Ill Wind (5 page)

In charge are the High Wardens who make up the World Council (which is, oddly, based in the UN Building in New York, although not on any floor most people are likely to visit). Below them you have your National Wardens, who control entire countries, and beneath them Sector Wardens, Regional Wardens, Local Wardens, and Staff.

Nobody expected there would be anything more powerful than a World Council Warden, but then
nobody had expected Lewis to pop up, controlling all the elements. Lewis didn't fit. Or . . . to be more accurate . . . he fit in right at the top. A true master of the craft, absolutely unique. Nobody in the great big machine that made up the Association much liked the idea, except they couldn't very well doubt it, not with Lewis demonstrating it every time they asked by calling fire, water, air, earth. For a while after the incident with the frat boys, Lewis lived like a lab rat, hemmed in by people who desperately wanted to control him, disprove him, understand him, stop him, worship him, destroy him. And some who just wanted his autograph.

I tried to find out what was going on, but I was just an apprentice, even if everybody agreed I had lots of power and promise. There was no way I'd be kept informed about decisions made at the World level. But at some point—and this is just a guess—I think they decided that it would be safer for everybody if Lewis just didn't exist.

I think somebody tried to kill him. Worse. I think they were stupid enough to miss.

Anyway, we know that Lewis flew the coop. He vanished with three—count 'em,
three
—of the precious bottles of Djinn from the Association vaults. Poof. Crime of the century, committed by the most wanted man on earth.

Since then, seven years ago, a lot of people have been looking for Lewis.

I was just the latest.

 

Lightning bolts out of the blue. Great. Somebody was trying to kill me.
Actively.
This was new, different, and not very welcome.

It was possible—okay, likely—that this had to do with a guy named Bad Bob Biringanine. Bad Bob was not quite two days dead, I'd been there for his big finish, and it was entirely conceivable that I was going to be held responsible. I
might
have a slim chance of avoiding that, but only if I came in from the cold and talked to the Wardens Council . . . and if I did it wearing the Demon Mark, well, that would be the ball game. I could explain, but they'd never believe me. Never.

And in any case, whether they believed me or not, they couldn't help me.

I was just praying hard that Lewis could. The problem was getting to him before somebody else got to me.

It was possible that the lightning had been an official warning from the Wardens, in which case I was in really deep, no shovel in sight; I needed to know for sure before I decided on my next move. There was only one person I could trust to ask, these days, who was still on the inside. I retrieved the cell phone, checked the charge—down to one slender bar—and speed-dialed another number.

I got Paul on the first ring.

“Jesus fucking
Christ,
Jo, what did you just do?” It was a bellow, not a question, and I jerked the phone away from my ear, then tentatively moved it back. “Fuckin' power surge the size of fuckin' New Jersey, and it's right in the middle of my Sector! And don't tell me it wasn't you, I know your style!”

“It wasn't me. Well, it was
aimed
at me, but I didn't start it,” I said, and waited out the gush of curses. Paul Giancarlo was one of the good guys. His temper
was mostly a lot of sound, very little fury; for a guy with Family connections—in the Cosa Nostra sense—he was surprisingly sweet. However, I was in Paul's Sector, and within it, he was lord and master of the weather, and he took that responsibility
very
seriously. If I'd been careless with lives, he'd hold a grudge.

Paul bossed about a hundred Regional and Local Wardens, and his chunk of the world ran from somewhere around Montpelier down through Philadephia, Pennsylvania. I was smack in the middle of it. He had the power to make my trip very uncomfortable indeed, since Paul was great in small scale. He could deliver a monsoon with pinpoint accuracy, hang it right over the Mustang no matter where I turned. He could funnel-cloud me up to Oz, if he chose. And I didn't have time. Besides, conflict between Wardens is rarely good for anybody.

“They're looking for you,” he said more quietly. “Guess you already know that, since you dropped out of sight like that.”

“Yeah, well, not like I had a choice,” I said.

“What with the murder charges and all,” he agreed.

“It wasn't murder! It was—” Boy, it sounded lame. “—self-defense.”

He grunted. “You know, Jo, that defense don't hold up all that well even in the regular courts, especially when the guy was three times your age and unarmed.”

“Like a Warden's ever unarmed. This was
Bad Bob
we're talking about, after all. Not some helpless old guy I knocked over the head for his wallet.”

He sighed. It rattled the speaker in the phone. “He had a lot of friends. Lot of powerful friends. What the hell possessed you to take it this far? I mean, he
could be a bastard, but Jesus, you fucking destroyed his house with him in it, Jo. Not to even mention that this storm you cooked up through all that crap has been focused on you like a guided missile.”

I didn't want to talk about that, too many things to explain about Bad Bob and Florida. “Later. First things first. Somebody set up an unpredicated lightning bolt.”

A long, expressive whistle. “That'd explain the fucking up of my weather. You're saying somebody threw it at you? Specifically?”

“I'm saying somebody really
good
threw it at me. I kind of need to know who. Was it . . . you know . . . official?”

“As in, did anybody clear it with me first? Hell no. Take my word for it: This didn't come through the chain of command.” He paused for a few seconds; I could almost hear him thinking. “Jo, look, this is getting too serious. You'd better come see me. Albany. You know the address.”

I did. “Paul?”

He understood the question before I had to ask it. “I'm not turning you in, babe. I don't exactly come from a family history of ratting out.”

That said, he hung up. I clutched the phone for a few seconds, trying to decide, but really, I didn't have a choice. Paul's suggestions were just polite orders.

I urged the Mustang up another notch on the speeding-fine scale and hauled ass for Albany.

 

I met Paul when I was eighteen, at my official intake meeting for the Wardens.

It was scheduled at a Holiday Inn outside of Sarasota. I had directions and an appointed time to appear, all on official Warden stationery, and I spent most of the drive wiping sweat from my palms and wishing I could keep on driving and disappear. But the Wardens had made it crystal clear that my presence was required, not requested. They'd also mentioned that they could not only make my life miserable, but if they wanted to, they could put a real unhappy ending on it, as well.

So I walked into the modest little hotel and looked over the meeting-room signs on the board.
CULLIGAN COMPANY BOARD MEETING
. Nope.
LADIES ASSOCIATION OF ROSE GROWERS.
Probably not.
METEOROLOGICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE
. That looked like the right one. I tugged down my skirt one more time, wished I'd worn something businesslike and conservative, and walked down what felt like the Last Mile. The door was closed. I knocked.

That was the first time I met Paul. He made an impression. He opened the door, and for a frozen second, all I could think of was
Oh, my God, he's gorgeous,
and he made it that much worse by letting his eyes go wider and giving me that quick, comprehensive X-ray scan men are so good at delivering. He was six feet tall, olive skinned, with dark hair and designer stubble. Body by some very expensive personal trainer, or incredibly good genetics.

“Joanne Baldwin?” he asked, still standing in the doorway. I nodded. “You're late.”

His voice didn't match his body; it was low, gravelly, rough. But then again, maybe it did match, because it vibrated in parts of me that generally don't
react to voices. I swallowed hard and hoped my legs weren't shaking too badly, and I followed him into the room.

Of the seven people there, Paul was definitely the standout for looks, but that didn't mean anything; I felt potential power zip up and down my spine the minute I stepped inside. Ugly or beautiful, any one of these people could lay waste to entire countries.

The man sitting at the head of the long table stood up. He was older and blank faced, with gray eyes that looked as warm as polished marble. I didn't know it then, but I was meeting the man in charge of the weather for the entire continental United States, a man who did not generally concern himself with assessing the fitness of some little girl from down in Florida.

“Joanne Baldwin,” he said. It was by way of a formal introduction, and I nodded and fought an impulse to curtsy, which would have been disastrous in the miniskirt anyway. “My name is Martin Oliver. You've just met Paul Giancarlo—” A nod from the stud muffin. “Let me introduce the rest of the panel.”

It was a who's who of People Who Mattered. State Wardens from Texas, Arkansas, Montana. Marion Bearheart, an American Indian woman with kind eyes and an aura powerful enough to shatter glass . . . and the State Warden for Florida, Bob Biringanine. Bob was a short Irish-looking fellow with a perpetual blush, feathery white hair, and steel-blue eyes. He didn't like me. I could sense it at his first uninterested glance.

“Sit,” Martin Oliver invited me, and demonstrated the process. I carefully lowered myself into a squeaky
black chair. Everybody stared at me for a few seconds. “Coffee?”

“No thanks,” I managed. “Look, I'm not really sure why—”

“You're here because either you need to be accepted into the Program, or you need to have your powers blunted,” Bob said. “Somebody like you is too dangerous to leave running around wild.”

Martin's cold gray eyes flicked at him, but Bob didn't seem to feel the impact. I tried to think of something to say. Nothing volunteered. Bob—Bad Bob, I later learned he was called—shuffled papers and found something that apparently interested him. I couldn't see what it was.

“There was a storm,” he said. “One year ago. You vectored it around your house.”

Oh. That. I hadn't thought anybody noticed. My lips were dry again, and so was my mouth. “I had to,” I said. My voice sounded childish and soft. Bad Bob's gaze pinned me like I was an insect.

“
Had to?
” he repeated, and traded looks with a couple of the others. “Weeping Christ, girl, do you understand what you did? Your interference added force to the storm. What would just have caused minor damage to
your
house ended up destroying six others. Because of
you
. You lack judgment.”

I hadn't known that. I thought—I thought I'd done the right thing. Carefully. Precisely. The idea that I'd made things worse elsewhere was a completely new one.

“That's a little harsh,” said Marion Bearheart. She leaned back in her chair and studied me. “We've all screwed the pooch from time to time, Bob. You know
that. Just last year, Paul dumped seventeen inches of rain on a floodplain when he was supposed to produce a summer shower. How many houses did you wash away, Paul?”

“Five,” Paul grunted. “Thanks for bringing that up as often as possible.”

Bad Bob ignored him, staring straight at Marion. “Paul didn't get anybody killed.”

My heart froze up. There was silence around the table. Bob shuffled papers and came up with a newspaper clipping. “Dead in the wreckage of the house were Liza Gutierrez, twenty-nine, and Luis Gutierrez, thirty-one. Three children between the ages of nine and two years escaped with the help of neighbors before the home collapsed.”

It was like listening to someone reading my own obituary. I tried to swallow. Couldn't. Looked down at faux woodgrain and blinked back tears.
I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know.
The mantra of the helpless.

And then, a low gravelly voice. “Bullshit.” I looked up to see Paul staring at Bob. “Come on, Bob, she deflected the storm, sure, and she didn't take the force vectors and wind speed into account, but it still wasn't a bad job. But then,
you
didn't recheck for changing conditions before you started lowering the ceiling up in the mesosphere. You want to sling some blame, I think you ought to get a little on you, too. And for God's sake, people die. Without us, the whole Atlantic seaboard would be a pile of corpses—you know that as well as anybody. Sometimes you can't save everybody. Sometimes you can't even save yourself. You know that. You of all people.”

“Paul,” Martin Oliver said quietly. “Enough.”

Paul shut up. So did Bad Bob, who closed the folder. Martin Oliver opened his own.

“Joanne, maybe what we should be talking about is a great deal more basic. Do you
want
to be a Warden? It's not an easy life, and it's not especially rewarding. You'll never have fame, and even though you'll save a lot of lives, you'll never receive gratitude or recognition. You'll need to go through another six years of training, minimum, before you're trusted as a Staff Warden.” His gray eyes studied me with absolute impartiality. “Some people don't have the temperament for it. I understand that you're prone to act first and think later.”

I licked my lips. “Sometimes.”

“Under what circumstances would you believe it was permissible to use the kind of powers you've been given? To, for instance, get rid of a violent storm?”

“To—save lives?” Nobody had told me there was going to be a test. Dammit.

Martin exchanged a look with Bad Bob. “What about saving property?”