When I came out, my clothes were dry, folded, and put away in drawers, and David was still lying on the bed in exactly the same position, only bare-chested and covered by the sheets. I set his unsealed bottle on the nightstand, next to the clock radio.

He smiled, eyes closed, and his chest rose and fell as he breathed me in. "You smell like jasmine."

I dropped the towel and slid under the sheets next to him. "Hotel soap. I hope it's an improvement."

He rolled up on his elbow to look down on me. What I saw in his eyes took my breath away. Sweet, hot intensity. Djinn are made of fire, and passion, and power. Having one feel that way about you… it's like nothing else on earth. His skin wasn't touching me, and it didn't matter; he was touching me in ways that were more intimate than that. A sweet burn of pleasure ignited somewhere near the base of my spine and worked its way up.

"How far are you willing to go with this?" he asked me. Which was not what I was hoping for him to say, and I blinked to indicate I had no idea what he was talking about. David read my confusion and continued. "Kevin's afraid. He's young, he's stupid, and he's scared. I think there's every reason to believe that if he wasn't insane before, he probably is by now. So how far are you willing to go to get him?"

Something flashed past me, something from the dream in the car. Wildfires, burning themselves out. I shook it off. "As far as I need to. Somebody's got to take him down."

He moved a lock of hair back from my face. "Others can."

"In time to save Lewis's life?" I asked, and saw a slow cooling of those molten-bronze eyes. "Don't. This isn't about personal feelings, David. He's important. Lewis is important to… hell, to everyone. And what Kevin's done is killing him."

"You need to ask yourself something," he said softly.

"How far I'm willing to go? Because I just said-"

"No." His gaze held me still. "Why it always has to be you. Are you that powerful, or just that arrogant?"

I froze. Then I rolled over and pulled the hurt close. I felt his warm fingers lightly caress my shoulder. His voice was a bare whisper against my ear, soft and textured as velvet.

"I'm scared for you. I lost you twice already, Jo. Please. Stop trying to save the world. Can you do that for me?"

I had to be honest with him. "I don't think I can. Not this time. It's our fuckup, David. I have to try."

I felt the warm puff of his sigh. "That's what I thought." His lips pressed gently on the bare skin of my shoulder. I took a deep breath and turned toward him…

… but he was gone. Disappeared. Vanished like the Djinn he was.

Don't go, I need you, please stay. … I really did need him, especially tonight, especially here. But I was a tough girl. Tough girls don't beg.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but the memories kept coming back.

Now that I'd remembered being here before, I couldn't forget the circumstances, and the circumstances started with Chaz.

You probably know somebody just like Charles Spenser Ashworth III. Maybe not with as fancy a name or pedigree, maybe not as rich, but you know him. He's the guy without much talent but with a whole lot of mouth, a fast-talker with flashy ideas. He never follows through, because that's hard work. He's all about the ideas. Ideas, he will tell you, are much more important than execution. Because anyone can do the grunt work. Men like Chaz are usually successful, because there's an entire business culture out there who buys into the notion that actual work is cheap and somehow dйclassй. He's usually a consultant, or an executive, and he usually has a flashy car (but one without any real performance), a mistress, and at least one ex-wife and the associated ex-children.

My Chaz was a Warden. I had the misfortune of being assigned to audit his work.

First of all, understand that being a Weather Warden in Nevada isn't exactly the world's most stressful job. The surrounding states are the ones with the big problems; by the time the shit hits the fan in Nevada, the Wardens have generally had plenty of chances to slow it down or stop it. The place is strong in Earth Wardens, not Fire or Weather. So for a Weather Warden to get audited in that state is pretty… well, unusual. But for about two years prior to my assignment, there had been some funky things going on.

It was luck of the draw as to who would get the free trip to Vegas, and it turned out to be me. Florida, California, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri… those are the hot-weather experts, and we do get tasked for this sort of thing on occasion. If he'd been in Montana, somebody from the Vermont or Alaska regions would have been given the treat.

But no, it had to be me. Lucky me.

I knew I was in trouble when I arrived at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas and found that Charles "Call Me Chaz" Ashworth hadn't bothered to pick me up. I mean, if you were being audited, and you were asked to arrange transportation, wouldn't you try to make a good impression? Not Chaz. He left a message for me to rent a car, and told me that he'd reserved me a room at Caesar's. Since I fully intended to charge Chaz for the car, I rented a Jaguar, drove down the Neon Mile to the trashy-cool Roman extravagance of the Palace, and pulled into the valet spot. There was a wait. I hesitated for a few seconds, then flipped open the folder that I'd been reviewing on the plane.

Even though Chaz was nominally based in Las Vegas, that wasn't where the questionable weather behavior was being registered. It was up in the lonely northern part of the state, the empty expanses. Too many storm fronts, coming too close together, and usually at odd times. Interesting. And-not so coincidentally-it looked like he had some property up there in that area.

The valet knocked on my window. I looked up, smiled at him, and hit the power switch to roll down the glass.

"Sorry," I said. "Changed my mind."

I drove through and checked the courtesy map that came with the Jag, eased back in the blood-warm leather seats, and decided to take a road trip.

The epicenter of the trouble was a place named White Ridge, which was a dot on the map so small that it looked more like a printing error than a population center.

I headed for it without delay.

It was a four-hour drive through hard, bright, merciless country, and at the end of it I found a town that had a Wal-Mart, a deserted downtown, one decrepit diner, and-just at the edge of it-a small Holiday Inn. I parked in the lot, pulled my cell phone from my purse, and consulted the file for a phone number. I dialed and got voice mail, and Charles Spenser Ashworth III's smooth, radio-announcer voice. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you. If you're a single lady, I'll get back to you sooner. Oh, he just oozed charm. Or maybe just oozed. I left him a businesslike message that said I'd arrived, where I was, and that I expected him to meet me as soon as possible.

It was white-hot outside when I walked in through those automatic doors at the Holiday Inn. I was wearing a white pantsuit, and a neon-yellow halter top under the jacket. Kicky yellow shoes. The outfit was disappointingly pedigree-free, but then I was on a budget, saving up for couture in the future. It was still big-city enough to draw looks.

I trundled my sturdy wheeled travel case up to the counter and booked a room. Cooled my heels in my new temporary home, flipping TV channels and trying to figure out why all hotel pillows are either too hard or too soft. Two hours later, the hotel phone rang.

Chaz was in the lobby.

I descended the somewhat rickety steps, past the fountain, and there he was. Unmistakably a Chaz, not a Charles. Tall, solidly muscular, deeply tanned, with wavy dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. An artificially white smile, perfect teeth. He looked like he belonged out in Hollywood, hanging poolside, especially considering the casual Polo shirt and Dockers, loafers without socks. Altogether too preppy, but I wasn't going to hold that against him.