"Does it come with a hair dryer?"

"Definitely."

"Perfect."

We did the credit card thing, and she made me a cute little electronic key, and I squished out toward the stairs, past the gently tinkling fountain. No such things as ghosts-at least, I hope there aren't-but I couldn't help but feel a very cold, very real chill as I pa.s.sed the spot.

Charles Spenser Ashworth III.

Man, I so didn't want to be here. Not now.

David was waiting for me when I unlocked the door to the room.

He was dressed in a casual blue-checked flannel shirt, blue jeans, sneakers ... his WWI-vintage olive-drab coat was draped over the arm of the chair, and he was kicked back on the bed, lying flat with his hands under his head. I kicked the door shut and stood there staring at him.

Dripping.

Without a word, I went into the bathroom and stripped off my wet clothes, cranked the shower on hot, and had a luxurious, spine- melting wash, with complimentary shampoo and cute little soaps.

Two applications of hotel-provided conditioner made it barely possible for me to work the complimentary comb through my uncomplementary hair. Which was curling again, drat it. In my original human incarnation, I'd had glossy, straight, jet-black hair.

Since my rebirth, I'd acquired a disturbing tendency to Shirley Temple curls. I used the hair dryer and worked, teeth gritted, until I had everything straightened to my satisfaction.

When I came out, my clothes were dry, folded, and put away in drawers, and David was still lying on the bed in exactly the same position, only bare-chested and covered by the sheets. I set his unsealed bottle on the nightstand, next to the clock radio.

He smiled, eyes closed, and his chest rose and fell as he breathed me in. "You smell like jasmine."

I dropped the towel and slid under the sheets next to him. "Hotel soap. I hope it's an improvement."

He rolled up on his elbow to look down on me. What I saw in his eyes took my breath away. Sweet, hot intensity. Djinn are made of fire, and pa.s.sion, and power. Having one feel that way about you . . .

it's like nothing else on earth. His skin wasn't touching me, and it didn't matter; he was touching me in ways that were more intimate than that. A sweet burn of pleasure ignited somewhere near the base of my spine and worked its way up.

"How far are you willing to go with this?" he asked me. Which was not what I was hoping for him to say, and I blinked to indicate I had no idea what he was talking about. David read my confusion and continued. "Kevin's afraid. He's young, he's stupid, and he's scared. I think there's every reason to believe that if he wasn't insane before, he probably is by now. So how far are you willing to go to get him?"

Something flashed past me, something from the dream in the car.

Wildfires, burning themselves out. I shook it off. "As far as I need to.

Somebody's got to take him down."

He moved a lock of hair back from my face. "Others can."

"In time to save Lewis's life?" I asked, and saw a slow cooling of those molten-bronze eyes. "Don't. This isn't about personal feelings, David. He's important. Lewis is important to ... h.e.l.l, to everyone. And what Kevin's done is killing him."

"You need to ask yourself something," he said softly.

"How far I'm willing to go? Because I just said-"

"No." His gaze held me still. "Why it always has to be you. Are you that powerful, or just that arrogant?"

I froze. Then I rolled over and pulled the hurt close. I felt his warm fingers lightly caress my shoulder. His voice was a bare whisper against my ear, soft and textured as velvet.

"I'm scared for you. I lost you twice already, Jo. Please. Stop trying to save the world. Can you do that for me?"

I had to be honest with him. "I don't think I can. Not this time. It's our f.u.c.kup, David. I have to try."

I felt the warm puff of his sigh. "That's what I thought." His lips pressed gently on the bare skin of my shoulder. I took a deep breath and turned toward him . . .

. . . but he was gone. Disappeared. Vanished like the Djinn he was.

Don't go, I need you, please stay. ... I really did need him, especially tonight, especially here. But I was a tough girl. Tough girls don't beg.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but the memories kept coming back.

Now that I'd remembered being here before, I couldn't forget the circ.u.mstances, and the circ.u.mstances started with Chaz.

You probably know somebody just like Charles Spenser Ashworth III. Maybe not with as fancy a name or pedigree, maybe not as rich, but you know him. He's the guy without much talent but with a whole lot of mouth, a fast-talker with flashy ideas. He never follows through, because that's hard work. He's all about the ideas. Ideas, he will tell you, are much more important than execution. Because anyone can do the grunt work. Men like Chaz are usually successful, because there's an entire business culture out there who buys into the notion that actual work is cheap and somehow decla.s.se. He's usually a consultant, or an executive, and he usually has a flashy car (but one without any real performance), a mistress, and at least one ex-wife and the a.s.sociated ex-children.

My Chaz was a Warden. I had the misfortune of being a.s.signed to audit his work.

First of all, understand that being a Weather Warden in Nevada isn't exactly the world's most stressful job. The surrounding states are the ones with the big problems; by the time the s.h.i.t hits the fan in Nevada, the Wardens have generally had plenty of chances to slow it down or stop it. The place is strong in Earth Wardens, not Fire or Weather. So for a Weather Warden to get audited in that state is pretty . . . well, unusual. But for about two years prior to my a.s.signment, there had been some funky things going on.

It was luck of the draw as to who would get the free trip to Vegas, and it turned out to be me. Florida, California, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri . . . those are the hot-weather experts, and we do get tasked for this sort of thing on occasion. If he'd been in Montana, somebody from the Vermont or Alaska regions would have been given the treat.

But no, it had to be me. Lucky me.

I knew I was in trouble when I arrived at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas and found that Charles "Call Me Chaz"

Ashworth hadn't bothered to pick me up. I mean, if you were being audited, and you were asked to arrange transportation, wouldn't you try to make a good impression? Not Chaz. He left a message for me to rent a car, and told me that he'd reserved me a room at Caesar's.

Since I fully intended to charge Chaz for the car, I rented a Jaguar, drove down the Neon Mile to the trashy-cool Roman extravagance of the Palace, and pulled into the valet spot. There was a wait. I hesitated for a few seconds, then flipped open the folder that I'd been reviewing on the plane.

Even though Chaz was nominally based in Las Vegas, that wasn't where the questionable weather behavior was being registered. It was up in the lonely northern part of the state, the empty expanses.

Too many storm fronts, coming too close together, and usually at odd times. Interesting. And-not so coincidentally-it looked like he had some property up there in that area.

The valet knocked on my window. I looked up, smiled at him, and hit the power switch to roll down the gla.s.s.

"Sorry," I said. "Changed my mind."

I drove through and checked the courtesy map that came with the Jag, eased back in the blood-warm leather seats, and decided to take a road trip.

The epicenter of the trouble was a place named White Ridge, which was a dot on the map so small that it looked more like a printing error than a population center.

I headed for it without delay.

It was a four-hour drive through hard, bright, merciless country, and at the end of it I found a town that had a Wal-Mart, a deserted downtown, one decrepit diner, and-just at the edge of it-a small Holiday Inn. I parked in the lot, pulled my cell phone from my purse, and consulted the file for a phone number. I dialed and got voice mail, and Charles Spenser Ashworth III's smooth, radio-announcer voice. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you. If you're a single lady, I'll get back to you sooner. Oh, he just oozed charm. Or maybe just oozed. I left him a businesslike message that said I'd arrived, where I was, and that I expected him to meet me as soon as possible.

It was white-hot outside when I walked in through those automatic doors at the Holiday Inn. I was wearing a white pantsuit, and a neon-yellow halter top under the jacket. Kicky yellow shoes.

The outfit was disappointingly pedigree-free, but then I was on a budget, saving up for couture in the future. It was still big-city enough to draw looks.

I trundled my st.u.r.dy wheeled travel case up to the counter and booked a room. Cooled my heels in my new temporary home, flipping TV channels and trying to figure out why all hotel pillows are either too hard or too soft. Two hours later, the hotel phone rang.

Chaz was in the lobby.

I descended the somewhat rickety steps, past the fountain, and there he was. Unmistakably a Chaz, not a Charles. Tall, solidly muscular, deeply tanned, with wavy dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. An artificially white smile, perfect teeth. He looked like he belonged out in Hollywood, hanging poolside, especially considering the casual Polo shirt and Dockers, loafers without socks. Altogether too preppy, but I wasn't going to hold that against him.

Much.

He looked me up and down in blatant appraisal- not the usual fast I-shouldn't-be-doing-this-but-I-can't-help-it appraisal that polite men tend to give, but the kind that ought to be reserved for Friday nights around closing time at the strip club. His stare centered on my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Okay, I know, don't wear the halter top if you don't want the attention, but jeez, it was 120 in the shade. Bulky turtlenecks were right out.

"Joanne? I was expecting you to wait for me in Las Vegas. I was coming into town later." He didn't wait for my response. He captured my hand and gave me an extravagant kiss on the back of it, staring deep into my eyes the whole time. "Charmed."

"Mr. Ashworth-"

"Chaz, please. Really, you wasted a trip; this is just where I have my country house." He made it sound like he was a landowner back in the old country, t.i.tled and bursting with n.o.blesse oblige. "Honey- ".

"Joanne." Two could play the interrupting game, and I'd already had it up to here with Mr. Charm. "Please refer to me by name, if you don't mind."

He flashed me a smile that was too toothy to be apologetic.

"Joanne, yes, of course. Sorry. Look, there's just no reason for the Wardens to send somebody all the way out here. No deep, dark secrets in the attic. Not that I'm not thrilled to have your company."

I reclaimed my hand. "I'll be needing your records."

"Certainly." Another toothpaste-ad smile. "But they're back in the city."

"You don't keep anything at your country house? Seems like you spend quite a bit of time here." I spread out the folder on the counter and found the maps I was looking for. "When I mapped the weather patterns, it sure looked as if a lot of the manipulation occurs from this location, not from Las Vegas. So it stands to reason that you'd have an office here, wouldn't you? If you're keeping proper records."

He lost the smile. "I haven't got anything to hide."

My Aunt f.a.n.n.y! From every note in the file, everybody knew there was something weird out here, but the prior three auditors sent to investigate hadn't found a thing. My mission was to investigate and find something to bust his a.s.s, so that there could be a formal inquiry, and he could be removed from duty.

Protocol. Even in the supernatural business, you have to follow strict human resources procedures.

"Then you won't mind if I audit the records at your home office," I said.

"I don't have a-"

"Chaz," I interrupted, and held on to a thin, don't-screw-with-me smile. "I know you have a home office. Let's not spend more time on that, okay?"

He didn't look happy.

"Let's go," I said, before he could throw out any more lame pickup lines, and led the way out to the Jaguar.

I kept silent all the way out to his house, a good half hour's drive even at excessively indulgent speeds. I virtuously resisted the urge to smack him, which surely must qualify me for some kind of sainthood . . . believe me, he was annoying. I could easily see why they'd sequestered him out here in the middle of nowhere. Mouthy, hyperactively on the make, shallow, and none too smart. I couldn't tell how talented he was, but even the biggest store of power in the world wouldn't make him a good Warden.

And then I realized that I could also be accused of being shallow, hyperactively on the make, and mouthy. I hoped I was smart, though.

Smarter, anyway.

We turned off on a paved road and pa.s.sed under a big wrought- iron gate decorated with-I'm not kidding-the chromed silhouette of a nude woman, the exact copy of what you see on taste-free truckers'

mud flaps. The name over the entrance was FANTASY RANCH. Oh, yeah, this was going to be fun.

The house was an overdone Tudor style, ridiculous out here on the prairie. There was a struggling, desperately green lawn in front that looked suspiciously like it might have been freshly spray painted. A garage with three cars, all c.r.a.p-year Corvettes. All red, of course. In the corner, a gold pimp-trim Cadillac Seville, maroon.

He kept chatting me up all the way up the front walk, but I wasn't listening; I was looking into the aetheric. Oversight gives you a nice lay of the land, particularly since there's a fourth-dimensional time layer to it that represents the past. The history of Chaz's pad was nothing to be proud of. On the aetheric, the place showed its true character. A sh.e.l.l of a place, barely there . . . overlaid with shadows.

That was kind of sad. Even the place where he lived didn't make much of an impression on the world.

Neither did Chaz himself. People tended to manifest on the aetheric in visual representations of their self-image; his looked pretty much like a sad, faded image of his physical form. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. People tended to get the oddest expressions.

Well, the only good news was that Chaz wasn't likely to be a serial killer, not with a basically boring aetheric presence like this. Not that I couldn't defend myself, but it was nice not to have to worry about it.

I had plenty of other things on my mind.

His house was self-consciously tacky-retro-seventies without any semblance of a cool factor. He made reference to the water bed. I shut him down and made it clear that I expected to be shown to the home office.

It was at the back of the house, and it looked like he'd set it up from some office catalog rather than to suit any kind of actual work process; everything was expensive, but nothing was very good. The filing cabinet was some exotic handcrafted wood, but the drawers stuck. Inside, there was a chaos of unmarked folders, piles of haphazard papers, c.r.a.p mixed in with vital doc.u.ments. I'd heard he hadn't filed quarterly reports in a year; they were probably here, stuffed in with downloaded p.o.r.n photos. The records I found . .. well, threadbare would have been a generous description.

After two hours I was ready to scream and blow the whole place away with a tornado. Instead-reminding myself that I was a professional, dammit-I grabbed and boxed up everything that looked remotely interesting, while Chaz's smile got thinner and thinner, and wrote him out a receipt for what I'd taken.

The Jag's trunk was roomy. I got six boxes in there, added the remaining four to the backseat, and headed back to the hotel.

Time to settle in with room service tuna salad and pay per-view movies while I struggled through the paperwork.

It was going to be a long, long audit.

I drifted back to the present, and realized that instead of lulling myself to sleep I was lying in the dark, staring up at the ceiling and watching rain patterns ripple across the s.p.a.ckle. The light out in the parking lot was a bright blue-white, like sustained lightning.

I considered doing something about the rain, but so long as it didn't develop into something devastating, I decided to let it ride.

There were Weather Wardens aplenty roaming around the country; the Wardens a.s.sociation was on the verge of chaos, what with the senior leadership being dead and all h.e.l.l breaking loose out here in the desert. I was here with a specific job, and I ought to concentrate on it.

Like last time. And look how that had turned out.

I closed my eyes on a vision of blood and tried, uselessly, to sleep.

I woke up, not remembering drifting off, to find myself on my right side, staring into David's face. He was watching me. I yawned, stretched, and inventoried the need for a good toothbrushing, not to mention mouthwashing-more things I hadn't needed to deal with when Djinn. Those halcyon days were making resuming normal life one giant pain in the a.s.s.

"Sleep well?" David asked.

I hadn't, and he knew it. "Where'd you go? . . . No, I take it back, I don't really want to know. Why did you go?"

"We were going to fight." He lifted a hand and traced a fingertip up the outside of my arm to my shoulder. "I didn't see any reason it had to happen. You were just tired and discouraged."