Windfall (32 page)

In other words, it had been Mona.
My
car.

“Oh, damn,” I whispered, and blinked faster. Not that I could really see anything through the incredibly dense rain out there. No, wait, I could. There was something flickering orange out there, barely visible . . .

My car was on freaking
fire
.

“Joanne!” John Foster, breathless, came pelting up behind me, grabbed me, and threw me to the floor. He landed on top of me, and while I was busy registering the unique ways a marble floor didn't make for a comfortable landing area, something outside exploded.

Not lightning. Something more man-made.

The explosion blew in the windows in a bright-edged shower, and the rain followed, pounding in before the glass even hit the marble. I smelled burning plastic and metal and tried to get up, but John held me down with an elbow across my shoulders. He was breathing hard. I could feel his heart pounding against my back.

“Let go!” I yelled. “Dammit! John! Let go!”

He finally did, rolling off in a crunch of glass, and as I flipped over I saw that he'd sustained some cuts, but not a lot. So far, we'd been lucky.

“You all right?” he asked. I nodded. “Come with me.”

He scrambled up to his feet and held out his hand. I looked back at the parking lot, or at least what I could see of it; there was an unholy bonfire out there, consuming at least three cars.

The center of it was the blackened shell of the Viper formerly known as Mona, who wouldn't be taking me on any more fast drives, ever again. I gulped and clutched my purse tight and took John's hand.

He led me out of the lobby, past the arriving cluster of alarmed tenants and late-breaking security personnel, to the stairwell. He hit the stairs running, tasseled loafers pounding, and I had to hustle to keep up. John had been working out, or else adrenaline was a wonderful fitness drug.

We ran full speed up seven floors, all the way to the top of the building, to the door that was marked
ROOF ACCESS
,
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. And I was very thankful when we slowed down at the top, because my shoes were not of the cross-training persuasion, but then he grabbed me and towed me toward the exit.

“John!” I yelled, and yanked him to a stop before he could stiff-arm the
ALARM WILL SOUND
crossbar. “John, wait! What's going on?”

“You were right about the Djinn!” he yelled back. “We have to go,
now
! They're coming!”

Oh, crap.

He broke free and hit the door release. An alarm added its shriek to the general confusion—the fire alarms were going off, too, and I wondered if the fire had spread somehow from the parking lot to the building—and as the door opened out onto the roof, rain and wind shouldered through the opening to hit us like linebackers. I staggered, but John reached back and grabbed my wrist and dragged me outside into the chaos of the downpour.

“John!” I screamed, over the continuing roll of thunder. “It's not safe out here! The lightning—”

“Shut up; I'll take care of the lightning!” And he could. John was a highly competent Weather Warden in his own right. Even as he finished saying it, I felt a ripple over my skin, and my blunted Warden senses registered something whipping through the aetheric at us like a striking snake. . . .

John let go of me, turned, and focused his attention on a thick silver stanchion fixed to a corner of the roof.

Lightning hissed down. I could feel it struggling to reach us, fighting . . .

And then turning to hit the stanchion. The building's lightning protection system bled it off into the ground through a network of inlaid wiring. I could feel the heat of it blast over me from where I stood.

But I also felt how close it had been. Something was directing that lightning. Controlling it. Something a great deal stronger than John Foster.

He knew it, too; I saw it in the fixed, desperate set of his expression. “Come on!” John was tugging me onward, to a second concrete bunker on top of the roof. The door was propped open. He grabbed it just as another flash of lightning came out of nowhere, streaking for us. John wasn't ready, I knew it—he'd just spent a tremendous amount of energy redirecting that first bolt, and this one was just as big, if not bigger. And it was obviously bent on getting us.

What I had to throw into the pot barely qualified as power at all, but I did it, reaching out and trying to grab hold of the enormous burst of energy that was coming toward us. Electrons were shifting, jittering, realigning into polarities to create a path. All I had to do was snap a few . . . and I couldn't do it. As fast as I broke the chain, it whipped back at us, those tiny molecular polarities spinning and locking faster than I could even read their force structure. Rain lashed, and a gust of wind howled over us in a scream of rage. I felt John desperately working to save us, and more power pouring in from outside trying to save us, but it was no good. The bolt was going to hit us dead on, and we were out of time. Whatever had hold of this storm wasn't going to be denied.

I dived one way, knowing it wouldn't do any good; John dived the other.

I hit and rolled, and saw the lightning spear straight into John's chest.

“No!” Maybe I screamed it, maybe I didn't; whatever sound I made was lost in the massive rush of energy that slammed into his flesh. In its burst of brilliant light, I saw John's diamond-eyed Djinn standing nearby in the shadows, still and quiet, watching his master die. No expression on his face at all.

He didn't move to help.

John, cut off from the Wardens network, had never heard the instructions to give his Djinn a preemptive command to defend him. He'd never really understood the danger. And if he had, he probably wouldn't have believed it.

John dropped without a sound the second the lightning crackled and sizzled out. I couldn't see for long, agonizing seconds, so I fumbled my way over gravel and tar to take him in my arms. He was burning hot. As my vision cleared I saw that there were black burns at the top of his head, on the palms of his hands, and that his pants were riddled with sizzling, smoking holes. His shoes were melted to his feet.

I burned my fingers trying to check his pulse, but it was silent. His heart had taken a full jolt, and his nervous system was fried beyond repair.

The Djinn left the shadows and walked over to where I was huddled in the cold, pounding rain with John's weight across my lap.

“You could have done something,” I said numbly. “Why didn't you do something?
He was your friend!
”

He looked down at me. Rain didn't touch him, just misted away an inch from his form. He was changing already, shifting from that quiet, unassuming young man John's will had imposed on him to a larger, stronger body. His hair lightened from brown to white, rippling with subtle undertones of color like an opal. Albino-pale skin. The down-home shirt and blue jeans transformed to rich, pale silk and velvet. He looked elegant and merciless and slightly barbaric.

“He wasn't my friend,” the Djinn said. “A master can't be friends with a slave. There's no trust without equality.”

I choked on the taste of cold rain and burned flesh in my mouth. I wanted to weep, because the Djinn was right. No equality. Just because we were fond of the Djinn didn't make them friends. Just because we loved them . . .

What had I done when I'd taken David as my servant? Had it destroyed the trust we'd had? How long would it take for that betrayal to soak into him, to erode his love for me, to turn it toxic?

Maybe the flaws that made him an Ifrit had started here, in me.

“You're free now,” said a voice from behind me. I gasped and turned, blinking rain out of my eyes. It sounded like Ashan, and yes, it
was
Ashan, natty and businessman-perfect in his gray suit and chilly tie. His eyes had gone the color of the storm. Not a drop was touching him, of course. He walked forward, and where he walked, the rain just . . . vanished. He came to a halt a few feet from me, but he wasn't paying the least attention to me, or the dead man in my arms. His focus was all on the other Djinn.

“You bastard,” I said, and his eyes cut to me and shut me up. Instantly. With the unmistakable impression that I was one single heartbeat away from joining John in the heavenly choir.

“I'm not talking to you,” he said. “Shut up, meat.”

“Are you addressing me?” the other Djinn asked. He still had a British accent, clipped and precise and very old-school, which went very oddly with the barbaric splendor of his albino rock-star look.

“Of course. I came to give you the opportunity to join us.”

“Fortuitous timing.”

Ashan's smile was cold and heartless. “Isn't it just?”

The other Djinn smiled in return. Not a comforting sight. “I find myself free for the first time in memory. Why should I give up that freedom to another master, even one so . . . important as you?”

Ashan nudged John's body carefully with the toe of his elegantly polished shoe. No giveaway misting at the knees for Ashan. He was the Dress For Success poster child of the new age.

“Well, first, I'm the one who granted you freedom by killing
this,
” he said.

“It's not freedom if I exchange one form of slavery for another.” The Djinn shrugged. “Not very appealing, I must say. And what would Jonathan think about it?”

“Jonathan?” Ashan put all his contempt into it. “Do you really want to be on the side of the one who made us slaves in the first place?”

I was shivering, cold, drenched, and numbed, but that still made me blink. “What?” I didn't meant to say it out loud, but when you hear something like that, well, the question naturally blurts itself out.

This time, Ashan decided I was worthy of an answer. “You didn't think this master-slave relationship was the natural order, did you? Did you really believe that
humans
rank higher than Djinn? Things are perverted in this world, little girl, and they have been ever since
Jonathan
gave the Wardens power over us.”

“When—how long—”

“Yesterday,” the other Djinn said quietly. “To us, it was yesterday.”

I wasn't going to get an answer to that one, I could tell; Ashan had made his point, and I was no longer relevant except as something to nod toward when he wanted to drive home contempt.

“You can't want to follow Jonathan,” Ashan said. The other Djinn met his eyes. Thunder rolled overhead, and they both waited out the roar. “If you follow me, you can free others.”

“You mean kill,” the Djinn said calmly. “Kill Wardens.”

“Exactly.” A full, sharp-toothed wolf's smile. “Come on, don't tell me you don't want to. You can start with this one, if you're interested. Believe me, she's got it coming.”

The Djinn turned diamond-white eyes to stare at me. I gulped air and frantically rummaged the cupboards of my bare inner storehouse for power,
any
power, that might be strong enough to defend me against him. What Jonathan had gifted me with was definitely burning down to its embers. I'd used up everything I had, except for what I was living on, and that couldn't last.

The Djinn shook his head, smiled a little, and said, “I won't fight for Jonathan. But I won't kill for you, Ashan; like us, the Wardens exist for a reason.”

“So you'll do what? Live as a rogue? An outcast?” Ashan sneered at the whole idea, and took a step forward. I felt tension snap tight between them. “Better off dead, I'd say.”

Behind him, the stairwell door swung open. Silently. Nobody was touching it. A flash of lightning revealed a man standing there, tall and lean, hands at his sides.

Lewis's face was hard, expressionless, and
very
frightening.

“Leave him alone,” he said, and stepped out into the rain. Unlike the Djinn, he didn't try to hide from it, and he didn't do any flashy redirection of energy. The water pounded over him, soaking his hair flat to his head, saturating his flannel shirt, T-shirt, and jeans in seconds.

He just didn't care.

Ashan turned to face him. I felt the crackle of power notch up—not like lightning. This was something else. Something . . . bigger. A little like the resonance that occurred between me and Lewis when things got a little close, only this was dissonance, disharmony, a jagged and cutting chaos.

“He has a choice,” Lewis said. “He can join you, he can join Jonathan, or he can help the Ma'at put all this right again. Restore the balance of things. Stop the violence and the killing. Because this has to stop, Ashan, before everything goes to hell.”

“You mean, everything in the human world.”

“No. I mean
everything
. Djinn live here, too. And up there.” Lewis indicated the aetheric, somehow, with a jerk of his chin. “If you're in this world, you're part of it. There's no escaping it. Maybe you think you're here to be gods, but you're not, no more than we are. We're all subordinate to something else.”

“Well, maybe you are,” Ashan said, and checked the line of his suit jacket with a casual flick of his fingers. “I have to tell you, I don't intend to be subordinate to anything or anyone. Ever again.”

“That includes Jonathan, I suppose.”

“It definitely includes Jonathan.”

“Have you happened to mention that to him? Because I don't see the scars. I think you've been avoiding him since you decided on this little rebellion of yours.”

Ashan's smile was thin, bloodless, and unamused. “I didn't come here to trade witty remarks with
you
, human. Go away.”

“Fine. All us humans will just—”

“Not this one. This one's
mine
.” Ashan reached out and grabbed me by the shoulder, and boy, it
hurt
. First of all, his hands were like forged iron. Second, they weren't really flesh, not as I could understand it—not the kind of flesh that David always wore, or even Jonathan. Ashan was just an illusion, and what was underneath was sharp and hurtful and cold.