Thea Harrison - Oracle's Moon

He had so very many connections. His call would be answered. Djinn would appear like meteorites that slammed into the ground to became tall, shining figures. Tens of Djinn, then scores, then hundreds. Their numbers would be dotted with a few rare figures that shone with a radiance that was especially piercing. She had recognized one of them.

Soren, the Elder tribunal Councillor for the Demonkind and a first-generation Djinn.

That would be the beginning of the end for her and Khalil. Soren would slash the fragile hair from which the sword hung. And the sword would fall and slice them apart. If they were to have a chance at any time together, Khalil couldn’t send out that call.

His Power compressed in readiness. She grabbed his arm. “ No! You mustn’t. Khalil, please don’t.”

He looked down at her, his expression hard, as the wind howled around them. “Tell me one reason why I should not.”

She projected all the urgency and conviction she could into her voice, because she could tell his attention was already slipping away from her.

“Because if you do that, we may never see each other again after today.”

He stared at her. If anything the howling wind worsened as his expression turned cold and remote. For a terrible moment she thought he had already slipped away emotionally and she really had lost him. She started howling inside a little bit, too.

Then he pivoted in a circle, spitting curses savagely. She watched him, her gut in a twist. He seemed to reach out and grasp his rampaging Power and haul it forcibly back under his control. She had to lean hard on the cane as her muscles shook.

She whispered to the quieting storm, “Thank you.”

He spun back to her. “That is what you saw,” he said. “Earlier.”

Her attention dropped from his incandescent eyes. He held himself so tightly, the clenched muscles in his biceps twitched. She tried to speak in a way that might be calming to an adult, not to a small child. It wasn’t something she was good at. “That’s one of the things I saw, yes.”

He inhaled, shuddered, and the maelstrom of energy pulled back into his body. “Okay,” he said as he strode over to her. “What do you think we should do?”

She had just realized her car was no longer in the driveway. She cocked her head, looking around. The Honda was tilted on its driver’s side several yards away, by the road. She wondered if the car would be drivable if they tilted it back over and added it to the list of things to do as Khalil joined her.

“We can’t create an inter-demesne incident,” she said. “If you call Djinn to help hunt down the people who did this, that’s what would happen.”

“The sanctuary law is an inter-demesne law,” he snapped.

“Yes— inter-demesne law. Not Djinn law. No matter how tempting it is, don’t send Djinn swarming all over Kentucky, because nobody will react well to that. We have to work with the witches’ demesne. Offer help. This has to be justice, not revenge. We need to talk to Isalynn LeFevre. After that…” Her voice trailed away as visions threatened to take her over again, and she drifted, lost in a tangle of thought and shifting possibilities.

He gripped her shoulder. “After that, what?” he prompted, watching her with close attention.

Once again his firm touch anchored her back in her body. She gave him a grim smile. “We’ll have to see where we are after that.”

Suddenly Ebrahim stood right beside them. “The Oracle’s life may still be in danger. I will go with you and help to protect her.”

Khalil’s eyebrows rose. “I will not allow anything to happen to her. But if you wish to add your presence, that is acceptable.”

Grace had jerked back at the other Djinn’s sudden appearance. “You’ve got to stop doing that!” she said to Ebrahim. “Pretend I’m surrounded by a ten-foot bubble, and you can only materialize outside it. Then walk toward me.”

Ebrahim contemplated her, curiosity in his radiant gaze. He said finally, “As you wish.”

Khalil asked her, “Are you ready?”

“Almost,” she said.

She turned to face the house. It looked undisturbed from the driveway, even peaceful. She had lived her whole life in that house. She had played jacks on the porch and kissed her first boyfriend at the front door. While she went to college, she had daydreamed about getting a place of her own one day. Once she had been excited at the thought of leaving home—but that excitement was with the understanding that home was always going to be there for her to come back to when she needed it.

With Khalil close behind her, she walked inside. The sight of the black ruin that had been the back of the house punched her. The blast had taken out not only the kitchen, but the portion of the second floor above it. That meant the bathroom and probably the back bedroom—her bedroom—was gone as well. The living room was not unscathed either. The force of the explosion had blown furniture across the room and broken lamps and picture frames.

She found her purse under the bookcase, which had been knocked over. Khalil lifted the bookcase so she could pull her purse out. She looked for the black, spiral-bound phone book and finally found it between the upended coffee table and a wall. Some pages were creased, some torn. Her grandmother had written some of those numbers. So had Petra. Grace smoothed the book shut, tucked it carefully in her purse and set it to one side.

Afterward she turned and stared at the remains of the kitchen table. Nausea roiled. She and the kids would have been sitting right there. Beside her, Khalil stood quietly with every appearance of patience, but his tall form felt compressed and dangerous.

A cyclone arrived in the middle of the chaotic living room. Grace recognized the Djinn. It was Ismat, wearing a male form, his arms wrapped around Therese from behind, one hand clapped over the witch’s mouth. Therese’s gaze darted around at the devastation. She appeared frozen in horror.

Ismat gave Khalil a fierce smile. “Therese is part of a secret coven that belongs to an anti–Elder Races political group.”

“The Humanist Party,” said Khalil. He sounded ice-cold. “They support Jaydon Guthrie.”

“Yes. The coven is broken into three cells. Therese only knows the identities of the witches in her cell, like Brandon Miller. She might not have known why Miller wanted to discover if Isalynn LeFevre had contacted Grace, but she knows enough to have made some educated guesses.”

Grace asked, “Which are?”

Ismat looked at her. “The coven’s real target is Isalynn. Therese isn’t clear on what the coven leader plans to do, other than remove Isalynn from power.”

Grace started to shake. She had lost count of how many times she had lost her temper in the last twenty-four hours, and whoopsie-daisy, it was starting to skip out on her again. “How does this involve us?”

“The Oracle’s prophesies are too unpredictable, too dangerous. All it would take is the right question or the right prophecy for everything the coven is working toward to be uncovered.” Ismat’s smile had disappeared, replaced with an expression of dark sympathy. “Therese knows how to do some interesting things with sympathetic magic,” he said. “For example, if you made a poppet of a truck driver and timed things just right, you might be able to control his driving long enough on a rainy night to radically change his course.…”

When Ismat said “truck driver” a formless roar filled Grace’s ears. She whispered, “Let go of her.”

Ismat raised his hands immediately. The twin investigators formed on either side as he stepped back from Therese. Khalil moved behind Grace while Ebrahim joined the group. The two women stood in a circle made up of watchful, waiting Djinn.