by Rachel Caine
The fourth was, of course, a Fire Warden. Nobody I wanted to see. She no doubt went with the red Ferrari out front, and her name was Janette de Winter. Good at her job, but my God, didn’t she know it. We exchanged narrow smiles. She was eating a delicate little fruit cocktail thingy. Even now, in the midst of crisis, she was perfectly put together—a tailored white suit, long tanned legs, open-toed pumps showing a perfect pedicure. Her makeup had that airbrushed quality of having been put on in layers, until she looked more like an animated magazine cover than a human being.
Maybe I was just feeling catty because I was sweaty, bruised, and covered in dust.
She raised an eyebrow at my appearance, looking coolly amused. Nope. It wasn’t because I looked like crap. I felt catty because I just plain disliked the woman.
Lewis and I took seats at the table. He slid in next to the Weather Wardens, leaving me stuck next to de Winter, but also next to Rocha, who winked at me as he shoveled syrup-drenched waffles into his mouth.
The server appeared, and Lewis and I gave our orders—I went for waffles, after seeing Rocha’s evident happiness with his. Also, just so I could see de Winter look pained. Waffles were clearly déclassé. Hooray for waffles.
“First of all,” I said as the waitress closed our doors, “and just to get it out in the open, this is not my fault. Ask Lewis.”
All eyes turned to him, if they weren’t already there. He sipped coffee and nodded. “She’s in the clear,” he said. “Whatever’s going on, I don’t think any Warden is behind it.”
Luis Rocha put down his fork. “It wasn’t natural. No way in hell. Did you see it?”
“We saw,” Lewis said. “And I agree. It wasn’t natural. But it’s nothing a Warden could be powerful enough to do alone, either.”
There was a moment of silence. Brewer said, softly, “Djinn?” It was the question we were all dreading and the reason, on some level, that Lewis and I hadn’t wanted to go to David about what we’d found. Because either he knew, which was bad, or he didn’t know, which was worse.
Either way, it put him, as the leader of the New Djinn, in an impossible position.
“That’s certainly a possibility,” Lewis said. I knew what he was thinking: Ashan, and the other half of the Djinn. The old, arrogant half. But the truth was, I didn’t believe even for a second that Ashan would have driven that evil black thorn into the skin of Mother Earth. In a curious sort of way, he cared more for her than for himself, his people, and certainly humanity. He wouldn’t have done it, and he wouldn’t have allowed it to be done, not by any of his people. Or David’s, I thought suddenly. There’d have been war first.
Nothing scarier than a war between the Djinn.
Been there. Had scars.
“Did you try to get it out?” Rocha asked Lewis. Lewis nodded and held up his hands. They were blistered. “Madre de Dios. That happened on the aetheric?”
“Yeah.” Lewis studied his palms with a frown. “Shouldn’t have.” I knew that self-healing was one of the toughest things for Earth Wardens, and so did Luis Rocha; he gestured to Lewis, and the two of them went off to a side table to sit close together, backs to us. Healing was, sometimes, kind of a private thing. Intimate. I sipped coffee and tried to ignore the fact that I’d been left on my other side with Janette de Winter, who was shooting me looks that could kill.
“Any report on injuries?” I asked the table at large. They all glanced at each other, and then Sheryl Brewer took on the job.
“Minor stuff so far,” she said. “We’ve got some superficial cuts and a couple of broken bones, but nobody dead or seriously injured. The damage was contained pretty quickly. Whatever you guys did—”
“Wasn’t much,” I said, “at least on my part. Rocha deserves the credit for containment, definitely.”
Credit for more than containing the earthquake, apparently, because when he and Lewis rejoined us— coincidentally, the same time my waffles arrived, all fluffy and begging to be drowned in syrup—Lewis’s palms were smooth and blister-free again. “Surface damage,” he said to our questioning looks. “Looks like the thing’s hot.”
“Hot hot, or radioactive hot?” Brewer asked. It was an excellent question, and not the one Lewis had been hoping to answer.
“Radioactive,” he said reluctantly. “We need to find this thing in the real world and contain it. Fast. Jo, I want you to talk to Paul, figure out if we’ve got anybody who specializes in radioactivity. We’re going to need somebody who knows what they’re getting into.”
I nodded and dipped my first bite of waffle into syrup. It never made it to my mouth, because my phone rang. I stepped away from the table to answer it—it was a number that didn’t pop up with a name, but it was a New York City area code.
“Ms. Baldwin? Phil Garrett here, New York Times. I hope you weren’t injured in the disturbance down there?”
I was surprised first of all that he’d gotten a cell signal through; the Wardens had priority on connections in a crisis, along with various emergency services and governmental agencies, and I was pretty sure reporters weren’t on that list. After that surprise wore off, though, a big, ugly ball of black stress formed in my stomach where my waffle was going to go, and my knees went a little weak. I felt light in the head for a second, and braced myself against the wall. So not cut out for this.
“No, Mr. Garrett, I’m fine,” I lied, and was pleased that my voice sounded steady and almost welcoming. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I don’t know if you remember, but a couple of days ago I tried to reach you when you were on vacation. . . . I wanted to talk about the Wardens organization that you’re part of.”
My heart trip-hammered, thanks to a sudden dump of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I supposed as an Earth Warden I ought to be able to take care of that stuff, but no, not happening. I struggled to keep my voice calm and light. “Mr. Garrett, I’m ashamed of you. A journalist, ending a sentence in a preposition?”
He laughed. He sounded at ease. I supposed this was fun for him. All in a day’s work, terrifying the people on the other end of the phone. “Ms. Baldwin, if dozens of English teachers and journalism professors couldn’t beat it out of me, I think you’ve got a lost cause on your hands.” The amusement fell away like a discarded carnival mask. “Let’s talk about the Wardens. What would you say if I told you I had a credible source telling me that not only are the Wardens real, and acknowledged by every government on Earth, at least in secret, but they also function as a kind of shadow governmental agency? One that fundamentallyaffects and controls the lives of ordinary people?”
“I’d say you need to call Spielberg,” I said. “Bet it would make a great movie. Your source is a mental case, Mr. Garrett. If you actually have one. Which I notice you didn’t actually say. So, in theory, I didn’t actually answer the question, either.”
He ignored that, although it at least deserved a chuckle, I thought. “This is serious stuff,” he said. “I take it seriously. I’m not convinced about all this talk of paranormal events and controlling the weather, but there’s got to be something behind it. Maybe you guys have technology we’re not aware of, something classified; we can get into the details later. What I want to know is the structure of your organization. I understand it’s worldwide. Do you report up through the U.S. government?”
“I’m not having this conversation.” I kept it simple this time. Garrett waited for me to blurt out something else; silence was pressure. I held on to my tongue and turned to see the entire table of Wardens watching me. Lewis put down his fork and got up, walking toward me. Whatever he saw in my expression, it couldn’t have been reassuring.
“So the organization is independent of national interests? A shadow government of its own?”
“No!” One-word answers were going to land me in trouble; he’d box me neatly in. “I’m afraid I can’t confirm any information for you, Mr. Garrett. I really have no idea what kind of fiction you’ve been fed by your source, but—”
/> “I have videotape,” he said. “Television footage of a woman stopping a tornado in the Midwest last week. The more I searched, the more I came up with— strange events caught on tape here, surveillance camera video there. Put it all together, and it confirms everything my source has told me.”
I took a deep breath, covered the speaker of the phone, and whispered to Lewis, “We’re screwed. The New York Times has the scent on the Wardens. I don’t think he’s going away. He sounds serious.”
“He’s looking for independent confirmation,” Lewis said. “Print reporters have to prove a story before publication. He’s fishing.”
“He’s got really big bait. Whale-sized.”
Lewis shook his head. “Then we’d better handle it. If we don’t, he’ll catch us at a weak moment and get somebody to admit to something. Tell him we’ll meet with him.”
“We will?”
“Both of us,” he said, and grinned. “Tell him to pick a dark, smoky bar. They love that kind of spy shit. Besides, we need anonymity.”
“And scotch,” I muttered. “Lots of scotch.”
Due to the excuse of the emergency, our appointment with Mr. Garrett was in a week, in New York City. He’d offered to come to Florida, but the last thing I wanted was for him to run into some busy, annoyed Warden who blurted out the truth just to get him off their backs. We were working here.
A week. I had a week, in conjunction with the other Wardens, to come up with a good fiction to feed the hungry reporter—one that would induce him to back off. Alternatively, we could go for the big hammer— get someone in the UN or the U.S. government to tell him to back off, but that would pretty much prove his whole case for him. I felt an itch between my shoulder blades, as though somebody had drawn target crosshairs right below my neck.
As it happened, there wasn’t a lot for the Wardens to do about the earthquake; on the surface, it quickly became one of those weird leading-this-hour stories on the major news networks for half a day, then slipped into obscurity. It was all over but for the insurance claims, which were going to be considerable. No fatalities, only light casualties.
We’d been damned lucky.
I never finished my breakfast. By the time I felt composed enough to eat, the waffles were cold, tasteless hunks of dough, and I needed to lose a couple of pounds, anyway. Considering how nervous I already felt about facing Phil Garrett in a week, that wasn’t going to be a challenge.
In the interest of having a comfortable place to work, I went home. Well . . . comfortable was a stretch right now, since half the complex had burned to the ground, and the half left standing had sustained smoke and water damage.
Curiously, my apartment was perfectly fine. Not a water stain, not a smoke smudge. It even smelled newly cleaned.
David had done me a favor. Again.
I had a secure phone setup in my office area, and VPN access to the Warden’s database systems back in New York; I logged in and began reviewing files. Earth Wardens who specialized in detecting and handling radioactivity were few and far between, and a lot of them were dead, missing, or had quit over the last few years. It had been tough on everybody. First we’d had internal strife within the organization, and then the Djinn had found a way to destroy the rule book that bound them to servitude, and launched their own high-body-count conflict.
We were lucky to have as many Wardens as we did, but we weren’t exactly spoiled for choice these days.
My best bet was a naval officer named Peterson, but he was on a carrier in the Persian Gulf. Second best choice was an ex-army guy named Silverton. No address listed, just a cell phone. He was shown as NFA—no fixed address. In other words, Ex-Sergeant Silverton was either homeless or liked living out of a suitcase and hotels. Since he could afford a cell phone, I supposed it was the latter.
The phone call with Silverton revealed nothing much, other than he was available and could be on the ground in Fort Lauderdale in eighteen hours. I authorized his travel—paperwork was going to survive the nuclear winter, along with cockroaches—and set about typing up my incident reports on the earthquake. When that got old—which I admit, it did quickly—I began surfing the Net for bridal information. I had a wedding to plan, after all. These things don’t run themselves, unless you’re so famous you can not only get your wedding services for free, but have people pay for the exclusive coverage.
Hmmm, now that was an idea. . . .
I was looking at wedding cakes when the phone rang—the secured line. Paul Giancarlo’s raspy, Jersey-spiced voice said, “We’ve got a fuckin’ note taking responsibility for the earthquake down there.”
“You’ve what?”
“Let me read it to you.”
To the Wardens,
Your time is up. You’ve been given warnings, but you’ve ignored them. Either cut off contact with the Djinn, or face the consequences. Today’s earthquake in Fort Lauderdale is proof that we can do what we say. The Djinn must be stopped.
Paul paused and cleared his throat. “It’s signed, ‘the Sentinels.’ ”
“The Sentinels? You’re kidding me. Aren’t they some football team?” It was almost laughable. Almost. “Seriously, man, I’ve heard rumors, but—wasn’t it just talk?”
“Not according to this. Not according to what I’ve been hearing. Look, we’ve got ourselves a real, live splinter group,” he said. “One not afraid of using terror tactics.”
“And they sent a note? How . . . 1980s of them.”
“E-mail, actually. And yes, we tried tracing it. No luck. We put the NSA on it, but nobody seems real positive about the prospects. This thing in the ground you and Rocha saw, you think it’s some kind of device?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But . . . it didn’t seem man-made. Didn’t register like that on the aetheric at all. I don’t know. This is deeply weird, Paul.”
“Yeah, but what worries me a hell of a lot more is that what I’ve been hearing about the Sentinels makes sense.”
“I—what?”
“We all know the Djinn are unpredictable,” he said. “We’ve seen it, all right? So is it all that surprising that the ones who got hurt the most—the Wardens who survived that whole bloody mess of a civil war— want to see the Djinn stay out of the way?”
I didn’t know quite what to say. “You sound like you agree with them.”
“Not entirely,” he said, which wasn’t, I noticed, exactly a denial. “But I don’t like the idea of putting our people at risk for no good reason, either. Maybe the Sentinels have the right idea, wrong tactics.”
“You’re telling me you don’t trust David?”
“Kid—,” Paul sighed. “I can’t have this conversation with you. You’re not exactly rational on the subject. But I was in the New York offices that day. I saw what happens when the Djinn go off the leash. I fought for my life; I saw friends ripped apart in front of me. You got any idea what kind of impression that makes?”
I couldn’t think of any way to respond to that. He’d caught me off guard. I knew that Paul still had bitterness about the Djinn revolt, and he was right; bad things had happened, mostly to Wardens. But he was discounting—or ignoring—all the thousands of years of suffering the Djinn had endured on their side.
Most Wardens wanted to ignore that.
“Right, moving on,” Paul said into the silence. “I’m getting the team together here for analysis. We’re going to count heads, see who’s not answering the pings for roll call. I want a line on anybody who’s missing, just in case. I don’t suspect my own, but it’s useful knowing if somebody’s in trouble.”
That, I thought, would be a full-time job. Following the Djinn problems of the past year, a lot of Wardens had simply . . . vanished. Most of them were dead, killed in the fighting, but some had slipped away, knowing that we didn’t have time to track down every name on the list. It’d take years to round up any rogue agents out there.
“I’m pulling in Silverton,” I said. “He’s our best option for handling this thing, if
it’s radioactive. If I need anybody else, I’ll let you know.”
“Yeah, you do that. And kid?”
“Yeah, Paul?”
“You sure about this wedding thing? Really sure?”
I knew that Paul, once upon a time, had harbored ambitions in the direction of me in his bed, and I’d been kind of willing to contemplate it. But all that had changed, and he was gentleman enough to acknowledge it. Under the exterior of a badass Mafia scion beat the heart of a very sweet man—if you could overlook all the cursing.
“I’m sure,” I said softly. “I love him, Paul.”
He didn’t sound impressed. “You know what he is.”
There it was again, that thread of darkness, that almost-prejudice. “Yes, I know what he is. He’s someone who’s saved my life more times than I can count. He’s someone who’s put his own life on the line not just for me but for the Wardens and all of humanity. I know exactly what he is. And who he is.”
Awkward silence, and then, “Fuck, babe, I’ve gotta run. We’re good, right?”
“We’re good,” I said. “Kisses.”
I said it to a humming disconnected signal. Paul was already gone, off to the next crisis. I finished up at my desk, closed the laptop, and sat back to think.
The Sentinels. That had an amateurish ring to it, but who was I to judge? Lewis had started the Ma’at, a separate Warden-like organization, when he’d been just out of college, and that had turned out to be a useful thing—the Ma’at took in people without enough talent to be Wardens, but more than the average human, and paired them up with Djinn volunteers. They worked on the theory of additive power— forming chains of people and Djinn in order to amplify and direct power that otherwise wouldn’t be strong enough to make a difference.
The Sentinels didn’t sound like they had a new idea, just a difference of political opinion. They were anti-Djinn. Well, that shouldn’t have come as a shock; enough Wardens had been hurt or killed in the troubles with the Djinn to make some kind of backlash inevitable. I just hadn’t thought it would be so fast, or so decisive. I’d never thought that it would come down to reasonable, responsible people doing something like causing unnecessary loss of life.
