Total Eclipse

He put aside his suspicion long enough to say, “God bless you all.”

Mindy barked.

As his car pulled away, I heard Whitney’s pained voice on the radio say, “Now can we leave? Sweet Mother Moses, you people are more sentimental than my grand-mother into her third bottle of sipping whiskey!”

“Where does she come up with this stuff?” I asked David.

He shrugged. “I don’t even know why she’s a Djinn,” he said. “It’s part of her charm.”

The excitement of having saved one life—well, two, if you counted Mindy’s—made me feel pretty good about things for a while, but my impulse to do-gooding was very firmly brought under control by Whitney, who informed us in cold, final tones that we would not stop until we got where we were going.

The next time I tried to get her to stop for a roadside rescue, she put me out like the proverbial light, and I had just enough time to think, You Southern-fried bitch . . . and I was gone.

For a long time.

“Jo?”

Then somebody was shaking me. I fought my way up out of what felt like the deepest, most dreamless rest I’d ever had, and for a long second after opening my eyes I felt . . . good. Happy, even. At peace, because the face I was looking into was David’s.

He shook me harder. “Jo, wake up!” The urgency in his voice made me blink and scramble for a better grasp of things around me.

We were no longer in the Mustang. I didn’t even see the Mustang anywhere. I was propped against a brick wall, sitting on a sidewalk, facing a street. It was eerily quiet here—one might even say dead, because I didn’t see a single sign of life. Not a bird flitting overhead, not an insect moving, not a single person in a car, window, or park. I looked up and down. It was a Norman Rockwell kind of street, clean and neat —a business district, with quaint little shops and cafes.

All deserted.

Overhead, the sky was gray, a kind of thick, featureless gray that seemed wrong even for an overcast. As I stared at it, I realized that it looked like smoke behind glass.

“We’re in Seacasket,” I said. “Home of the Fire Oracle.”

“There’s nothing here still alive,” David said. “We don’t know why. We haven’t found any bodies—not even of insects. Nothing. They’re just . . . gone.”

That was unsettling. The Fire Oracle wasn’t exactly my BFF, but he’d been a lot less antagonistic than the Air Oracle the times I had met him. Not anywhere close to human, but willing to acknowledge us. Seacasket was an unnaturally perfect sort of town, always had been; I thought it was some kind of side effect of the presence of the Oracle. Things had just always seemed a little too much in their place.

“Where’s Cherise? Kevin?” I looked around; I couldn’t see them, either. “Is the Djinn still with us?”

“He went with them,” David said. “I stayed with you.”

Which didn’t answer my question. I grabbed his hand and pulled myself up to my feet. I still felt sticky, hot, caked with sweat and coated in powdered concrete dust from our mall adventure. My hair was lank around my face, and if I could have wished for paradise, it would have been a spa whirlpool tub, and a skin treatment.

Later.

“Where did they go?”

For answer, he nodded down the street. I looked and saw nothing, but I headed in that direction while David quickly caught up. It felt good to walk; my legs had been out of practice, with all the driving. And suddenly, I felt another need, a really practical one. I stopped, feeling stupid, and said, “Bathroom?”

“There’s a gas station up here,” David said. “Nobody in it, but the bathroom is open. We used it earlier.”

“We” meaning everybody but me, I assumed. It seemed like a mile to the corner, where the banners for the gas station hung limp in the still, perfectly neutral air. It was like strolling through a movie set, deserted but ready for the cameras to arrive.

The bathroom was sparkling, except for the presence of a few paper towels in the trash can, which I presumed came from my traveling companions. After taking care of the obvious and pressing need, I took the opportunity to splash water on my face, scrub off the worst of the grubbiness. Nothing I could do for the clothes, which would need to find an incinerator to throw themselves into at some point, but they’d do for now. Although I would have sold a body part—possibly a major one—for fresh underwear.

I took a deep breath and looked at myself hard in the mirror. My eyes were shadowed, raccooned with dark rings. I looked anxious, drawn, and haunted.

Nice to know I was at my best. I tried to summon up the old confidence, and saw a glimmer or two of it in the smile, the cock of my head.

Well, I thought. If I’m going to go down, I’m going to go down fighting. I don’t have to be ashamed of that.

David knocked on the door. “Are you all right?”

All these years, and he hadn’t learned how women linger in a bathroom? “Fine,” I said, sighed, and ran my fingers through my hair again—not that it helped. Then I put that confident smile back on and opened the door. “Let’s go scare up an Oracle.”

The Fire Oracle’s official public entrance—well, public to the Djinn, not to us measly humans—existed in a cemetery. Like the town of Seacasket, it was a little too perfect—a carefully manufactured setting that gets nominated for set design at award shows. It was the very definition of historical and peaceful, what with all the green grass and lovely statues and well-tended grave-stones and mausoleums.

Not a single person visible. Not a bird cheeped. Not a blade of grass stirred.

David and I both stood outside the gates for a moment, looking in; I think we were both feeling a dread we couldn’t consciously explain. Bad things had happened in this cemetery to me before, and I couldn’t help but feel a crawling sense of foreboding.

The air was just so still.

“Jo.” David was looking down at the neatly raked gravel path that wound through the picturesque landscape. “Footprints.”

Two sets of them. One matched Kevin’s giant, battered kicks; the others were Cherise’s, judging from the small size. “Where’s the Djinn?” I asked.

“Floating,” David said. “Djinn do that.”

It had been a dumb-ass question, and I’d known it as soon as I’d opened my mouth. Many of the Djinn didn’t bother to manifest themselves physically all the way; I remembered the one who’d started out guarding Lewis’s old house. He hadn’t bothered with anything below the knees.

David, for whatever reason, had always taken care to do the whole human body. I’d always loved that about him.

Imara, our half-Djinn child, had always done that, too. I had a sudden, visceral flash of her standing here in this exact place with me, smiling, and it took my breath away, shock followed by grief. Imara wasn’t gone. I knew that, but I’d had her for such a brief time, and then . . .

David took my hand. “You’re thinking about Imara.”

“Stop reading my mind. It’s creepy that you can do that even when you’re not a Djinn.”

“I’m thinking of her, too,” he said, and I heard the sadness in his voice, too. “I’m thinking that if we can’t do this, we’re going to lose her completely.”

“That isn’t going to happen.” Come on, confidence—get it in gear! “And we’re wasting time. You want to leave this up to Kevin and Cherise?”

He winced. “Definitely not.”

“Then let’s go.”

We walked together, hands clasped, down the gravel path. Except for the crunch of our shoes, it was like moving through a dream, full of color and light but nothing else. The essential life of the place was gone, or at least hidden.

The door to the mausoleum we wanted was standing wide open. Darkness was a thick, black square in the