Caine, Rachel-Short Stories

by Rachel Caine

  The power of the Djinn, and the bottle to which he was enslaved. I owned David, body and soul.

  The realization swept over me, leaving me chilled, and I felt somehow dirty. Small, cheap, and dirty. Some Wardens might have gotten off on it -- no, I knew very well some did -- but owning someone so amazing, having the power to force him to do things that would hurt him, maybe kill him -- it was too much. Too much power for anyone to have.

  "I wouldn't do that to you," I said. He had enough strength to shatter me just by closing his hand. It wouldn't even take an effort. And yet I knew that he wouldn't do it. Couldn't. Not because of the bottle, or the master-Djinn bond, but because of something else, something deeper.

  Something given to me freely, not taken by force.

  He rolled over on his back, and stared at the dimly seen ceiling. Though it was a better motel room than some we'd shared, it was still just an anonymous box with industrial-grade carpet, stiff sheets, and a creaking box spring. He deserved better than this, I thought. Someone so fine deserved better.

  "You never asked me how I became Bad Bob's Djinn," he said.

  I stopped breathing for a second, because this was a subject that we'd taken care to skirt these last few weeks, since I'd found out that he was a Djinn, and more than that, a Djinn who'd once held me down and helped feed me a Demon at the order of his one-time master, Bad Bob Biringanine.

  Not the kind of introduction you forget, really. I'd been hoping we never had to go there again, because it was traumatic not just for him, but for me.

  I kept my voice neutral. "Is that what the nightmare was about?"

  "Yes."

  "Bad?"

  "I was hurting you."

  "You were -- "

  David shut his eyes, as if he wanted to shut me out, and the rest of the world too. "He could have made me do anything, you know that. Hurt you. Humiliate you. Slaughter you. We do what we're told, that's our protection and our curse. We're not to blame, but we can't forget a single moment of it, either."

  I knew what he was talking about, knew it all too well. I'd been through it, as a temporary Djinn. I'd seen firsthand how awful that enslavement could be, to a corrupted soul. I put my hand on his chest, and his fingers closed over mine.

  "I was stupid," he continued. "When he claimed me, I couldn't believe it. He couldn't have known what I was -- but he did. Somehow, he knew. He didn't need me; he handed me off as an amusement to his -- favorite."

  His favorite. Yvette Prentiss. Talk about a corrupted soul. "Amusement," I repeated, faintly. Sick with the possibilities.

  "Her word, not mine. She was careful with me, she knew that if she made a mistake I'd have ripped her apart, and besides, Bad Bob made it clear she couldn't -- she had to return me in a year. But a year -- even for a Djinn as old as I am, a year can be an eternity. I -- did things. Things I can't -- "

  I'd asked him to talk, and now I wished he would stop; it made me heartsick to hear the pain in his voice. I put my head on his chest, draping my hair over him in a warm blanket. Trying, without words, to assure him that it wouldn't happen again. That I wouldn't let it happen.

  But I couldn't guarantee that, I never could. If I freed him, he was still subject to claiming by anyone who discovered his true nature, so long as they knew how to manage it. He was always, ever, vulnerable.

  "Jo," he said. His fingers stroked through my hair. "I want you to understand what I've done. I've killed. I've tortured. I did terrible things, even before I helped Bad Bob put the Demon Mark in you. I'm not -- "

  "You're not responsible for what other people forced you to do," I said. "First law of rape victims. You're not responsible, David."

  His fingers went still.

  "That's right," I said. "Anyone who forces their Djinn to do something against their will, against their nature, that's a kind of rape, whether it's physical sex or torturing prisoners or killing people. It's sick, it's horrible, and I wish I could stop it. I would stop it. You have to believe that."

  His lips touched the top of my head, a kiss of benediction. "I do believe it," he said. "But most Wardens will argue that sometimes unpleasant things must be done for the greater good."

  "Every bad thing wears its happy face for public viewing ... the greater good is neither, David, especially if it's composed of small, lesser evils." I took a deep breath. "I want to let you go."

  "I know."

  "I'm going to let you go."

  "I know."

  "And -- you can leave then. If you want to leave."

  "I know." As if the Rule of Three worked on the Djinn side, as well as the human side, I felt compelled to stop talking at that point. Mostly, I felt compelled to kiss him, long and slow, our bodies melding together, curves and hollows, nerves whispering their pleasure and agreement at every brush. I felt his hands slide in different directions down my back -- one up, to cradle my head as the kiss deepened, and one down. I liked down. Down had my full approval.

  "Jo." He pulled back a little, just a little, enough to allow words to escape between our lips. "Don't release me. Not yet. I need to see you through this, and I can protect you better this way, you know that."

  Right in that moment, I had the impulse to reach out for the bottle imprisoning his soul and smash it into a million glittering pieces against the far wall. Someone so fine deserved better.

  He deserved so much better than me.

  I was weak, I was human, I was going to hurt him even though I wouldn't mean it. I'd disappoint him. I'd say stupid things and make bad decisions and fail to consider what he might want or need, and that was just for openers.

  I opened my mouth to tell him that, but instead what came out was, "I love you."

  David made a wordless sound deep in his throat and kissed me again, ardently, igniting the warmth already cascading through me into a full-blown conflagration. I could feel the frantic need in him, the need to make me his. To keep me, the way that the bottle kept him.

  But whether he knew it or not, he already had my soul.

  Ladies' Night

  An original Weather Warden short story by Rachel Caine

  You know, I really don’t go looking for trouble most of the time. Stop laughing. I can go weeks at a time without a single life-threatening emergency or world crisis. I have a normal life.

  Okay, maybe normal is a bit of an exaggeration, but still, I sometimes kick back and relax just like a regular girl. On this particular night, I had normal-girl plans — Friday night out at the club with my best friend Cherise. Like all outings with Cherise, it wasn’t a spontaneous event; it required as much planning and preparation as a trip to visit the Pope, only I doubt I’d need quite so much tanning and waxing to meet His Holiness.

  As with all of Cherise’s efforts, the end results were worth the pain. At nine p.m., I stood in front of my floor-length mirror and did the full turn, critiquing the blue dress. It was tight and short, and it fit in all the right places, showing off my freshly-waxed legs. Not quite short enough to make me worry about showing off what else the body waxer had been up to, but definitely short enough to get me past the velvet rope. I spent the usual couple of minutes lamenting my flaws — you can’t fight cellulite forever — but overall, I’d do. I’d broken out a fine pair of pumps to match, and a teeny little designer bag. My hair looked tousled and shiny, my makeup perfect. Ready for my magazine-shoot close-up.

  I stuck my tongue out at myself, laughed, and went to answer the ringing doorbell. Hurricane Cherise swept in, trailing a flood-tide of good cheer and dazzle. She was wearing an outrageous gold thing that on most women would have looked like something a hooker might wear to a circus, but on her it just looked sweetly hot. Perfect shoes, of course. She flashed me a wicked urchin’s grin, completely at odds with her Florida-hot exterior, and did a little hip-shimmy thing that made all the gold sequins on her dress chime. “So? Fabulous?”

  “Beyond fabulous,” I said. “I’m sorry, I can’t go with you after all. You’d just make me look like
your walking Before picture. I refuse to be the sad contrast.”

  “You’re kidding. With those legs? Not too damn likely. Come on, get your self-satisfied butt in gear, Jo. I’m thirsty, and there are men just dying to buy me mojitos.”

  I could well believe that last part. There’d be guys lining up just to crush the mints for the drinks, knowing Cherise. She was semi-going-steady with my fellow Warden Kevin — so many odd things about that, beginning with the idea that any woman, especially Cherise, would find Kevin attractive, and ending with the whole idea that the obnoxious little jerk was now my colleague. But Kevin wasn’t here, and Cherise wasn’t one to pine away and weep for any man.

  I silently indicated my shoes. She gave them the critical once-over. “Elie Taharin,” she said. “Good choice. Classic beauty. Not as out-there as this season’s Manolos. Oooh, is the bag a Loubotin? Gimme.” I handed it over for inspection. “I like.”

  “You can borrow it later.”

  “Duh. Obviously.” She gave it back. The bag was just barely big enough to hold a credit card, a driver’s license, and a condom without splitting a seam. I’d left the condom out. I wouldn’t need one, no matter who showed up at the club, because none of them would be David.

  Speaking of David, my lover was notoriously busy these days, and I was getting that fizzy feeling that meant I needed him, and needed him badly. I suspected he knew that, and it was all part of his overall plan to make me even more his addled love-slave than I already was.

  Not that that was a bad thing.

  We took Cherise’s car, which was a sweet little red honey of a Mustang convertible. This was the new one, paid for by the Wardens after I’d kind of wrecked the previous incarnation during a hurricane — again, not my fault — and it was a hell of a nice car. We sang along to the radio and cruised down glittering neon-lit streets, winking at guys at stoplights and generally acting a good deal less than our actual ages.

  It was great.

  I was almost sorry when we finally pulled into the parking lot of the club. Cherise ignored any possibility of self-parking and cruised up to the valet stand, where uniformed men were waiting to open our doors and hand us out. I took the valet ticket, since the absence of the condom had left room in my bag, and we stood for a moment looking at the line that snaked around the side of the building. It was full of beautiful people, and wannabe beautiful people. “You’re kidding,” I said to Cherise. “It’s like a mannequin convention!”

  “We’re not here for the deep philosophic discussion,” she said. “We’re here to drink, flirt, and dance. This is the place.”

  I realized, with a stab of disappointment, that I might actually be getting too adult for this kind of a good time. I was looking for more. Looking for — well, for David. I could imagine him here, standing in the crowd, watching me with the kind of dark intensity he got that burned me from the inside out. I could imagine him parting the sea of people on the crowded dance floor and claiming me.

  I could imagine a lot of things, most of which weren’t going to be legal. But none of it was going to happen, because David was working, and I needed to have a life outside of David, dammit.

  “I wish David was here,” I said. Which was not what I meant to say, but there you go. Cherise gave me a long-suffering look.

  “I hate going clubbing with monogamous people,” she said. “Fine, he’s a total freakin’ hottie, all right? But you can dance with other people for a change. Trust me, it’s good for you.”

  “We’re never getting in.”

  “Man, you really don’t know me at all, do you?” Cherise bypassed the line, went right up to the velvet rope, and leaned on it to smile at the looming bulk of the impassive doorman. He was straight out of hard-ass central casting: what little expression he had was of the menacing variety, and the combination of pumped-up muscles and shaved bullet-shaped head left no room for any doubt as to his sincerity.

  Next to him, Cherise looked like a gilded butterfly. I stood back, electing to let the expert work, and made sure that my legs were displayed to good advantage. Best thing I could do. Cherise chatted, smiled, flirted. The doorman lifted the rope for a few people, but not us. A limo pulled up, disgorging a clown-party of drunken, crappily-dressed people who sailed past the doorman like he was a paper cutout. The rich really are different.

  Finally, we got the nod, and he held up the velvet rope for us. I heard the hissed curses of those who’d been patiently waiting, and held up my hands in silent apology. I was just the ride-along, and let’s face it, Cherise didn’t care.

  Inside, the club was steamy, thick with pheromones and perfume and alcohol. No smoke, except for a whiff here and there of something that wasn’t tobacco. It was also loud. Really loud, and we were just in the lobby. Cherise took in a deep, satisfied breath, and yelled to me, “Ready?”

  Whether I was ready or not, it was too late to have an attack of modesty. I nodded and motioned for her to lead the way.

  She glowed in the spinning lights of the club like some fabulous treasure. I could see why she’d picked the dress. I looked almost drab by comparison, although when the black light hit me, I lit up like a star, dress and shoes both. Nice. The club was packed, of course, with sweating, beautiful people dancing, screaming conversations to each other over the pounding beat, or making out in booths. There was probably more going on, but I decided the shadows didn’t bear close inspection.

  Cherise and I achieved our goal — the bar — and ordered mojitos. I paid, because that had been the agreement: Cherise would drive, I would buy the first round. Well, more accurately, I tried to buy, but a man put out his hand in a blocking motion and handed over his own credit card.

  I didn’t need to hear Cherise to know what she’d say: this is starting out well. Because the man who’d paid for our drinks was tall, dark, good-looking, ripped, and generally conforming to the current standard of hot. He didn’t try to talk, just kissed Cherise’s hand — a tactic that went over well with her — and did the same for me. I have to admit, it didn’t exactly suck for me, either. We both smiled our thanks and accepted the drinks. He gestured toward the back of the club. Cherise nodded, grabbed my hand, and towed me in that direction. It was impossible, in the press of heaving bodies, not to get squeezed and groped, but I tried to avoid it as much as I could. Cherise, small as she was, seemed to have the ability to make space around herself. Presence, that was it. I supposed I could make space, too, but only by summoning enough power to blow people out of my way.

  Overkill.

  We arrived at a doorway guarded by not one but two doormen, so identical to the one at the entrance they might have been clones. These were no impediment at all; they stepped aside and opened the door, and the three of us — Mr. Wonderful, Cherise, and me — sailed through without pause.

  Beyond was obviously the VIP lounge, and it was lush. I hadn’t seen so much velour, leather, and velvet since the last Versace trunk show. It was quieter, although the beat went on, and much less crowded. The prettiest people, and the ugliest, lounged in big circular areas, sharing bottles that probably cost as much as a car. A few greeted our mysterious guide, who led us to a secluded alcove off to the right. It didn’t look quite as decadent as some of the others — a relatively straightforward couple of couches, a table, some glasses, chilling champagne at the ready.

  The shock came because of who was already there, curled like a cat in the corner of one of the sofas.

  Rahel blinked hawk-yellow eyes at me, smiled slowly, and tilted her head. She looked unbelievably, outrageously alien just now, all angles and darkness. Even the hundreds of tiny plaited braids on her head seemed to be moving on their own, clicking beads together in a random yet sinister pattern. She wasn’t wearing neon yellow, or neon anything. Instead, her dress — yes, a dress, I couldn’t believe it — was a tight spring green tube thing that flared out into chiffon below the hips, revealing legs longer than mine. She even had shoes to match, with terrifying stiletto heels.

&nb
sp; “Sistah,” she greeted me, and patted the couch next to her. “Sit. I was waiting for you.”

  Cherise should have been scared. Humans who encountered Rahel in her fey moods generally were, because there was something about her that triggered all those fight-or-flight instincts.

  Apparently for Cherise it was fight, not flight; she copped an attitude and frowned at the intruding Djinn. A miniature little thunderstorm all gilded up in sequins. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “She’s not working. Look, it’s one night off, okay? Just one!”

  Rahel held up her hand. Her fingernails were lustrously polished in a green to match the dress, with a hint of opal beneath. They weren’t quite talons. Exactly. “I did not come to fetch her for the Wardens,” she said.

  Our hottie drink-buying guy settled down on the other couch. Cherise promptly took the place beside him, leaving me to perch uneasily next to Rahel. I sipped the mojito. Bittersweet, cool, biting hard on the tongue. Perfect, of course. “Then why are you here?” I asked.

  “Have you met Fredo?” she asked, and indicated Mr. Wonderful. He gave me a model’s heartbreaking smile. “An old friend.”

  “Djinn?”

  “Silly girl. No. Just a man.” Rahel poured herself a glass of fizzy champagne from a bottle with a pink rose climbing it, and sipped. “Can I not also have a night off?”

  “Not while we’re having one,” Cherise said. “Look, no offense, but you’re kind of scary. Like, Grace Jones on crack scary. I just want to dance and have a good time and not worrying you’re going to take any lyrics about burning this mother up literally.”

  Rahel raised one thin, sharp eyebrow and sipped again. “I can mind my manners,” she said. “I have been around humans before. I can behave.”

  I doubted that. Her golden eyes were taking in everything around us — especially the passing strangers — with the hungry intensity of a lion watching antelope.

  “Fine,” Cherise said. “Behave, then. Fredo? Would you like to dance?”

  I wasn’t absolutely sure he spoke English, actually, but the invitation was universal, and he smiled in agreement. He guided her back toward the dance floor.