All Your Wishes (26 page)

I've been in tough places more than once. But this was looking worse than anything I'd seen in a while. I was scared, and coming up blank as to how to stop the all-powerful and seriously evil genie from destroying everyone and everything I loved.

So I spent about a minute and a half (which was all the time I could afford) throwing myself a nice little pity party while Bubba took us back onto the highway and then off at the O'Hare exit. Then I took a deep, steadying breath and focused my mind on the image of Rahim Patel.

Hello, Rahim.

Celia.
His mental voice was cautious and he didn't sound thrilled to be hearing from me. No big surprise there. Hell, if I had any choice, he'd be one of the last two people I contacted. But beggars, choosers, and all that happy crap.

Can Hasan hear this conversation? I'm wearing a
sujay.

He didn't say anything for a few seconds, but his thoughts had a distinctly sour tone.

No.
Bitterness there. Lots of it.

Good. Did you absorb enough energy from the vosta to get back on your feet?

How did you know—

I hadn't known, I'd guessed, though his reaction confirmed it. If he was the Guardian and had djinn blood, it would make sense that he might be able to absorb magic like a djinn—magic that would enhance his healing abilities, much like my vampire nature improved mine. A Mrs. Patel had bought a very powerful vosta from the DeLuca's for a life-or-death matter. It could have been someone else. But my bet had been Abha. She had, after all, said she planned to “revive” Rahim, although she hadn't mentioned how. No doubt she'd given the vosta to her husband, who could use its power to heal himself.

There was an angry pause in Rahim's thoughts; then,
My wife talks too much.

Your wife is why you're not going to jail for the rest of your life at a place like the Needle. I'd cut her a little slack if I were you. Besides, I got my information about your bloodline from another source.

What source?

None of your business.

Mental silence. Finally, he spoke again.
I am fully recovered.

Good. I am on my way to the caves in southern Colorado. I have a plan, but I need your cooperation.
Actually, I didn't have a plan. It was more of a wild, Hail Mary sort of idea that was coming together in my mind even as we spoke. Rahim didn't need to know that. I needed him to think that I knew what I was doing so that he'd follow my lead. Maybe. I hoped.

Tell me.

I heard there's been a falling out between you and your grandfather?

Wow, that opened up a can of mental worms. Shame, rage, humiliation, and the memory of some really harsh insults Pradeep had heaped on his grandson washed over me in a mental tidal wave.

Yes. He thinks me incapable of recapturing Hasan. He has summoned Tarik to Florida. They will attempt a ceremony as soon as he arrives.

Good. We can use that.

We?
He sounded incredulous.

Look, do you want to get the bad genie back in the bottle or what?

Okay, not a smart move on my part. You don't goad a man who has already tried to kill you. Black rage left him wordless for a long moment. I waited it out. When he finally had himself under control, his mental words were cold and clipped.

Tell me your plan.

 

21

I'm not
a big fan of airports in general. I suppose as airports go, particularly the big international ones, O'Hare is as good as any. It's mostly metal and glass with brightly colored lights—and of course the ever-present banks of screens showing arrivals and departures. It's pretty, in a sterile, impersonal way, but it's clean, well organized, and remarkably well run for being such a huge enterprise.

We returned the car to the rental company and hopped on the shuttle, which dropped us directly in front of the doors marked for United. The lines for ticketing and check-in were long, but we had no choice but to join them. Directly in front of us was a group of college-age men wearing hockey gear proudly emblazoned with DU
PIONEERS
in bold gold lettering, along with the University of Denver seal and a cute cartoon character. They were boisterous in a way that made me think they were heading home from a win on the road.

Most of them were big guys, and a couple were large enough to make Bubba look positively petite. They carried luggage and skate bags, and more than one had a hockey stick poking out from a nylon duffel bag. Whenever our eyes met, they grinned, and one winked. But they were refreshingly polite.

Eventually it was my turn to go to the counter and check the bags. Bubba had bought us tickets online while I'd been in the rest stop, but we still had to declare our weapons, which can be a real bitch of a process. There are so damned many rules. The questionnaire alone runs six pages: List your name, address, and carry permit number; state how many of what weapon is in each bag; cite what ammunition you have for each weapon; guarantee that it is in a separate bag from the gun it fits; give the number of spell disks and/or spell balls you are carrying; describe what each does and what kind of containment packaging each spell is in.

Back in the office I keep a file full of photocopies of completed forms that I can take with me when I travel. I just cross out whatever I don't have with me at the time. I suppose I could've asked Dawna to send me a copy electronically—if I had gotten a chance to unpack them, or had a freaking clue as to which box they might be in, or a way to print them out on my end. I didn't.

So, I wrote as fast as I could, but it was taking precious time. I watched the hands of the clock above the counter racing forward as I heard the relentless ticking of the seconds counting off in my head.

Our regular weapons were bother enough. But my knives? As major magical artifacts, they got their own declaration pages—and had to be packed into special, airline-provided, locked-and-sealed packaging that could only be opened by my bio-readings and thumbprint. Setting that up took more time. The hockey players, who were halfway through the line to security just a few yards away, were staring openly. I suppose it was quite a show.

The people behind me in line were angry and growing angrier. Somebody like me slows the whole process down and puts other people at risk of missing their flights. Of course, that's why the airlines tell you to get to the airport at least two hours in advance—although almost nobody ever actually does.

“Do you have any actual luggage, Ms. Graves?” The uniformed attendant smiled at me when she spoke, but in addition to the note of real curiosity in her voice, there was more than a little hostility. A quick glance showed me that, nope, she wasn't wearing an anti-siren charm. Great. She might make my life more hellish just for grins because of that lack of protection. Women often felt anger in the presence of a siren, even if the siren wasn't using her powers.

“Just carry-on.” I gestured to my brand-new bag. “It's a short business trip. I left in a hurry. I figure I'll do some shopping in Denver.”

“Not in so much of a hurry that you couldn't pack an arsenal.” Her tone was ever-so-polite spread thinly over downright bitchy.

“It's a
business
trip. My
business
is personal protection. Weapons are necessary. Extra clothing is a luxury.” I smiled so hard it made my face hurt, making damned sure that not even the tiniest hint of fang showed. Because this woman—like anyone working an airline check-in desk—can refuse a ticket to any passenger they deem threatening and even have them detained by security in the interests of national security. So I would be nice, even if it made my blood boil and my face ache from smiling. I didn't have time for this. I really didn't. But there wasn't anything I could do about it other than be as pleasant and non-threatening as I knew how to be.

Bubba was standing a little behind me and to my left, keeping an eye out for trouble. Very quietly he said, “Chill, boss. You're starting to glow.”

Oh, hell. Glowing was bad: very vampity; not at all non-threatening. Even without showing fangs, glowing could get us in trouble.

I closed my eyes, picturing sandy beaches, warm sun, the sounds of waves lapping the sand, the occasional call of a gull. My pulse slowed; I felt calm roll over me. Right up until Bubba grabbed my arm.

“Um, boss? You might want to lay off the ocean sounds.”

I opened my eyes. “What the…?” Sure enough, the exact sounds I'd been using to calm myself were now being projected through every speaker in the airport.
Every
speaker, including individuals' iPods and headphones. At least I assumed it was all of them. I could certainly overhear it from the headset of the guy in the next line over.

I'd only ever done anything like that once before—when I had first awakened my siren powers. Apparently I was more stressed than I'd admitted to myself. I might have regained control of the vamp side of my nature, but it was costing me on the siren side. Shit, shit, shit.

I turned to the attendant, whose male supervisor was now standing right behind her, providing the same support for her that Bubba was for me. The senior attendant's expression was one of concern, but Halle-fricking-lujah, he was wearing an anti-siren charm around his neck.

Fleetingly I wondered if he'd taken the time to hunt one up or if supervisors at every airport were required to wear them, then said a silent prayer of thanks that he had arrived and was protected. Smiling again, I bobbed my head as a sign of apology and said, “Sorry about that. It's been a rough couple of days. Stressful job.”

“No problem,” he said firmly but without heat. “Identification, please.”

I handed it over. At her boss's touch on her shoulder, the original attendant stepped aside. He reviewed my paperwork and licenses very carefully before finally stamping them approved and printing out our tickets.

“Have a safe flight.” He handed the paperwork to Bubba. Not to me. I noticed that, but decided not to make a fuss. It so wasn't worth it.

“We'll do our best,” I assured him.

“Do that,” he said, then called for the next passenger, dismissing us.

Bubba handed me the papers as we joined the line for security, which was long, but moved pretty swiftly. I made it through the scanner without incident, but was treated to an extra bout with the wand. All the while I kept my breathing steady, reminding myself that this was just part of the process. No big deal.
Calm: I am calm.

As they cleared me, I heard the boarding announcement for our flight. Bubba and I looked at each other, grabbed our shoes and bags from the conveyor, and dashed barefoot through the concourse, shoes clutched in one hand and bags banging against our legs. We made it to the boarding area, breathless and annoyed, just as the gate attendants were making the last call.

We hustled down the gangway and onto the plane. The flight attendants had already closed most of the overhead bins and were rearranging items in the rest. I could hear the pilots running through their preflight routine behind the cabin door.

Because we'd gotten our tickets late, there were only two seats available on the flight. I wound up close to the back, in a center seat, between two of the biggest men I'd ever laid eyes on in my life.

Derek had dark hair and eyes, his handsome face made roguish by the fact that his nose had been broken at least once. Bobby was a freckled redhead with a merry grin and sparkling green eyes that made him look younger than the twenty-one he swore he was. They were defensemen for the hockey team, and while I was able to squeeze into my seat, I felt like a cork stuck in a bottle. It had to be worse for Bubba, who was in similar straits two rows behind me.

I managed to shove my carry-on under the seat in front of me and strapped in. Not that the seat belt would be necessary. I was sufficiently trapped in my seat by my seatmates that I wouldn't be going anywhere, even in the event of a crash.

The flight was awkward and uncomfortable, but could have been much worse. Derek and Bobby were good company. They plied me with liquor, each buying me a screwdriver, then kept me laughing with stories about their road-trip adventures. I knew enough about hockey that I wasn't completely ignorant of the game that was their abiding passion, which pleased them to no end. When Derek went to the bathroom, Bobby confided in me that there was a good chance “D” would be joining the NHL next draft day. All in all, the flight passed quickly, and I only caught myself checking my watch twice.

Even so, I was glad when the plane taxied up to the gate. I checked my watch, calculating flight times and drive times. I was going to be cutting it close on my end. I hoped Rahim could deliver the way he'd said he could, but I had no control over that, so I forced thoughts of him out of my mind.

Since we were seated near the back, both Bubba and I were caught up in the usual bustle of disembarking as the rear passengers moved around, bumping into each other and pulling down their luggage while they waited for those seated in front to disembark.

The assassination attempt was so subtle I missed it, should've been dead where I stood despite Kevin's warning. Everybody was distracted. A loud dispute broke out in first class. A tall, gray-haired man in an expensive black suit was arguing viciously with another passenger. People close by were trying to get clear of them and make enough space for the flight attendants to intervene. Some passengers farther away stopped in their tracks to watch.

While that was happening, a petite blond woman in an off-the-rack navy suit was struggling to pull her bag from the overhead bin after having refused offers of help from both Derek and one of his teammates. She stumbled backward and would've fallen right into me if Bobby, with the reflexes of a trained athlete, hadn't moved between us to catch her.