Ill Wind
Chapter Eleven

The smile disappeared, and he looked ill and tired. "The worst kind," he said. "Council trouble. I broke out."
I froze, my own mug of soup halfway to my lips. Steam tickled my nose with ghosts of spices. "Broke out?"
"They were keeping me in a hospital, the one where . . ." He had an inward look, and what flashed across his face didn't look like a pleasant memory. "They were keeping me at the Pound."
The Pound was a nickname among the junior Wardens for the hospital Marion Bearheart oversaw, where Wardens checked in and walked out-or were carried out-as regular human beings. The place where we got neutered, or in my case, spayed.
The place where our powers could be ripped away at the roots.
"No," I whispered, and put the soup down to take his hands. His felt cold, still. "God, Lewis, they couldn't. Not you."
"They hadn't decided, but I knew which way it was going to go. Martin didn't want it, but the others-" He shrugged. "I don't fit, Jo, I have too much power, and they can't control it. They don't like that."
No wonder he'd run. He had so much to lose, so much ... I couldn't imagine Marion agreeing to it, but she was sworn to obey, like all of us. Lewis was right not to take the chance.
It explained why he'd come to me like this, wet and sick; he couldn't use his powers, not even to protect himself from the rain or burn the virus out of his bloodstream. Lewis lit up Oversight like a Roman candle every time he called power. Until he was back at full strength, he couldn't defend himself.
I put a hand on his burning forehead and stared into his eyes. The sparks jumped between us, weak but still there.
"Trust me?" I asked. He nodded. "Then sleep. Nobody's going to get you here."
He fell asleep within minutes, curled under the blanket. I washed the mugs and put them on the dish drainer, went back and let the cooling water out of the bathtub. By the time I'd exchanged the robe for a comfortable tank top and drawstring pants, he was snoring.
He looked very young, but then he was-older than me, but a lot younger than most other Wardens. I sat down on the floor next to the couch, leaned my back up against it, and listened to him sleep while I watched TV with the sound turned down. I didn't dare close my eyes; I kept watch in Oversight, alert for the approach of anybody who might be on his trail.
Toward morning, the rain stopped, and whether I meant to or not, I fell asleep. When I woke up, Lewis was gone from the couch. I heard the shower running. The floor had taken a horrible toll on my muscles, and by the time I'd worked myself into a standing position and hobbled my way into the kitchen to put on coffee, he was back, dressed in my ratty blue bathrobe. It actually fit. Where it dragged the ground for me, it maintained a politically correct mid-calf length on Lewis, and he didn't have to roll up the sleeves.
"How do you feel?" I asked, and poured him a mug of liquid morning magic. He sipped it, watching me. His eyes were clearer, anyway, but his hair still stuck up in wet porcupine quills and gave him a vulnerable look.
"Better."
"Good." I reached for the coffee cake I'd put out on the counter and winced as another muscle group went on strike. "Wish I could say the same."
I didn't see him move toward me, and the shock of his warm hands on my back came as a surprise.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
"Um, hardly."
He moved his large, capable hands down to my waist and dug his thumbs in, right where it hurt in the long muscles. Slow, deliberate pressure that hurt at first, then dissolved into absolute pleasure. I pulled in a slow breath, let it out, and felt tension leak away from shoulders to toes. "Whoa. Ever consider a career in massage therapy?"
"I'm open to new ideas." I could hear the smile in his voice. His thumbs pressed more lightly, in slow circles. "Feel good?"
"Any better, I'd lose motor skills."
"I'm sorry I pulled you into this," he said. His hands moved up, chasing the tension. "It was-a bad night."
"I've had a few," I admitted. "It's okay, you know. You can stay as long as you want to."
His hands made it to my shoulders and squeezed away hours of stress. "No, I really can't," he said. There were a lot of ways to interpret that, but if Lewis meant anything more intimate, I couldn't tell it from the slow, steady pressure of his fingers on pressure points. His thumbs dug into the nerve clusters just behind my shoulder blades, and I felt my knees go weak.
"So you're leaving."
I felt that smile again. "What can I say? I've always been a one-night stand." He smoothed my back with gentle strokes. "I have to go. If I stay with you, it just puts you in the fire with me. You don't need to attract their attention."
"Me?" I turned, startled, and found myself chest-to-chest with him. He didn't step back. "Why?"
"You know why." His brown eyes were bleak, but they never quite lost their edge of amusement. "They only like Wardens to have so much power. You- you're different. Not to mention uncontrollable."
"Hey!" I put my hands on his chest and shoved him back a step. "Watch it, buster."
"I didn't mean it in a bad way." He shrugged. "I mean they can't control you. So they'll be watching you, Jo. Don't give them a reason."
"You must still have a fever. I'm just Staff, for God's sake. Why would anybody be watching me?"
Lewis held up his hands in surrender. "Point taken. I'm probably wrong."
No, he wasn't. I could tell. I glared at him. "Don't bullshit me."
"Don't pretend you don't know what you are."
"Well, I don't know." I felt my face set into a frown. "You tell me."
He reached out and took my hand in his.
Skin on skin.
Sparks. Waves of power echoing through me, back to him, amplified as they returned to me.
I pulled free and stepped back until I felt the kitchen counter behind my back. For a few long seconds we just looked at each other, and then he nodded, reached around me to pick up his cup, and wandered back to the bathroom, sipping it.
I barely tasted mine, even though I drank the whole cup while watching the closed door.
When he came back out, he was dressed in the blue jeans, a loose green knit shirt, and hiking boots he'd been wearing when he arrived. Dry, at least. And with some color back in his too-thin face. I went in the bathroom and grabbed the box of cold medicine, added it to a bag of snacks and bottles of water. As care packages go, it wasn't much. I tossed in the contents of my wallet, which didn't make an impressive addition, and handed it to him.
His fingers brushed mine, drawing those sparks again. He craved it, I knew. So did I. And neither one of us could afford that.
He'd left something behind in my hand, a folded piece of paper with meticulously crisp corners. I started to unfold it, but he stopped me. "It's an address," he said. "If you need me, that's where you'll find me. Just don't-"
"Tell anybody?" I finished, and gave him a faint smile. "You know better."
"Yeah."
He leaned forward and folded his arms around me, pulled me into a full-body hug that sent waves echoing and crashing in my head.
When he kissed me, it was like floating on a sea of glittering silver light. So much power . . .
He was gone before the dazzle cleared. I locked the door behind him and stood for a long time, my hand on the knob, thinking about him. Not that I knew what I felt, or what it meant, or anything at all, really.
But I was worried for him. And about him. And about myself.
Two hours later, the doorbell rang again. This time it was three polite, poker-faced Wardens who had lots of questions to ask me about Lewis.
He was right. From that moment on, they never took their eyes off me. They'll be watching you, Jo. Don't give them a reason. I hadn't meant to, ever.
Just like I hadn't meant to ever unfold that piece of paper.
And then . . . Bad Bob had happened.
It was time for Lewis to give a little aid and comfort of his own.
I woke up in the motel one body part at a time- toes first, where sunlight striped warm across them. Legs . . . thighs . . . hips ... by the time I opened my eyes, I was feeling drowsy and completely relaxed, happier than I had in years.
I felt like I'd had the best sex of my life. But I hadn't. Had I? No, definitely no merging of body parts had occurred with David. But of course, today was another day, with endless possibilities. . . .
I was lying on my stomach. I rolled over, which should have been one of those graceful movie-star maneuvers, but ended up as a Three Stooges wrapped-in-the-sheets farce. By the time I'd clawed out of the cocoon and pushed tangled hair back from my face, I saw it was all wasted, anyway.
David was gone.
There was a cold hollow in the sheets where he'd been. I let my hand explore that for a few seconds; then I hugged the rumpled bedclothes to my chest and looked around. No sleeping bag on the floor. No backpack leaning against the wall.
I'd been dumped. Comprehensively dumped.
I got up and walked around the room, but there was little sign he'd ever been there, nothing but the outline of his head on the pillow and a single used towel on the counter in the bathroom. I stood there in the antique-white tiled chill and stared at myself in the mirror. The shower and night's sleep had done me good-still some dark smudges under my eyes, but I looked presentable. And dammit, even though he was gone, I was still humming all over with the aftermath. I closed my eyes and went up into Oversight. My body was glowing honey gold, with a flare of brilliant warm orange centered low, just over my womb. A flare in the shape of David's hand.
I put my own hand over it and felt something there, almost an electric tingle. Dream well. His whisper moved through me again, and I felt that stirring again, like my whole body wanted to answer.
Dammit. I didn't know whether I wanted to get on my knees and beg him to come back, or kick his ass from here to California. No, I knew, I just didn't want to admit it. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, which was ridiculous, I didn't even know this guy, how could I possibly be disappointed in him? In myself?
And yet I was. Once again, I'd trusted a guy. Once again, I was on my own, scared and desperate and lonely.
I sat down on the bed and tried not to let it take me over. My hands were shaking, my breath unsteady, and I knew if I started crying, I wouldn't be able to stop until I was screaming. Too much. The feelings weren't about David, not really, they were about everything, about the Mark, about Bad Bob, about the helpless sick feeling that I was no longer in control of anything in my life.
I would not cry. Not for this. Not over him.
I ripped the tags off a fresh pair of panties and dressed in my stretch lace shirt and purple velvet. I was going to be defiantly, look-what-you're-missing-you-asshole gorgeous. I spent time in the bathroom on hair and makeup, and when I was done, it wasn't like Vogue would be banging down the door, but I looked yummy enough to turn heads. And my hands were almost steady again.
I didn't have a lot to pack, just the one duffel bag. I jammed things in, zipped it, and was ready to go. I yanked open the door and started to leave, but something stopped me.
The room still felt like David. Still smelled like him. I couldn't shake the feeling, even though I knew it was crap, that he was still in there somewhere, just out of sight, hiding. But there was no place to hide, and no matter how much of a practical joker he might be, this joke just wasn't funny.
I'd been intending to slam the door, but instead I closed it quietly, the way David must have when he left me alone with my dreams.
Pretty Miss Delilah glinted and glittered in the parking lot. I unlocked the driver's side and tossed my duffel in the back and thought about breakfast. I could, I decided, have breakfast, since my stomach was rumbling like an unexploded volcano. And coffee. Thick truck-stop coffee that was more like day-old espresso.
I needed something to live for.
Waffles sounded like as good a place to start as any.
The Waffle House came in the usual yellow, brown, and orange color scheme, bringing back all that nostalgia for avocado appliances and rust-colored shag carpeting from my childhood. I suppose the fact they were still stuck in the '70s was lucky, all things considered, since their prices shared the same time warp. I ordered a large pecan waffle with powdered sugar and crispy bacon. The waitress poured me a gallon-size cup of generic black caffeine. I fiddled with silverware until the food arrived, then gulped down juicy syrup-rich bites, alternating with crunchy bacon nibbles, until I felt better about my world and David's absence from it.
Business was sparse. Just me and four tired-looking men all in grimy baseball caps, sporting the bouncy physique of guys who spent most of their time driving and eating Ho Hos. Everybody had coffee, straight up, nothing froufrou like latte or decaf; we were all here for the straight stuff, mainlined in big chunky ceramic mugs.
Three extra-large cups later, I was ready to rock 'n' roll. I paid the tab to the ancient cashier and turned to look out the big picture windows. In between Day-Glo advertisements for the manager's specials, I saw that the storm was crawling closer. Not hell-driven, but making a pretty good clip. Still, not a problem yet. I could still outrun it. I didn't want to do any manipulation; too much risk of discovery by either my secret stalking enemy or the Association, and I wasn't so sure which, at this point, would be worse. Paul's tolerance had probably expired at about the point his time limit had clicked off. By now, every Warden in the country might be looking out for me.
As I shoved my wallet back in my pocket, I accidentally knocked over a saltshaker sitting on the counter. The silver top spiraled off, made loopy progress to the edge, and spun in a circle.
I hardly noticed, because of the interesting thing the spilled salt was doing.
It was . . . talking.
It mounded itself into little white salty letters, which said, Joanne.
I looked around. The cashier had moved on; the waitresses were all making rounds with coffeepots. Just me and the talking salt.
"Um . . . yeah?" I asked tentatively.
The salt dissolved into a flat white heap again, then scattered wider over the counter. More words. These said, South 25 mi, L on Iron Road.
My heart started pounding harder. I stared at it and finally whispered, "Is this Lewis?"
A pause. The salt wiped itself into one snowy drift, then scattered back out across the faux-wood counter.
Ya think?
"Very funny. I have to get condiments with a sense of humor. Salt was, technically, of the earth. . . . Lewis would be able to control it. In fact, in a place as generally unnatural as this, it might very well be the only thing he could control enough to get his point across. I was just happy he hadn't tried to spell out things in runny egg yolks.
Got your attention? the salt asked. Not only arrogant, but pushy, too.
"South twenty-five miles, left on Iron Road," I repeated. "Got it." I took in a deep breath and blew it out, scattering the words into tiny white random grains.
It didn't seem to like that, and sucked itself up into a pile, then flattened out again. A moving finger wrote one word: Good.
It then made a little white smiley-face that immediately blew into randomized scatter as a waitress marched up, tsked the mess, and wiped the spill up with a damp cloth.
"You okay?" I must have had a bizarre look; she was staring at me.
"I'm talking to salt," I said numbly. "What do you think?"
She shrugged and kept on wiping up. "Missy, I think you should've probably gone with the decaf."
THREE
The National Weather Service has issued a severe weather advisory for a four-state area including Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri. Hail, severe winds, and tornadic activity are possible. Please stay tuned to your local weather sources for more information.
Twenty-five miles down the road, there was a battered, shotgun-riddled sign for Iron Road. I slowed down and coasted to a stop at the side of the road, looking down the turn-off and wondering what exactly a smarter, saner person than me would do.