Текст книги "Gale Force"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

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little weak. I felt light in the head for a second, and braced myself against the wall. So not cut out

for this.

''No, Mr. Garrett, I'm fine,'' I lied, and was pleased that my voice sounded steady and almost

welcoming. ''What can I do for you?''

''Well, I don't know if you remember, but a couple of days ago I tried to reach you when you

were on vacation. . . . I wanted to talk about the Wardens organization that you're part of.''

My heart trip-hammered, thanks to a sudden dump of adrenaline into my bloodstream. I

supposed as an Earth Warden I ought to be able to take care of that stuff, but no, not happening. I

struggled to keep my voice calm and light. ''Mr. Garrett, I'm ashamed of you. A journalist,

ending a sentence in a preposition?''

He laughed. He sounded at ease. I supposed this was fun for him. All in a day's work, terrifying

the people on the other end of the phone. ''Ms. Baldwin, if dozens of English teachers and

journalism professors couldn't beat it out of me, I think you've got a lost cause on your hands.''

The amusement fell away like a discarded carnival mask. ''Let's talk about the Wardens. What

would you say if I told you I had a credible source telling me that not only are the Wardens real,

and acknowledged by every government on Earth, at least in secret, but they also function as a

kind of shadow governmental agency? One that fundamentally affects and controls the lives of

ordinary people?''

''I'd say you need to call Spielberg,'' I said. ''Bet it would make a great movie. Your source is a

mental case, Mr. Garrett. If you actually have one. Which I notice you didn't actually say. So, in

theory, I didn't actually answer the question, either.''

He ignored that, although it at least deserved a chuckle, I thought. ''This is serious stuff,'' he

said. ''I take it seriously. I'm not convinced about all this talk of paranormal events and

controlling the weather, but there's got to be something behind it. Maybe you guys have

technology we're not aware of, something classified; we can get into the details later. What I

want to know is the structure of your organization. I understand it's worldwide. Do you report up

through the U.S. government?''

''I'm not having this conversation.'' I kept it simple this time. Garrett waited for me to blurt out

something else; silence was pressure. I held on to my tongue and turned to see the entire table of

Wardens watching me. Lewis put down his fork and got up, walking toward me. Whatever he

saw in my expression, it couldn't have been reassuring.

''So the organization is independent of national interests? A shadow government of its own?''

''No!'' One-word answers were going to land me in trouble; he'd box me neatly in. ''I'm afraid

I can't confirm any information for you, Mr. Garrett. I really have no idea what kind of fiction

you've been fed by your source, but-''

''I have videotape,'' he said. ''Television footage of a woman stopping a tornado in the Midwest

last week. The more I searched, the more I came up with– strange events caught on tape here,

surveillance camera video there. Put it all together, and it confirms everything my source has told

me.''

I took a deep breath, covered the speaker of the phone, and whispered to Lewis, ''We're

screwed. The New York Times has the scent on the Wardens. I don't think he's going away. He

sounds serious.''

''He's looking for independent confirmation,'' Lewis said. ''Print reporters have to prove a story

before publication. He's fishing.''

''He's got really big bait. Whale-sized.''

Lewis shook his head. ''Then we'd better handle it. If we don't, he'll catch us at a weak moment

and get somebody to admit to something. Tell him we'll meet with him.''

''We will?''

''Both of us,'' he said, and grinned. ''Tell him to pick a dark, smoky bar. They love that kind of

spy shit. Besides, we need anonymity.''

''And scotch,'' I muttered. ''Lots of scotch.''

Due to the excuse of the emergency, our appointment with Mr. Garrett was in a week, in New

York City. He'd offered to come to Florida, but the last thing I wanted was for him to run into

some busy, annoyed Warden who blurted out the truth just to get him off their backs. We were

working here.

A week. I had a week, in conjunction with the other Wardens, to come up with a good fiction to

feed the hungry reporter-one that would induce him to back off. Alternatively, we could go for

the big hammer– get someone in the UN or the U.S. government to tell him to back off, but that

would pretty much prove his whole case for him. I felt an itch between my shoulder blades, as

though somebody had drawn target crosshairs right below my neck.

As it happened, there wasn't a lot for the Wardens to do about the earthquake; on the surface, it

quickly became one of those weird leading-this-hour stories on the major news networks for half

a day, then slipped into obscurity. It was all over but for the insurance claims, which were going

to be considerable. No fatalities, only light casualties.

We'd been damned lucky.

I never finished my breakfast. By the time I felt composed enough to eat, the waffles were cold,

tasteless hunks of dough, and I needed to lose a couple of pounds, anyway. Considering how

nervous I already felt about facing Phil Garrett in a week, that wasn't going to be a challenge.

In the interest of having a comfortable place to work, I went home. Well . . . comfortable was a

stretch right now, since half the complex had burned to the ground, and the half left standing had

sustained smoke and water damage.

Curiously, my apartment was perfectly fine. Not a water stain, not a smoke smudge. It even

smelled newly cleaned.

David had done me a favor. Again.

I had a secure phone setup in my office area, and VPN access to the Warden's database systems

back in New York; I logged in and began reviewing files. Earth Wardens who specialized in

detecting and handling radioactivity were few and far between, and a lot of them were dead,

missing, or had quit over the last few years. It had been tough on everybody. First we'd had

internal strife within the organization, and then the Djinn had found a way to destroy the rule

book that bound them to servitude, and launched their own high-body-count conflict.

We were lucky to have as many Wardens as we did, but we weren't exactly spoiled for choice

these days.

My best bet was a naval officer named Peterson, but he was on a carrier in the Persian Gulf.

Second best choice was an ex-army guy named Silverton. No address listed, just a cell phone. He

was shown as NFA-no fixed address. In other words, Ex-Sergeant Silverton was either

homeless or liked living out of a suitcase and hotels. Since he could afford a cell phone, I

supposed it was the latter.

The phone call with Silverton revealed nothing much, other than he was available and could be

on the ground in Fort Lauderdale in eighteen hours. I authorized his travel-paperwork was

going to survive the nuclear winter, along with cockroaches-and set about typing up my

incident reports on the earthquake. When that got old-which I admit, it did quickly-I began

surfing the Net for bridal information. I had a wedding to plan, after all. These things don't run

themselves, unless you're so famous you can not only get your wedding services for free, but

have people pay for the exclusive coverage.

Hmmm, now that was an idea. . . .

I was looking at wedding cakes when the phone rang-the secured line. Paul Giancarlo's raspy,

Jersey-spiced voice said, ''We've got a fuckin' note taking responsibility for the earthquake

down there.''

''You've what?''

''Let me read it to you.''

To the Wardens,

Your time is up. You've been given warnings, but you've ignored them. Either cut off contact

with the Djinn, or face the consequences. Today's earthquake in Fort Lauderdale is proof that we

can do what we say. The Djinn must be stopped.

Paul paused and cleared his throat. ''It's signed, 'the Sentinels.' ''

''The Sentinels? You're kidding me. Aren't they some football team?'' It was almost laughable.

Almost. ''Seriously, man, I've heard rumors, but-wasn't it just talk?''

''Not according to this. Not according to what I've been hearing. Look, we've got ourselves a

real, live splinter group,'' he said. ''One not afraid of using terror tactics.''

''And they sent a note? How . . . 1980s of them.''

''E-mail, actually. And yes, we tried tracing it. No luck. We put the NSA on it, but nobody

seems real positive about the prospects. This thing in the ground you and Rocha saw, you think

it's some kind of device?''

''Maybe,'' I said. ''But . . . it didn't seem man-made. Didn't register like that on the aetheric at

all. I don't know. This is deeply weird, Paul.''

''Yeah, but what worries me a hell of a lot more is that what I've been hearing about the

Sentinels makes sense.''

''I-what?''

''We all know the Djinn are unpredictable,'' he said. ''We've seen it, all right? So is it all that

surprising that the ones who got hurt the most-the Wardens who survived that whole bloody

mess of a civil war– want to see the Djinn stay out of the way?''

I didn't know quite what to say. ''You sound like you agree with them.''

''Not entirely,'' he said, which wasn't, I noticed, exactly a denial. ''But I don't like the idea of

putting our people at risk for no good reason, either. Maybe the Sentinels have the right idea,

wrong tactics.''

''You're telling me you don't trust David?''

''Kid-,'' Paul sighed. ''I can't have this conversation with you. You're not exactly rational on

the subject. But I was in the New York offices that day. I saw what happens when the Djinn go

off the leash. I fought for my life; I saw friends ripped apart in front of me. You got any idea

what kind of impression that makes?''

I couldn't think of any way to respond to that. He'd caught me off guard. I knew that Paul still

had bitterness about the Djinn revolt, and he was right; bad things had happened, mostly to

Wardens. But he was discounting-or ignoring-all the thousands of years of suffering the

Djinn had endured on their side.

Most Wardens wanted to ignore that.

''Right, moving on,'' Paul said into the silence. ''I'm getting the team together here for analysis.

We're going to count heads, see who's not answering the pings for roll call. I want a line on

anybody who's missing, just in case. I don't suspect my own, but it's useful knowing if

somebody's in trouble.''

That, I thought, would be a full-time job. Following the Djinn problems of the past year, a lot of

Wardens had simply . . . vanished. Most of them were dead, killed in the fighting, but some had

slipped away, knowing that we didn't have time to track down every name on the list. It'd take

years to round up any rogue agents out there.

''I'm pulling in Silverton,'' I said. ''He's our best option for handling this thing, if it's

radioactive. If I need anybody else, I'll let you know.''

''Yeah, you do that. And kid?''

''Yeah, Paul?''

''You sure about this wedding thing? Really sure?''

I knew that Paul, once upon a time, had harbored ambitions in the direction of me in his bed, and

I'd been kind of willing to contemplate it. But all that had changed, and he was gentleman

enough to acknowledge it. Under the exterior of a badass Mafia scion beat the heart of a very

sweet man-if you could overlook all the cursing.

''I'm sure,'' I said softly. ''I love him, Paul.''

He didn't sound impressed. ''You know what he is.''

There it was again, that thread of darkness, that almost-prejudice. ''Yes, I know what he is. He's

someone who's saved my life more times than I can count. He's someone who's put his own life

on the line not just for me but for the Wardens and all of humanity. I know exactly what he is.

And who he is.''

Awkward silence, and then, ''Fuck, babe, I've gotta run. We're good, right?''

''We're good,'' I said. ''Kisses.''

I said it to a humming disconnected signal. Paul was already gone, off to the next crisis. I

finished up at my desk, closed the laptop, and sat back to think.

The Sentinels. That had an amateurish ring to it, but who was I to judge? Lewis had started the

Ma'at, a separate Warden-like organization, when he'd been just out of college, and that had

turned out to be a useful thing-the Ma'at took in people without enough talent to be Wardens,

but more than the average human, and paired them up with Djinn volunteers. They worked on

the theory of additive power– forming chains of people and Djinn in order to amplify and direct

power that otherwise wouldn't be strong enough to make a difference.

The Sentinels didn't sound like they had a new idea, just a difference of political opinion. They

were anti-Djinn. Well, that shouldn't have come as a shock; enough Wardens had been hurt or

killed in the troubles with the Djinn to make some kind of backlash inevitable. I just hadn't

thought it would be so fast, or so decisive. I'd never thought that it would come down to

reasonable, responsible people doing something like causing unnecessary loss of life.

One thing was certain: Whether it was a good idea or not for David to be involved in this

investigation about the black knife, it was going to have to happen. I needed him to know about

the anti-Djinn movement, and I needed a Djinn to try to analyze the history of the black knife

and tell me where it came from, who made it, who planted it, and how to remove it.

It was logical, all right.

I just had a sinking feeling that it was exactly the wrong thing to do.

Chapter Two

According to the checklist I'd downloaded from the Internet, I was already running about six

months behind on planning any decent kind of wedding that didn't involve shotguns and pissed-

off dads. As I waited in the Fort Lauderdale airport for Warden Silverton's plane, I read over the

printed bridal list and anxiously jotted notes in the margins. Some things I just marked out. I

wasn't fooling with wedding advisors, wedding consultants, or wedding planners; none of them

would be equipped to deal with the complexities of the wedding of a Warden and a Djinn,

anyway. And if they were, they'd be way, way too expensive.

Clergy. Now that was something I did have to think about. Unless we went for a civil ceremony .

. . Hmmm. Maybe one of the pagan faiths would be willing to do it. And then there were the

caterers. Photographers. Musicians for the reception. Florists.

The whole thing was obscenely complicated. I suspected the wedding ritual was designed to

make absolutely sure you really wanted to get married. God knew that if you were on the fence

about it, the organizing would put you over the edge into permanent bachelorette-hood.

I was settled in an uncomfortable hard plastic seat in the baggage claim area, watching the

arriving passengers. I had a sign propped next to me with the stylized sun symbol of the Wardens

on it in gold and glitter-unmistakable, to anyone who knew what it meant, although I'd put

SILVERTON below it in block letters, just in case.

I spotted a likely candidate-a tall African American man with erect military bearing who

snagged an olive-drab duffel bag from the baggage belt. Sure enough, as his eyes scanned the

waiting crowd, he fixed right on me and headed in my direction.

I stood up, claimed the sign, and waited for him to stride over. He got taller and taller the closer

he came, very imposing. His handshake was firm and businesslike, and I realized he was older

than I'd thought– probably in his early fifties, with a light dusting of gray in his close-cropped

black hair, lines around his eyes. ''Mr. Silverton,'' I said. ''Joanne Baldwin.''

''Heard of you, ma'am,'' he said. No hint of whether the advance notice had been good or bad.

''Call me Jerome, please. No point in formality if we're going to be working together.''

''Right. Jerome, my car's outside. How was your flight?''

''Food-free,'' he said. ''Could I impose on you to discuss this assignment over dinner?''

''Sure,'' I said. ''Anything in particular?''

''Fish,'' he said. ''Hate to miss the fish when I come to the coast.''

He liked my car. In fact, Jerome liked my car more than most people, walking all the way around

it, asking questions about the engine, the performance, the mileage. I was betting that he'd ask to

drive it, but he didn't; he stowed his gear in the trunk and took the passenger side. I made sure to

drive extra fast, just to give him a demonstration, which he seemed to appreciate.

''So,'' I said, as we whipped down North Ocean Boulevard, enjoying the sea breeze and late

afternoon sun, ''I noticed you were NFA in the system. Travel a lot?''

''Prefer it that way,'' he said. ''Not really interested in being tied down.''

''And that sound you hear is the hearts of women breaking from coast to coast.''

I got a low chuckle out of him. ''Not likely, ma'am.''

''Joanne.''

''Joanne.'' He flashed me a million-dollar smile. ''Pretty women make me nervous.''

I doubted that. ''No Mrs. Silverton, then?''

The smile disappeared. ''No. There was, but she's gone now.'' The way he said it didn't invite

mining that particular subject. ''Tell me about the earthquake. ''

I did, sparing no details; no telling what was relevant. When I got to a description of the black

glass thorn stuck into the aetheric, he frowned and turned toward me, intense and focused.

''That's why you called me,'' he said. ''Because of the radiation problem.''

''That's one reason, but you're supposed to be a very good Earth Warden as well. One of the

most sensitive to things not being right before things go to hell. That might really be an asset

around here right now.''

I took a right turn into the parking lot of a seafood restaurant I particularly liked, parked, and

turned off the engine. Silverton made no move to get out, so neither did I.

''I'm going to need some things,'' he said. ''A handheld GPS device. A Geiger counter. Couple

of other things.''

''Anything you need, I'll get,'' I said. ''Make me a list.''

He was still studying me, in a way that made me feel like I should have something more to say. I

followed a burst of inspiration and asked, ''Have you seen something like this before?''

With that, Silverton opened his door and put one long leg outside. Before he levered himself up,

he met my eyes and said, ''I sure as hell hope not.''

It took the rest of the day to get Silverton's shopping list together, which included a detailed map

and geological survey of the area, and a whole bunch of equipment whose names and purposes I

didn't even recognize. ''What are you expecting to find, Jimmy Hoffa?'' I muttered, loading the

last of it into the backseat of the Mustang. I didn't like using the car as a packhorse. It was a

thoroughbred. Besides, I didn't want dings in the upholstery.

Silverton didn't answer me. It was getting dark, and I'd proposed waiting until the next morning,

but Silverton seemed anxious to get started, so we started driving, cruising slowly-just two

people in a fast car, slumming it on a leisurely sightseeing trip.

Silverton kept his eyes glued alternately on the Geiger counter and the maps, and I could tell that

he was also maintaining part of his awareness, searching the aetheric. It took a lot of control to

do that. He steered me with terse commands to go right or left-once, he had me back up and

turn around. I heard the Geiger counter begin to click, and Silverton nodded once.

The sun was going down in the west, layers of stacked colors trailing behind like vast silk

scarves. A few cirrus clouds skidded toward the horizon, but it was a calm sea with fair winds.

And inside the car, the Geiger counter stopped clicking and started chattering. I instinctively

slowed down. ''Here?''

''Not yet. Keep going.''

Not good. The clicking was already frantic. What did that mean for all those people driving by?

Were they sick? Dying?

''Pull in up ahead,'' Silverton said, and pointed off to the right. I bumped up a ramp into a

deserted parking area-some kind of office building, marked as condemned. I barely paid

attention. My gaze was fixed on Silverton as he compared maps, looked at the GPS, and used

colored pens to mark our position. He shut off the Geiger counter, which was a storm of

constant, nervous clicking, and got out of the car. I unbuckled my safety belt and hurried after

him, grabbing the heavy duffel bag from the back. He paced the parking lot, prowling like a cat,

and finally headed off across the asphalt toward the building.

It didn't look like much: three stories, mostly built of concrete slabs, with a few cheerless

windows. The style looked vaguely 1970s, one of those designs of the future that had never

really caught on. I'd always wondered why, in the future, people never seemed to appreciate

things like plants, carpet, and comfortably padded furniture. I just knew that the offices inside

this building would have hard plastic chairs and concrete floors and earth-toned macrame wall

hangings.

Well, it would have, except that this building was long abandoned. Some of the higher windows

were broken out; the lower ones were boarded up with warping plywood. A sign on the door

announced NO TRESPASSING, in uneven Day-Glo letters.

Silverton, however, wasn't about to be warned off. He walked up to the double glass doors and,

without hesitation, yanked. Nothing happened. They were locked.

I cleared my throat. ''Maybe we should-''

Apparently, the end of that sentence was break in, because Silverton exerted a pulse of Earth

power, and the lock made a little metallic snapping sound, and the glass doors shivered and

sagged open. He shot me a look. ''You were saying?''

''Just wondering if we ought to alert the bail bonds-man now, or wait until they let us have our

one phone call,'' I said. ''Don't mind me. I'm fine.'' Well, I wasn't, really. ''Are we

radioactive?''

Silverton raised his eyebrows. ''Well, yes. Did the clicking not tip you off?'' He didn't wait for

my answer, which would not have been helpful anyway; he swung the door open, and a wave of

eau-de-abandoned-building swarmed over me. Old paper, turning to dust. Mold. Stale, still air.

A faintly unpleasant undertone of sewer problems, too.

Oh man. This was looking less like a good plan all the time. I had not worn the right shoes for

tramping through sewer water. In fact, I didn't own the right shoes for that, and hoped I never

would. Still, not cool to abandon the contractor you've hired to solve the problem.

So when Silverton strode on, into a dim entry hall, I followed.

Silverton was much better prepped than I'd thought; that even extended to flashlights, big heavy

ones that would double as clubs in an emergency. I was glad, because I could hear scuttling

somewhere upstairs. I know-big, bad Earth Warden afraid of things that scuttle. But it's all

context. I'm fine with Nature's way, as long as Nature keeps it out of my way.

I cautiously split my attention between the real world-which was full of hazardous broken

furniture, moldering carpet, and dangling wires-and the aetheric. The spirit world was tinted

bloodred here, and it felt hot . . . oven-hot. I didn't like it. Things had happened in this place, bad

things. Their ghosts still hung around, joyless and draining. Workplace shooting, maybe. Or

something equally horrible. Emotion stained this place, even over and above whatever our

radioactive target might prove to be.

Silverton reached the end of the hallway and turned a slow circle, then pointed at a dented metal

door that said MAINTENANCE ONLY. It was locked. He did the trick again, and beyond was a

pitch darkness that made my skin crawl. The flashlights weren't making a dent, really.

''Allow me,'' I said, and twisted a small thread of Fire into a wick, then set it alight inside a

bubble of air. I levitated it into the room ahead of us and turned up the brightness until the

flickering magic lantern revealed rusted metal steps, going down, and mold-streaked concrete

walls. ''You're sure about this?''

''You want to get to it; we go down there,'' Silverton said. ''Tell you what-makes you feel any

better, I'll let you go first.''

It didn't, but I was probably the best equipped to deal with any hostile force that popped up out

of the darkness. Damn, I hated being competent sometimes. ''How radioactive are we, exactly?''

''On a scale from one to ten?'' Silverton asked cheerily. ''Dead, ma'am. Or we would be, if we

weren't Earth Wardens. Got some natural immunity against that kind of thing.''

''Some?''

''The longer we stay, the worse off we are,'' he pointed out. Right. I was taking the lead.

Fantastic.

I stepped onto the rusting metal, heard something creak, and hastily pushed my awareness down

through the stairs, checking for structural integrity. They'd hold, thankfully, but just to be sure I

added a little stiffener at the welded joints.

Twenty-two steps later, I arrived at the basement level, where the building's power plant was

contained. At least that was what I assumed it was: a huge block of metal, dented and rusted,

with inert panels of darkened indicators. I summoned the floating light closer as I walked around

it.

''Should be close,'' Silverton said. In the dark, his voice sounded like the whisper of a ghost.

And there were ghosts down here; I could feel their presence on the aetheric. People had

definitely died hard in this place. Enough of them could have spawned a New Djinn. Nobody

knew where the Old Djinn, the ones from the dawn of time, had come from, but the newer ones

were born out of enough energy being set free at the same time. Disasters and mass killings were

particularly prone to it.

I kept looking into Oversight and templated it across the real world as I eased around the

generator. Whatever this thing was, it ought to be right there . . . and it was.

It was a severed head.

I screamed and recoiled-reflex-and slammed into Silverton's hard chest. He steadied me,

moved me out of the way, and crouched down to stare at the dead, still face.

''That's a Djinn,'' he said softly.

''Can't be.'' I was getting control of myself again, willing myself back to some kind of mental

balance. My heart was still thumping like a speed-metal drummer, but my hands were only

shaking a little. ''Djinn don't die. Not like that. And they don't leave corpses when they do.''

''This one did,'' Silverton said. ''Recognize him?''

I didn't. I didn't want to, either. ''How can you cut the head off a Djinn?''

''You can't.'' Silverton reached out and touched the head. It wobbled backward a little, but

didn't roll. ''He's buried in the concrete up to the neck.''

Okay, that was-if possible-even creepier. ''What about the black thing? Is it him?''

''No,'' Silverton said. ''It's inside him. We have to get him out.''

He put both hands flat on the floor, on either side of the Djinn's head, and the concrete began to

liquefy. Silverton reached into the wet concrete and gave me a glance. ''Grab his other arm.''

Last thing I wanted to do, but I did it. I reached down into the cool, wet cement and found

something that felt more like flesh than liquid, and pulled. Silverton matched me, and we stood

and walked backward, still pulling.

The Djinn's body slipped free, covered from the neck down in a gray, dripping mass. He was

naked, and he looked very, very . . . human. The only way I could tell that he wasn't entirely

human was the gauzy signature on the aetheric, barely perceptible now that we had him free of

the ground.

Silverton was right. The black knife was inside him, driven in like a spike. This close on the

aetheric it looked even deadlier than before. Glittering, sharp, lethal.

Silverton took a deep breath. ''We're going to have to open him up.''

I ran through all the reflexive denials and arguments in my head, and finally said, ''You tell me

what to do.''

Silverton reached in his backpack and pulled out two pairs of thick, black rubberized gloves. He

handed me one and donned the other pair, then took out a long, wicked-looking knife.

''You going to be okay?'' he asked me. I must have looked pale. I nodded, poured on the power

to the light drifting overhead, and swooped it closer to give Silverton as much visibility as

possible. ''Quick and dirty. We're not doing an appendectomy here. This is an autopsy.''

I had no idea what a Djinn looked like beneath the skin. Human, I supposed-full of organs and

blood and nerves and all the things that sustained us.

I was wrong about that. Maybe this Djinn had only assumed a human shape, or maybe the black

thing inside him had corrupted him from within.

In any case, as soon as Silverton's knife pierced the graying skin, what poured out wasn't blood.

. . . It was a toxic black liquid, like oil. It didn't leak; it pumped– as if some part of him was still

alive. God, I hoped that wasn't true.

Silverton didn't pause, but his face went tense and still. He ripped the knife from neck to groin in

one fast motion, put it aside, and yanked the cavity open. ''Hold it,'' he snapped at me. Before I

could come up with the very good reasons why I didn't want to do that, my gloved hands moved,

grabbed the slick edges, and braced it open for him.

Silverton reached inside the Djinn, got both hands around the thing inside him, and pulled. It

resisted, but then he rocked backward, as if something had broken free, and the top of the black

shard swam up out of the black liquid and caught the light.

It flared into a galaxy of stars, glittering, and I gasped and looked away from it. There was

something deeply wrong about it. Deeply alien.

''Oh God,'' I whispered. Silverton's face had gone an unhealthy shade of gray, and his hands

shook as he pulled the thing out. ''Drop it. Jerome, drop it!''

He got it free of the Djinn's corpse and let go. It fell to the concrete floor-not like the glass it

resembled, not at all. It fell with a thick, metallic clunk. Drops of oily black dripped from its

sharp edges, and both Silverton and I stared at it without saying a word for a few moments.

Then Silverton said, ''This shouldn't be here. This can't be here.''

I licked my lips and tasted sweat. ''What is it?''

He met my eyes, and I saw real fear in him, the big tough military guy. ''I don't know. If I had to