Ill Wind

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

Ill Wind: Book One of the Weather Warden Series

 

A
ROC
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2003
by
Roxanne Longstreet Conrad

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN: 1-101-13397-X

 

A
ROC
BOOK®

ROC
Books first published by The ROC Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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and the “
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” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

To those who inspire:
My husband, Cat (always), and to my dear friends

Pat Elrod, Kelley Walters, Glenn Rogers, Pat

Anthony, and—of course—“the” Joanne Madge

To those who believe:
Everybody in ORAC (you know who you are!)

and my friends at LSGSC

To those who made it happen:
Lucienne Diver and Laura Anne Gilman

To my musical inspiration:
Joe Bonamassa

And finally, to the one who taught me to love the storm as much as the calm:
Timothy Bartz

Rest softly, my dear. This one's for you.

Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is the lightning that does the work.
—Mark Twain

B
y granting you the possession of one of the Association's Djinn, the Wardens Association has recognized that you are among the finest in your area of specialty, whether you control Weather, Fire, or Earth. You should accept this great honor and grave responsibility with humility and courage.

Djinn are a valued, precious resource. Abuses of Djinn or their powers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of our Association's laws, up to and including execution.

Do

• Use your Djinn to
  augment
  your powers, and rely upon your Djinn for advice in your area of specialty.
  
• Guard your Djinn's home (commonly a bottle) with great care. Although your Djinn will (of necessity) be loyal only to you until your death, or until the Association removes the Djinn from your care, mis- placing a Djinn is a very serious matter with associ- ated penalties. All Djinn must be housed in breakable containers (see
  ARCANE RULES
  , below) but precautions should always be taken against accidents.
  

Don't

• Manifest your Djinn in public unless first asking it to remain invisible or to take human form.
  
• Abuse your Djinn by asking it to perform unsavory or immoral actions.
  
• Break your Djinn's container UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
  

A
RCANE
R
ULES

• Once Djinn have been assigned a master, they can take orders only from that master, unless the master temporarily assigns control to another Warden for business purposes.
  
• Djinn cannot break their own containers. They are allowed, however, to trick others into destroying these containers, thus freeing them from their services. YOU MUST BEWARE OF THIS AT ALL TIMES. A freed Djinn is a very serious danger to all of us.
  
• Never ask a Djinn for the Three Things Forbidden: eternal life, unlimited power, or raising the dead.
  

E
TIQUETTE

You may begin to develop a certain fondness for your Djinn over time. This is normal and healthy. But never forget that your Djinn is a magical creature of nearly unlimited power and lifespan, and
is not human.
The motivations of Djinn are not always understandable. Never trust them completely.

T
ECHNICAL
S
UPPORT

If you have questions about the day-to-day administration of your Djinn after the initial training period, please contact our 24-hour hot line for assistance. Specialists are on hand at all times for your protection.

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

O
NE

Cloudy and cool, with an 80 percent possibility of moderate to severe thunderstorms by midafternoon.

Well, thank God this is about to be over,
I thought as I drove—well, blew—past the sign that marked the Westchester, Connecticut, city limits. Traffic sucked, not surprisingly; rush hour was still in full swing, and I had to moderate my impatience and ride the brake while I watched for my exit.
Calm down. Things will be back to normal in just a few more minutes.

Okay, so I was a little too optimistic. Also unrealistic, since me and normal have never really been on speaking terms. But, in my defense, I needed all the optimism I could muster right then. I'd been running on adrenaline and bad coffee for more than thirty hours straight. I'd been awake for so long that my eyes felt like they'd been rolled in beach sand and Tabasco sauce. I needed rest. Clean clothes. A shower. Not necessarily in that order.

First, I had to find the guy who was going to save my life.

I found the exit, navigated streets and annoying stoplights until I found the residential neighborhood I was looking for. I checked the scrap of paper in my lap, studied curbside house numbers, and finally pulled the car to a stop in front of a nice Colonial-style home, the kind of place a Realtor would describe as a “nice starter.” It had flame-red tulips planted in mannered rows under the windows, and the lawn looked well behaved, too. Weird. Of all the places I'd have expected to find Lewis Levander Orwell, the most powerful man in the world . . . well, this wasn't it. I mean, suburbia? Hello!

I tapped chipped fingernails on the steering wheel, weighed risks and benefits, and finally popped open the door and stepped out of the car.

The euphoria I'd felt when I was pulling into town vanished as soon as my feet hit solid ground, crushed under a load of exhaustion. Too much stress, too little sleep, too much fear. Speaking of fear . . . I felt wind on the back of my neck, and I turned to look east. A storm loomed like purple mountains' majesty, big cumulonimbus clouds piled on top of each other like a fifty-car interstate pileup. I could feel it noticing me, in the way storms had. No question about it, I needed to be out of Westchester before that thing decided to pounce. I'd been watching storms crawl along the coast, paralleling me all the way from Florida. The nasty part was that it might actually be the same storm, stalking me.

They did that sometimes. It was never good.

Nothing I could do about it right now. I had bigger
issues. Up the concrete walk, up three steps lined with geraniums in terra-cotta pots, to a spacious white front door. I knocked and waited, rocking back and forth on three-inch heels that felt like something from the spring collection of the Spanish Inquisition. Bad planning on my part, but then I'd been expecting a pleasant little business meeting, not a two-day panicked flight cross-country. I looked down at myself and winced; the blue French-cuffed polyester shirt was okay, but the tan skirt was a disaster of car-accordioned linen. Ah well. It would have been nice for Lewis to swoon with desire on seeing me, but I'd definitely settle for him pulling my bacon out of the fire.

Silence. I cupped my hands around my eyes and tried to peer through glass not designed for peering. No movement inside that I could see. With a sinking feeling of disaster, I realized I'd never considered the possibility that my knight in shining armor could be away from the castle.

I knocked on his door once more, squinted through the glass again, and tried the bell. I heard muffled tones echoing through the house, but nothing stirred. The house looked normal.

Normal and very, very empty.

Out where I was, Westchester was enjoying spring sunshine. People walked, kids whooped around on bikes, dogs ran with their tongues hanging out. Inside the house, there was winter silence. I checked the mail slot. Empty. Either he'd been home earlier, or he'd stopped his mail altogether. No papers on the lawn, either.

I considered my options, but really I had only two:
get some idea of where else to look, or lie down and die. I decided to do some scouting. Unfortunately, the grass was damp, and my three-inch heels weren't designed for pathfinding. With some cursing and tripping and excavating myself from spike-heeled holes, I clumped around the house.

The house had that don't-touch-me feeling that indicated strong wards and protections, but I circled it anyway, checking the windows. Yep, wards on every one, good strong ones. The yard was nice and neat as a pin, with the look of being maintained by a service instead of somebody with a passion for plants. Lewis had a very nice workshop in the back, which was devoted half to woodworking, half to magecraft; that half was warded up the wazoo, no way I could do more than just glance in the window before I had to retreat or get zapped.

Powerful stuff. That was good—I desperately needed a powerful guy.

I banged on the back door and squinted in the square of window. Still nothing moving. I could see the living room, decorated in Basic American Normal—looked like everything in it had come out of some upscale catalog. If Lewis lived here, he was a lot more boring than I'd ever imagined.

I had plenty of powerful tricks up my sleeve, but they didn't include breaking and entering. The kind of powers I possessed, over water and wind, could destroy a house but not open a door. I could have summoned a hailstorm—a small one, okay?—to break a couple of windows, but no, that would be wrong and besides, I'd probably get caught because it was pretty showy stuff. So I resorted to human tactics.

I tossed a rock at the window.

Now, I was pretty sure it wasn't going to work, but in a way it did; the rock bounced off some thick invisible rubbery surface about a half inch from the window, and the back door slammed open.

“Yes?” snarled the guy who blocked the doorway. He was big, and I mean
huge
—big, tanned, bald, with two gold earrings that twinkled in the sunny Westchester morning. He was wearing a purple vest with gold embroidery over rippling muscles. I had the impression of dark pants, but I didn't dare look down. Didn't matter, his chest was definitely worth checking out. Pecs of the gods, no kidding.

Just my luck. Lewis had left a Djinn at home—his own personal mystical alarm system.

“Hi,” I said brightly. “Lewis around?”

He scowled. “Who wants to know?”

“Joanne Baldwin.” I held out my hand, palm up; the Djinn passed his palm over mine and read the white runes that glittered in its path. “We're friends. Me and Lewis go way back.”

“Never heard of you,” he said brusquely. Djinn are not known for their chatty nature, or their sunny disposition. In fact, they're known for being difficult to handle and—if they don't like you—fully capable of finding some sneaky way to do you in. Not that I was an expert, exactly; Djinn were reserved for bigger fish than me, sort of the equivalent of a company car perk in the Wardens Association. I didn't even rate a reserved parking space yet.

The Djinn was still staring at me. “Go now,” he rumbled.

I stood my ground. Well, it was really his ground,
but I stood it anyway. “Sorry, can't. I need to talk to Lewis. Urgently.”

“He is not here. Being that you are a Warden, I won't kill you for your lack of manners.” He started to close the door.

“Wait!” I slapped my hand—coincidentally, the one with the rune—flat against the wood. It wasn't my upper body strength that made him hesitate, that's for sure. Even Mr. Universe couldn't have held a door against a Djinn, much less a five-foot-five woman with more attitude than body mass. “When will he be back?”

The Djinn just stared at me. Djinn eyes are colors not found in the human genome, specially formulated to produce maximum intimidation. Some of them are citrine yellow, some bright fluorescent green, and they're all scary. This guy's were a purple that Elizabeth Taylor would have envied. Beautiful, and cold as the colors in arctic ice.

“Look, I need to find him,” I said. “I need his help. There are lives at stake here.”

“Yes?” He hadn't blinked. “Whose lives?”

“Well, mine, anyway,” I amended, and tried for a sheepish grin. He returned the smile, and I wished he hadn't; it revealed perfect white teeth that would have looked more appropriate on a great white shark.

“You stink of corruption,” he said. “I will not help you.”

“That's up to your master, isn't it?” I shot back. “Come on, he knows me! Just ask him. I know you can. He wouldn't leave you here without any way to
contact him. Not even Lewis goes around abandoning Djinn like disposable pens.”

The purple eyes were really, really getting on my nerves. I could feel the Djinn's power burning my skin where my hand touched the door, another spiteful tactic to get me to let go so he could slam it shut and ward me clear out to the street. There's nothing stronger than a Djinn on its home territory. Nothing.

The pain in my hand got worse. Smoke rose from my hand where it pressed against the white-painted wood door, and my whole body shook from nausea and reaction. But I didn't let go.

“Illusion,” I stammered. The Djinn was still grinning. “Don't waste my time.”

“My powers could not touch a true Warden,” he said. “If you burn, you burn because you deserve it.”

All right, I'd had about enough of playing with Mr. Clean gone bad. I took my hand away from the door and held it up.

The world breathed around me.

I might have stunk of corruption, but I still commanded the wind, and it slammed into the Djinn with force of a speeding Volkswagen. Djinn are essentially vapor.

I blew him away.

He was gone for about a half-second, and then he re-formed, looking ready to pull my brain out through my nostrils. So I hit him again. And again. The last time, he re-formed very slowly all the way across the room, looking pissed off but respectful. I hadn't made the mistake of setting foot across his threshold, so he couldn't strike back. All his awesome power—
and it was truly awesome—was useless. So long as I didn't break the wards, I could stand out there all day and toss microbursts and katabatic gusts.

The Djinn muttered something unpleasant. I held my hand up again. A strong breeze shoved my hair around, and I felt the warm tingle that meant I had at least one more good Djinn-blasting gust at my command.

“I really, really don't have time to dick around with you,” I said. “Give him my name. Tell him I need to see him. Or else.”

“No one threatens me!” he growled.

“I'm not threatening, sweet pea.” I could feel the white runes on my hand glowing. My dark hair whipped around my face in the wind, which I kept coiling around me, building tornadic speed. “Want to bet I can blow you all the way into a teeny little open bottle and stick a cork in you?”

“You know not what you are doing,” he said, more quietly.

“Wrong, I know exactly what I'm doing. Want another practical demonstration?”

He held up one hand in the universal language of surrender. I let the wind swirl and die. The Djinn reached over and picked up something from the table, and it took me a few seconds to realize it was a cell phone. Good God, the Djinn had entered the age of technology. Next thing you know, a satellite dish in every bottle, broadband Internet, microwave ovens . . .

The Djinn punched numbers, said something, and turned away from me while he talked. I had the leisure to examine the back of a Djinn, which is something you rarely do. He had a nice ass, but his legs
ended in a swirl of vapor somewhere around knee level. Still, not a disappointment.

He finished the call, turned back, and bared pointed teeth at me.
Uh-oh,
I thought.

“Come inside,” he invited. “No harm will come to you.”

“I'll wait out here, thanks.” I rocked back and forth. My feet felt like somebody had set them on fire from the soles up, and the couch in the living room looked cushy and inviting. I wished the Djinn hadn't started being nice. It was harder to maintain my tough-as-nails bitchy attitude, especially when I wanted to cry and curl up in a ball on those nice, soft cushions.

“Suit yourself.” The Djinn turned away to root around in some drawers in the kitchen. He came up with a battery, scowled at it, and threw it back. A corkscrew. One of those clippy things for opened bags of chips. “Ah! Here. Take this.”

He tossed something shiny at me. I caught it and felt a flash of cold, something sharp turning in my fingers, and then I was holding nothing but an expanding breath of mist. I opened my hand and stared down. Nothing to show for it but a faint red mark on my palm. I frowned at it and extended a tingle of Oversight, but there was nothing there. Nothing harmful, anyway.

“What the hell is it?” I asked.

The Djinn shrugged. “A precaution,” he said. Sharp-toothed grin again, very unsettling. “In case you lose your way.”

Before I could offer a polite thanks-but-no-thanks, I felt the steel psychic slam of wards coming up to
full strength. The Djinn was evidently done screwing around with me, even as a diversion.