"Suit yourself." The Djinn turned away to root around in some drawers in the kitchen. He came up with a battery, scowled at it, and threw it back. A corkscrew. One of those clippy things for opened bags of chips. "Ah! Here. Take this."

He tossed something shiny at me. I caught it and felt a flash of cold, something sharp turning in my fingers, and then I was holding nothing but an expanding breath of mist. I opened my hand and stared down. Nothing to show for it but a faint red mark on my palm. I frowned at it and extended a tingle of Oversight, but there was nothing there. Nothing harmful, anyway.

"What the hell is it?" I asked.

The Djinn shrugged. "A precaution," he said. Sharp-toothed grin again, very unsettling. "In case you lose your way."

Before I could offer a polite thanks-but-no-thanks, I felt the steel psychic slam of wards coming up to full strength. The Djinn was evidently done screwing around with me, even as a diversion.

He floated up to the doorway, watching me as I backed down the steps while fighting against it.

"Hey!" I fumed. "Dammit, I just want to talk to him! That's all! I'm not going to turn him in or anything!"

"Drive," he said. "You'll be contacted with directions."

I was off the back porch and out of the yard and on the sidewalk before I could even think about fighting back.

I flexed my hand, but it didn't feel any different than it ever had. In Oversight, there was nothing visible but flesh and bone, muscles and nerves, the luminous course of blood moving on its busy way.

The Djinn had smelled the Demon Mark on me. That was bad. Very bad.

It meant I didn't have much time left.

God has a sense of humor, and in my experience, it is never kind. I'd tempted fate consistently for days now… I hadn't packed a toothbrush, a change of clothes, or a tampon. Well, at least I had my American Express Platinum, with the infinite credit limit for emergencies… but then again, I didn't dare use it. My friends and colleagues would be watching for any sign of me, and until I found Lewis—and safety—I didn't dare attract their attention. If the FBI could find me, the Wardens sure as hell wouldn't have any trouble.

I kept myself awake as I drove my sweet midnight-blue 71 Mustang out of town by making a mental shopping list. Underwear: check. Toiletries: check. Clothes: definitely. New shoes: a must.

I sniffed the air inside the car. A shower and a car deodorizer wouldn't hurt, either. Maybe something with that new-car aroma. I love classic cars, but they come with baggage and years of ingrained stinkiness. Feet, sweat, sex, the ancient ghosts of spilled coffee. I smelled it only after a few hours on the road, and maybe it was all in my head, but just now I'd give anything for a clean, fresh scent like they claimed in the commercials.

I rolled down the windows and smelled something else, something more menacing. Rain. The storm was getting closer.

I find that as a Warden, it pays to drive something aerodynamic and fast that the wind will have a hard time shoving over a cliff. Just because I can control weather—with the proper focus—doesn't mean the weather likes it, or that it won't decide to screw with me at the most inconvenient times. In my business, we not only understand chaos theory, but we totally abide by it, as well. Chaos happens. Plan for speed.

I accelerated out of town in complete defiance of traffic laws and headed out on the maze that was the Connecticut road system. Basically heading south and west, because that was away from the coming storm, which had turned the eastern sky a heavy gray green. You'll be contacted with directions. Had the Djinn just screwed with me? Possibly; the Djinn were known for their mean-spirited sense of humor. Maybe he hadn't gotten hold of Lewis. Maybe Lewis had told him he didn't want to see me, in which case the only directions the Djinn was honor-bound to give me led straight to hell.

I was in antiques country on CT 66, driving past shops that sold Federal chests and Shaker chairs, some of them even genuine. On a better day, I might have been tempted to stop. My Florida house was due for a redecoration, and I liked the psychic feel of antiques. It was definitely time to get over that Martha Stewart everything-in-its-place phase; I was so tired of pastels and good manners, I could yak. The fantasy that I would be going home—ever—to a normal life was something I was clinging to like a spar on a stormy ocean.

I was just passing a shop that housed every piece of junk from the nineteenth century when suddenly the radio crackled on. Hair on the back of my neck stood rigid, and I knew there was a spell traveling with me. A big, powerful spell, coming, no doubt, from my friendly neighborhood Djinn.

The radio spun channels, picking out its message like words on a ransom note.

A high female voice. "Drive…"

Midrange male. "To…"

Full-throated Broadway show tune. "Oklahoma is OK!"

"What?" I yelped. "You're kidding, right?"

The radio flipped stations again. It settled on classic rock. "No-no, no, nuh-no, no, no-no-no-no-no no no no, nuh-no." Either the Djinn was putting me on, which would be seriously unfunny, or the spell was coming from Elsewhere, I hoped not an Elsewhere that began with the letter Hell.

"Very funny," I muttered. I shifted gears and felt the Mustang stretch and run beneath me like a living thing. "Any special place in Oklahoma? It's not exactly Rhode Island. There's a lot of real estate."

Letters this time. "O… K… C" Oklahoma City.

I got a bad feeling. "No offense, but can I at least get some proof this message is from Lewis?"

"No," said a female voice, decisively. Static. The radio clicked off.

It could be the Djinn. In fact, it was even likely; I'd embarrassed him, and he owed me payback for that. But he had made a call, and I couldn't waste the chance if he was honestly giving me instructions on how to find his boss. Djinn had a host of faults, but out-and-out lying wasn't among them.

And besides, I had to outrun the storm behind me anyway.

"Oklahoma City," I sighed aloud. "Home of heavy weather. Fabulous."

The only redeeming thing about it was that I knew the territory, and one of my best friends in the world had retired in OKC. It'd be nice to have a friend, right now. Somebody to count on. Some shoulder to cry on.

I had to look for the silver lining, anyway. Because the storm cloud was pretty damn dark, and only getting worse.

I'd met Lewis Levander Orwell at Princeton. He was a graduate student—already had a degree in science, then a Juris Doctor to practice law. His explanation, strangely, had been that he'd wanted something to fall back on, in case the whole magic thing didn't work out. Apparently he had the whole Magical Arts thing mixed up with Liberal Arts.

And for a while, it looked like having a fallback career was a good idea. Lewis had been recruited— or drafted—after demonstrating some definite weatherworking abilities at the age of fifteen, but that talent had seemed to fade. He had loads of potential but no actual… nothing concrete to show what his powers might be or what form they might really take. Then, his second year in the Program, he was spotted working in the garden. In the winter, knee-deep in snow. Growing roses.

Red, blooming roses the size of dinner plates. He was honestly surprised that it was hard to do.

He was originally identified as an Earth Warden— someone who could shape living things, alter the land itself, make crops grow in fallow fields, prevent or cause earthquakes and volcanoes. A strong, deep power, and very rare. Then, in his third year of the Program, they'd discovered he also had an affinity for fire. Dual specialties are vanishingly rare. Only five other Wardens in recorded history had ever commanded earth and fire together. Water and air—that was expected, even typical—but earth and fire didn't blend well. Lewis was talked about a lot. He was, we all heard, expected to do Great Things.