just after 7 a.m.
It was one of those Norman Rockwell towns with graceful old bell towers, spreading oaks and elms. A few 1960s-era glass buildings that looked like misguided, embarrassing attempts to bring Seacasket out of the golden age. That was the only impression I had of it, because the one time I'd materialized in the center of town, I'd come as a Djinn, with an irresistible command to burn the town and everyone in it to ashes; that hadn't given me a lot of time for sightseeing, since I'd been desperately trying to find a way to short-circuit my own Djinn hardwiring and save some lives.
The main street was called… Main Street. The turn-of-the-last-century downtown was still kept in good repair, although the hardware stores and milliners had long ago turned into craft stores ("crap stores," as my sister had always dismissively referred to them) and "antique" dealers whose stock-in-trade was reproduction Chinese knockoffs and things that got too dusty over at the craft stores. So far as newcomers, there were a few: Starbucks had set up shop, as had McDonald's down the street. I spotted a couple more fast food giants competing for attention, though sedately; Seacasket must have had one of those no-ugly-sign ordinances that kept things discreet and eye-level, instead of the Golden Arches becoming a hazard to low-flying aircraft.
There was a Wal-Mart. There's always a Wal-Mart.
I pulled into the parking lot toward the side—Wal-Mart had a crowd, of course—and idled the car for a moment, soaking in the atmosphere. When I rolled down the Camaro's window, birds were singing, albeit a bit shrilly, and there was a fresh salt-scented breeze blowing inland. The temperature was cool and fresh, and all seemed right with the Seacasket world.
Which was, in itself, weird.
Imara, in the passenger seat, was watching me curiously. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"I thought you knew everything I did," I said.
"Past, not present or future. Are you reading the weather?"
"Not exactly." Because weirdly enough, there didn't seem to be any weather in Seacasket. Sure, the storm I'd been noticing was still out to sea, but there was an odd energy at work in this town. Something I hadn't felt before. As if the whole place was climate-controlled… which wouldn't have made a lick of sense even if there had been a Warden on-site, which I could tell there wasn't. The Ma'at, maybe? I didn't think so. The Ma'at, rival organization to the Wardens, had their own way of doing things, which mostly involved letting nature have its way while smoothing off the highs and lows of the excesses, under the theory that if you allow the system natural corrections—even costly ones—ultimately, the entire system is more stable, less prone to lethal swings.
There was a certain logic to it, and I wasn't sure I disagreed with the Ma'at in principle… just in practice. Because I simply wasn't cold-blooded enough to sit back and watch a disaster. I could easily prevent them from taking innocent lives. Not for a theory. It didn't surprise me that the Ma'at mostly seemed composed of older men, who'd cultivated the detachment of politicians and CEOs.
This wasn't the Ma'at, though. This felt more like Djinn work, except…
I turned in the seat and faced Imara. "What can you tell me?"
She cocked her head, looking interested but not committed. "About?…"
"You know what David knew, right? So? What can you tell me about Seacasket?"
She'd inherited more from her father than just knowledge; I saw that in the flash of secrets in her eyes. "Not very much."
"I need to know where to find this Oracle thing. You're supposed to be my native guide, kid. So guide."
"Maybe I don't know how to find it." She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and kept her metallic Djinn stare straight on me. Intimidating, but it didn't hide the fact that she was being evasive.
"Yes, you do. Why are you being so—"
"Evasive?" she shot back, and ran her fingers through her long, straight black hair. My hair was curling again in the humidity. I resented her hair. Secretly. "Possibly because this is certain death for a human to attempt, and I might not want you to die just yet."
"If you didn't think I could do it, why come with me?"
She smiled slightly, and those eyes looked entirely alien all of a sudden. "Maybe Father told me to."
"Maybe you and your Father—" I reined myself in, unclenched my fists, and took in a deep breath. "Don't make me do this."
"Do what?"
"Test whether or not you're really Djinn."
She smiled. "If you're thinking about claiming me, that arrangement died with Jonathan. It won't work."
"Something simpler than that." I took in a quick breath. "Where do I find the Oracle?"
"Mom—"
"Where do I find the Oracle?"
Ah, now she got it. And she was surprised, and pissed off, too. I saw the flare of temper in her eyes. "The Rule of Three. You wouldn't."
"Where do I find the Oracle?"
Three times asked, a Djinn has to answer truthfully. Of course, truth has a nearly limitless shade of interpretations; I probably hadn't framed my question closely enough to get a real answer from her, but she'd have to stick close to the subject… if the Rule of Three was still in effect.
Which it looked like it wasn't, as my daughter continued to glare furiously at me with eyes that were starting to remind me more of Rahel's than David's—predatory, primal, eternal. Not good to piss off any Djinn, especially now that humans had virtually no protection from them…
Imara abruptly said, "It's close."
She didn't say it willingly, either; it seemed to be dragged out of her, and when she'd gotten to the end of the sentence she clenched her teeth tight and fell back into silent glaring.
Oh, I needed to be careful now. Very, very careful.
"Where exactly is the Oracle? Where exactly is the—"
"Stop!" She threw up her hand. "If you do that again, I'm leaving, and you won't ever see me again. Ever."
I swallowed hard. She looked serious about that, and seriously angry. "I'm sorry," I said. "But I need information. In case you haven't noticed, this is getting a little more important than just respecting your feelings, Imara. I need to do this. It all looks fine here, but believe me, it's not fine out there in the big wide world. If you ever want to see any of it, you'd better help me. Right now."
She blinked and looked away at the g
ently fluttering leaves of the oak tree that spread its shade over the car. A couple of kids sped by on bikes, and another rumbled by on a skateboard. Nobody paid us much attention. Wal-Mart parking lots were anonymous.
"You don't understand how it feels," she said. "Losing your will like that. Being—emptied out."
"Don't I?"
"Well—maybe you do." To her credit, Imara looked a little embarrassed about that. She had my memories; she knew the time I'd spent as Kevin's pet Djinn, forced into little French maid outfits, fending off his adolescent advances. "All right. Just ask. But don't do it again. Please."
"I won't if you'll answer."
"Fine." She pulled in a fast breath and turned away, not meeting my eyes. "There are a few places—less than a dozen around the world—where the fabric between the planes of existence is paper-thin. Where the Djinn can reach up higher or down deeper. These are—holy places, would be the only way I know to put it. Conduits. Places where we can touch the Mother, where we can—" It wasn't that she was avoiding an explanation; she just couldn't find the words. "The Oracle can be reached there. But Mom, don't mistake me: The Djinn protect these places."
Imara wasn't using the words holy places lightly. I hadn't known the Djinn had a religion, other than generic Earth Mother stuff, but if they did, they'd have kept it secret. They'd been a slave race for so long that they'd protect what was precious to them.
Especially against intrusions by humans.
"Seacasket," I said aloud, and shook my head. Because Seacasket didn't exactly look like the kind of place you'd expect to find exotic spirituality. Or maybe that was just because I couldn't quite imagine something spiritual sitting in the Wal-Mart parking lot. "You still haven't told me where to go to find the Oracle."
She looked deeply uncomfortable, and for a few seconds I thought that I was going to have to invoke the Rule of Three, even though that would break something fragile between us. "It's not far."
"Yeah, so you said. Can you take me there?"
"No!" she blurted angrily, and pounded the steering wheel in a fit of fury. "It's not a place for humans. Even the Djinn sometimes get hurt there. You can't! I'm not even sure I can!"
Imara might know my experiences—might have been formed from parts of me—but she certainly didn't understand me on a very basic level. Oddly, that was comforting. She wasn't just a mirror image of me with some freaky-deaky eyes; she was her own person, separate from me.
And I could still surprise her.
"I'll find a way," I said. "You just show me the door. I'll get through it even if I have to pick the lock."
It sounded like bravado—hell, it was bravado. I wasn't some kick-ass Djinn babe anymore; I hadn't been entirely kick-ass even when I'd been a Djinn (though I'd been fairly smug about the babe part). My Warden powers were back up and running, however, and if anything, they were considerably stronger than they had been on the night Bad Bob Biringanine had give me a Demon Mark, the gift that keeps on giving, and generally screwed up my life for good.
But I was still just human. Body and soul. All of which I was hoping to keep together for a little while longer, apocalypse notwithstanding.
Imara was thinking about it, I could see, but finally she just sighed. Maybe she did understand me, after all.
At least enough to acknowledge that I wasn't about to take "no way in hell" for an answer.
She said, "There's a cemetery in the center of town. Which is convenient, because you're going to get yourself killed."
In Seacasket, even the cemetery was photogenic. Norman Rockwell hadn't specialized in morbid art, but if he had, he'd have painted this place; it had a certain naivete that begged for cute kids in adorable Halloween costumes to be playing hide-and-seek behind charmingly weathered gravestones. Or Disneyfied witches to be offering lemonade from a cauldron. It was the most wholesome cemetery I'd ever seen.
We parked on the street, near the town square, and walked across to the black wrought-iron fence. The gates were open, the paths in the place were fresh-raked clean white gravel, and the grass was almost impossibly green. Fat squirrels gamboled in lush spreading trees. Some of the dignified (and a few quirky) headstones were well-kept, and others had been allowed to grow with wild-flowers and vines. Not messily, though. Even the neglect looked planned.
Imara's steps slowed and stopped, and I stopped with her. She was staring at the ground, and as I watched, she lowered herself to a kneeling position on the gravel, both hands upraised, palms up.
"Imara?" No answer. "Imara, where do I go?"
She was lost in prayer, or whatever it was. I waited for a few seconds, then looked around. Up ahead, there was a big white mausoleum. The name over the lintel read GRAYSON. The doors were shut.
I took a couple of steps toward it, gravel crunching briskly.
Imara's voice froze me. "Don't move!"
I teetered, then caught my balance and glanced around. There was nobody else in evidence. Just us, the squirrels, and some scolding birds who didn't think this was an appropriate place for us to be strolling.
"What is it?" I asked, trying not to move my lips. And then I realized that there were two Djinn standing, very silently, watching me. They blended in so perfectly, they'd been in plain sight the entire time… One was as pale as marble, with flowing white hair, dressed in shades of white and gray—an angel off its marble headstone, only with eyes the color of rubies. The other one was standing under a tree, and maybe I was crazy, but I could have sworn that her skin was dappled in camouflage patterns that moved and shifted with the wind.
As if they'd gotten the same message, both the Djinn started moving toward me. Ruby-red eyes gleaming.
Imara swung her head to stare fiercely at me. "Mom, dammit, if you're going, go!"
She put her hand in the small of my back and shoved. I lunged forward, off-balance, and then broke into a sprint. I dodged right, but the camouflage Djinn sprang forward like a tiger, snarling, and caught me with a backhanded blow across the face.
It was like slamming full speed into a metal bar. I staggered and went down, my head full of pain and fury, and some instinct made me roll out of the way just as a clawed hand slashed at my midsection.
"Mom!"
A blur hit the Djinn and rolled it away, snarling and clawing. Imara. I got to one knee, swaying, then fought my way upright. I tasted blood and spat out a mouthful on the cheerful green grass.
A heavy gray hand fell on my shoulder and spun me around. Up close, the tombstone-angel Djinn looked utterly terrifying. Remorseless, remote, and deadly.
It carried a dagger. Not metal… it didn't flash in the sunlight as it lifted toward me. Some kind of stone. I screamed and backpedaled, summoning up a burst of wind to smack the thing in the chest.
It was a Djinn. It should have been thrown back, because Djinn are essentially air… only the air didn't come at my command. I could feel it trying to, but there was something else holding it in place. Something far, far larger than I was.
Imara was right. Running was a really good plan.
I was disoriented, but survival was a great motivator; I dodged through the tombstones, moving as fast as I could. Leaping over what I couldn't avoid. The iron-bar fence was ahead of me, topped with Gothic triangular spikes; no way was I vaulting that thing. I couldn't count on the wind to give me any lift, either. I had to make it to the gates.
It occurred to me that the Djinn were playing with me. Robbed of my Warden powers, I didn't have any reasonable way to fight. Imara was running interference, but I could tell at a glance that she was overmatched with a single opponent, much less two.
The Djinn were determined to drive us out of the cemetery, which meant that this was the place I needed to be.
I headed for the gates at a dead sprint, reversed in a spray of gravel, and yelled, "Imara! I need a path!"
She was neck-deep in tiger-fighting, but she ripped free, flashed across the grass, and tackled the tombstone-angel Djinn into the trees. The tiger-Djinn
was momentarily occupied with getting up.
I had a clear white gravel path leading to the center of the cemetery, and I took it at a pace that would have clocked in respectably at the Olympics. Panic and raw determination gave me wings, and I flashed past the tiger-Djinn. It grabbed a handful of my hair, but not enough to stop me; I sobbed breathlessly at the agony as it ripped loose from my scalp, and I hit the doors of the mausoleum hard.
They opened, spilling me inside.
I continued to fall forward.
Kept on falling.
No way was it this far to the floor…
I opened my eyes and looked. I was floating in midair, or falling, or something—I felt like I was falling, but then that abruptly fixed itself, and my feet settled onto the ground. Or what felt like ground. There was no sky, no ground, and every side of the room looked exactly the same. It was dim, gray, and lit by what looked like a firepit in the center.
Nothing else.
I waited, heart hammering, for some kind of a response. For the Djinn outside to come howling in here and chop me to screaming pieces.
Outside, I heard nothing. An ominous nothing.
This place had a sense of energy in it, something primal and deep. I tried going up to the aetheric to take a look, and for a second I thought that I'd just simply failed, because everything looked just the same.
Then I realized that the room hadn't changed, but that I was drawn in typical glowing aetheric shades and shadows. The room was somehow real on the aetheric plane, too.
I'd never seen anything like that, outside of the house where Jonathan had lived out on the edges of nowhere and nothing.
I felt a hot surge of anguish, thinking of Imara potentially fighting for her life outside, while I waited in here for… for what? What made me think the Oracle would even notice me, much less deign to talk to me?
Something floated lazily at the corner of my eye, a barely seen shadow, and I turned my head, frowning.
