Gale Force

machines and left ignored, made this seem worse.

I gulped down a breath and pressed the button again, convulsively.

The door banged open, admitting a nurse wearing the latest scrub fashions-floral print, with a

predominantly red color. She didn't look familiar, and she didn't look happy. ''Ms. Baldwin,''

she said. ''Awake, I see.''

I tried to nod. Appallingly, I couldn't seem to get my throat to produce sounds. I gestured at the

water pitcher; she poured me a glass and held it for me. I gulped. Water had never tasted quite so

good . . . until I realized that it was taking on a red tinge. I was bleeding into it. I pulled back,

gasping, and wiped my lips. Blood on my fingers. It was coming from my gums, which were

seeping red.

''Relax, honey,'' the nurse said, unbending a little bit when she saw the obvious distress in my

face. ''You had a pretty high dose of radiation. You're getting treatment, though.''

The water had lubricated my vocal cords. ''Where am I?''

''Extension Hospital Fourteen,'' she said, which meant I was in the Warden system, not general

human health care. Thank God. ''I'm sorry we didn't have anybody with you, but you've been

out for a while, and we had other patients. Do you have a lot of pain?''

I managed to keep my nod to a measured sort of response, not a frantic oh-my-God-yes-give-me-

drugs sort of gesture. She got the point, though, and showed me the meds button, which I pushed

for all it was worth. Liquid gold painkillers slid through my veins, and I breathed a deep sigh of

relief. Even tasting blood didn't seem that disturbing, suddenly.

''David?'' I asked. My voice sounded horribly weak.

The nurse hesitated and didn't quite meet my eyes. ''Your friend and Lewis Orwell brought you

in, but they had to leave. Some kind of emergency.''

''Haven't been back?''

''No, not yet. But I'm sure they'll be back as soon as they can.''

Not good. That meant something had happened. She'd said it had been days. . . .

Someone else hip-bumped open the door, and came in carrying two tall coffees. It was Cherise.

She looked tired, but still glamorously touseled, and the smile she gave me was pure relief. ''I

knew a mocha would get you up,'' she said, and flopped into a chair next to me. ''You are so

predictable. So. How are you?''

''Sick,'' I said. ''What the hell happened?''

The nurse cautioned her about hot liquids and my invalid state, which both of us ignored, and left

the room. Cherise leaned forward and helped me manage the mocha. It was warm, not scalding,

and the caffeine/ sugar/fat combo made me feel much steadier inside. ''Well,'' Cherise said,

''you pretty much freaked everybody the hell out. Including people I've never heard of, who

flew over from Switzerland and Australia and places like that.''

''Wardens?''

''Some of them, yeah. There's some kind of big meeting going on. That's where everybody is.''

Cherise's big blue eyes focused on mine, and I saw an internal debate going on for a few seconds

before she said, ''Your friend's dead.''

''I-what?''

''Your friend Mr. Silverton. He didn't make it, Jo. They tried, but he was too far gone. David

and Lewis both tried, but nothing worked. They were scared about you, too.'' Cherise's

expression told me everything I didn't want to know about how bad off I really was. Bleeding

gums were the least of my problems. ''You're going to have to rest up this time. Seriously.''

''But . . . did they say anything about the Dji

''They said that under no circumstances was Joa

charge to anybody's rescue. Seriously, Jo. Not your problem. Not anymore.'' She reached out

and smoothed hair back from my face. ''You look like crap, by the way.''

''Gee, thanks. So glad you're my affirmation girl.'' I actually was glad, but I couldn't let her

know that. There was love, real and soothing, in the touch of her fingers. It lulled as much as the

morphine. I felt sharp grief at the death of Jerome Silverton, and guilt. We'd gotten in over our

heads, and that was the last thing we'd intended. I'd counted on Jerome, as the expert, to know

when to back off. Instead, he'd continued though he'd known it was likely a suicide run. I

guessed he thought it was necessary.

''He wrote you a note,'' Cherise said. ''While he could still write. Do you want it?''

Cherise was a better mind reader than most of my magic-gifted colleagues. I sighed and nodded,

feeling the hot prickle of tears in my eyes. She dug paper from the front pocket of her jeans,

unfolded it, and handed it over.

Jerome's handwriting was messy. I couldn't tell if that was normal for him, or if the damage was

taking its toll. It took me a while to work out what the note said, but when I did, it hit me hard.

It said, I was wrong. Thought I could control it. Not your fault.

And, on a separate line, Hope you're okay.

I folded it up, closed my eyes, and fought back wave after wave of useless tears. When I'd

managed to get control again, I handed the note back to Cherise, who exchanged it for a box of

tissues.

''The dead Dji

''Well, that's the weird thing,'' Cherise said. ''I mean, I wasn't there, obviously, but I heard

people talking. According to David, the Dji

''What?'' He most certainly had been there. I could still remember Silverton's knife slicing his

body open, remember the elastic tension of holding open the edges of the incision so Silverton

could pull out the black glass shard.

''Well, the Wardens say he's there. The Dji

Dji

I opened my mouth and shut it again, thinking hard. ''David, too?'' I finally asked.

''Yup. None of them can see it, sense it, whatever. It's just not there for them.''

Oh, man. Not good. ''So what are the Wardens doing about it?''

''They're 'containing the situation.' '' Cherise made air quotes around the phrase, and rolled her

eyes. ''Some of them are talking about encasing it in a big block of lead. Some are talking about

shooting it into space. Nobody knows what the hell to do, but everybody agrees, it's way too

dangerous where it is.''

''Everybody except the Dji

can they not see it?''

''No clue.''

''What does Lewis say?''

''He can see it, and yeah, he knows it's a problem. The Dji

kind of psychosis. They say that if the thing was there, they'd be able to sense it.''

Great. ''How do they explain Silverton? Me?''

Cherise looked grim. ''They think one of you screwed up, accessed something you shouldn't

have. They can't explain it, but they don't believe the Wardens' explanation, either.''

''Not even David?''

''No,'' she said softly. ''Not even David. Sorry, babe.''

Wow. That was . . . strange. And I was too tired and too sick to do anything about it. Cherise

didn't need to worry about me going all heroic and crazy on her; all I wanted to do was hide

under my blankets and pretend it was all just a bad dream.

And for a while, that was exactly what I did, as the morphine dragged me off to a dream-rich

sleep.

Two days later, I was interrogated by a panel of Warden elders: Guillard from Switzerland, Jones

from Australia, and Lewis representing the U.S. I felt a little better, and they'd let me walk to the

shower and wash my hair, which made a difference in both body and soul.