Thin Air Page 0,45

figured that. Who? How?"

"I don't know." Marion visibly steeled herself. "I'll try to find out." They were both acting like I wasn't even there. Like I didn't have any choice in the matter.

This time, when she reached out for me, I caught her wrist. "Hey," I said. "At least buy me dinner first. I don't even know you."

"Lewis, hold her."

"No!" I shot to my feet, but Lewis was moving to block me, and he was bigger than I was, and stronger in a whole lot of ways. His hands closed over my shoulders and forced me back into the chair, and then touched my forehead. I felt an irresistible drag of sleep. "No, I'm not...You can't do this...I...Lewis, stop!"

But he didn't, and Marion didn't, either.

And out of sheer desperation, something came alive inside of me and struck, sinking deep inside of Marion's mind, and then I couldn't control it as the world exploded into the map of points of light, beauty, order.

I couldn't help it at all. It was sheer, bloody instinct.

I began to greedily grab for memories.

Chapter Six

SIX

I'm going to have to kill her, Marion was thinking as she watched a much younger version of me walk out of a conference room. I was defiant, I was gawky, I was just out of adolescence, and she thought I was the most dangerous thing she'd ever seen.

"This is a mistake," said the old man sitting next to her. He had fine white hair, a barrel chest, fair skin with red blotches that spoke of a fondness for the whiskey barrel. "That bitch is trouble."

"Bob," Marion said, "give it a rest. The voting's over. You lost." She said that not because she disagreed with him, but because she simply disliked the man. Bad Bob, her memories named him. There was something about him that set her teeth on edge, always had. He was, without a doubt, one of the best of the Weather Wardens in terms of skill, but in terms of personality...

He was staring at the door through which the earlier version of me had exited. He and Marion weren't the only ones in the room; there were three others involved in a separate side conversation, muttering to one another and casting glances toward Bad Bob that made me think he wasn't exactly well loved, though obviously he commanded respect. Or fear. "I'm telling you, she's trouble," he said. "We haven't heard the last of her. One of these days you'll be hunting her down."

It was eerily like what Marion herself had just thought, and not for the first time she found herself wondering if Bad Bob had some latent Earth powers. But she'd never seen any trace of it, and she'd looked.

It was her job, looking. And it was a job she hated, and loved, and realized was perhaps the most important job of all.

"Maybe," she said quietly, "someday I'll be hunting you, Bob. It could happen."

He turned toward her and met her eyes, and she couldn't suppress a shiver. There was something about his eyes, she decided. Cold, arctic blue, soulless eyes. He had charm, she supposed, but she'd never felt it herself. She'd seen its effect on others. She knew how much loyalty he inspired in those he commanded, and so she was cautious, very cautious indeed.

She'd gone against him on this vote, to save Joanne Baldwin's young life, and she knew he wouldn't forget.

He smiled. "That'll be a treat, won't it? You and me?"

She said nothing, and she didn't break the stare. It was a gift of her genetic heritage that she could look so utterly impassive when emotions inside were roiling. She knew he saw nothing in her dark brown eyes or in her face. No fear. No anticipation. Nothing to feed from.

Bad Bob Biringanine shook his head, smiled, and walked away, and Marion took in a slow, steadying breath. She was aware, on some level, that she had just passed a test nearly as dangerous as the one the young girl had almost failed. Would have failed, had it not been for the strong support of one or two others on the intake committee.

Marion gathered her paperwork and walked out to her car, in the parking lot of the hotel. It was another oppressively warm day in Florida, one she had not dressed for, as she'd flown in from the cooler Northwest; she was wearing a black silk shirt under a leather jacket stitched with Lakota beadwork. A gift from a friend who