He yanked his hands free of Ashan’s chest. They were smeared with silvery residue. Ashan, for his part, lay there motionless, staring up at the darkening, cloud-littered sky.
Lightning jumped from one cloud to another, a hot, white flare that I felt along my nerve endings. Thunder slammed through the air and buffeted my chest, such a physical presence that it set off car alarms.
David looked up at me, and his eyes glowed hot bronze. Alien. Familiar. Haunted.
He pulled himself away from Ashan, staggered to his feet, and braced himself against a convenient Volkswagen Bug. The car’s alarm went off. He absently shushed it with a tap of his fingers against the fender, got control of himself with a visible effort, and formed a blue checked shirt out of thin air. He put it on, but didn’t bother with buttoning it. I don’t think he had the strength.
He looked so weak.
“David,” I whispered. I was gripping the rail so hard I thought I might have to have it surgically removed from my fingers.
He looked up again, and I got a faint, ghostly smile.
And he misted out.
I gasped and leaned over, looking for him, but he was gone, gone…
Warm hands slid over me. I bit my lip, tasted tears I didn’t know I’d shed, and leaned back into his embrace.
“Shhh,” David whispered against my ear. His breath stirred my hair. “Not much time. I couldn’t take enough from him to stay in this form, and I won’t kill him. Not even him.”
“I know,” I said, and turned to face him. He looked normal. Healthy and sane and perfectly all right, and that was the torture of it, that it was temporary. That he’d have to feed again and again to maintain this illusion of normality.
I kissed him breathlessly. Hard. He returned it with interest, trying to pour emotion into the briefest span of time possible, and reached up to cup my head in his large hands, holding me in place while his warm, silk-smooth lips devoured mine.
When we parted, it was like losing a limb. I could feel him again, inside—the connection was strong, humming with potential. But I could already feel the drain. I had little energy left, and something in him was siphoning it off. It was like trying to fill up a black hole.
“Put me back in the bottle,” David said. “You have to. Do it now.”
I nodded. He stroked hands through my hair, smoothing curls, making it silky straight the way he knew I liked it.
“I love you,” he said. And that hurt, oh God. Because I knew he meant it, despite everything.
I said the words, and he was gone, back into the blue glass bottle I’d dropped, forgotten, on the wrought-iron table. I hadn’t even remembered putting it down.
I picked it up again, shocked by the several-degrees-too-cold chill of the container, and remembered to look back down at Ashan.
He wasn’t dead. In fact, he was moving. Rolling up to his knees, with one hand bracing himself on the pavement. He looked like he’d had the shit kicked out of him, but I had absolutely no doubt that he was completely, utterly pissed off, and looking for payback and something more than a pound of flesh.
I couldn’t use David to protect me. Not when he was barely clinging to his sanity and identity.
I stood there, looking down at him, as Ashan made it to his feet. He passed an absentminded hand over his suit, and the rips and dirt disappeared. He was once again a Brooks Brothers ad, except that his expression wouldn’t effectively sell anything but firearms or funeral arrangements.
He didn’t move, just stared at me with that burning threat in his eyes, and waited.
I said, “If you come back at me, I’m going to make you an all-you-can-eat Ifrit buffet.”
He said something in that liquid-silver Djinn language, the one I could almost understand. I doubted it was complimentary.
“I mean it,” I said. “Get out. If you come back, I won’t be the one getting bitch-slapped.”
Behind me, the sliding glass door rumbled open, and I heard Sarah say, “Jo? Eamon’s here. I’m getting ready to serve the pasta. And I’m serious about the police. You really should call them. I don’t care if that man is a cop; he still can’t do this to you. It’s not legal.”
I didn’t move. Down on the pavement, Ashan didn’t, either. We stared for a good thirty seconds. Wind whipped at my clothes, my hair, going west, then south.
Random winds, confused by the boiling disturbances in the aetheric. God, the weather was so screwed up. The Wardens were going to go insane.
Which reminded me of what had happened on the bridge. I had no idea of how much all this was affecting the Wardens, but I knew for certain there’d already been one human casualty. I needed to report it.
“Jo?” Sarah sounded concerned. “Are you all right?” The patio door slid farther open, and she stepped out next to me, enveloping me in an ever-so-slightly overdone cloud of Bulgari’s Omnia, which was—she’d assured me—a bargain at $75 for two ounces. The wind ruffled her highlighted hair, and she frowned out at the parking lot, focusing on the white van. Her breath exploded in an exasperated sigh. “That’s it. I’m calling the cops. At the very least, they can make him stop parking down there and staring at us all the time.”
Down in the parking lot, Ashan’s intense eyes—swirling from silver back toward teal blue—suddenly shifted away from me to focus on my sister. And he smiled. It was a dark prince’s smile, something chill and amused and terrifying. I felt an answering righteous surge of fury. Don’t you dare, you bastard. Don’t you dare look at my sister like that.
Whether he sensed that or not, he misted away without another sound or word.
Gone, except for that lingering, unspecified threat.
I sucked in a deep breath, turned, and laid a hand on Sarah’s bare shoulder. Her skin felt creamy-soft under my cold, shaking fingers.
“It’s okay,” I said, and smiled. “Everything’s okay now. Let’s just have a nice, peaceful dinner.”
Yeah. That was likely.
While I’d been playing Juliet to Ashan’s homicidal Romeo out on the balcony, Sarah had transformed my dining room table—another secondhand special—from its usual distressed state into something that might have made an interior designer reach for a camera. I recognized the tablecloth, which was something of Mom’s that she’d left me—a gigantic crocheted ecru thing, big enough to use as a car cover—but Sarah had dressed it up with an accenting silk-tasseled runner, candles, a bowl of fresh flowers floating in water. The dishes—all matching—looked suspiciously new. Also mod and oddly shaped and matte black, which I knew had not been in my meal-serving arsenal last night. In fact, my china collection mostly consisted of secondhand Melmac, with the occasional chipped Corningware.
The kitchen looked spotless. There were three glasses of chilled white wine sitting next to the plates, glimmering delicately in candlelight.
Eamon was standing next to the table, his back to us, watching something playing silently on our (still crappy) television set. Financial news, apparently. At the sound of the closing patio door he turned, and I have to admit, he looked good. Like Sarah, he’d gotten the “let’s dress to impress” memo I’d missed. His pants were some kind of dark, rough-textured silk, his shirt a deliciously pet-table peachskin, open just enough to demonstrate how casual he was, yet nowhere approaching the sleazy post-modern disco look so currently in vogue. He looked hand-tailored, and still just the slightest bit forgetful about it.
Class without effort.
He extended his hand to me. I reflexively accepted and watched his smile go dim, a frown of concern take its place.
“Joanne,” he said. “You’re cold. Everything all right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks. I’m fine.”
His long fingers—long enough to span my wrist and wrap over by at least three inches—slid up to touch a bruise on my arm left over from this morning. “You’re sure?” He sounded doubtful. “You don’t want to see a doctor? No problem with the arm?”