Rachel Caine: Gale Force

That, I thought, would be a full-time job. Following the Djinn problems of the past year, a lot of Wardens had simply . . . vanished. Most of them were dead, killed in the fighting, but some had slipped away, knowing that we didn’t have time to track down every name on the list. It’d take years to round up any rogue agents out there.

“I’m pulling in Silverton,” I said. “He’s our best option for handling this thing, if it’s radioactive. If I need anybody else, I’ll let you know.”

“Yeah, you do that. And kid?”

“Yeah, Paul?”

“You sure about this wedding thing? Really sure?”

I knew that Paul, once upon a time, had harbored ambitions in the direction of me in his bed, and I’d been kind of willing to contemplate it. But all that had changed, and he was gentleman enough to acknowledge it. Under the exterior of a badass Mafia scion beat the heart of a very sweet man—if you could overlook all the cursing.

“I’m sure,” I said softly. “I love him, Paul.”

He didn’t sound impressed. “You know what he is.”

There it was again, that thread of darkness, that almost-prejudice. “Yes, I know what he is. He’s someone who’s saved my life more times than I can count. He’s someone who’s put his own life on the line not just for me but for the Wardens and all of humanity. I know exactly what he is. And who he is.”

Awkward silence, and then, “Fuck, babe, I’ve gotta run. We’re good, right?”

“We’re good,” I said. “Kisses.”

I said it to a humming disconnected signal. Paul was already gone, off to the next crisis. I finished up at my desk, closed the laptop, and sat back to think.

The Sentinels. That had an amateurish ring to it, but who was I to judge? Lewis had started the Ma’at, a separate Warden-like organization, when he’d been just out of college, and that had turned out to be a useful thing—the Ma’at took in people without enough talent to be Wardens, but more than the average human, and paired them up with Djinn volunteers. They worked on the theory of additive power— forming chains of people and Djinn in order to amplify and direct power that otherwise wouldn’t be strong enough to make a difference.

The Sentinels didn’t sound like they had a new idea, just a difference of political opinion. They were anti-Djinn. Well, that shouldn’t have come as a shock; enough Wardens had been hurt or killed in the troubles with the Djinn to make some kind of backlash inevitable. I just hadn’t thought it would be so fast, or so decisive. I’d never thought that it would come down to reasonable, responsible people doing something like causing unnecessary loss of life.

One thing was certain: Whether it was a good idea or not for David to be involved in this investigation about the black knife, it was going to have to happen. I needed him to know about the anti-Djinn movement, and I needed a Djinn to try to analyze the history of the black knife and tell me where it came from, who made it, who planted it, and how to remove it.

It was logical, all right.

I just had a sinking feeling that it was exactly the wrong thing to do.

According to the checklist I’d downloaded from the Internet, I was already running about six months behind on planning any decent kind of wedding that didn’t involve shotguns and pissed-off dads. As I waited in the Fort Lauderdale airport for Warden Silverton’s plane, I read over the printed bridal list and anxiously jotted notes in the margins. Some things I just marked out. I wasn’t fooling with wedding advisors, wedding consultants, or wedding planners; none of them would be equipped to deal with the complexities of the wedding of a Warden and a Djinn, anyway. And if they were, they’d be way, way too expensive.

Clergy. Now that was something I did have to think about. Unless we went for a civil ceremony . . . Hmmm. Maybe one of the pagan faiths would be willing to do it. And then there were the caterers. Photographers. Musicians for the reception. Florists.

The whole thing was obscenely complicated. I suspected the wedding ritual was designed to make absolutely sure you really wanted to get married. God knew that if you were on the fence about it, the organizing would put you over the edge into permanent bachelorette-hood.

I was settled in an uncomfortable hard plastic seat in the baggage claim area, watching the arriving passengers.I had a sign propped next to me with the stylized sun symbol of the Wardens on it in gold and glitter—unmistakable, to anyone who knew what it meant, although I’d put SILVERTON below it in block letters, just in case.

I spotted a likely candidate—a tall African American man with erect military bearing who snagged an olive-drab duffel bag from the baggage belt. Sure enough, as his eyes scanned the waiting crowd, he fixed right on me and headed in my direction.

I stood up, claimed the sign, and waited for him to stride over. He got taller and taller the closer he came, very imposing. His handshake was firm and businesslike, and I realized he was older than I’d thought— probably in his early fifties, with a light dusting of gray in his close-cropped black hair, lines around his eyes. “Mr. Silverton,” I said. “Joanne Baldwin.”

“Heard of you, ma’am,” he said. No hint of whether the advance notice had been good or bad. “Call me Jerome, please. No point in formality if we’re going to be working together.”

“Right. Jerome, my car’s outside. How was your flight?”

“Food-free,” he said. “Could I impose on you to discuss this assignment over dinner?”

“Sure,” I said. “Anything in particular?”

“Fish,” he said. “Hate to miss the fish when I come to the coast.”

He liked my car. In fact, Jerome liked my car more than most people, walking all the way around it, asking questions about the engine, the performance, the mileage. I was betting that he’d ask to drive it, but he didn’t; he stowed his gear in the trunk and took the passenger side. I made sure to drive extra fast, just to give him a demonstration, which he seemed to appreciate.

“So,” I said, as we whipped down North Ocean Boulevard, enjoying the sea breeze and late afternoon sun, “I noticed you were NFA in the system. Travel a lot?”

“Prefer it that way,” he said. “Not really interested in being tied down.”

“And that sound you hear is the hearts of women breaking from coast to coast.”

I got a low chuckle out of him. “Not likely, ma’am.”

“Joanne.”

“Joanne.” He flashed me a million-dollar smile. “Pretty women make me nervous.”

I doubted that. “No Mrs. Silverton, then?”

The smile disappeared. “No. There was, but she’s gone now.” The way he said it didn’t invite mining that particular subject. “Tell me about the earthquake. ”

I did, sparing no details; no telling what was relevant. When I got to a description of the black glass thorn stuck into the aetheric, he frowned and turned toward me, intense and focused.

“That’s why you called me,” he said. “Because of the radiation problem.”

“That’s one reason, but you’re supposed to be a very good Earth Warden as well. One of the most sensitive to things not being right before things go to hell. That might really be an asset around here right now.”

I took a right turn into the parking lot of a seafood restaurant I particularly liked, parked, and turned off the engine. Silverton made no move to get out, so neither did I.

“I’m going to need some things,” he said. “A handheld GPS device. A Geiger counter. Couple of other things.”

“Anything you need, I’ll get,” I said. “Make me a list.”

He was still studying me, in a way that made me feel like I should have something more to say. I followed a burst of inspiration and asked, “Have you seen something like this before?”