Windfall (37 page)

As the storm destroys the island that men called Atlantis, as it strips it bare and devours every fragment of life before sinking the bare rocks under the waves—something strange happens. The explosion of death-energy from the destruction is so huge that, to balance the scales, five hundred Djinn snap into existence, each holding some small measure of the life of that lost, beautiful land. Lost and alone, newborn.

Powerful, and afraid.

The storm doesn't see them as fuel for its fires, and turns north, toward a rich, green land full of energy, full of life, full of fragile things that it can grind apart in its fury.

And this is when it becomes my story, and my mistake. I can't stop it. The Djinn can't stop it, even with the addition of the Five Hundred; the storm is a natural thing, and we can't fight manifestations of the Mother nearly so well as we fight each other, or things in the world of man.

The end of the world is on us. We argue, the Djinn. Some of us try to turn the storm aside, but it's too much for us.

I realize there is no way for Djinn to help mankind, and no way for mankind to save itself, without making an irrevocable choice.

So I pull from the Mother and give power to humans to make them Wardens. And I give them the means to enslave the Djinn. By binding the Djinn, the Wardens can direct us, and we can tap the power pooled inside of humanity and amplify it, creating a web of intent and potential large enough to contain and weaken the storm.

The moment when we join together, humans and Djinn, and defeat the storm at the end of the world . . . it is, for a moment, the unity of all things. A perfect peace. But perfect peace can't last, and when it comes time for the Wardens to give up the power I've granted them over the Djinn, they refuse.

Should have seen that coming.

Ashan and the others are breaking the deal I made, all those millennia ago. They're doing what I never had the courage to do: They're taking back their freedom.

And I don't blame them. I blame myself.

It's time for things to be clean again. Scrubbed raw, like the rocks of Atlantis. Maybe what comes out of this will be better. I've wanted freedom for the Djinn for a long time, but I've never actually been faced with seeing it happen before. Choosing it.

But it's the right choice.

If David were here, he'd tell me I'm crazy.

But he's not here. For the first time in my life, human or Djinn, he's not here to help me. I'm at the end of the road, and it's all dark out there, and I don't know that there's any right answer to anything, in the end.

Only choices.

So I think I'll sit here on the beach, with the waves spraying the sky, watching as that long-ago storm swirls itself back into life again, finishing what it started. The Wardens have been fighting this same storm for thousands of years, whether they know it or not. I always feel something about it, something familiar, when it manages to put on its cloak of clouds and come back for another round.

I can't stop it alone. Neither can the Wardens. And the Djinn . . . the Djinn have had enough of sacrifice.

I watch as the storm's heart turns black and furious, and I wish it didn't have to end this way.

But I don't know of any other way for it to happen.

 

E
IGHT

No surprise: I woke up feeling like I'd had the hell beaten out of me by the Jolly Green Giant. Definitely not one of my better mornings. I tried to get out of bed, ended up more or less leaning on the wall, staring down at my naked body. I'd washed away the dump stains, but the bruises were pretty spectacular. Couldn't see the really painful one, which was in the small of my back; I shuffled into the bathroom, dragged messy hair out of my eyes, and used an awkwardly angled hand mirror to take an appraisal of the damage. It didn't look as bad as it felt, but then, it felt awful. The bruise was black and blue, the size of a fist. Swollen, too. Ow.

I took another shower, because what the hell . . . massaging showerhead . . . and dried my hair into a more or less glorious shower of curls that didn't frizz too much, and put on makeup. Why? Hell if I know, except that the worse I feel, the better I want to look. After applying all the disguise, I put on a light bra and a kickin' peau de soie blouse, and contemplated my choices for things that wouldn't press agonizingly against the bruise on my back. The low-rise panties and blue jeans seemed the only possible choice, other than walking around half-naked. . . .

I flipped on the sleek little flat-screen TV that had come with my new bedroom suite, a luxury I'd never even considered before, and tuned to WXTV. Just to see.

They were finishing up the news portion of the morning show and moving to the weather. They had a new Weather Girl, I saw immediately, and hey, I felt just a little bit bitter about it for a second, because she was stunningly pretty and had a lovely smile and was well dressed in a blue jacket and silk blouse and tailored slacks, and
what the hell?

The anchors were laughing. She was forecasting a storm for later today.

The camera pulled back, and back . . .

. . . and there was Marvin. Squeezed into a foam rubber cloud suit, with little silver drops hanging off of him, sweating like a pig and glaring like a pit bull. Red with fury.

“Sorry,” the new Weather Girl said, “but you out there know that Marvin always puts his integrity first, and today, he's paying off a bet to Joanne, our former meteorological assistant. Love the outfit, Marv. So what's today going to be like out there?”

“Cloudy,” he snapped. “Severe storms. And—”

Water. Lots of it. Dumped from way up high. He gasped, jumped, and they cut his mike before he got more than the first syllable of the curse out, but the camera itself was shaking from the force of the laughter on the set.

Son of a bitch.

It was probably evil of me to feel so good about watching him dance around dripping and cursing, but, well . . . I was at peace with it.

I was feeling almost happy when I walked out into the living room, heading for the kitchen. It was still dark outside—cloudy, with muttering and lightning continuing over the ocean—so I didn't immediately see my sister's new boyfriend until he flicked on the light next to the couch.

He was sitting on one end, sprawled gracefully, head leaning back against the thick leather tufted back. Sarah was curled on her side with her head resting on his thigh. She was wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe that gaped at the top, showing the inside slopes of her breasts. She looked exhausted and vulnerable, and he looked down at her with a careful expression, and touched her very gently. Fingertips tracing her cheek.

I knew that touch. That was the way David touched me.

That was regret, and love.

She didn't move, even with the light blazing down, and continued to breathe deeply and steadily. Deeply asleep. Eamon's long, elegant fingers threaded through her frosted hair and stroked the curve of her head in long, soothing motions, as if he couldn't bear to stop touching her.

I wondered for a second if he even knew I was there, and then he said, “Good morning.” He looked up. “Did you enjoy the new bed?”

“Yeah.” I paused, watching him, trying to figure out how they'd ended up on the couch like this when Sarah should have gone straight to her room, tired as she was. Also, when and how Eamon had found his way into the apartment. Sarah had probably given him a key already. She was like that. “Did you guys sleep out here?”

“I haven't slept at all,” he said, and it struck me that he was speaking in a normal tone of voice, not keeping his voice down. That was odd.

Then he shifted a little, and Sarah's head rolled off his leg, limp as a rag doll.

Too limp. Her eyelids didn't even flutter.

“Sarah?” I asked. No reaction. “Oh my God, what's wrong with her?”

Eamon didn't answer. He readjusted her to put her head back in his lap, stroking her hair, the curve of her face. A lover's slow, steady touch.

I could not understand what I was seeing in his expression. “Eamon? Is there something wrong with her?”

“No,” he said. “Nothing that won't wear off in a few hours. She may have a few side effects; most likely some mild nausea and a dull headache.” His eyes remained fixed on me.

I couldn't believe it. Couldn't honestly
fathom
it. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that I injected your sister with a drug—nothing too addictive, don't worry—and I put her to sleep for a while.” His tone was changing, moving away from the kind, slow, gentle cadence I was used to and toward something more clipped and cold. Not the eyes, though. Or the caresses of Sarah's skin. Those stayed gentle. “Don't fuss, Joanne, it's not the first time. I like my women a little less talkative and more compliant, in general. Sarah thought it was a bit strange, too, when I asked, but she's willing to try new things. I find that truly sexy, don't you? She's exceptional, your sister.”

I took a step toward him, bruises forgotten. I was going to
kill
this son of a bitch.

His hand instantly slid from stroking her hair to fasten around the pale white column of her throat. “I wouldn't,” he said. Now there was a feverish hint of cruelty in his face. “It only takes about one second to crush a trachea. I'd rather not do it. I honestly do like her. So relax. Let's be friends. We've been friends up till now; there's no reason we can't go on being civil to one another.”

I knew nothing about crushing tracheas, except that it would kill her and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I froze where I was. His hands, although long and soft and elegant, also looked strong and very capable.

And the expression in his eyes was deadly serious now.

“Go on,” he invited. “I know you want to ask questions. I'll oblige.”

“Fine. What do you want, Eamon? If that's even your name.”

“It is, actually.” He didn't move his hand from her throat, but he let it relax a little. His fingertips trailed over her skin in a random, soothing pattern. I wasn't sure he even knew he was doing it. “I didn't lie about that, although of course the last name isn't the one on my passport. Then again, the one on my passport may not be right, either. You follow?”

“You're a criminal.”

“Good girl. I'm a criminal. I'm a bad, evil man, and I came here for one reason. Not your sister, although I have to say that I'd never have imagined meeting someone so . . . lovely. It's quite a benefit.” Those fingers strayed, curving over the skin revealed by the parted terrycloth robe. I shivered all over with the urge to kill him really, really dead, but those eyes were constantly focused on me, assessing. Too careful. “I came here for you, Joanne.”

“Get your hands off her.”

“I don't think I can.” His smile was gentle and sad, a little-boy smile begging to be understood and forgiven, no matter what he did. Women probably forgave him anything. Gave him everything. Even now, sitting there staring at me, I couldn't wrap my head around the unmistakable fact that he was a very, very bad man, because very, very bad men don't have such a soothing, gentle touch, do they?

Sarah loved him. Oh, God, Sarah loved him. That turned my stomach.

I must have let my revulsion show, because he lost the smile, and his eyes turned colder. “Are you afraid I'll molest her in front of you?”

“You
are
molesting her in front of me, asshole!”

“No.” There was now no trace at all of warmth in his tone, and even his hands had gone still. “Not yet. Why, do you want me to? You'll have to ask nicely, in that case.”

“Keep your fucking hands off my sister!”

He lost that last tinge of humor, and without it, Eamon was something very different indeed. Very cold and focused and scary. “Don't tell me what to do, petal. I don't care for it. And every time you do it, I'm going to leave a mark on Sarah, to remind you.”

He pinched her inner thigh in a sudden, vicious movement. She didn't move, didn't react, but it was shocking enough that I flinched and involuntarily took another step toward him. His hand moved back to her throat and squeezed in unmistakable warning.

I stopped. Neither one of us made a sound.

The place he'd pinched her flushed a bright, angry red. He'd really hurt her; that hadn't been just show.
Son of a bitch . . .

“Do we understand each other?” he asked. “I'm only using my hands. I do have other methods.”

I was a Warden, dammit. I could command storms and call lightning. I shouldn't have been
helpless
.

I rubbed my fingertips together and concentrated. Got a crackle of power, maybe enough to administer a good sharp shock . . . but not enough to knock him out from a distance. I didn't have enough power to manipulate the air, either. What I had might be good enough for one shot, but I had to make it count, and Eamon's hand was one motion away from killing my sister.