Heat Stroke (27 page)

We tumbled down, fast, still locked together. She was still feeding off of me.

We slammed down onto something hard and unyielding, and I realized I'd been made flesh again, sans tacky French Maid getup; I was wearing a long pale robe instead, something soft and cool and with a texture like silk.

It was the mirror image of what the woman kneeling astride me was wearing, only hers was a blinding white where mine was a soft cream.

Sara had regained her form. At least for the moment. She was breathing hard, eyes wide and a little wild, and the dull flush in her cheeks could have been exhilaration or post-traumatic stress. Her claws were still sunk deep into my chest, and I could see the pale steady fire of my lifeforce running up through them, into her.

“Get off!” I managed to say, and batted at her weakly. She pulled the claws out, looking stunned and still maniacally excited, and stood up as I rolled over on my side. Oh
God
. I felt a wave of pure nausea
and spat out blue sparks. They were sparkling all over Sara, too, but she didn't seem to feel any ill effects from them. In fact, the sparks were going
into
her, not being rejected.

I'd never felt so frail and sick in my life—human or Djinn. I lay full length on the cool, silky wood floor, struggling to keep myself together, and heard footsteps from the other room.

Ah, perfect. Jonathan. She'd brought me to Jonathan.

He looked down at me with those cool, dark, judging eyes, then bent over and picked me up. Paused when he saw Sara standing there, looking unearthly and beautiful and unhealthily stuffed with energy.

“You,” he said. Not welcoming, not unwelcoming, and not surprised. “Stay here.”

I liked being held in a man's arms again, feeling the strength against me. It made me feel safe, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. I tried to pay attention, but it was all just flashes and impressions—a hallway, a glimpse of a kitchen, what looked like photos on the wall, an open darkened doorway. Lights flipped on as he carried me in. The softness of a bed sucked me down.

Jonathan looked down at me, and I was surprised to see something in his eyes that might have been respect. “You made it,” he said. “How'd you know where to go?”

“Didn't,” I murmured. “Ifrit.”

He nodded. “Yeah, she would.” He took hold of my arm and ran both hands down it, like a coach giving a therapeutic massage; warmth cascaded
back into me, silent and luminous. Life, coursing through me.

His hands moved on to my left arm, squeezed in energy. Then my legs, right, then left. The steady warm pressure of his hands lulled me into a half-dream.

Over on my back. Somehow my clothes were gone. Hands on my back, working down the muscles, healing.

“What are you?” I whispered. I felt Jonathan's presence like the sun behind me. His fingers were no longer pressing my skin, then were inside of me, touching deep.

He never answered.

 

I woke up warm and comfortable, with a soft feather pillow under my head and no memory at all of going to sleep. No dreams, either. The sheets smelled faintly of sandalwood, and they were crisp and cool on my bare skin. The room didn't look familiar. It featured a honey-warm wooden chest of drawers, massively carved, and a couple of paintings of space and the stars that looked vivid enough to be windows into infinity. A bookcase, loaded with hardbacks of all shapes, sizes, and colors. A bedside table with another lamp, currently off.

Lying on the rug next to the side of the bed, like a dog curled up for the night, was an Ifrit. It gleamed black in the shadows, and as I stared down at it, it raised its head and grinned at me with black needle teeth. I felt a wave of horror, a flash of dream come to life.
Sara?

If it was, what I'd given her hadn't been enough to keep her in Djinn form for long. And I'd given her so much—almost everything I had. The Ifrit put its head back down again, curled its long, vaguely human form into a tighter coil, and relaxed. Guard dog? If so, I had no idea how to call her off. Or even if I should.

“Hello?” I tried a tentative whisper, and slid up to a sitting position in the bed. The Ifrit didn't twitch. I kept an eye on it and cranked the volume up a notch. “Anybody?”

The bedroom door framed a moving shadow. Light silhouetted a tall male figure, and for a frozen, relieved second I thought
David!,
but then he moved into the warm glow of the table lamp and it was Jonathan. He had his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, looking casual in pose but not in body language. His dark eyes were too bright and too focused.

He didn't so much as glance at the Ifrit. I found that interesting. The Ifrit raised its head and sniffed at him, climbed to its feet and stalked around him in a circle.

Jonathan kept watching me, though he reached over and patted the Ifrit on the head. It flopped down, elegance etched in darkness, and I felt it watching him with something like adoration.

“So?” he asked me. I rubbed one bare arm and found gooseflesh popping up, courtesy of a slight chill in the air, or maybe his presence.

“Well, I'm not coming apart,” I said. “Gotta be an improvement.”

He nodded. “Came close, though.”

“I figured.” I cleared my throat. “Um . . . how many others made it here?” He just looked at me for a long few seconds, and I asked the question I dreaded. “Rahel? Did she make it?”

He dropped into a crouch next to the bed. I held the sheet up as a modesty cover, but didn't particularly worry about it if he decided to check the side view. He didn't. Quite. “No. How much do you know?”

“Not too damn much.”

“Okay.” He put his bare hand on my bare shoulder, drawing a fresh shiver out of me, but once again I got the therapeutic touch, nothing personal. “You're clear. You can get up now.”

He turned his back, not as if he was intent on giving me some kind of personal space, more as if he deeply didn't care whether or not I was naked; I formed clothes as I got up, anyway. Blue denim jeans, work shirt, sturdy boots. They seemed appropriate, here.

“What about David?” I asked.

“You tell me.” His back was still turned; he was pulling things out of the bookcase, restlessly flipping pages. Something to do with his hands. There was so much repressed energy in him, I wondered how he survived here, stuck in this house, unable to leave. He didn't seem to be someone with a peaceful interior life. “He enjoying himself? Having a good old time with the Widder Prentiss?”

Sarcasm thick enough to spread like manure. I heard the pain underneath, though. And remembered the dream. “I didn't want him to do that. I would have stopped it if I could have.”

“Yeah, well, not always about what
you
want. Or any of us, for that matter.” He shoved the book back in place with unnecessary violence and turned to face me, arms folded across his chest. Forbidding, that was the word for the expression on his face. Flint-hard eyes. Lips in a straight, unsympathetic line. Anything I said would sound whiny and self-pitying, so I said nothing. Just looked at him. He finally transferred the stare down to his black Doc Martens. “I notice you managed to get away. Maybe you'll be of some use. We can always use some good solid cannon fodder.”

“No wonder humans don't become Djinn very often,” I replied. “What with your incredible recruitment efforts.”

Jonathan's lips twitched. It might have been a smile, but he didn't let me see it to be sure. “Yeah, well, you get set in your ways after the first couple of millennia or so. Sorry if we haven't made you feel like one of the boys.”

I elected not to get into the gender-specific arguments. “Does she still have him?”

“Madame de Sade? Oh yeah.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, arms still folded.

“And . . .”

He looked up. “You want details?” The tone could have frozen mercury. “Should've stuck around. Could've been part of the whole experience. I'm sure he would've
loved
for you to see it.”

Oh, he was so angry . . . showing none of it in his blank expression, but the raw cutting edges of it came through.

“Rahel is on her way,” he said. “She went to run an errand for me.”

“But you know how dangerous—”

He held up a cautioning finger. “Don't. Don't do that. You want to stay on my good side, Jo, let's get something straight.
Never
remind me of the obvious. And
never
assume I didn't notice it.”

He turned and started for the door. I called a question after him. “How bad is it? Out there in the aetheric?”

“Come with me,” he said, and disappeared down the hall. I followed. “While you were sleeping, you've missed the party.”

 

I was unprepared for a living room full of people. There were at least thirty or forty crowded in. Djinn of every size, shape, description, color, and dressed in every conceivable style. Some evidently had a whole god complex going; the silks and satins were way over the top, not to mention the jewelry. It made Rahel's traditionally neon color scheme look positively corporate.

Jonathan carved an easy path through the crowd and stood next to the fireplace, watching the jockeying for position; when he caught sight of me standing at the back, he jerked his head in a
come here
gesture that had nothing to do with concern. More like he wanted to keep his enemies close. I grabbed wall space at his shoulder and tried to look insignificant, which turned out to be difficult, since I was drawing stares and whispers. Jonathan held up his hands for quiet. Instant obedience.

“This is Joanne,” he said, and pointed a thumb in my direction.

A tanned, fit-looking guy in what looked like a hand-tailored suit and iron gray tie looked me over with eyes of a pure, unsettling teal color. “She doesn't belong here.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Jonathan said, but in a tone that didn't invite anyone to actually try. “Right. Here's the thing. We're what's left.”

A short, pregnant silence. “What?” someone in the back ventured, looking around. Adding up numbers. “So few?”

“So many lost?” An alarmed, high-pitched voice from up front, I didn't see who. “Impossible!”

“I didn't say they were lost. I know right where they are,” Jonathan said. “Just can't get to them right now. Most are in their bottles, waiting it out. Some . . . some got trapped on the aetheric. Some can't hold themselves together anymore because of the—what'd you call it?” He turned to me.

“Coldlight. Sparklies. Fairy dust.”

“Right. That stuff.” He looked back at the audience, face bland and notably free of panic. “Which is coming out of the rift.”

Gray Suit said, “Then someone must go up and close the rift.”

If the previous silence had been pregnant, this one was stillborn. They all looked at each other. Jonathan waited. I finally raised my hand, very slowly. “Um . . . can I say something?”

He looked over his shoulder at me, did a double take, and half turned my way. “I don't know, can you?”

Great. A grammar teacher, on top of everything else. “Sorry. May I?”

“Sure.”

“Lewis sent me to seal the rift. I tried, but it didn't hold.”

Nobody spoke, but a ripple went through the room, like an electric charge rolling between contact points. Polarizing. Jonathan broke the silence in a deliberately soft voice. “You
tried
? Great. Amateur hour. Lewis should have known better. Probably made things a hundred times worse.”

“He tried to get some of
you
to help,” I shot back. “But I understand you had a gut shortage around here that day.”

Yeah, that wasn't smart, but I was tired and cranky and Jonathan was pissing me off, what with all the sarcasm. The room seemed to shudder with disapproval.

Surprisingly, Jonathan didn't seem to take offense. He swept me from head to toe, giving me a new appraisal.

“That the new you?” he asked.

“Old me,” I said. “Getting sick of being politically correct.”

“I like it. Now shut up.” He turned back to the assembled Djinn, who were agitated enough that I was surprised we didn't have spontaneous firestarting. “The ones who are trapped out on the aetheric are in trouble. The ones who can't hold themselves together anymore may be dead. We need to do this fast, do it well, and then make sure the Wardens don't screw it up even worse than they usually do.”

“Which means what, exactly?” Gray Suit again.
“That we clean up after them, as we always do? Let the humans stand responsible for their crimes. Let them clear the aetheric.”

He wasn't much impressed by Jonathan, which I thought was interesting, given the extreme respect the rest of them seemed to accord him. Gray Suit had a pale complexion, sharp hatchet-faced bones, and gave off a sense of ruthless energy. I'd still put my money on Jonathan, if it came to a showdown, but I wouldn't have given generous odds, either.

“Yeah. We'll just hang out here, watching our own people die. That's a hell of a plan, Ashan. Right up there with your best.” He punctuated it with a friendly
I have an idea!
gesture. “Tell you what.
You
go out and tell them we're going to let them die.”

“More of us die if we go out there,” Ashan said without blinking. He had the no-blinking thing down. “But then you seem not to worry about that. Since you, of course, never leave the safety of your nest.”

Silence. Most of the Djinn were studying Jonathan. Jonathan stared at Ashan.

“Um . . .” I tried to make it sound deferential, but I wasn't sure I succeeded. “Shouldn't we find out who opened the rip in the first place?” Jonathan fixed me with a look dire enough to qualify as neurosurgery without anesthetic. Naturally, it didn't stop me. “Well, isn't it a good question? I mean,
somebody
ripped it open. Somebody with a lot of power and not enough conscience. Was it a Djinn?”