Undone (14 page)

At a desk labeled INFORMATION I consulted a man who provided me with a map and explained how to summon a car for hire outside that would take me to the address I wished.

It was all pleasingly simple. Perhaps human life was not as complex as I'd been led to believe. . . . But this was a fantasy, and one that ended as I struggled to understand the terms
fare
and
tip
, and why one was not included in the other.

I had not made a friend when I dismissed the cab, and the problem of how I would return to the airport was still to be solved, but I stood in front of the address of Warden Molly Magruder. The street was called Dungarvin, and the house was a simple affair, only a little larger than the one Manny Rocha called home. It was well kept, with neatly trimmed trees and an edge of dry grass surrounding a desert-appropriate cactus garden near the front door.

It looked exactly as normal as the houses around it.

I walked to the door and knocked.

The woman who opened the door was about Manny's age, tall and heavy in her flesh. She had long blond hair twisted in a sloppy knot at the back of her head, and sharp blue eyes that took me in without much comprehension at first.

Awareness dawned quickly. I slapped a palm against the wooden facing of the door as she tried to slam it in my face.

“Molly Magruder,” I said, “I've come to ask you why you tried to kill Luis Rocha.”

She stepped back and stared at me as I crossed the threshold and quietly closed and locked the door. I leaned against the wood, arms folded.

“You're Djinn,” she said.

“Perceptive,” I replied, “but wrong. I am not Djinn. I am human.”

She blinked. “Human.”

“I am now.”

“Well, it must just suck to be you.”

I could not have agreed with her more. Molly backed away from me, bumped into a chair behind her, and stopped. I looked around the room. It was clean, spare, and showed nothing of the person who lived in its walls. Molly's furniture was square and serviceable. The artwork she had chosen to display was bland and uninspired. I found myself contrasting it with the vivid joy of Manny's household, or even the feminine strength of Joanne Baldwin's rooms.

Molly Magruder did not really exist here at all.

“Did Luis send you?” she asked.

“No. He doesn't know I've come.”

“Then how—”

It was a confession, of a sort. “Quintus,” I said. “Although he did not give me your name. But he was your Djinn, was he not?” I moved a tan pillow from one end of the couch and sat, crossing my legs with a whispering creak of leather. “Why do you hate Luis Rocha so bitterly?”

Molly stared at me for a long moment, and then—to my surprise—collapsed in the chair behind her and began to weep in wrenching, frantic sobs, like a desperate child. I had no idea what to do or say to such flagrant emotion, so I simply watched her, unmoving. After long moments, she got control of herself and glared at me through red-rimmed eyes.

“You don't know,” she said. “You don't know
anything.
”

“Educate me,” I said, and folded my hands.

 

Molly Magruder, it seemed, had been as much of a pawn in this as a Djinn slave had once been to her. She owed favors to another Warden, and that Warden had wanted two things from her: the destruction of the records filed in Manny's Albuquerque office, and—if possible—the death of Manny and Luis Rocha. Because she was safely removed from the area and had a history with Luis, she had been a logical choice for this task.

“You are willing to kill for a favor,” I said. She sent me another glare, but despite the aggressive anger she tried to project, her hands were trembling, even clasped together.

“I didn't want to,” she snapped. “It's political, okay? These things happen in the Wardens. People want other people out of the way sometimes. You wouldn't understand.”

I understood all too well. Human ambition was a toxic thing, tainting everyone it touched. “Who?”

“I'm not telling you that.”

She would, but I understood it would take time to convince her. “Explain to me
why
, then. Why someone would wish them dead.”

She hadn't expected me to move away from the question so easily, and, caught off balance, she answered. “There was something in the records he didn't want found, I know that much.”

“And the death of the Rocha brothers?”

“Personal,” she said. “None of your business. None of mine, either.”

“You don't care for Luis much, correct?” I got a bitter smile in response, and no other answer. “I met your Djinn. Quintus. It's a pity you aren't worthy of his trust. He seemed to care for you a great deal.”

That wiped away her smile. “Leave Quintus out of this.”

“I would like to leave you both out of it,” I said.

“All you need do is give me the name of the Warden who forced you to do this thing.” The Warden had likely not
forced
her, but it seemed a politic way to describe things. She seemed to respond, regardless of the truth of the description.

“I can't do that.” Still, despite her words, I sensed the force behind them was lessened.

“Do I need to threaten you?” I asked. I was careful to keep my words steady, my voice soft. Menace, I had found, was more effective delivered in that manner.

“With what?” The flash of scorn was back in her eyes. “You said you weren't a Djinn.”

“That's true. I am worse than a Djinn by far.” I leaned forward, and saw her flinch backward . . . just a bit. “I am a Djinn with the powers of an Earth Warden. That means I can stop your heart, explode your fragile veins, crush your bones—I can do worse than kill you, Molly Magruder. I can leave you a helpless prisoner inside your own flesh if I wish it. Or I could suck every bit of power from you, and leave you a dying husk.”

I would not, of course; it would have meant breaking promises I had made to Lewis Orwell, and to Manny. But she could not know that, and I let no hint of it show in my steady, predatory stare.

Molly dropped her gaze to her trembling hands. “He can't know it came from me.”

“He won't.”

“How do I know—”

“You have my word.”

She glanced up at me, then down. Her hair hid her face, but I did not sense she was tempted to lie to me. “A Weather Warden. His name is Scott.”

“Scott,” I repeated. “Scott Sands. In Albquerque.”

She nodded. I stood up and walked to her side, crouched down, and looked into her face. It bled slowly white under the pressure of my stare.

“Listen to me,” I said. “If you lie to me, I will not forgive. Do you understand?”

She did. “I'm not lying. It's Scott.”

“On your life.”

“On my life.”

I rose to my feet with a shadow of my old Djinn grace. “Then you may have your life back,” I said, and glanced around the gray, soulless house. “Such as it may be.”

 

The small pink phone Manny had given me rang as I was waiting for a cab to arrive. I had been waiting for some time, and despite the fierce and constant sun, I was considering walking to the airport.

I pulled out the tiny machine and studied it. The small screen on the front was lit with a blue-white glow, and it spelled out MANNY CALLING. I examined the individual buttons and found one that seemed to indicate talking.

I wished, in short order, that I had not.

“Cassiel!” I heard his voice from a great distance, and cautiously put the phone closer to my ear. “
Dios mio
, I've been trying to get you. Where the hell are you?”

“El Paso,” I said.

There was a long silence. Had I been born human, it might have seemed ominous.

“El Paso,” he repeated slowly, at long last.
“Texas?”

“It is on the border of New Mexico, as well. And Mexico, which is another country.” I had been studying the maps. I was somewhat pleased with my ability to distinguish between
New
Mexico and the Mexico not designated as old.

“I know where it—look, what are—how did you—” He couldn't decide which question was more important, but I understood both.

“I came because I found someone who knew about the fire,” I said. “I have spoken with her. I now know who set the fire, and why. As to how, I used an airplane. And a cab. Cabs are for hire.”

Manny let loose a torrent of Spanish, which I did not bother to translate because the meaning was clear enough: He was not pleased. In midstream, he switched back to English. “—
solamente!
You don't go anywhere alone—you damn sure don't ditch me and go flying off to
Texas
! What if something had happened, you think of that?”

I was briefly warmed by his concern. Briefly, because he went on to say, “What if we'd had some kind of emergency here, and I needed you?”

“I see.” My voice, well beyond my control, had taken on a flat, dark tone. I wondered if the small device was capable of relaying such subtleties. “Of course. I am at your disposal, Warden Rocha. Perhaps, instead of an apartment, you would prefer to furnish me with a bottle from which you could summon me at will.”

“I didn't mean—” I heard an explosive rattle of air on the speaker from his end. “All right, maybe I did. You work for us, remember? That means you do what the Wardens tell you to do. And you get paid. If you want to break that agreement and go running off without support or notice—”

“I am sorry. I thought it was the correct course of action.”

“And you didn't tell me because . . . ?”

Because Manny would have proceeded cautiously, and I didn't think we could afford such slow progress. “It was an error in judgment,” I said. It was difficult to say the words, even if I knew them as false. “I am coming back now.”

“Damn straight you are. Look, you okay? Nothing happened, right?”

A yellow car turned the corner and slowed as it came toward me. “Nothing has happened,” I said. “I will see you in a few hours.”

I pressed the OFF button before he could ask more questions. I was not certain of the security of these devices, and speaking in the open seemed to me to be a risk we could not afford to take. Perhaps it would have been safe, but it was safer still to wait to talk in private, face-to-face.

The cabdriver was a quiet man, which suited me well. I watched the city roll by the car window during the short drive back to the airport, paid him in cash (adding in the tip this time without being instructed) and was getting out of the vehicle when he said, “Hope you're flying out soon.”

I paused. “Why?”

He nodded at the eastern horizon. “Storm's coming.”

 

The next flight back to Albuquerque was a three-hour wait, and I spent it watching passersby, looking for Djinn. I spotted two—a male and female traveling together, disguised as college-age humans, complete with backpacks. They gazed at me in turn, for long moments, and then went about their business without comment.

I had known them once, but their reaction only served to tell me again how far I had fallen, and how isolated I was from what had been my family.

I turned my attention outward to the storm. The cabdriver was correct; the city of El Paso had a hot, dry climate, but a few times a year—sometimes only once a year—a storm formed in the normally stable air. The amount of rain it would dump would be, by the standards of most areas, negligible—an inch or two, perhaps.

In El Paso, it would result in deaths, as those unaccustomed to driving on wet streets lost control, or the flood canals went from dry canyons to raging rivers.

The clouds had a velvety darkness to them, a solidity that I could almost feel as they swept across the sky, spreading like spilled ink. The sun flared brightly, then was swallowed and became a pale ghost, barely a bright circle through the clouds. . . . And then it was gone altogether.

The vicious growl of thunder shook the plate glass windows of the lounge where I sat.

An overhead speaker finally announced the boarding of my flight. Mindful of Manny's lessons, I waited until my ticket group was called, walked the jetway with the rest, and then settled myself in the narrow, uncomfortable seat with care. Had I still been able to shift my form, I'd have shortened my legs; as it was, I twisted to one side to avoid having my knees deeply buried in the next row's cushions.

My cell phone rang again. Manny, of course. I started to answer it, but the uniformed attendant told me it was not allowed. I switched the phone off instead, settled back as much as I could, and waited for takeoff.

The fine hairs on my arms began to prickle. I looked down, puzzled by this response from a body I had at least begun to understand, and the muted fragments of Djinn senses that I still possessed screamed a warning.

I had only an instant in which to act, and no real knowledge to guide me—instinct alone would save or damn me.

This was an attack by weather, and since my power flowed from Manny's, I had little dominion over that aspect of things. What I
could
do, however, was insulate the aircraft by sinking the wheels themselves beneath the tarmac, all the way into raw dirt.

Lightning hit the fuselage of the plane with the force of an explosion, blowing out fuses and plunging the interior into muddled darkness.
The fuel,
I thought, and quickly shifted my focus to the massive tanks. It would take only a spark to set it off, and although the plane was now insulated, I could feel the lightning
hunting
for a vulnerability.