Gale Force

''Any particular thing you find motivational?''

He put his lips close to my ear. ''Your mouth.'' His tongue traced the folds of my ear, drawing

shivers. ''I love the way you use it.''

''I'm guessing you aren't talking about pleasant travel conversation.''

I couldn't see his smile, but I felt its dark power. ''Don't want to give it a try?''

''Dude, there are laws, you know.''

''Laws against driving above the speed limit, too, but I don't notice you objecting to breaking

them.''

''You are a very bad''-I caught my breath convulsively and pressed against his fingers, which

had wandered lower-''man. And we should get dressed and on the road.''

''In a while,'' he said, watching me, and his hand began to move. My mind went white and

smooth with pleasure. His eyes were lazy and still somehow fiercely intent. ''Let me see if I can

ease your mind first.''

I decided not to protest, unless don't stop counted.

Driving with a Dji

they have an awareness of it, for traffic safety, but even the most vigilant of peace officers can

look right at you breaking the speed limit (and nearly the sound barrier) and not feel moved to

react.

The downside? No bathroom breaks. Dji

so they must have the other human-type functions at least when maintaining human form . . . but

you'd never know it. They're better masters of their bodies than we are.

After six hours on the road, I was squirming in the seat and ready to die for a bush by the side of

the road, never mind a bathroom.

''Comfort break,'' I said to David. ''Sorry. Nature calls.''

He sent me a lazy, amused glance, entirely relaxed and at ease behind the wheel of my car. I'd

learned not to look out the windows; the constant smear of color reminded me of science fiction

movie concepts of travel past light speed. Instead, I'd asked for a laptop, which David had

obligingly provided, and an Internet co

Only this time, I was tracking down suspects instead of china patterns.

''What are you doing?'' David asked, leaning over. I nudged him back with one shoulder.

''Drive.''

''I am.'' He stayed where he was, eyes off the road.

''You know that makes me crazy, right?''

His lips threatened to smile. ''Not the right kind of crazy. So?''

I sighed. ''I'm searching all my correspondence, trying to figure out how many people I've told

about the wedding.''

''And?''

''Dozens.'' I stared gloomily at the screen. ''Not only that, I didn't exactly think to make it eyes-

only clearance. Those dozens told more dozens, who told their friends, who posted it in the

Wardens chat room. . . .''

''So it's a dead end.''

Yeah, and we might be the ones dead at the end of it. Wasn't sure I liked that symbolism.

I was on the verge of logging off the computer, but a word caught my eye on the Warden chat

board. I frowned and scrolled back up, looking for it, and finally saw, in the message thread of

people offering congratulations on the upcoming wedding, a single entry. You had to be

registered for the Warden chat board, of course, and authenticated, but somehow, this particular

entry had no name or IP address associated with it. What it said was, simply, It'll never happen.

I shivered. The Sentinels were at work.

''Bathroom,'' David a

screeched the Mustang to a stop in front of the gas pump of the BP station. I barely noticed the

convenience store, except that as I frantically sca

on me and pointed toward the rear of the store. Clearly, he knew the look.

I found the bathroom; it was unlocked and relatively clean, and all that mattered was the sweet,

sweet relief. When I finished, I went to the sink and washed, studying my face in the mirror. I

looked okay-a little thi

looked good on me; it always had. Lucky me. As a beauty treatment, though, it sucked.

Hmmm. Maybe some cold cream. And Ding Dongs.

I was gathering up sweet, snack-treat goodness and heading for the register when I felt . . .

something. Not exactly trouble, but . . . something. It was subtle, but I'd definitely felt something

shift, and not on a natural real-world level.

I put the food down on the counter, smiled meaninglessly, and wandered back toward the cold-

drink case to give myself time to think. Time to track what was happening. The clerk must have

thought I was giving the Pepsi-Coke debate serious consideration. I glanced over my shoulder

and saw that David was gassing up the Mustang, eyes sca

of worry or alarm.

So maybe this sudden foreboding was just my imagination working overtime. Maybe I was tired,

on edge, and still recovering from my near miss.

A big semitruck eased into the parking lot. It was a tight fit; the place wasn't exactly a truck stop,

and I wondered what he was doing. Maybe he needed a bathroom, too, or Ding Dongs.

Everybody needed Ding Dongs, right? But no driver emerged from the shiny red cab; it just sat,

shimmering in the overhead lights, idling.

I felt a chill. I grabbed a drink at random from the case and went back to the counter, threw

money at the clerk, and continued to stare at the truck without blinking or looking away.

Something. Something wrong.

David didn't seem alert to anything at all. He replaced the gas cap and stood next to the car,

leaning on it, waiting for me to reappear.

''Your change,'' the clerk said, and pressed coins into my hand. I shoved it into my pocket

without looking, grabbed the sack he handed over, and hurried outside. There was a cool breeze

blowing in from the ocean. Couldn't see the shore from here, but the sound of the surf was a

distant, low murmur.

I stopped, staring at the red truck, which continued to idle where it sat. Nothing intimidating

about it, other than its size. But then again . . .

''Let's go,'' I said, and climbed into the passenger seat. David raised his eyebrows at my tone,

which was fairly tense for somebody who'd achieved the desperately needed pit stop, but he got

in the car and started it up. We pulled out onto the road in a smooth growl of acceleration, the

tires biting and cornering perfectly.

Behind us, the semitruck lurched into gear and followed.

''Crap,'' I whispered, and turned in my seat to look behind us. ''That truck-''

David glanced in the rearview mirror. ''What about it?''

''Don't you think there's anything strange about it?''

''I think you're tired,'' he said. ''And you're worried. Let me worry about keeping us safe.''

''But-'' I stopped myself, somehow, and managed a nod. ''Okay. Just . . . keep an eye on it,

would you?''

''Sure.'' He sounded indulgent and amused.

''David, I'm not kidding.''

He gave me a strange look. ''I know,'' he said. ''I'll watch.''

That was said with a good deal more seriousness. I nodded and turned again, looking behind us.

The truck was still there, but rapidly falling behind as the Mustang's engine opened up with its

throaty growl. I frowned. The truck didn't seem at all intimidated by my scowl. You've seen

Duel one too many times, I told myself, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something

. . . something wrong. Something dangerous.

But despite all that, the steady blur of passing scenery, David's impeccable (nay, unca