I was hurting him. He was weary and anguished; he had seen me do a terrible thing, and had been helpless to stop it, or to save me from the consequences. On top of that, he’d already been through a great deal. Now, I was taking from his precious reserves of strength.
But he didn’t hold back. Not at all.
I kissed him. I don’t know why; it was wrong, it was the wrong moment, the wrong place. Everything about it was irrational and terribly mistaken, except for the rush of feeling that rose inside me at the soft, and surprised, touch of his lips. At the way his body tensed and leaned toward mine. At the way his hands slipped up my arms and caressed my body.
Luis broke the kiss with a gasp and stepped away, cheeks flaming dark red. His eyes cut toward Turner, who had paused, staring, in the act of turning the knob on the front door.
“What are you looking at?” he demanded. Turner shook his head. “Then get the hell out, man, you never saw people kissing before? Go.”
Turner shut his mouth with a snap and left the house. Luis reached down to take my right hand in his left. His forehead leaned to press against mine.
“Hey,” he said. “Later, okay? We need to talk about this.”
“Yes,” I said. “Later.”
If there was a later.
I reached for the scroll, sealed in its protective coating of enamel that felt as warm as bone, and slipped it back within my jacket as we left.
The FBI sedan was no more pleasant this time than it had been before, but it was mercifully brief, and I was too tired, too distant to take any notice of, or make any objection to, the various stenches and discomforts. My muscles had begun to ache and throb, complaining of the long day and constant fear. I needed rest, I realized. Sleep. Food. The basics to continue human life.
But first, I needed to see this through. That wasn’t logical, but it was necessary.
“Why did she come after you?” Luis asked. “She’s doing it more and more, all these little attacks. It’s like she’s trying to kill you, but not trying too hard.”
It was an excellent question. I kept my eyes closed, adjusted my position in the seat to ease an ache in my back, and said, “Have you ever seen a bullfight, Luis?”
“A—hey, man, just because I’m Hispanic doesn’t mean—”
“I’m talking about the picadors,” I said. “The bull must be angered before the fight. So the picadors torment the beast, stabbing it, arousing its fury until it is willing to charge. It makes a better show.”
He was silent for a moment, and I felt his gaze on me. I didn’t look.
“I’m the bull,” I said. “The sacrifice. She just wants a better fight.”
“What about the rest of us? The Wardens?”
I shrugged. “She’ll kill anyone who gets in her way,” I said. “But her fight isn’t really with you. It’s with me. With the Djinn.”
“I thought you were the bullfighter, chica.”
I smiled slowly. “Sometimes you’re the bullfighter,” I said. “And sometimes, you’re the bull.”
I slept a little during the drive, waking as Turner slowed the car and braked it in front of a house on a suburban street—a house like many others. Like Lu-is’s own, in fact, if a little older. There were many cars parked around it—police vehicles and big, industrial vans bristling with ungainly antennae. There were also those on foot—simple gawkers, drawn by the mystery of what was happening, so long as it wasn’t happening to them, of course. Turner’s car was waved beyond the barricades, into a clear space in the driveway.
“Back door,” he said. “Follow me. And don’t look over at the crowd. Cameras are filming everything, you’d be breaking news.”
I kept my back to the crowd as strobes flashed, camera lights woke to a bright glare, and questions began to be shouted in our wake. We walked quickly and quietly around the corner of the house, leaving the reporters and onlookers behind, and followed a small brick path through a neat, small yard to a screen door as the sudden burst of noisy interest faded out in disappointment.
Beyond it, all of the lights were on behind the house, no doubt to discourage the curious or determined. There was a girl’s bicycle lying on its side on the porch, and a pair of roller skates, elbow and knee pads, a pink helmet.
A baseball mitt and bat. A soccer ball. Gloria was an active child. Turner didn’t so much as glance at them, but I supposed he’d seen it before. Been here before.
Inside, the police paused as Turner came in, turning expectantly toward him. There were three present, two of them in plain suits, one in uniform. I didn’t recognize any of them, but they evidently recognized me, and Luis, with closed expressions and guarded nods.
The two people sitting on the couch, apart but somehow unmistakably together, looked . . . empty. Haunted and hollowed out by fear and stress. The woman had a glimmer of power around her, only a ghost on the aetheric; she had once tried to be a Warden, I remembered Turner had said. She’d lost whatever power she’d once had, or at least lost the will to use it. She was a thin, middle-aged woman of African descent, with delicate, high cheekbones and skin the color of dark roasted coffee. Beautiful, but drawn and made frail by fear.
The man was taller, a bit lighter in coloring, and his eyes were a striking pale green. He looked at us mutely. Miserably. With, still, a gleam of hope in his expression.
There was an array of photographs on the coffee table in front of them, removed from frames that had been carelessly stacked beneath on the carpet. In each was the image of their child, Gloria—laughing, fearless, strong. A life, laid out in a neatly spaced row.
I remembered the terror and pain in the girl I’d touched, locked in that trunk, and felt another lingering stab of outrage and anger. Thiswas Gloria—the confidence, the strength, the possibility. That other should never have been visited on her, not at this age. Not at any age.
A flare of sudden awareness illuminated the woman’s dimmed eyes—she’d read something in Turner’s body language, or his expression. She came to her feet, suddenly tense, and her husband rose with her more slowly, more carefully, as if he might break if he moved too fast.
“She’s alive,” Mrs. Jensen said. It wasn’t a guess. I watched life spill into her, like water pouring from a broken dam, and she no longer looked frail. No longer tired. I could now see where Gloria inherited her strength and vivacity. “She’s alive!”
She clapped her hands and threw herself into her husband’s arms. He continued to stare over her head at Agent Turner, eyes still full of hope and fear, until Turner smiled and said, “She’s okay, we’ve got her. She’s on her way to the emergency room in La Jolla. We can have you on a plane in half an hour. You’ll see her very soon, I promise you.”
The man shuddered and shut his eyes, burying his face in his wife’s hair, and the two of them clung together and cried, sinking back down to the couch, weeping in utter relief. There was a feeling in the room as the tension shattered—it reminded me of the clean, crisp air after a storm’s passage. A moment of peace.
All things changed, but the moments were what mattered. I had never understood that as a Djinn, where such things were eternal, but now I strove to recognize these moments, cling to them, live in them as fully as I could.
I was happy for these strangers. Just . . . happy.
“I want to introduce you to someone,” Turner continued. “This is Luis Rocha, he’s a—civilian consultant working with us. And his partner—” He hesitated.
“Leslie,” I supplied. “Leslie Raine.”
“Yes, of course.” He looked briefly embarrassed by the lapse, though he shouldn’t have been; I was impressed that he had not automatically called me Cassiel.
“They were—instrumental in getting Gloria away safely from the man who took her.”
Instrumental. What an odd thing to be, an instrument. But then, I supposed that he was right in labeling me so. I had been used . . . by Ashan, by the Wardens, by Turner himself. In this case, though, perhaps it had been a higher purpose at work.