"The Russian judge gave it a nine point five," I said. "And you nailed the dismount."
I loved it when he laughed. Djinn didn't laugh enough, and they had little enough to laugh about, in general. His happiness was contagious, like fever, and I basked in its warmth. We kissed, long and slow, and I heard the low vibration in the back of his throat. Still hungry. Still wanting.
I knew how he felt. The passion between us wasn't fading; if anything, it was strengthening as time went on, as we learned each other and found new ways to please. I loved surprising him, loved the mixture of shock and wicked delight in his eyes.
When my cell phone rang, I flailed for it and switched off the ringer, but I couldn't resist taking a quick glance at the lit-up display. Lewis, of course. And I had to answer. Otherwise, he'd do something stupid, such as send the cavalry to bust down the door and catch me doing something morally questionable.
David groaned, deep in his throat, and buried his face against my neck. "You have to get it," he said. "Right?"
"Afraid so," I said. "Put the porno movie on pause for a second." I caught my breath, tried to pretend I was fully clothed and businesslike, and answered the phone. "Lewis?"
"Took you long enough," he said. He sounded tense, which wasn't good. Lewis was one of the most relaxed people I'd ever known, in general. "Okay, we've got the package in containment. Jo - there was also a card."
"A card? Like, a greeting card?"
"You're not going to like it," he said. "It's a congratulations card. On your wedding. It had a message inside."
I went short of breath, and it wasn't for any of the reasons that it would have been a minute before. "What kind of message?"
He ignored that question, which didn't bode well. "Who knows you're getting married?"
"I - not that many people. We haven't officially - I don't know. I didn't think it was a state secret! My God, I was about to order invitations!"
"I think we'd better talk," Lewis said. "All of us. Warden HQ in New York. There are some things you need to see."
"Now?"
"Tomorrow. Let David drive if you're taking the car."
I bit my lip. Not that I didn't love being in the car with David, but even at the speeds he was likely to travel it would be at least a fifteen-hour trip. Then again, it kept us mobile, and Weather Wardens generally didn't do too well in airplanes. We draw storms the way a bug zapper draws moths.
"See you there," I said, and hung up. I dropped the cell phone back on the nightstand and rolled back toward David. "Where were we?"
His fingers slowly stroked the column of my throat, down the valley between my breasts, and across to circle the hard cap of my nipple. "That depends," he said, low in his throat. "How much time do we have?"
"How fast can you drive?"
He laughed. "You wouldn't believe how fast I can drive if I'm properly motivated."
"Any particular thing you find motivational?"
He put his lips close to my ear. "Your mouth." His tongue traced the folds of my ear, drawing shivers. "I love the way you use it."
"I'm guessing you aren't talking about pleasant travel conversation."
I couldn't see his smile, but I felt its dark power. "Don't want to give it a try?"
"Dude, there are laws, you know."
"Laws against driving above the speed limit, too, but I don't notice you objecting to breaking them."
"You are a very bad" - I caught my breath convulsively and pressed against his fingers, which had wandered lower - "man. And we should get dressed and on the road."
"In a while," he said, watching me, and his hand began to move. My mind went white and smooth with pleasure. His eyes were lazy and still somehow fiercely intent. "Let me see if I can ease your mind first."
I decided not to protest, unless don't stop counted.
Driving with a Djinn isn't really like normal driving. For one thing, nobody really sees your car; they have an awareness of it, for traffic safety, but even the most vigilant of peace officers can look right at you breaking the speed limit (and nearly the sound barrier) and not feel moved to react.
The downside? No bathroom breaks. Djinn just don't think of things like that. I know they eat, so they must have the other human-type functions at least when maintaining human form . . . but you'd never know it. They're better masters of their bodies than we are.
After six hours on the road, I was squirming in the seat and ready to die for a bush by the side of the road, never mind a bathroom.
"Comfort break," I said to David. "Sorry. Nature calls."
He sent me a lazy, amused glance, entirely relaxed and at ease behind the wheel of my car. I'd learned not to look out the windows; the constant smear of color reminded me of science fiction movie concepts of travel past light speed. Instead, I'd asked for a laptop, which David had obligingly provided, and an Internet connection. Bingo, I was back to research.
Only this time, I was tracking down suspects instead of china patterns.
"What are you doing?" David asked, leaning over. I nudged him back with one shoulder.
"Drive."
"I am." He stayed where he was, eyes off the road.
"You know that makes me crazy, right?"
His lips threatened to smile. "Not the right kind of crazy. So?"
I sighed. "I'm searching all my correspondence, trying to figure out how many people I've told about the wedding."
"And?"
"Dozens." I stared gloomily at the screen. "Not only that, I didn't exactly think to make it eyes-only clearance. Those dozens told more dozens, who told their friends, who posted it in the Wardens chat room. . . ."
"So it's a dead end."
Yeah, and we might be the ones dead at the end of it. Wasn't sure I liked that symbolism.
I was on the verge of logging off the computer, but a word caught my eye on the Warden chat board. I frowned and scrolled back up, looking for it, and finally saw, in the message thread of people offering congratulations on the upcoming wedding, a single entry. You had to be registered for the Warden chat board, of course, and authenticated, but somehow, this particular entry had no name or IP address associated with it. What it said was, simply, It'll never happen.
I shivered. The Sentinels were at work.
"Bathroom," David announced, and I closed up the laptop and was unhooked before he'd screeched the Mustang to a stop in front of the gas pump of the BP station. I barely noticed the convenience store, except that as I frantically scanned the interior walls, the bored clerk took pity on me and pointed toward the rear of the store. Clearly, he knew the look.
I found the bathroom; it was unlocked and relatively clean, and all that mattered was the sweet, sweet relief. When I finished, I went to the sink and washed, studying my face in the mirror. I looked okay - a little thinner than usual, more angular, but not as haggard as I'd feared. Stress looked good on me; it always had. Lucky me. As a beauty treatment, though, it sucked.
Hmmm. Maybe some cold cream. And Ding Dongs.
I was gathering up sweet, snack-treat goodness and heading for the register when I felt . . . something. Not exactly trouble, but . . . something. It was subtle, but I'd definitely felt something shift, and not on a natural real-world level.
I put the food down on the counter, smiled meaninglessly, and wandered back toward the cold-drink case to give myself time to think. Time to track what was happening. The clerk must have thought I was giving the Pepsi-Coke debate serious consideration. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that David was gassing up the Mustang, eyes scanning the horizon but without any sign of worry or alarm.
So maybe this sudden foreboding was just my imagination working overtime. Maybe I was tired, on edge, and still recovering from my near miss.
A big semitruck eased into the parking lot. It was a tight fit; the place wasn't exactly a truck stop, and I wondered what he was doing. Maybe he needed a bathroom, too, or Ding Dongs. Everybody needed Ding Dongs, right? But no driver emerged from the shiny red cab; it just sat, shimmering in the overhead lights, idling.
I felt a chill. I grabbed a drink at random from the case and went back to the counter, threw money at the clerk, and continued to stare at the truck without blinking or looking away. Something. Something wrong.
David didn't seem alert to anything at all. He replaced the gas cap and stood next to the car, leaning on it, waiting for me to reappear.
"Your change," the clerk said, and pressed coins into my hand. I shoved it into my pocket without looking, grabbed the sack he handed over, and hurried outside. There was a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. Couldn't see the shore from here, but the sound of the surf was a distant, low murmur.
I stopped, staring at the red truck, which continued to idle where it sat. Nothing intimidating about it, other than its size. But then again . . .
"Let's go," I said, and climbed into the passenger seat. David raised his eyebrows at my tone, which was fairly tense for somebody who'd achieved the desperately needed pit stop, but he got in the car and started it up. We pulled out onto the road in a smooth growl of acceleration, the tires biting and cornering perfectly.
Behind us, the semitruck lurched into gear and followed.
"Crap," I whispered, and turned in my seat to look behind us. "That truck - "
David glanced in the rearview mirror. "What about it?"
"Don't you think there's anything strange about it?"
"I think you're tired," he said. "And you're worried. Let me worry about keeping us safe."
"But - " I stopped myself, somehow, and managed a nod. "Okay. Just . . . keep an eye on it, would you?"
"Sure." He sounded indulgent and amused.
"David, I'm not kidding."
He gave me a strange look. "I know," he said. "I'll watch."
That was said with a good deal more seriousness. I nodded and turned again, looking behind us.
The truck was still there, but rapidly falling behind as the Mustang's engine opened up with its throaty growl. I frowned. The truck didn't seem at all intimidated by my scowl. You've seen Duel one too many times, I told myself, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something . . . something wrong. Something dangerous.
But despite all that, the steady blur of passing scenery, David's impeccable (nay, uncanny) driving, and the soft, lulling roar of road beneath tires took its toll. Before too long, I was leaning against the passenger-side window, sleepily contemplating the headlights visible in the far distance behind us, and slipping over the edge into sleep.
Or almost, anyway. I jerked myself awake with a start, banging my head against the glass, and blurted, "How are they still there? The truck? How fast are you going?"
David didn't even need to glance at the speedometer to say, "About one-fifty."
No semitruck on the planet was going to do more than eighty on these roads, and that was if they were asking for trouble, especially at night. So at half our speed, more or less, he should have been far behind us by now.
Invisibly far.
I checked the headlights again. They were still visible, and if anything, they were closer. "How fast is that truck going?"
It no longer mattered, because I felt a sudden snap of power out at sea, as if someone had pulled a steel wire taut in front of us, and I had time to see a wall of water rise up, glistening and glass-brick thick in the moonlight, beautiful and deadly. . . .
David let out an almost inaudible hiss and reacted instantly, faster than any human could have.
It was almost fast enough.
Plowing into a puddle of water three inches deep in a car going a hundred miles an hour creates an incredibly strange set of physical problems. Forces shear in unpredictable directions, and as the driver, if you don't get it right in that first second, you're out of control. Spinning, skidding, flipping . . .
If only it had been that easy. But this was a wall of water, not just a puddle. It was at least a foot thick, probably more than that, a huge amount of mass.
If we'd hit it head-on, the car would have been crushed. Instead, David's reactions were just fast enough to throw us into a skid, which burned off some of the kinetic energy. In that extra quarter second, he and I both reached out to snap apart the wall of water.
Again, we almost succeeded. It was evaporating into mist even as we hit it, but part of it was still inevitably solid.
The impact was like being slapped by God. I heard crumpling metal and I was jerked violently from side to side. The glass next to me shivered and cracked into a frosted geometric mess. I heard David's voice but couldn't sort it out; there was too much to process, and my body couldn't decide what to complain about first.
"I'm fine," I said, although I probably wasn't. David did something to the car, swore quietly, and I heard metal grinding in the engine. Well, he could fix it. He was Djinn, after all. That was what they did; they fixed things. They were nature's great handymen.
"Hold on," he said, and his hand closed over mine. I turned toward him. Mist leaked in through the window cracks. The water we'd vaporized had formed a thick, heavy, creamy fog that swallowed us up. "I love you. Hold on. I'm sorry I didn't believe you, I'm sorry - "
The fog was getting lighter. It wasn't anywhere near dawn. David was still talking, low and quietly.
"I can't get us out," he said. "I can get myself out, but not you. If I try to pull you out, I'll kill you. So hold on. I'll protect you. Jo, I love you. I love - "
