Rachel Caine: Gale Force

“It’s not a joke,” I said finally. “We could all be killed. We could get a lot of other people killed. I can’t have this at the Palms. The Sentinels will attack. I can’t put all those innocent lives at risk!”

Cher sat down next to me on the hard, narrow cot, and took both my hands in hers. Her manicure was fresh, her hair glossy, her makeup perfect. I looked like I’d rolled out of the bad side of Satan’s bed, and forgotten to brush my hair, but there was real love in her eyes. Real friendship.

“Honey,” she said, “this isn’t about you anymore. This is about ideas. Those innocent people, they live with risk. You need to quit thinking that all us regular folks can’t handle the truth.”

I didn’t think she understood what she was saying, but I gave her a cautious nod.

“You want to stick it to those bastards who think David and all the other Djinn need to die, right?”

Another wordless nod.

“When you hide, when you call things off because you’re afraid of getting hurt, that’s when people like this win. Live loud, Jo. It’s the only way to win. No fear.”

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear and cocked her head.

“Besides,” she said, “I cannot wait to see David in a tuxedo. My God, Jo. How can you even think of depriving the world of that?”

Well, she had a point. Across the room, David was deep in conversation with Zenaya. He caught my look and smiled, and I felt the connection between us snap taut and thrum like a guitar string.

“Suck it up, girlfriend,” Cher said. “All you have to do is stand there, look pretty, and say the right things. Let us do the rest. You”—she turned and stabbed a perfectly polished fingernail toward Lewis— “you need to get some sleep. Best man, right? I am so not having the bags under the eyes. Lie down, now . And I’m bringing in a stylist, because God .”

I moved off the cot, fast, to make room for Lewis.

Cherise set to work. It helped that Lewis granted her autonomy for all wedding-related decisions, including open credit, and that the Feds, who didn’t know the players in the Warden world, anyway, just assumed she was “one of us.” Which I guess she was, in the greater sense. She cheerfully commandeered everything and everyone she needed, and appointed a subcommittee—my wedding had subcommittees !—to handle security services.

An hour later, I was in a smoked-glass limo—not a stretch, but one of the anonymous, though perfectly well-appointed Town Car varieties—clutching a bottle of mineral water and watching chaos on the tiny built-in television screen in the back of the seat. CNN was running Talking Head Theater; the Wardens were staging additional demonstrations, including Fire and Earth, and people were starting to actually pay attention. I wondered if anybody had considered the legal implications. Talk about malpractice insurance . . .

“Paul’s dead,” I said, out of absolutely nowhere. I turned the cold glass bottle in my hands, remembering that moment so vividly it hurt, that moment when Paul turned to face me, guilt and anger in his face. “I killed him, Cher. He got in my way, and I killed him.”

Nobody had told her. I watched a tremor run through her, and she bowed her head for a second. When she raised it, her eyes were clear and bright. “I knew he was the walking wounded,” she said. “You didn’t see him like I did, when he thought nobody was watching. He was scared all the time. And angry. And he never really stopped hurting. He shouldn’t have been in charge. All those people dead under his watch—he couldn’t take it, Jo. It wasn’t his fault, and it’s not yours, either.”

It definitely was my fault that I’d killed him, but I didn’t argue the point. I was going to have the rest of my life to reconcile myself with that, although I wasn’t sure how much time that would be—maybe no more than a couple of hours, in which case I’d be one of those tragic tales for the ages, slain by the bad guys at the altar and taking a couple hundred innocent lives with me because I was arrogant enough to think my life was somehow so important, such a beacon for change. . . .

No. Cher was right. Hiding was wrong. Reacting the way the Sentinels wanted us to was wrong.

This might be wrong, but at least it was wrong in the right direction. Somebody had to be the symbol. I was just filling the dress.

I looked in the rearview mirror. We were being followed by black chase cars, probably federal or private security. There was a helicopter overhead, sleek and military looking, that kept the chubbier news choppers at bay by its mere presence. I couldn’t see the paparazzi, but I knew they were out there. Waiting.

“Hey,” Cher said. “You with me?”

“I’m getting married,” I said. “Jesus Christ, Cher, I’m getting married to a Djinn . What the hell am I thinking?”

She smiled. “Oh, good. You’re with me.”

The Palms was a blur: smiling faces, people saying kind things, Cherise running interference. She ensconced me in a penthouse the size of most houses, with a breathtaking ocean view, and I sat numbly on the couch, worrying. I know, most brides worry, but I had considerably more to worry about than whether or not I was going to trip over the hem of the dress I didn’t yet have.

I was worried about Rahel, first and foremost. I’d been trying hard not to think about her. I knew that David was focused on her; how could he not be? She was a friend. She was in trouble. And I felt as though I was horribly betraying her, even though I knew that tactically, we were doing the right thing.

He’ll hurt her, part of me said. He knows we’ll come if he hurts her.

It was kind of odd, actually, that he hadn’t done it yet. What if he has? What if David is hiding it from you? That wouldn’t be too hard for him to do, because I hadn’t seen him since before we’d left the FBI building. No. He’d tell you. Unless he thought I couldn’t handle the pressure.

Or unless he tore off to do something crazy, which was entirely possible.

“Hey!” Cherise snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Fashion show. Here. Have some coffee. Nod when you see something you like.”

Thus began the most surreal experience of my life, and with my life, that’s saying something. How she’d done it I have no idea, but apparently my current CNN celebrity status had upgraded me to the temporary level of an A-list star. The bridal shops hadn’t just sent dresses; they’d sent teams, with models who were fresh off Paris runways, apparently, far prettier and sleeker than I’d ever be. I felt dull and slightly nuts, even with the freshly brewed coffee sipped from a delicate china cup. The dresses ranged from something Cinderella would find too ruffly to something better suited to the wedding night than the glare of the spotlight. I mean, I’m daring, but I’m not that daring.

In the middle of the parade, a model who bore a striking resemblance to Heidi Klum (couldn’t really be Heidi Klum, could she?) entered, and for a second, I just stared, shocked. I shot Cherise a look; her mouth was curved in a triumphant smile. She’d requested that one specially, I could immediately see that.

And she was right. It was The Dress. The one that I’d bought, the one that had been ripped apart in the Sentinels’ last public attack on me.

Maybe-Heidi-Klum swept to a graceful stop in front of me, and the silk fluttered to perfect layers, slightly angled and draping to that gorgeous, dramatic train in the back. When she turned, the corseted back displayed the deep V of skin that had so entranced me the first time. Sexy, yet demure. Sophisticated, yet still startlingly innocent.