Windfall by Rachel Caine Page B

lightning bolt tore the sky with a sound like ripping silk, followed by vibrating thunder. I also felt the Wardens responding, this time with more force. It’s not me, not me . . . How exactly was I supposed to make myself look innocent? Actually being innocent wasn’t going to do it. I knew the Wardens far, far too well. They were already out for blood.
    Cherise said, “I’m glad I put the top up on the car. You know, Marvin’s percentage keeps holding. I mean, no doubt he’s a total tool, and a real pervert, but he knows his weather.”
    I bit my tongue. Hard.
    I was going to have to look into Marvin, and the Percentage.
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    Cherise took off for parts unknown upon arrival at her car, walking the five steps to her convertible under the protection of an umbrella big enough to shelter an entire football team. No way was she going to get so much as a drop on her flawless shell. Sarah and I divided up the packages and ran for the apartment door, breathless and soaked to the skin in about five seconds flat. The rain was hard-driving and cold, and it stung with the force of tiny, hard pellets. Shimmering silver curtains of it flared and billowed in the glow of streetlights. It was dark enough to be twilight, but it was—I checked my watch—only a little after two in the afternoon.
    There was nothing currently brewing up out in the open waters off the coast of Africa . . . even if I hadn’t had a vested interest in the weather, as a Warden, I would still have known what was on the radar. Floridians follow hurricane season with at least as much attention as they give to professional sports. There weren’t any tropical storms out there, at least none big enough to register at this point, though there was a low-pressure system hanging out there, waiting.
    But this storm didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have been here, and it didn’t look like it had any intention of moving on. And I couldn’t seem to really get a decent look at it, either. I was sluggish on the aetheric. Slow.
    Maybe I really was tired. It had been kind of a full half day.
    We made it to the apartment, dumped packages and wet shoes, and I squelched back to grab towels for us. Sarah’s hair fluffed out to look gleaming and fabulous. Mine just looked frizzy. I glared at it in the bathroom mirror and decided on a hot bath and something tasty for dinner.
    As I was laying out tomatoes and onions, the better to make some homemade Mexican food, the doorbell rang. I put the chopping knife down and tapped Sarah on the shoulder. She was sitting at the small kitchen table next to the water-rippled patio door, cutting tags off of her precious new acquisitions.
    â€œChop now,” I said. “Clothes maintenance later.”
    She gave me an absolutely childish pout, but got to it. Sarah had taken culinary classes; it was one of those things you do in California when you’re rich and bored. I paused on the way to the door to watch her take my knife and start a rapid-fire slice-and-dice of the tomato, as competent as any sushi chef.
    The bell rang again. I sighed and pushed my curling hair back from my face. Still damp. I used a tiny spark of power to evaporate the moisture, was rewarded with dry hair and a white-blue static discharge from my fingers to the doorknob when I reached to touch it.
    â€œWho is it?” I yelled, and pressed my eye to the peephole.
    My heart did that funny little thumpy thing at the sight of the tall, brown-haired man standing out in the hall, hands jammed in the pockets of his blue jeans. I unzipped the chain and swung the door wide with a genuine smile. “Lewis!”
    â€œHi,” he said, and came forward to fold me in a hug. He had to stoop a little to do it, and I wasn’t all that short; where he touched me I got that familiar sensation of vibration, of energy feeding and building up between us. Lewis was, without any doubt, the single most