Rachel Caine: Thin Air

“Yeah, it’s definitely weird,” Paul said when I pointed it out as we made phone calls not from mobiles, or from the tricked-out communications van (which had been hastily shut down, just in case), but the old-fashioned way, from a bank of phone booths in a hotel lobby. David had quietly disappeared, I supposed to go try to persuade his fellow Nouveau Djinn to participate. Did even they take orders from him these days? Had I really seen him lose his place in the world there in the cemetery?

I hadn’t asked him, but surely he was still the conduit of energy for the New Djinn. Through him they were connected to the Mother-that gave him some security.

I hoped.

The list of numbers Paul had handed me included names I recognized, a marvel that I didn’t think was going to get old anytime soon. I liked recognizing and remembering. It was a real thrill.

Talking to the Ma’at, well, not so much. Charles Spenser Ashworth II, in particular, was a great big pain in the ass. “We’re well aware of the magnetic instability,” he told me, in that waspish, precise way he’d once commanded me to tell him the circumstances of his son’s death. He’d tortured me when I’d refused to tell him. Okay, that was a memory I could have safely kept buried. “There’s nothing to be done about it. The Ma’at don’t interfere in the natural order, Ms. Baldwin; you know that to be our guiding principle. If you want to twist nature to your will, then perhaps you should call upon your friends in the Wardens.”

“News flash, Charles: I’m standing with them right now. And we’re asking you to help.” I tapped my fingernails on the chromed surface of the pay phone in frustration. “Come on. Come out of the shadows. The Ma’at have a different take on this, and I for one think they ought to be heard before the Wardens and the Djinn decide what to do. Don’t you? Don’t you want a seat at the big table?”

I’d played directly to his vanity, shamelessly. Ashworth was rich, white, old, and patrician, and he’d never had anything but a seat at the big table. Usually red leather, handcrafted. On his own he hadn’t manifested enough power to qualify for the Wardens-there were thousands of people every year who were either borderline talented, or just below the line, who were left to go about their lives without Warden interference. Most of them never even knew what they had, or what they could do, and those who did couldn’t do much with it. Maybe light some candles without matches, if they were Fire; maybe grow out-of-season plants, if they were Earth. A weak, brief rainstorm, if Weather.

But put those marginal talents together with Djinn who willingly helped channel it, connect it into a series, you got additive power of a unique kind. The Ma’at had been focused on undoing the excesses of the Wardens; they rarely influenced things directly unless forced to it, mostly out of self-defense.

But then, they’d never been asked to step up on the front lines, really. Not until now.

“What do you want?” Ashworth asked.

“I want you, Lazlo, and everybody else in the Ma’at you can pull to get on a plane and come to Seacasket, New Jersey. The Wardens will meet you and bring you in from the airport. Call the Crisis Center number”-I gave it to him from memory, another thrill-“and tell them who you are and when you’re arriving. They’ll coordinate.”

Ashworth was silent for a few long seconds, and then said, “We won’t do anything contrary to the best interests of the planet. You understand that.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t ask you to. Get moving.”

When I hung up, Paul was hanging up as well. He offered up a big, square hand, and I high-fived it. “Right,” he said. “We got ourselves a party. Before nightfall, there should be about five hundred Wardens here, and however many Ma’at. Throw in the Djinn, and…”

“And you’ve got a real recipe for disaster,” I said, not feeling so high-five-ish anymore. “This could turn bad so easily.”

“But it won’t,” Paul said.

“How do you know?”

He grinned. “Because I’m putting you in charge of it, kiddo.”

We took over the Seacasket Civic Center, and we did that mainly with bags of cash, toted in by Warden security representatives in their blazers, shoulder holsters, and intimidating sunglasses. Whatever functions were going on there, we got them postponed, canceled, or moved.

Even though that was the biggest indoor space in town, it wasn’t exactly spacious. I’d have rather gathered everybody in the cemetery itself, but Ashan wasn’t letting us grubby humans wander around on his sacred ground for longer than he had to.

It was late, I was tired, there wasn’t enough coffee, and even the Djinn were crabby. Not a recipe for smooth interspecies relations.

It blew up in amazingly short order, over some dispute over seating arrangements.

I tried to get everyone’s attention. It wasn’t easy, because there was a whole lot of shouting going on, quite a bit of cursing, and I strongly suspected some hair pulling was involved, over where the Wardens and a few of the Ma’at had gotten in one another’s faces to make their points more forcefully.

David had found the time, somehow, to get me a car-a vintage Mustang, unbelievably enough, a cherry red honey of a car that made me practically orgasm with delight at the sight of it-and, of course, a change of clothing. He knew what I liked: a sleek black pantsuit with a close-fitting purple silk shirt. And a fabulous pair of elegant three-inch Manolo Blahnik heels that fit like they’d been made for my feet. (Knowing the Djinn…maybe they had. Maybe Manolo was supernatural. Having worn the shoes, I’d have believed it.)

I slipped the Manolo off of my right foot, stood up, and banged it loudly on the table in front of me. It was a cheap folding table, covered with the ubiquitous white hotel cloth, and it made a nice, satisfying racket.

That didn’t do the job. Apparently, Nikita Khrushchev had either had bigger feet or heavier shoes than I did, back when he’d used the same tactic at the UN. I transferred the shoe to assaulting the microphone instead.

In the ensuing silence, as the electronic squealing died down, Lewis, poker-faced, stage-whispered, “You must be desperate to do that to designer shoes.”

“Sit down,” I said to the room at large, “and shut the hell up. Now.” I gave Lewis a look that included him, too. He was unmoved, except for having a very slight crinkle at the corner of his mouth. He thought I was cute when I was mad. David, who had seen me at my worst, was watching me from the other side with much more perspective on the subject, and was consequently less impressed.

The Wardens more or less obeyed, sinking slowly into the folding chairs that had been provided. The Ma’at made a point of not , until they got the nod from the head table by Myron Lazlo, who was-along with Charles Spenser Ashworth II, and two or three other really old guys-in charge of that organization. Myron sat on the other side of David, who was at my right elbow, not quite touching. Counting Lewis, and Paul next to him, there were just the five of us at the head table. One step below us, down on the floor, there were round tables draped with well-used cloths, around which sat small groups of the most powerful beings in the world, all keeping to themselves. Tempers were high particularly between the Ma’at, who felt vindicated by being summoned to the meeting, and the Wardens, who felt betrayed by everything they’d ever known. Not to mention that the Wardens were terrified to be trapped in the same room with the Djinn.

The Djinn had taken over the back half of the room, standing in two separate, distinct groups. One group held the New Djinn, like Rahel, Prada, and dozens of others I’d come into contact with over the past couple of years. Marion’s tall American Indian Djinn was among them, and he gave me a small nod of acknowledgment when my eyes met his.