by Rachel Caine
“Pretty damn crazy.”
“Tell.”
I did. Crazy didn’t really exactly cover it, as I listened to the words tumble out of my mouth. Insane, that was closer. Also, stupidly suicidal, but that was par for the course with me. At least it would be consistent.
Lewis stared at me as if he couldn’t quite believe what I’d said, and in truth, I wasn’t sure if I was believing it, either. Then he said, slowly, “It could work. It allows us to assemble all the Wardens in one place, choose the ground, protect the Djinn, offer the Sentinels a target they can’t afford to pass up. . . .”
Oh God, it actually was a good plan. Damn. I’d been half hoping he’d shoot it out of the air. Instead, it looked as if I was going to have to kick my shopping into high gear.
“Right,” I said, and turned to David. “How do you feel about getting married tomorrow?”
I had no idea Djinn could look so blank. Venna turned to David and said, with the perfect blend of alarm and puzzlement, “Are you sure she isn’t insane?”
David continued with the blank look for a few more seconds, and then the light dawned warm in his eyes, and he slowly smiled.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m fairly certain she is, and that is exactly why I’m marrying her.”
Chapter Thirteen
One nice thing about having the Djinn Conduit on your side was receiving no arguments from the rank and file—no arguments of any substance, anyway. The other Djinn still thought we were crazy, but generally decided that was our personal business.
What they weren’t so wild about was the idea that we weren’t going to charge off to Rahel’s rescue, but I knew they weren’t tactically inept; they knew if we played the game the Sentinels had set in motion, we would all pay the price.
I also knew how hard it was going to be for them to stand by and sacrifice Rahel for a tactical point. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. I knew David, and I knew that making those choices was just as impossibly hard for him as it was for me.
Part of what we planned was, again, complete insanity. Lewis carried out the first part of it at four o’clock, on the steps of the Miami FBI field office.
We called a press conference. To say it was well attended would be to say that the hottest club in LA had a bit of a wait to get in. I’d expected to draw attention, but as we walked through the lobby with a flying escort of FBI agents, Homeland Security, and anxiously hovering, nameless other governmental representatives, I could hear the roar of the crowd outside.
One of the no-name governmental types, nattily turned out in a nicely tailored suit and a two-hundred-dollar haircut, pushed in front of us and physically threw himself against the glass doors leading out, facing us down. “Wait!” he blurted. The parade trickled to a halt, and Lewis and I glanced at each other. We’d had bets on how long it would take for the cold feet to manifest. I was about to make a cool twenty bucks. Sweet. “Are you sure about this? You’re sure there’s no other way? The chaos—the fear—”
“Let me put it this way,” Lewis said. “You had half the news media covering the meltdown out at the motel earlier today, and every phone line to every possible agency has been jammed ever since, demanding an explanation. Do you want to try to coordinate some big lie that won’t get found out, at this point? Because I’d be happy to put your name forward as the guy in charge.”
No-Name Nice Suit Guy swallowed and lowered his arms. He straightened his lapels with an unconscious gesture and stepped out of the way.
“Damn,” Lewis said. “Kind of hoped he’d go for it, actually.”
Fat chance. This wasn’t a hot potato; it was the entire state of Idaho, fresh out of the microwave.
“Here goes,” Lewis said, and opened the door.
The noise washed over us in a wave, and we walked out into a whiteout of flashbulbs and video spotlights. It was like hitting a psychic wall, and if I’d been on my own, I’d have caved fast and hard. God. I couldn’t focus on anything; the crowd was a faceless mass of shouting faces, all blurring into a snarling, hostile entity. I transferred my probably shell-shocked stare to the buildings on the far side of the street. Somebody was in an office, backlit, looking out at us. Nice to have that kind of distance.
The FBI special agent in charge stepped up to the bank of hastily taped-together microphones and made some brief remarks, nothing incriminating for the agency, and introduced Lewis by name, adding that he was with “a special branch of the United Nations known as the Wardens.” That was it. He got out of the way, ignoring the shouted avalanche of questions.
Lewis took a deep breath and stepped up. He was tall, imposing, and had the kind of personal aura that made people take notice, when he deigned to use it. He used it now. I saw ripples of quiet move through the crowd, and reporters lean forward to catch every word he had to say.
“Earlier today some of you witnessed a battle between two opposing sides in a conflict,” he said. “As you reported, there were casualties on both sides. I’m here to explain to you what that conflict is, what it’s about, and how you can help.”
I expected a torrent of questions, but the crowd stayed still in the pause. Maybe they were stunned that they were actually going to be given information. Or maybe Lewis had sneakily exerted some Earth Warden influence on them. I used some myself, on myself, to slow my racing pulse and get myself ready for the inevitable.
“The Wardens are part of the United Nations,” Lewis said, “in the sense that we are a worldwide organization, independent of governments but working in cooperation with them whenever possible. There is a world around you, a world you see every day without knowing the truth behind it. At its most basic level, the forces at work in the universe, or at least on this planet, are real and tangible.” He paused again and took the leap. “We are the ones who help control and shape that world. Without the Wardens, the disasters you report on, the floods and hurricanes, forest fires and earthquakes—all these things would be far, far worse.”
Somebody laughed. A few others took it up, and it grew in a ripple through the crowd. “You’re kidding. This is what you have to tell us?” somebody shouted from beneath the glare of a video spotlight. “Where’s Gandalf?”
That was pretty much my cue, although I would have preferred Galadriel. I stepped forward. The FBI had furnished me with a change of wardrobe—not my normal style, but workable. It included a navy blue pencil skirt, a severely cut jacket, a white shirt and serviceable granny pumps. I’d put my hair up in a bun, to complete the image of competence and authority, sexy-schoolteacher style.
I pointed up at the sky, which was full of lightly scudding altocumulus clouds—nothing out of the ordinary for Miami.
Lewis waited, patient as a stone, giving them absolutely no indication what was going to happen. We’d agreed that it needed to be big, spectacular, and easily captured on videotape.
I slowed the progress of the clouds and began packing energy into the system, careful to balance the forces as I went. I knew the Ma’at were standing by in case I screwed it up, but it was a point of pride not to need them to clean up after me. The shape of the clouds began to change, from sheer and wispy to solid white, then gray as the moisture condensed. Altocumulus.
Then nimbocumulus.
Once I had the system packed as full as I dared, while still remaining in control, I opened both my hands, palms up. I could feel the dawning sentience in the clouds above, as the energy accumulation granted it some very basic level of awareness, of hunger. Of anger.
What I was about to do was dangerous, and not just to me. If I got it wrong, there could be a lot of collateral damage.
Easy, I heard David whisper on the aetheric. I’m here.
I called the lightning.
Florida is the lightning capital of the U.S. With the daily, constant interaction of wind, water, sandy soil, and marshland, every reporter in the crowd had probably seen close lightning strikes.
None of them had ever seen this.
The
bolt streaked down out of the clouds, long and purple, crackling with energy, and broke into two jagged prongs. It hit my outstretched palms exactly on target, and for a long, long second, I kept it there as the video cameras and photographers documented the event.
Then I clapped my palms together, and the lightning vanished. Thunder rolled loud enough to rattle windows, but there was no other visible damage, apart from a slight reddening on my skin. I’d deliberately kept the lightning to the bare minimum voltage necessary to stage a visible demonstration—about forty kiloamperes.
But damn, it ached inside me. I kept my smile in place with an effort, and hoped I wasn’t sweating too much under the lights.
Lewis said, in the same dry, calm tone, “This is Joanne Baldwin. She is a Weather Warden. The demonstration you’ve just seen is one of several we’ll conduct for you over the next few days. The rest will be under controlled conditions, and you can provide your own scientific experts if you’d care to do so, to document and question the experiments. But ultimately, you’re going to find that what we’re telling you is the real thing. We can control the weather. We can control the land. We can control fire. The problem is, all these things fight back.”
Nobody seemed to know what kind of questions to ask, exactly. Already, they were scrambling to find a logical explanation for what they’d seen—some kind of magic trick would be the most likely one they’d land on. I was sure whoever was the most outrageous street magician du jour would be calling in to debunk what I’d already done.
But what gave it weight was the silent presence of the FBI behind me, and the fact that we were standing on the steps of a government building.
Eventually, somebody found a question that made enough sense to voice. “How do you control the weather? Is it some kind of machine, or . . . ?” He sounded as if he couldn’t quite believe he was even asking the question. I understood that, too. An entire street full of very logical people had just been tipped over the edge of a cliff, and were still trying to figure out which way was up.
“That’s the other part of the story,” Lewis said. “The simple answer is magic. The more complicated answer is that the world around you is not how you imagine it to be—it’s deeper and stranger than you know. For many thousands of years, the Wardens have guarded humanity, and we’ve done it in silence, in secret. But it’s time to come out in the open, because now we have a very serious threat to deal with.”
“What kind of threat? Does this have anything to do with what happened at the motel?”
I wondered if the question was a plant. Lewis wasn’t exactly above that kind of thing, bless his soul. He wasn’t particularly worried about our impartial image.
“Let me tell you,” Lewis said, “about the Djinn, and the Sentinels.”
David and his strike team misted into view at the bottom of the steps, right in front of the cameras.
All hell broke loose.
We’d intended to grab the world stage, and we did. The feverish speculation occupied every news channel, every broadcast on the local level. Experts talked about a massive hoax; scientists sneered; magicians explained how all we’d shown on television could have been done by mirrors and illusion.
But it didn’t matter. We’d taken the Sentinels by surprise. They’d expected us to hide, and we weren’t hiding. Instead, we’d thrown their name into the public awareness, and we’d given them the one thing I knew they didn’t want: notoriety.
I was the lucky one. Exhausted by the efforts of the day, not to mention the lightning strike and the management of the storm I’d leveled over Miami, I collapsed on a cot and slept for six hours of blissfully ignorant darkness. Lewis didn’t sleep at all. When I woke up, he’d already issued three more press statements, and a whole packet of information about Bad Bob, including his photograph.
The Sentinels could not be happy about that. They were even less happy, I imagined, over the announcement that David and I planned to celebrate our marriage in public, in front of all the cameras we could gather to document the affair. It was a trap, a perfectly obvious one, and one I didn’t think they dared pass up. The Sentinels had gathered membership on the idea that the Djinn were toxic to us; they couldn’t allow the two of us to make such a public commitment without striking. Hell, they’d already ruined two wedding dresses.
Pulling together a last-minute affair is surprisingly easier than planning something more formal. Once I gave up the idea of catering and open bar and invitations, things simplified dramatically. All I really needed was a minister, a dress, and of course, as much security as possible so that we all survived the happy day.
My cell phone was ringing off the hook. Mostly, it was Wardens who hadn’t been given the heads-up about going public, and were blistering my ears off. One or two said they were going to complain to Paul, which stabbed me deep and hard all over again. Paul had been a part of my life for so, so long, and now . . . now all that was tainted. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much it would hurt, when I had time to actually feel again.
One of the few welcome calls was from Cherise, who had checked herself out of Warden witness protection and was boarding a flight for Miami, “because you’re so not getting married without me, bitch. Where else am I going to wear that dress?”
One major side benefit of becoming instantly famous—or infamous—was that I no longer had to shop. Instead, I was under siege from local bridal stores all trying to throw dresses my way, under the theory that a little discreet promotion never hurt anybody. I never thought I’d have a sponsored by wedding, but I had more to worry about than my ethical standards.
Principally, I had to find a dress in my size in less than twelve hours that didn’t suck.
That, it turned out, was far easier than it seemed. Instant organization . . . just add Cherise.
“I booked the Palms,” Cherise said after bursting into the FBI offices, giving me a fast, fierce hug, and giving Lewis a warm peck on the cheek.
“You—wait, what?” I blinked, and so did he. I was barely out of the coffee-zombie stage, and Lewis was well into his must-have-sleep cycle. “When did you get in?”
“Exactly forty-eight minutes ago,” she said. “Gotta love that executive car service. By the way, I charged it to the Warden card, so don’t go all budget-conscious on me. Talking to you, Lewis.” He blinked, again.
Cherise must have had extra coffee on the plane; it was like being hit by a pink hurricane. “So, I made some calls,” she continued. “You didn’t get a hotel, right? I booked the Palms. Royal Palm Room for the reception, outdoor gazebo for the ceremony. They’re used to celebrity weddings, no problem on the security, although I went ahead and called a couple of other firms. I guess you’ll have the FBI, too, huh?” Cherise paused long enough to wink at Mr. No-Name Nice Suit, who still looked fresh and well tailored. “Mmmm, I feel safer already.”
“Cher—”
“Okay, I’m going to let the Palms handle all the catering and flowers and crap—it’s going to be expensive, but there you go. If you want to make a media circus out of the whole thing, you have to pay for the big top and the clowns.”
“Cherise.”
“I think we should head over there now. I got you the bridal suite, naturally. Five of the couture bridal shops are coming in an hour with their best stuff. They’ll want credit on the official press statement, but they’re doing it for the publicity. No charge. They’ll want the dress back, though, unless you get blood or something all over it, in which case, you break it, you buy it—”
“Cherise!”
She stopped, blue eyes wide, staring at me. I covered my face with both hands, fighting for control between hysterical giggles and the shakes.
“It’s not a joke,” I said finally. “We could all be killed. We could get a lot of other people killed. I can’t have this at the Palms. The Sentinels will attack. I can’t put all those innocent lives at risk!”
Cher sat down next to me on the hard, narrow cot, and took both my hands i
n hers. Her manicure was fresh, her hair glossy, her makeup perfect. I looked like I’d rolled out of the bad side of Satan’s bed, and forgotten to brush my hair, but there was real love in her eyes. Real friendship.
“Honey,” she said, “this isn’t about you anymore. This is about ideas. Those innocent people, they live with risk. You need to quit thinking that all us regular folks can’t handle the truth.”
I didn’t think she understood what she was saying, but I gave her a cautious nod.
“You want to stick it to those bastards who think David and all the other Djinn need to die, right?”
Another wordless nod.
“When you hide, when you call things off because you’re afraid of getting hurt, that’s when people like this win. Live loud, Jo. It’s the only way to win. No fear.”
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear and cocked her head.
“Besides,” she said, “I cannot wait to see David in a tuxedo. My God, Jo. How can you even think of depriving the world of that?”
Well, she had a point. Across the room, David was deep in conversation with Zenaya. He caught my look and smiled, and I felt the connection between us snap taut and thrum like a guitar string.
“Suck it up, girlfriend,” Cher said. “All you have to do is stand there, look pretty, and say the right things. Let us do the rest. You”—she turned and stabbed a perfectly polished fingernail toward Lewis— “you need to get some sleep. Best man, right? I am so not having the bags under the eyes. Lie down, now. And I’m bringing in a stylist, because God.”
I moved off the cot, fast, to make room for Lewis.
Cherise set to work. It helped that Lewis granted her autonomy for all wedding-related decisions, including open credit, and that the Feds, who didn’t know the players in the Warden world, anyway, just assumed she was “one of us.” Which I guess she was, in the greater sense. She cheerfully commandeered everything and everyone she needed, and appointed a subcommittee—my wedding had subcommittees!—to handle security services.
