Текст книги "Ill Wind"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

Соавторы: Rachel Caine
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I got Paul on the first ring.

"Jesus fucking Christ,Jo, what did you just do?" It was a bellow, not a question, and I jerked the phone away from my ear, then tentatively moved it back. "Fuckin' power surge the size of fuckin' New Jersey, and it's right in the middle of my Sector! And don't tell me it wasn't you, I know your style!"

"It wasn't me. Well, it was aimedat me, but I didn't start it," I said, and waited out the gush of curses. Paul Giancarlo was one of the good guys. His temper was mostly a lot of sound, very little fury; for a guy with Family connections—in the Cosa Nostra sense– he was surprisingly sweet. However, I was in Paul's Sector, and within it, he was lord and master of the weather, and he took that responsibility veryseriously. If I'd been careless with lives, he'd hold a grudge.

Paul bossed about a hundred Regional and Local Wardens, and his chunk of the world ran from somewhere around Montpelier down through Philadephia, Pennsylvania. I was smack in the middle of it. He had the power to make my trip very uncomfortable indeed, since Paul was great in small scale. He could deliver a monsoon with pinpoint accuracy, hang it right over the Mustang no matter where I turned. He could funnel-cloud me up to Oz, if he chose. And I didn't have time. Besides, conflict between Wardens is rarely good for anybody.

"They're looking for you," he said more quietly. "Guess you already know that, since you dropped out of sight like that."

"Yeah, well, not like I had a choice," I said.

"What with the murder charges and all," he agreed.

"It wasn't murder! It was—" Boy, it sounded lame. " – self-defense."

He grunted. "You know, Jo, that defense don't hold up all that well even in the regular courts, especially when the guy was three times your age and unarmed."

"Like a Warden's ever unarmed. This was Bad Bobwe're talking about, after all. Not some helpless old guy I knocked over the head for his wallet."

He sighed. It rattled the speaker in the phone. "He had a lot of friends. Lot of powerful friends. What the hell possessed you to take it this far? I mean, he could be a bastard, but Jesus, you fucking destroyed his house with him in it, Jo. Not to even mention that this storm you cooked up through all that crap has been focused on you like a guided missile."

I didn't want to talk about that, too many things to explain about Bad Bob and Florida. "Later. First things first. Somebody set up an unpredicated lightning bolt."

A long, expressive whistle. "That'd explain the fucking up of my weather. You're saying somebody threw it at you? Specifically?"

"I'm saying somebody really goodthrew it at me. I kind of need to know who. Was it… you know… official?"

"As in, did anybody clear it with me first? Hell no. Take my word for it: This didn't come through the chain of command." He paused for a few seconds; I could almost hear him thinking. "Jo, look, this is getting too serious. You'd better come see me. Albany. You know the address."

I did. "Paul?"

He understood the question before I had to ask it. "I'm not turning you in, babe. I don't exactly come from a family history of ratting out."

That said, he hung up. I clutched the phone for a few seconds, trying to decide, but really, I didn't have a choice. Paul's suggestions were just polite orders.

I urged the Mustang up another notch on the speeding-fine scale and hauled ass for Albany.

I met Paul when I was eighteen, at my official intake meeting for the Wardens.

It was scheduled at a Holiday Inn outside of Sarasota. I had directions and an appointed time to appear, all on official Warden stationery, and I spent most of the drive wiping sweat from my palms and wishing I could keep on driving and disappear. But the Wardens had made it crystal clear that my presence was required, not requested. They'd also mentioned that they could not only make my life miserable, but if they wanted to, they could put a real unhappy ending on it, as well.

So I walked into the modest little hotel and looked over the meeting-room signs on the board, CULLIGAN COMPANY BOARD MEETING. Nope. LADIES ASSOCIATION OF ROSE GROWERS Probably not. METEOROLOGICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE. That looked like the right one. I tugged down my skirt one more time, wished I'd worn something businesslike and conservative, and walked down what felt like the Last Mile. The door was closed. I knocked.

That was the first time I met Paul. He made an impression. He opened the door, and for a frozen second, all I could think of was Oh, my God, he's gorgeous,and he made it that much worse by letting his eyes go wider and giving me that quick, comprehensive X-ray scan men are so good at delivering. He was six feet tall, olive skinned, with dark hair and designer stubble. Body by some very expensive personal trainer, or incredibly good genetics.

"Joanne Baldwin?" he asked, still standing in the doorway. I nodded. "You're late."

His voice didn't match his body; it was low, gravelly, rough. But then again, maybe it did match, because it vibrated in parts of me that generally don't react to voices. I swallowed hard and hoped my legs weren't shaking too badly, and I followed him into the room.

Of the seven people there, Paul was definitely the standout for looks, but that didn't mean anything; I felt potential power zip up and down my spine the minute I stepped inside. Ugly or beautiful, any one of these people could lay waste to entire countries.

The man sitting at the head of the long table stood up. He was older and blank faced, with gray eyes that looked as warm as polished marble. I didn't know it then, but I was meeting the man in charge of the weather for the entire continental United States, a man who did not generally concern himself with assessing the fitness of some little girl from down in Florida.

"Joanne Baldwin," he said. It was by way of a formal introduction, and I nodded and fought an impulse to curtsy, which would have been disastrous in the miniskirt anyway. "My name is Martin Oliver. You've just met Paul Giancarlo—" A nod from the stud muffin. "Let me introduce the rest of the panel."

It was a who's who of People Who Mattered. State Wardens from Texas, Arkansas, Montana. Marion Bearheart, an American Indian woman with kind eyes and an aura powerful enough to shatter glass… and the State Warden for Florida, Bob Biringanine. Bob was a short Irish-looking fellow with a perpetual blush, feathery white hair, and steel-blue eyes. He didn't like me. I could sense it at his first uninterested glance.

"Sit," Martin Oliver invited me, and demonstrated the process. I carefully lowered myself into a squeaky black chair. Everybody stared at me for a few seconds. "Coffee?"

"No thanks," I managed. "Look, I'm not really sure why—"

"You're here because either you need to be accepted into the Program, or you need to have your powers blunted," Bob said. "Somebody like you is too dangerous to leave running around wild."

Martin's cold gray eyes flicked at him, but Bob didn't seem to feel the impact. I tried to think of something to say. Nothing volunteered. Bob—Bad Bob, I later learned he was called—shuffled papers and found something that apparently interested him. I couldn't see what it was.

"There was a storm," he said. "One year ago. You vectored it around your house."

Oh. That. I hadn't thought anybody noticed. My lips were dry again, and so was my mouth. "I had to," I said. My voice sounded childish and soft. Bad Bob's gaze pinned me like I was an insect.

"Had to?"he repeated, and traded looks with a couple of the others. "Weeping Christ, girl, do you understand what you did? Your interference added force to the storm. What would just have caused minor damage to yourhouse ended up destroying six others. Because of you.You lack judgment."

I hadn't known that. I thought—I thought I'd done the right thing. Carefully. Precisely. The idea that I'd made things worse elsewhere was a completely new one.

"That's a little harsh," said Marion Bearheart. She leaned back in her chair and studied me. "We've all screwed the pooch from time to time, Bob. You know that. Just last year, Paul dumped seventeen inches of rain on a floodplain when he was supposed to produce a summer shower. How many houses did you wash away, Paul?"

"Five," Paul grunted. "Thanks for bringing that up as often as possible."

Bad Bob ignored him, staring straight at Marion. "Paul didn't get anybody killed."

My heart froze up. There was silence around the table. Bob shuffled papers and came up with a newspaper clipping. "Dead in the wreckage of the house were Liza Gutierrez, twenty-nine, and Luis Gutierrez, thirty-one. Three children between the ages of nine and two years escaped with the help of neighbors before the home collapsed."

It was like listening to someone reading my own obituary. I tried to swallow. Couldn't. Looked down at faux woodgrain and blinked back tears. I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know.The mantra of the helpless.

And then, a low gravelly voice. "Bullshit." I looked up to see Paul staring at Bob. "Come on, Bob, she deflected the storm, sure, and she didn't take the force vectors and wind speed into account, but it still wasn't a bad job. But then, youdidn't recheck for changing conditions before you started lowering the ceiling up in the mesosphere. You want to sling some blame, I think you ought to get a little on you, too. And for God's sake, people die. Without us, the whole Atlantic seaboard would be a pile of corpses– you know that as well as anybody. Sometimes you can't save everybody. Sometimes you can't even save yourself. You know that. You of all people."

"Paul," Martin Oliver said quietly. "Enough."

Paul shut up. So did Bad Bob, who closed the folder. Martin Oliver opened his own.

"Joanne, maybe what we should be talking about is a great deal more basic. Do you wantto be a Warden? It's not an easy life, and it's not especially rewarding. You'll never have fame, and even though you'll save a lot of lives, you'll never receive gratitude or recognition. You'll need to go through another six years of training, minimum, before you're trusted as a Staff Warden." His gray eyes studied me with absolute impartiality. "Some people don't have the temperament for it. I understand that you're prone to act first and think later."

I licked my lips. "Sometimes."

"Under what circumstances would you believe it was permissible to use the kind of powers you've been given? To, for instance, get rid of a violent storm?"

"To—save lives?" Nobody had told me there was going to be a test. Dammit.

Martin exchanged a look with Bad Bob. "What about saving property?"

"Um… no."

"No?" Martin's eyebrows levitated, making his gray eyes wider. "Is there no time when saving property might be preferable to saving lives?"

My heart was beating too fast; it was hurting my chest. I could hardly swallow for the lump in my throat. "No. I don't think so."

"What if the property were, say, a nuclear reactor whose destruction might result in the deaths of thousands more?"

Oh. I hadn't thought of that one.

"What if the property were the central distribution center for food in a country full of starving people? Would you save the property, or the lives, if by saving lives you starved even more?"

"I don't know," I whispered. My hands were shaking. I made them into fists when Bad Bob's laugh sawed the air.

"She doesn't know. Well, that's typical. This is what we end up with these days, a bunch of kids raised on free lunches who never had to make a decision in their lives more important than what TV show to watch. You want to trust herwith the power of life and death?" He snorted and shoved my folder into the center of the table. "I've heard enough."

"Wait!" I blurted. "I'm sorry. I didn't understand."

Marion Bearheart looked at me from the other side of the table, her warm brown eyes full of compassion. "And do you understand now, Joanne?"

"Sure," I lied. "I'd save the power plant. And– and the food."

Silence around the table. Bad Bob stood up. Nobody argued with him; nobody moved so much as a muscle as he raised his hands at shoulder level.

A cloud started forming above our heads. Just mist at first, clinging to the ceiling like fog, and then getting denser, taking on form and shape. I felt humidity sucking up into that thing, fueling power.

"Hey—," I said. "Um—"

Power leaped through the air, jumping from each one of the Wardens in the room and into that cloud. It was feeding on them, drawing energy. It was… It was…

… alive.

Bad Bob watched me with those eerie, cold eyes. "Better do something," he advised. "Don't know how long it's going to be content to just sit there."

"Do what?" I yelped. I didn't remember standing, but I was out of my chair, backing away. The power in that room—the uncontrolled, unfocused menace– the sense that the cloud overhead was thinking—

I felt it click in on me as if a channel had opened, and something hot and powerful tore out of the cloud at me. I didn't have time to think, to do anything but just react.

I reached up into the cloud and ripped it apart. No finesse to it, no control, just sheer raw power– and power that got loose, manifested in arcing static electricity from every metal surface. Glass shattered. The pitcher of water on the table hissed into steam.

I ducked into a crouch in the corner until it was all over, and the room was clear and silent.

Very, very silent.

I looked up and saw them all still sitting there, hands on the table. Nobody had moved an inch. Marion was the first to get up; she walked over to a covered cart and took out a thick beach towel, and went about the business of mopping up beads of water from the conference table. Somebody else– probably a Fire Warden—brought the lights back online. Except for a couple of burn marks around the power outlets, it all looked normal enough.

Bad Bob sat back down in his chair, slumped at ease, and propped his chin on his fist. "I rest my case," he said. "She's a menace."

"I agree," said the snippy-looking librarian type from Arkansas. "I've rarely seen anything so completely uncontrolled."

Martin Oliver shook his head. "She has plenty of power. You know how rare it is to find that."

They went around the table, each one putting in a comment about my general worthlessness or worthiness. Marion Bearheart voted for me. So did two others.

It came down to Paul Giancarlo, who stood and walked over to me and offered me a hand up. He kept holding my hand until he was sure I wasn't going to collapse into a faint on the floor.

"You know what this is?" he asked. "What it is we're deciding here?"

"Whether or not to let me into the Wardens," I said.

He shook his head, very kindly. "Whether or not to let you live.If I say you can't be trained, you go into Marion's keeping, and she and her people try to take away your powers without killing you. Sometimes it works. Sometimes… not so well."

If he was hoping to scare me, he'd succeeded brilliantly. I wanted to say something, but I honestly had no idea what to try. Everything I'd done so far was wrong. Maybe keeping my mouth shut was the best thing I could do.

He finally smiled. "Not going to beg, are you?"

I shook my head.

"That's something," he said, and turned around to Martin Oliver. "I'll take her on. She can't cut it, it's my responsibility. But I think she's going to be a damn good Warden someday."

Martin winced. "Not quite yet, though."

"Yeah, well. Who is, at eighteen?"

"You were," Martin said. "I was."

Paul shrugged. "We're fuckin' prodigies, Marty. And neither one of us ever had half the power this girl does coming into it."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Bad Bob said. "That's exactlywhat I'm afraid of."

It was four to three to make me a Warden.

Two hours later, I made it to Albany. Not a bad town, Albany—nice, historic, a little run-down but still the kind of kid-and-dog place that people boast about. Probably smaller than the residents preferred it be, considering it was the state capital and all. I'd hit it in pretty season—tulips bloomed in shocking rows of red and yellow, like velvet rings of fire rippling in the wind around trees and home gardens. I passed through the industrial area near Erie Canal, past narrow brownstones with soot-dark stoops, and turned toward the southend—up Hamilton toward the part of town called—appropriately—the Mansions.

Paul lived in a house that had to cost at least a cool quarter million… with spacious lawn, gracious styling, and a lacy white gazebo in the back overlooking a rose garden. I pulled into the drive and parked the Mustang, let the engine rumble to a stop, and took a little peek into Oversight.

I almost wished I hadn't. Paul's house was a castle in the aetheric, I'm talking castlehere, with battlements and flags and arrow slits. Not too surprising, since Paul had always been a knight—in the warlike sense, the old-fashioned, bloody, mace-and-sword kind. And his Sector was a fiefdom. Paul's world was heavy on the black and white. Bad news for Team Me, whose colors these days were gray and grayer.

I dropped back into tulips and Doric columns on the portico as the front door opened. Paul walked out to meet me. However knightly he might have looked in Oversight, in the real world, Paul was pure Italian Stallion… strong, muscular, with bone structure that bordered on godlike. He still had designer stubble, except I'd long ago learned it was really just a permanent five-o'clock shadow. Paul had turned forty a couple of years ago, but it hadn't slowed him down any, and damn,he was still gorgeous.

Also unfortunately mad as hell at me, at the moment.

"Outta the car," he said, and jerked a thumb at me.

I rolled down the window with the hand crank. "Not yet."

He glowered. "Why the fuck not? You don't trust me?"

"Check out the door," I said. The marks of the lightning strike had certainly not done wonders for Delilah's paint job. "C'mon, somebody tried to fry me in my Stuart Weitzmans the last time I got out. I'm not falling for it twice."

Some of Paul's anger melted as he looked at the evidence. But, being Paul, he didn't express any shock or sympathy or ask any touchy-feely questions, either. He said, "You're scared."

"No shit. You'd be scared, too."

"What? You don't think I could defuse a little lightning bolt?" he asked.

"Let's just say I'd rather you had four rubber tires between you and it when you give it a shot. C'mon, Paul, get in and we'll talk. Comfy vinyl seats—"

He grunted. "You know as well as I do that rubber tires won't do a damn thing against half a million amps."

"No, but my car has a steel body. It won't melt like that plastic POS you're driving over there." I jerked my chin at his late-model Porsche.

He looked wounded. "Don't badmouth Christine. She could give you a five-second start and still blow your doors off." He let the smile come out, finally, and I felt it warm me like a bonfire. I'd lost count of the times we'd debated cars, discussed the finer points of auto repair, trash-talked about who'd win the fantasy drag race. "Jeez, Jo, it's good to see you. In spite of every little damn thing. Listen, come inside. I promise you'll be safe."

"No offense, Paul, but I can't exactly trust you, can I? You're a little too far up in the food chain not to know the orders are to detain me for questioning."

"Sure, I got the memo," he said. "I'm willing to hear your side of it."

"You'd be the only one."

"Not the only one. You may think you're on your own, kid, but you don't have to be. You've got friends. Now's the time to count on them. Have a little faith in the system."

I wanted to—dear God I wanted to—and if it were just a matter of a death and some questions, that would be one thing. The Demon Mark was something else entirely.

"Okay, if Muhammad won't come to the mountain, whatever," he said. "Open up."

I popped open the passenger door. He walked around the car and got in; the springs shuddered at the addition of his weight. Paul, not a small guy, looked uncomfortable squeezed into the shotgun seat, and we fiddled with adjustments until he had circulation, if not leg room.

The smell that filled the car was warm, sexy, and familiar. I sniffed closer to him and raised my eyebrows. Paul's face reddened. "Oh, for Christ's sake, it's just a little aftershave, okay? I got a date for lunch."

"Lucky her," I said. "So who's trying to kill me?"

"Wish it were that simple," he said, and shifted uncomfortably. "Jesus, would it kill you to do a little reupholstering here? It's more springs than padding."

"Yeah, your big fat ass is just used to that luxurious German craftsmanship." But I knew that what was making him nervous wasn't the springs in the seat. "Come on, Paul, you have to have some idea."

"There's a lot of folks that loved Bad Bob. Personally, I thought he was a gigantic pain in the ass, but that's just me. No question, he was one hell of a Warden." Paul shrugged, looked down at his large, strong hands. "I know you two didn't get along."

There was a lot I could say about that—a lot I wanted, desperately, to say—but it wasn't the right time or place, and I wasn't sure Paul could ever really understand anyway. Things were simpler in Paul's world. I wish I lived in it.

"You need to tell me what happened that day," he said when I didn't start talking. "It's important. Unless you're planning on pleading guilty, you need to think about mounting some kind of defense. I can help you. I wantto help you."

"I can't."

"Jo." He twisted in the seat with a creak of springs and looked directly at me. Nothing soft in his eyes now, nothing but direct, unmistakable warning. "You haveto. I'm not saying this as your friend, I'm saying it as a Warden. You don't give yourself up and start telling your side of the story, you know they're coming after you. You can't run around loose like this. One of the most powerful guys in the world is dead."

"You're going to call the Power Rangers?" That was our own private joke…. Marion Bearheart's division of the Association had no official name, but they were the justice system of our screwed-up little world. Quietly took care of the problems. Calmly dispensed justice when required. No arrest, no jury, just the gentle, final judgment of the executioner.

He held my eyes. "I don't have to, and you know it. They'll find you. They're already on your trail."

I had a very cold, cold thought. "You think the lightning bolt—"

"I think it's a warning, Jo, whether it came from the Rangers or not. This is a serious thing you're into. You don't want to laugh it off. Not this time." He reached out and took my hand, and even in that gentle touch I knew he had enough physical strength to crush my hand like paper. If Paul wanted to restrain me, it wouldn't exactly be a challenge—unless I wanted to fight on the aetheric. Which made me think of Bad Bob, and I felt a wave of sickness break over me. It left me shaking.

"Stay," he said. Still a request.

"Thought you had a lunch date."

"It can wait." He was looking at me again, watching me in that half-lidded, intense way that carbonated my hormones. And worse, he knew it. If I stayed, I was going to get myself in trouble, one way or another. "I don't believe you did anything wrong. I think Bad Bob lived up to his reputation, things got out of hand—is that how it was?"

"I can't do this," I said, and pulled my hand free. Paul was staring at me with big, calculating brown eyes. His eyebrows pulled together. The smell of aftershave reminded me that I wanted to kiss him, and I sank farther back in my seat, trying not to give in to temptation, trying not to notice the way sunlight slid warm across his cheekbones and turned his skin to gold. God, I wanted comfort. I wanted someone to make everything… better.

I knew better than to believe I could find it anywhere except inside myself.

"You need my help to stabilize the system?" I asked him. The lightning bolt would have torn his careful manipulations to shreds, sending the weather into chaos even if it wasn't yet visible to the naked eye. He shook his head.

"I've got three people on it already. The less work you do in the aetheric, the better," he said. "And stay the fuck out of Oversight. Especially if you're determined to keep on with this. You glow like a heat lamp."

"I don't have a choice, Paul. I've got to keep on with it."

"I could stop you, you know."

"I know." I leaned forward and kissed him. Caught him by surprise. After a few seconds, those sensual full lips warmed under mine. The fantasy had been good; the reality was better. When I pulled back, he had a glazed look in his brown eyes, but he blinked and it cleared up. So much for my ability to cloud men's minds…

"Jesus," he breathed.

"It wasn't thatgood," I protested. But he wasn't kidding. He was looking at me with wider eyes, really staring now. Seeing.

"There's something wrong with you," he said. "I can't see it, but your aura's turned red. Blood colors, Jo. You know what it means—"

When I looked down at myself, I saw the black writhing form of the Demon's Mark on my chest, over my heart. It was working its way down. I focused hard and halted its progress, but I couldn't hold it for long. When I looked up, Paul was in Oversight, right in front of me—layers of green and gold and blue, perfect in their intensity. He'd see it. He hadto see it in me.

Back in the real world, he only said, "Are you sick?"

I wanted to tell him. I didn't know why he couldn't see it in me, but I needed him to know, to help—to get this thing out of me. I was shaking all over with the desire to tell him.

And I couldn't afford to. That was the one thing he wouldn't let slide.

"Sick," I finally agreed.

"Let me help you. Please, just let me get Marion. She can help you—"

"No!" The protest ripped out of me with so much force, I felt it slam into him like a punch, and he pulled back. I struggled to get my voice under control. "No, she can't. Nobody can. Understand?"

He kept looking at me, studying me. I felt like he was seeing all the way through to the black shadow of the mark. God, I couldn't risk that.

"I've got to go," I said. "Are you going to turn me in?"

It was so quiet in the car that I could hear the ticks and pops of Delilah's engine cooling, hear my own fast heartbeat. Somewhere off in the distance, thunder rumbled. He reached out and touched my cheek with one thick finger, caressed the line of my cheekbone, and then sat back like he wished he hadn't touched me at all.

"I'm not going to get on the hot line just yet. I'll give you that much. But we both know Marion's people will find you. And if they don't, when the Council calls me to join the hunt, I'll come at you, sweetheart. You know I will. I have no choice." He let out a long breath. "Maybe that's for the best. Because if you're really sick—"

"I know." I was no longer looking at him, and I concentrated instead on my hands. My fingernails were ragged and torn. I picked at one and focused on a shiny red bead that appeared at the corner of one cuticle, lifted the hand to my mouth and tasted the warm copper tang of blood.

"You have five hours to get out of my sector," he said. "Try to come back, and my Djinn will stop you. You don't set foot in my territory, Joanne. Not until this is over. Understand?"

"Yes." One-word answers were possible, but just barely. God, this hurt. I'd anticipated everything but how much it would hurt.

Paul reached over and took my hand in his. His skin felt very warm and, startlingly, very rough. He worked with his hands, I remembered. On his car.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me where you're going. I swear, it won't go anywhere else. I just want to know."

"I can't." And I didn't dare. Finally, I pulled in a deep breath and said, "I'm going after Lewis."

He looked confused. Bothered, even. "Lewis?"

"Lewis Orwell."

"I know who the fuck Lewis is. Everybody knows. Why Lewis?"

"Because he has three Djinn. I met one at his house, so he still has two more. I just need him to give me one."

"At his house?"Paul repeated. He wasn't a guy who was surprised often, but his eyebrows shot skyward. "What do you mean, at his house? How can you know where he is?"

"He told me." I sounded smug when I said it, but there, I'd kept the secret a long time. I deserved a little round of I'm-cooler-than-you, especially with Paul, who was rarely out of the loop. "Long time ago."

He gave me a richly deserved glare. "I'm not even asking what you did to get it."

"Hey, I can't help it if I'm irresistible." Yes, definitely, that was smugness in my voice. I was comfortable with it. "Which is why he's going to help me out and given me a Djinn."

He stared. "You're fuckin' crazy. Why the hell would Lewis do that?"

"Because," I said, before I could think about it, "I think he used to be in love with me."

Paul shook his head, got out of the car, and then leaned in the passenger side window. An east wind ruffled his hair—storm on the way.

"Jesus, Jo, he's not the only one," he said, and walked back into his castle.

I drove out of Albany not knowing exactly how to feel. I loved Paul. I'd always loved him. Paul had written my introduction letter to the program at Princeton. It was because of him that I had the degree and the training to become a real Warden.

It was because of him I wasn't a drooling shell screaming out my lungs in an asylum, because I knewthat despite Marion's gentle touch, I couldn't have gone on without my powers. I would have cracked. Paul prevented that.

All the good things in my life had happened because of Paul.

All the bad things had happened because of Bad Bob.

The Wardens have a big fancy home office where they hang plaques of outstanding performers, and Bad Bob's name was covering the walls. One of the most talented Wardens ever to join the team, he was also one of the most controversial.

He had been a brilliant, temperamental teenager; he'd grown into a brilliant, tantrum-throwing, bad-attitude adult. People feared Bad Bob. Nobody in their right mind wanted to be under him. Even at his own level, or above it, people hated to see him coming.