Windfall (14 page)

I used to have that. I missed that. My hair was curling again. Not that it would matter under the Sunny Suit.

“So,” she said. “Tell me all about him.”

“Stalker guy?”

“No, idiot. David.” Cherise weaved in and out of steady traffic, keeping us in the shade of big trucks. She waved at a cop car as she passed it. The cop winked and waved back. “How'd you meet him?”

“Taking a cross-country trip,” I said. Which was true. “He was on his way west. I gave him a ride.”

She let out a high-pitched squeal. “Oh my
God,
was he hitching? 'Cause all the guys I see hitching are three weeks out of safe-hygiene zone, not to mention all skanky-haired and not cute.”

“I gave him a ride,” I continued, with wounded dignity, “and he helped me out with some trouble. We just sort of—clicked.”

“I'll bet it wasn't so much a click as a bump . . . never mind. So where's he from? What does he do? I mean, I'm assuming he's not a homeless guy wandering the streets . . .”

“No, he's—” Man, how had I gotten into this conversation? “He's a musician.” That was nearly always safe. No visible means of support, odd hours, weird habits. Ergo, musician. “He plays gigs here and there. So he's in and out. He's not always around.”

“Bummer. Then again, it's tough to get tired of them when they're not hanging around farting on the couch and complaining about the Lifetime channel. Is he hot in bed? I'll bet he's hot.”

“Cher—”

“Yeah, I know, I know. But still. Hot. Right? C'mon, Jo, throw me a fantasy bone, here. You
know
half the fun of having a hottie boyfriend is bragging.”

I smiled. “I'm not complaining.”

“And look, I die. Thank you very much.” Cherise suddenly eased off the gas. I opened my eyes and looked at the road; traffic was slowing up ahead. “Oh, dammit. Wouldn't you know? Two miles to go, and what the hell is this . . . ?”

Traffic was stopped heading up onto the overpass. As in,
stopped,
all lanes screeching rubber. Cherise came to a halt, put the car in park, and eased herself up in the seat to try to catch a look. People were bailing from their cars to point.

I popped the door and got out to stand and gawk like everybody else.

There was a guy standing on the railing of the bridge, clearly about to go over to his death and splash on the concrete below. Okay, that was clearly bad.

But it really was way, way worse than anyone else could possibly know. I realized almost instantly that nobody else there was seeing what I was seeing.

There were Djinn fighting over him.

There were two of them, facing off against each other. One of them was instantly recognizable to me—little pinafore-wearing, blond-haired, straight-out-of-the-storybooks Alice, who'd done me a few favors back in Oklahoma. She looked sweet and innocent, except for the nuclear fire in her blue eyes. Regardless of appearances—which in Djinn were notoriously unreliable—she was right up there in the don't-mess-with-me rankings. I liked her, and so far as I know she didn't dislike me, but that didn't make her a friend, exactly. You don't make friends with the top predator when you're below her on the food chain. You just enjoy not being on the menu.

Alice was standing between the stopped cars and the side of the bridge, staring up. The poor bastard on the railing—who in my view was looking less like a suicidal maniac than a pawn in a high-stakes card game—was teetering
on
the narrow rail itself and, to most eyes, he probably looked as if he was precariously balanced in midair; in actuality, his arm was being held in a viselike grip by another Djinn who was standing up there with him.

I recognized her, too—I'd nicknamed her Prada, once upon a time, because she had a pretty sharp fashion sense, but she was looking a little the worse for wear right now. The fine designer jacket was torn, the crisp white shirt stained, and whatever jewelry she'd been affecting was long gone. The look was, well, feral would be one word for it. She was glaring at Alice, who by contrast looked unruffled and altogether too clean to have been in a grudge match, although that was obviously what was going on.

I'd arrived just in time for Act III of an ongoing drama. And possibly a tragedy.

Even if the cops arrived, they weren't going to be able to handle this.

“Um . . . stay here,” I said to Cherise, and moved around the stopped cars, heading for Alice.

“Hey! What are you doing?” She bailed out on the driver's side. “Do you know that guy?”

“Just stay here!” I barked, and I guess the ring of command must have come through; Cherise stopped where she was, watching me as I moved carefully toward the railing.

Something she said made me think. The guy up there did look vaguely familiar, but no, I wasn't sure I knew him. But there was something . . .

He fixed on me. Like recognizing like. He stopped flailing with his free right hand for balance and held it out to me. Palm exposed.

And I saw the swift, silver glitter of a glyph.

He was a Warden.

Prada, balanced on the railing with the ease of a hawk on a high wire, shook him violently for moving without permission. His feet scrabbled for purchase on the slick metal and he yelped, face gone pale and blank with strain.

Alice suddenly flicked that nuclear-hot stare in my direction, and there was nothing childlike in those eyes.

“You shouldn't be here,” she said to me.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I'm not thrilled about it either.”

“
This
is what you bring as reinforcements?” That was Prada, indulging in a sneer while Alice's attention was elsewhere. I wouldn't have, if I'd been her, but then, I wouldn't have been stupid enough to get into the fight in the first place. Alice was definitely not a power you wanted to mess with. “This
human
?”

Prada had killed me once. Well, temporarily. And to be fair, she'd been under orders to do it, since she was enslaved to a master—speaking of which, no sign of her hit man Warden boss. Which made me both happy and nervous.

Alice didn't so much as look at Prada, just shifted her weight slightly in the other Djinn's direction, and I felt the aetheric swirling in new, scary ways. Oh, this was way ugly, and bound to get worse. Wardens having at it with their powers was bad for humanity at large; Djinn had the potential to be far, far worse.

Why were they fighting? And more importantly, what were they fighting over?

And wait . . .
reinforcements
? That sounded bad. That sounded like Prada might have help coming. Did Free Djinn fight in public like this? I'd never heard of it happening before.

Especially not with a Warden as the chew-toy between two attack dogs.
That,
I would have heard of.

“I didn't call for help,” Alice said, in that sweet little-girl voice. “I don't need any. One last chance. Let him go.”

Prada gave her a mocking little laugh and jerked the Warden off balance again. All she had to do was open her hand. It was a good long ways down to an ugly, bone-crunching impact on the busy freeway below. Alice didn't move; it was possible, given the power balance, that there was nothing she could do that wouldn't kill the hostage caught in the middle.

“Alice, what's going on?” I asked.

“Who's Alice?” Cherise asked, craning her neck. She'd ventured over to stand next to me. “That guy's named Alice? Hope it's his last name.”

“Shut up and go back to the car!” I practically yelled it at her. She winced and danced backward, holding up her hands in surrender.

This was out of control, and it was very, very dangerous. Prada and Alice couldn't unleash anything like a full-scale Djinn war here; there were way too many innocent people in range. They could bring down this whole bridge. There was no way I could protect against that.

“This isn't your fight,” Alice said to me. Her attention was riveted on Prada, on the man Prada was holding. “Leave. You'll draw their attention if you interfere.”

“Me? Wait . . .
their
attention? Who are you talking about? Alice, talk to me! What the hell's happening?”

I could feel Cherise looking at me strangely, since I was apparently having a conversation with thin air. I couldn't worry about that right now.

“Go!” Alice said sharply, and I felt a sudden push on the aetheric. She meant business. “I can't protect you. Stay away from us.”

I was liking the sound of this less and less. “Not until I know what's going on with you guys.”

She made a growling sound. It was
really
unsettling, because so far as I'd ever noticed, Alice in Wonderland hadn't been big on growling like a rabid animal.

The growl broke off as if somebody had pulled the switch on it, and she swiveled away from me to survey the general area. “Too late,” she said. “They're here.”

As I turned, I saw the
other
Djinn. Four of them, misting into visibility at strategic points in the crowd. She was outnumbered. Probably not outclassed, but still.

“You have to stop,” Alice said, turning back to Prada. “He'll forgive you for what you've done, but you must stop now. No more.”

Prada sank her flawlessly polished talons deeper into the Warden's left arm, and pulled him off balance again. He teetered desperately, struggling to stay alive. I could hear his gasps even over the shouts of the onlookers, trying to talk him down. They, of course, were operating under the assumption that he was crazy, and could choose to do something on his own. Could save himself.

I knew better.

Around me, the four new Djinn were closing in. Slowly. They seemed to be either cautious about Alice's abilities, or enjoying themselves. Maybe both.

This didn't make any sense. Djinn didn't bring their fights into the human world like this, not so publicly. And a Warden trapped in the middle, a tender morsel between tigers . . . no, this wasn't good at all. Things were shifting. I could feel that, even if I didn't know why it was happening.

Prada was aiming a cold, hard, inhuman smile at Alice.

“You should run, little one,” she purred. “I promise not to chase you.”

“I'm not running,” Alice said. “You started the fight. You should be prepared to carry it all the way.”

“I am.”

“Then leave the man out of it. He doesn't matter.”

“Of course he matters!” Prada gave her a contemptuous look. The Warden's feet slipped, and he flailed for balance, anchored by Prada's ruthless grip. The crowd of spectators who'd gathered gasped. A trucker leaned out the door of his semi, open-mouthed.

I didn't have a lot of time. I could hear the wail of sirens approaching; the cops would be here soon, and God only knew what that would mean.

Alice folded her hands together and watched. Wind ruffled her cornsilk-smooth hair, fluttered the sky blue dress and white pinafore. She was straight out of Lewis Carroll, but when I focused on the adult strength in that child's face, I could see something older, stronger, and far scarier than anything out of the Looking Glass.

Prada had made her angry. That was probably a really, really stupid move.

“That guy's gonna jump,” Cherise murmured softly from behind me. “Oh my God. Oh my God . . .”

The four other Djinn—had to be allies of Prada—were stalking closer. Alice suddenly made her move, lashing out with an explosive flare of power. It hit Prada, looped around her, and attempted to jerk her and her hostage off of the railing and onto the relative safety of the bridge, but it backfired. Prada, straining to counter it, nearly went over instead. Alice immediately dropped the attack when the Warden screamed in panic.

With all the power she had, she was helpless to do anything without endangering innocent lives. She needed help.

I had no idea whether Alice was on the right or wrong side in this, but at least she wasn't the one holding a guy over a three-story drop.

I considered my options, and decided on something relatively risky. Djinn are, essentially, vapor in their atomic structure; they can increase their weight and give themselves the corresponding mass, but just now I figured that Prada was more interested in keeping her balance than having true human form. A human appearance was doing the job, for her purposes. She didn't need the actual reality.

All I needed to do was hit her from behind with a powerful wind gust, enough to break her grip on the guy she was holding, and at the same time tip him backward and encourage him to hop down onto the concrete again.

Simple. Relatively elegant. And a hell of a lot better than waiting for the Djinn Deathmatch to turn up a winner.

I closed my eyes, took a fast, deep breath, and reached out for control of the air around me.

And missed.

I gasped and reached farther, stretched. Felt a faint stirring come to me. A stiff breeze. Nothing nearly strong enough.
Oh my God
 . . . I felt clumsy, drugged, imprecise. Horribly impaired. I fought my way up onto the aetheric, feeling like I was swimming against a flood tide, and when I arrived everything was gray, dimmed, distant. Gray as ash.

It was like what had happened to me over breakfast with Sarah and Eamon, only far worse.

I buckled down and went deep, all the way deep, into reserves I hadn't called on since I'd survived the Demon Mark. Pulled energy out of my cells to fire the furnace of power inside. Pulled every scrap of power I had and threw it into the mix . . .

And it wasn't enough. I could bring the wind but I couldn't control it. It would be worse than useless, it would hit with the force of a tornado and swirl uncontrollably, throw the man's fragile human body onto the concrete and that would
be my fault
 . . .

Prada sensed I was doing something. She snarled and extended her free hand toward me, talons outstretched and gleaming, and it was déjà vu all over again. I could
feel
her reaching into my chest to take hold of my pounding heart. She wouldn't even have to work hard to kill me; it would be a simple matter of disrupting the electrical impulses running through nerves, just a quick jolt . . .