Windfall by Rachel Caine

sunset, drop me a postcard from London thanking me for the use of my now-devastated Fairy Godmother Card, and live happily ever after until her next marital emergency, but no. The nice lunch with Eamon ended on a handshake parting that looked like no handshake I ever got from a lunch date, all eyes and smiles and long, beautiful fingers wrapping all the way to her wrist.
    And then she was back with us. Glowing and smiling like the Madonna after a visitation.
    â€œI’m done here,” she announced. Cherise, who was clearly not enjoying her salad, glared, but hell, at least she’d bought herself some nice hiphugger capri pants and matching shoes. Except for coffee and Mickey D’s, I hadn’t spent a dime on myself.
    But then, my shopping enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by the dark, relaxed figure of Armando Rodriguez, who had taken up a seat at a table about twenty feet away, sipping even more coffee. Apparently, he intended to never, ever sleep again. Or leave me alone.
    â€œFine. Let’s go home,” I said, and piled trash on my tray. The place was giving me a headache, anyway. Too many people, too much noise, too many flashing, blinking, spinning lights.
    By the time we were out of the mall, the rain was over, but the parking lot shone in slick black puddles that rippled and shuddered in the wake of passing cars. Humidity was murder, closing warmly around me like a saturated, microwaved blanket. I herded Cherise and Sarah and the profusion of bags to the car; by the time we were getting inside, our preferred, close-in space was being scouted by an eagle-eyed old vulture in a shiny Mercedes and a determined-looking teenybopper with the ink still wet on her learner’s permit. I pulled out and fled before the combat could get up to ramming speed. A few sullen raindrops spattered the windshield. Overhead, the sky was lead gray and utterly wrong; the patterns were definitely wonky. There was wobbling all up and down the aetheric, and little sparks of power as some other Warden made slight corrections. Nobody seemed too exercised about it, at least not yet; it was obviously not developing into the storm of the century. What was worrying to me about it was that I was supposed to be the only free-range talent out here. And somebody had messed with the weather to make this happen.
    Thunder rumbled on cue. Resentfully.
    â€œHis name is Eamon !” Sarah said, leaning forward over the seats as I made my way toward the road. “Did you hear his accent ? Isn’t it adorable?” Sarah always had been a sucker for a foreign accent. Hence, the whole French Kiss-Off debacle.
    â€œYeah. That’s Manchester, by the way, not West End London,” Cherise said, and inspected her fingernails in the sunlight to admire the glitter effect. “Probably hasn’t got a dime, Sarah.” Never mind that she was tripping all over herself to get his attention before Sarah had captured the English flag. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. He’s pretty, but he’s probably . . . you know.”
    â€œWhat? Gay?”
    â€œNah, didn’t feel gay to me. Kinky. Most English guys are.”
    â€œYou think so?” She sounded interested, not alarmed, but then Sarah, I remembered belatedly, had stories about Spider-Man costumes and Velcro sheets. Oh dear God. Top of the list of things I didn’t need to know about my sister . . .
    I felt compelled to run the train off the tracks. “Oh, c’mon, he was just being friendly,” I said.
    â€œWho are you kidding? He was jaw-droppingly cute,” Cherise said. “Cute guys are never just being friendly when they throw out pickups in the fast-food line.”
    True. Cherise was heartless, gorgeous, and very perceptive. “It wasn’t like he kissed her or anything. It was a handshake.” I shrugged. “I’ll bet he didn’t even give her his phone