I took a deep breath. “Sure.”
He opened the back door and held it for me like a gentleman while I slid inside.
Interlude
For something so powerful, a storm is oddly vulnerable. This one—born out of the heat of water and a whim of air—is no different. All it will take is a powerful west wind from the middle latitudes to cut the top off its clouds, stall it in place to starve and die. Or maybe it avoids the west winds, but it moves into cooler waters, which would slow it down. It might find drier air that would leave it tired and weak, blown apart by the first little challenge.
But none of that happens.
It advances at the rate of about ten miles an hour, sometimes slower as it encounters small patches of cooler water; it captures the cooler air it finds and wraps it around—insulates itself, keeping its energy-producing warmer air inside. Clouds find resistance at higher elevations, and pile up like soldiers storming a wall. The fluffy, blunt-headed anvil thunderheads are its war flags.
As it pushes forward—an army on the march—inside the huge, thick mass of clouds there are bright blue-white pops of energy as the generator bleeds off excess.
Just small flares. It isn’t ready yet.
But it’s getting there fast.
Chapter Three
Eamon had exquisite table manners. For some reason, that fascinated me. The neat, precise movements of his hands, the elegance in the tiny adjustments of his knife and fork. Elbows off the table at all times. He didn’t talk with his mouth full. In fact, he didn’t say much at all, just listened politely as Sarah rambled on. And on. And on.
“I just can’t believe that happened in broad daylight!” my sister said for about the twentieth time. I took a bite of French toast, made sure it was liberally dosed with maple syrup, and savored the sugar rush. “Don’t those people you work for have any security? It’s awful!… There should be security lights in that parking lot!”
“Well, I don’t believe it would have helped, Sarah. It was broad daylight,” Eamon pointed out reasonably. Bless him, he sounded more amused than irritated. “Do you have much trouble with such things around here? Criminal trespass, assault… ?”
“Couple of car break-ins,” I said, and washed down the sugar with coffee. Which accounted for two of the major food groups. “Nothing serious. Kids, probably.”
“And am I to think he was just another hooligan?” He ate a neat mouthful of eggs and arched his eyebrows at me.
“Not him,” I admitted.
“Sarah said you were being followed,” he continued after a polite pause to chew and swallow. “The same kind of van.”
“The same van,” Sarah insisted, and turned her big eyes to me. “Was it the guy? The one from the mall?”
No point in lying about it. “Yes. But—it’s all right, really. I’ll handle it.”
“Are you certain that’s the right thing to do? You might want to go to the police,” Eamon asked. He sounded neutral about it. Around us, other diners clinked silverware on plates and went about their daily lives, which probably didn’t involve getting stalked by out-of-state cops. I shook my head. “Ah, I see. Any particular reason why not… ?”
“I know him, sort of,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
Eamon gave me a long, considering look, then put down his fork and dug his wallet from his back pocket. I’ve always thought you could tell a lot about a man from the state of his wallet; Eamon’s was slick, black, and expensive. He pulled a business card from it and handed it over.
“Cell phone,” he said, and tapped the corner of the thick paper. Sarah was right, the cards weren’t lightweights—creamy paper, raised type, a match in price range for the wallet that held them. “Look, I know you hardly know me, and I’m sure ladies like you have no shortage of men waiting to squire you around, but best to be safe.”
I nodded. He put the wallet away.
“I don’t care if you know him, Joanne. It’s the ones you do know that hurt you.”
I looked up from the card into his eyes. Large, gentle eyes that somehow mitigated the harsher angles of his face.
“No offense,” I said, “and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for the rescue this morning, but are you sure you really want to get into this? The two of us together could be a whole lot of trouble. You’re just an innocent bystander. And if we hardly know you, well, you hardly know us. What if we’re—”
“Villains?” Eamon sounded vastly amused by that. “Oh, love, I hardly think so. Keep the card, though. I’ve no duties just now, waiting for a deal to come through; there’s no reason I can’t help if you need it. Even if it’s just the occasional walk to and from your car, which, by the by, is quite the looker. Your car, I mean. What model is she?”
Firmer territory. We talked autos. Eamon had a startling breadth of knowledge about British race cars, and had a taste for Formula One, and ten minutes later I noticed that Sarah was looking more than a little put out by the whole conversation. Oh yeah. He was Sarah’s date, not mine. I suppose having animated, extended chatters probably was the wrong side of friendly.
I mopped my lips and excused myself to the ladies’ room, and took my time with the hand-washing and the application of vanilla cream lotion and refreshment of lipstick. My hair wasn’t too badly damaged from the wrestling match with Detective Rodriguez. In fact, I looked pretty good, for a change.
I felt a tug of longing so strong I had to grab the counter with both hands. I wanted David. I wanted to call him out of the bottle and have him sit across from me and smile and talk, as if there were something approaching a normal life for us, somewhere.
I found my hand slipping down to press flat over my stomach. There was still that unsettling flutter, deep down. The promise of life. I didn’t know how to feel about that… hopeful? Terrified? Angry, that he’d committed me to a responsibility so huge it made my Warden job look easy?
I wanted to have a normal life with the one I loved. Ones. What was vibrating so gently under my fingertips was the possibility, however small, of… family.
But I knew normal life was a fantasy, and not just because of the oddness of loving a Djinn. This morning, I’d felt him getting weaker before he’d gone back in the bottle. He hadn’t been out that long.
He wasn’t getting better, as I’d convinced myself he was.
David was dying.
The despair of that just went on and on, when I let myself look at it straight on. There’s a way to fix this. There’s got to be a way. I just have to… find it.
“Jonathan,” I said. “If you can hear me, please. I’m asking you. For David’s sake. Help me.”
No answer. Not that Jonathan was particularly omniscient, of course. I didn’t flatter myself to think that he had me on constant observation; hell, I probably didn’t even rate a speed dial. Time passed differently, to Djinn. He’d probably forget all about me until I was eighty and pushing my walker around the retirement home.
That was an oddly cheering thought, actually.
I took a deep breath, practiced a smile in the mirror, and went back out into the restaurant. As I weaved around tables and kicking children and a man who just happened to have his hand at butt level, waiting for me to squeeze by, I saw that Eamon and Sarah were deep in conversation. I slowed down to study the body language, and liked what I saw; he was leaning forward across the table, taking in every word, eyes fixed on her face. She was animated and vivid and luminous in the morning light.
The silent language of attraction.
As I watched, she dropped her hand down on the table, leaning forward into him, and his long, elegant fingers moved to cover hers. Just a brush, but enough that I saw the tremor go through her.