Windfall (Weather Warden #4)
Page 36"In your dreams."
"Not the young one, the-the-" I glared. "Lewis is my age. Kevin is the punk-ass kid."
"Well, the punk-ass kid was nice to me," she said, and shrugged. "What? It's not my fault I'm twenty-two and you're-not."
Oh, I was so going to get my own car.
We drove in silence for another ten minutes before I said, because I couldn't resist it, "I'm not old."
"Yeah," she agreed, and sighed, and put her head back against the upholstery. "You just keep telling yourself that."
I gunned the Mustang up to one hundred thirty on the way back through the storm.
Surprisingly, we didn't die in a fiery crash, but that was probably just God looking after fools and children, and as I blasted past the WELCOME TO FORT LAUDERDALE road sign and had to kill my speed to just under sixty, due to traffic, my cell phone rang. I fumbled for it and took the call.
"Eamon?"
"The same." That lovely voice sounded as calm and deceptively friendly as ever.
"Got what I asked for?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'd hate for Sarah to suffer."
"Is she awake? I want to talk to her."
"What you want really doesn't concern me, love. As we seem to have a storm kicking up hell, I'd like to get this ended as soon as possible. No point in dying tonight, especially from something as stupid as fate."
My hand was clenched tight around the cell. I forced it to relax. Ahead on the road, some grandpa in an ancient Ford Fiesta swerved into my lane doing thirty-five; I instantly checked perimeters and glided into the left-hand passing lane to whip around him. Tractor trailer ahoy, lumbering like a brachiosaur. I managed to slip around him and behind a white Lamborghini that wasn't any more patient with the current traffic than I was. I drafted him as he negotiated his way to free airspace.
"Where?" I asked. Eamon's warm chuckle was unpleasantly intimate.
"Well, why don't you come to my place? Maybe we can enjoy a nice drink after we conclude our business. Possibly Sarah might be open-minded enough to..."
"Shut the hell up," I snapped. "I have a Djinn. Do you want it the nice way or the hard way? Because all I have to do is tell him to kill you, you know."
"I know." All of the needling humor dropped out of Eamon's voice, replaced by something hard and as chilly as winter's midnight. "But if you do that, you won't get your sister back. It took a lot of research-which was accomplished with a lot of screaming on the part of my research subjects-but I know the rules. I know what the Djinn can do, and what they can't. And you'd best not take a chance that I've been misled."
He was right. There were rules to the covenant with the Djinn. Responsibilities a master had to accept. Violating those rules had some serious blowback, and if he understood enough, he could have set it up to be sure Sarah died with him.
No, I couldn't take the chance. Not that I'd been willing to in the first place.
"Fine," I said. "Give me the address."
It was close to the beach, which wasn't an advantage right now; I hung up and checked the progress of the storm. The streetlights were blowing nearly sideways, and signs were fluttering like stiff metal flags in the relentless wind. Hurricane-force winds, and it was just the leading edge of the storm.
As I took the exit from the freeway heading for the beach, I caught sight of the ocean, and it made my guts knot up in fear. Those smooth, greasy-looking swells out toward the ocean, exploding into gigantic sails of spray when they hit shallow water... blow on a small bowl of water and look at the way the waves form, heading toward the edge. Concentric rings, mounting higher as force increases.
Life was so fragile, so easily blown apart.
"Look out!" Cherise yelled, and threw out a hand to the right.
I barely had time to register something big coming from that direction, hit the brakes, send the car into a spin across two lanes of traffic-thankfully, unoccupied-and manage to get us straightened around in a lane by the time we came to a lurching stop.
A boat bounced in from the right and landed keel-first on the road, oars flying off like birds into the wind. It splintered into fiberglass junk. I watched, open-mouthed, as it rolled off in a tangle.
"Holy shit," Cherise whispered. "Um... shouldn't we, like, get somewhere? Maybe the hell out of Florida?"
Yeah. Good idea.
Eamon's building was a needle-thin avant-garde structure, the kind of place that, when they talk about building erection, they really mean the double entendre. I couldn't read the sign, but I decided the best possible name for it was Testosterone Towers, and it was someplace I intended never to live.
Even if Eamon wasn't there.
Cherise looked pale and scared, and I didn't blame her; the weather was getting worse, and this was exposed territory. Last place I wanted to be was in a high-rise... safe from the storm surge, sure, but way too much glass. I was thinking of something in a tasteful concrete bunker, up on a bluff. And as soon as I had Sarah back, we were going to find one.
"Should I stay here?" Cherise asked cautiously. I pulled the Mustang into the parking garage and went up to the next-to-highest level. It was the logical spot ... not completely exposed, only one level could collapse on you, and it was higher than the likely storm surge. Bottom level would be safest from flying debris, but a collapse was possible, and drowning an added hazard.
"I think you'd better come with me," I said. "Just stay close."
We got out, and even in the shelter of the garage the scream of the wind was eerie. It ripped past me at gale speeds, pulling my hair and grabbing at my clothes. I braced myself and went around to take Cherise's hand. I had a little more height and weight than she did; she was too small and light for this kind of thing.
We made it to the stairs and found a hamster tunnel of plastic and lights leading from the parking garage to the building. It looked like being in the middle of a dishwasher on full spray, and I could hear an ominous creaking and cracking from the plastic. I tugged Cherise along at a trot. The concrete under our feet-padded by carpet-trembled and yawed. Leaks ran down the walls, and half the carpet was already soaked.
When we were three-quarters through it, I heard a sharp crack behind us, and turned to look back.
A huge metal road sign had impaled itself through the plastic and hung there, shuddering. It read SLIPPERY WHEN WET.
"Funny," I told Mother Nature. "Real funny."
The plastic shivered under the force of another brutal hit from the wind, and I saw stars forming around stress points. This little tunnel through the storm wasn't going to last.
I tugged Cherise the rest of the way. The big double doors were key-locked, but I was well beyond caring. My little theoretical addition to the practical chaos already swirling around wouldn't matter a damn, really; I focused and got hold of the running-on-empty power I had left, and found just about enough to fund a tiny lightning bolt to fry the electronic keypad.
The door clicked open.
Beyond that was a deserted, impersonal lobby, with a long black couch with kidney-roll pillows running down one wall. It was very quiet. There was a large computer screen displaying names and numbers-almost all of the spaces were vacant. In fact, it looked as if the building was just opening up for renters.
Pity about the hamster-trail tunnel out there, in that case.
These kinds of places usually had security on duty, but there was a noticeable lack; I figured that the cops had already been around and instructed evacuation, and the security guy had scurried along with them.
I walked over to the touch screen and paged through the floors. Blank... blank... an import/export company... blank... blank... Drake, Willoughby and Smythe. Seventh floor. I took a look around the lobby. It was built for impressing visitors, not views, so there weren't many windows. That was good. I spotted a camouflaged door behind the empty security desk. When I tried the doorknob, it was locked; I braced myself and kicked half a dozen times before I got the lock to yield. It looks easier on TV, trust me.
The room behind was small, bare except for a cot, desk and chair. I sat Cherise down on the cot and took her hands. "Wait for me," I said. "Don't leave here unless you have to, okay? It's a windowless interior room; you're pretty safe here."
"I won't let anything happen to you," I said. I felt her gulp for breath. "It's going to be fine, Cher. Who's the tough girl?"
"Me," she whispered.
"Damn right." I pulled away, gave her a smile, and watched her try to return it.
She was scared to death. Had reason to be. I was trying not to indulge in a complete, total freakout myself.
I left her there, kicked off my shoes, and hit the stairs.
When I got to the seventh floor, I was wheezing and flushed and the place the cougar had slashed me was throbbing like a son of a bitch, but the bleeding was still minimal. Still, I was willing to bet that I was looking like a wrathful Amazon. Frizzy hair, bloody, ripped shirt, and I hadn't had the time or energy to shave my legs in days.
The mostly intact jeans were all that was saving me from complete embarrassment.
I gasped until I was sufficiently oxygenated, then adjusted the weight of my purse, dropped my shoes to the ground and stepped back into them. And yeah, okay, I straightened my hair. Because when you're going to confront someone like Eamon, every little bit helps.
The last thing I did was take the stopper from David's blue glass bottle. I left it buried in the bottom of my purse. Now or never, I told myself. I had no way to hedge this bet. I had to take some things on faith.
The frosted glass doors at the front advertised, in small, discreet type, the investment offices of Drake, Willoughby and Smythe. Lights on inside. I pulled on the ice-cold metal handle and the glass swung open with a well-balanced hiss.
Beyond was a reception area, all blond wood and silver, with a giant picture window at the back. The contrast was eerie and terrifying... the cool indifference of the interior design, the roiling primal fury of the storm outside, smearing the glass in sheets of rain. The glass was trembling, bowing in and out. There wasn't all that much time to waste.
There was a second set of glass doors, these clear instead of frosted. I shoved my way through them and into a hallway lined with a dozen offices.
Light spilled out the open door of the one at the end.
I walked down the expensively carpeted last mile, passing reproductions of old masters, framed documents, alcoves with statues. At the end of the hall I turned left and saw the name on the door.
EAMON DRAKE.
The office was a triangle of glass, and his desk sat at the pointy end, sleek and black and empty of anything but a blotter, a penholder, and a single sheet of white paper. Very minimalist.
Sarah was lying on the black leather couch close to the left-hand wall. She was awake, but clearly not fully conscious; she was still wearing the bathrobe, and he hadn't bothered to fully close it. At least, I thought with a wave of sickness, he hadn't fully opened it. That was a little comfort.
Eamon was sitting on the arm of the couch, watching me. There was a gun in his hand.
It was pointed straight at Sarah's head.
"Let's not waste time," he said. "This storm could make our little, petty differences seem mild. Hand it over and we're finished, thanks, ta, bye."
I opened my purse and took out the lipstick case I'd taken from Shirl's demon-infected Warden friend. I flipped it open to show him the bottle.
"Open it and make him appear," Eamon said. "I hope you'll forgive me if I say that I don't want a free sample of Eternity for Men instead of what we agreed on."
I took the small perfume sample bottle out, unstopped it, and told the Djinn to appear. He obliged, not that he had much choice; he came out as a youngish-looking guy, dark-haired, with eyes the color of violets. Blank expression. I felt a resonance of connection, but nothing deep and certainly nothing strong. Djinn were, of course, powerful, but on a scale of one to ten, he was maybe a three.
"Back in the bottle," I told him, and he misted and vanished. I put the stopper back in and raised my eyebrows at Eamon. "Satisfied?"
Oh, he was a clever one. He knew there was something wrong.
"I'm not a bad judge of people," he said. "And this is too easy, love. You're taking this too meekly."
"What do you want me to do? Scream? Cry? Get my sister killed?" I clenched my teeth and felt jaw muscles flutter as I tried to breathe through the surge of helpless fury. "Take the fucking bottle, Eamon. Otherwise we're all going to die in here."
He caressed Sarah's hair with the barrel of the gun. "Threats don't serve you."
"It's not a threat, you idiot! Look out there! We're in a goddamn Cuisinart if these windows go!"
He spared a glance for the storm, nodded, and held out his hand. Long, graceful fingers, well-manicured. He looked like a surgeon, a concert pianist, something brilliant and precise.
"Throw it," he said.
I pitched the bottle to him, underhanded. He plucked it effortlessly out of the air, and for a second I saw the awe in his eyes. He had what he wanted.
Now was the moment of risk, the moment when everything could go to hell. All he had to do was pull the trigger.
He looked at me, smiled, and thumbed the stopper out of the bottle. It rolled away, onto the carpet, and the Djinn misted out again. Subtly different, this time. Paler skin, eyes still violet but hair turning reddish, and cut in a longer style that made him look younger and prettier.
"Pity he isn't female," Eamon said critically. "What's your name?"
"Valentine."
"Valentine, can you keep these windows from breaking?"
The Djinn nodded. I opened my mouth to warn Eamon he was making a mistake phrasing it as a question, but he didn't need me to tell him that.
"Keep the windows from breaking," Eamon said, and the order clicked in. The glass stopped rattling. Outside, the storm continued to howl, but we were about as safe as it was possible to be. From broken glass, at least.
Eamon let out his breath in a trembling sigh, and I saw the hot spark in his eyes.
"You're only human," I told him. "You don't have the reserves of power to fund him for anything more powerful than that. Don't be stupid."
"Oh, I'm not interested in the world, I assure you. One person at a time is my motto." He gave me another fevered, glittering smile. "You kept your bargain."
"Yes," I said. "I did."
"You know, I'm sorry I'm going to have to do this. Valentine, kill-"
"David," I said, "come out."