Cape Storm

Lewis reached me a few seconds later, as I slid down to a sprawl against the safe. “I told you to step out!” he snapped, and touched my forehead. “Damn it. What the hell did you do?”

I struck out at him. I couldn’t help it; his anger woke the beast inside, the one that had patiently stalked and laughed and waited.

I couldn’t hold it back anymore.

I burned him.

If it had been anyone but Lewis, I’d have killed him; I wasn’t pulling punches, and the fire that boiled out of me onto him was thick, plasmatic, and clung like napalm. It flickered with a sickly green tint.

Lewis reacted instantly, stepping back from me and concentrating all his will on putting out the fire before it could eat him up. He succeeded, but my attack left him with nasty third-degree burns on his hands and arms.

I laughed.

David called another Djinn to take his place in the fragile power structure that held us above the waves, and flashed across the hold toward me. As he did, Lewis blocked him. “No,” he said. His voice was ragged with pain. “Don’t touch her.”

David looked like he was considering touching Lewis, in a very hostile manner, but he took the advice. He pulled in energy and ignited a small golden ball of light in the palm of his hand. It was cozy, warm, and gave me a false sense of security. The glow woke shades of orange and red in his eyes, made his face into the image of a classical bronze god.

Next to him, a faint mist formed in the air. It didn’t bother to take human form, and it didn’t need to; there was a feeling that came with it, oppressive as the ocean depths, and just as cold.

The Air Oracle. She—or he?—was the Djinn equivalent of an archangel, both supremely powerful and unknowable. Even as Conduit for the Djinn, David couldn’t order an Oracle; he could only petition.

He’d obviously petitioned, and now the Air Oracle was here, looking at me out of a body that barely registered in the world at all. There was communication going on between David and the Oracle. It wasn’t civil, from the look on David’s face.

This was a perfect moment to see just what I could do with all this power.

As I summoned it up in a roiling boil inside me, thick and hot and dizzying, the Air Oracle’s attention focused on me with a snap, and I was driven to my knees.

The Oracle seemed surprised that I hadn’t been driven into tiny little fragments identifiable only by DNA. Very surprised. You’re going to get a lot more shocks, bitch, I thought, and smiled.

David was far sneakier than I gave him credit for. Instead of coming at me directly, he used his link to me, sending a massive burst of power through the aetheric connection between us.

It blew me out of my body. I fell, stunned, and waited for the end. The Air Oracle was no friend of humans in general; I was no better than the slime at the edge of a pond to her. But she didn’t act.

She just left.

David bent and took me in his arms as if I weighed less than my equivalent in feathers. His lips brushed my temple. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s better if you sleep.”

Before I could even think about protesting, all the light winked out, and I was drifting away into warm, dark, safe eternity.

When I woke up, it was because David could no longer afford even the small pulse of energy it was taking to keep me unconscious.

I swam up out of the thick darkness to the sound of alarms, screaming, and the gale-driven shriek of wind. The air smelled of metal and salt and fear.

Heavenly, that smell.

I opened my eyes on darkness, but in the next second a lightning bolt split the sky above me in half, miles across, like a hot purple zipper letting in the darkness.

It lit up low, thick, black clouds that fired rain down like arrows from the battlements.

I was on my back on the deck, reclining in a white padded chair that was made for lounging. It slid hard to starboard, and I jerked and rolled off and to my feet before it slammed into the promenade railing. My bare soles hit cold, wet wood, and I shivered. I was soaked to the skin. How had I gotten here? And why? And what the hell was going on?

Nothing good, obviously. The deck was thick with uniformed crew and a chaotic swirl of passengers. It was too dangerous out here, but that didn’t seem to be stopping anybody; I wondered why they hadn’t taken refuge inside, but some practical knowledge finally kicked in, and I knew.

Either the crew understood that there was an excellent chance that this ship was going down, or there was something below that was even more dangerous than the storm. Either way, not good news for me or anybody else.

“Jo!” Cherise. I barely recognized my best friend, because I’d rarely seen her look this—well, bedraggled. Drowned-rat wet, pale, and shivering with cold. “God, I thought you’d never wake up. Come on!”

She dragged me off in some random direction. No one had told her that I was prone to irrational bursts of killing fury, I supposed. Good. That would make it easier.

“We need to get to the lifeboat—”

My senses were coming back online, all of them, and in Oversight I saw the thick red streams sweeping around us, closing in.

The storm that Bad Bob had dispatched, the one powered by the Unmaking he’d pulled out of the spear, was almost on us, and it was devastating.

Cherise’s words were lost in a fresh blast of wind, a gust so flat and hard that it slammed her bodily against the metal wall. I suppose that in better times I might have tried to help her. Instead, I just clung to a metal stanchion and watched her struggle.

I saw one of the heavy lounge chairs topple right over the railing and disappear as the ship lurched to starboard again. We were heeling around, getting hammered by churning waves like a punch-drunk boxer.

The ship was still stuck in one spot, anchored by the suction coming from deep beneath the ocean. I could feel it, and it was growing stronger, not weaker.

The Djinn were losing the fight.

“Hang on!” Cherise screamed, and another gigantic wave crested and fell, pounding us with spray like nails. “We have to get off the ship, now!”

How exactly that was going to be accomplished I had no idea, but I nodded. In the brief lull between lashing waves, we staggered to the next handhold. Along the way we ran into more castaways. I barely recognized a sopping-wet Cynthia Clark, who surely hadn’t been this miserable since she’d made that epic disaster movie with Gene Hackman, back in the day. I also recognized Cho Chu Wing, one of our Weather Wardens. Cho was a tiny little thing, skinny as a restaurant greeter. She’d managed to keep herself mostly together; her black hair was pegged back in a tight ball, and only random strands of it clung to her damp face. She’d worn a storm slicker, neon orange, and beneath it she seemed to be drier than any of the rest of us. She waved us frantically toward the bow of the ship. As we slipped and fought our way through blinding spray and stinging, whipping rain, we gathered Weather Wardens in ones and twos, until there was a tight knot of them linking arms together, like a rugby team in a scrum.

I stood apart from them. Remote, even in the midst of my fellow Wardens.

“We need to get a bubble!” Cho screamed. “Focus on giving us clear water for a hundred feet in every direction!”

That wasn’t as hard as it might seem; it was basically wave cancellation, which is a fundamental principle of the physics of anything that moves as a unit—sound, water, a rippling flag. You need to find the specific frequency of the wave and cancel it out, and move the energy elsewhere. Normally that was the tricky part; bleed-off energy could destabilize everything, and whip up a whole mess of side problems you’d never anticipate.

In this melting stew of uncontrolled energy, another few mega joules in the wrong place would hardly matter.

“Tornado!” someone screamed, and I looked up to see the approaching black arms of the hurricane sweeping in like scythes. There were bulbous eruptions forming in the trailing clouds, swelling and then narrowing into cones.