Gale Force

changed. I could almost smell it: the burned-metal bite of desperation, mingled with a coppery

odor of fear.

''Get in the fucking van,'' he said. ''I'm not playing, bitch. Don't make this a showdown; there

are too many people around. Kids. I don't want to do that, and neither do you. Let's keep this

calm.''

Oh God, he was serious. I could tell it from the sweat on his skin, the dark shadows in his eyes.

He was a whole lot more scared of someone else than he was of me.

That needed to change, right now.

I dropped my purse to the ground, glad I'd do

firmly planted, shoulder-width apart, the right slightly forward to give me a more stable base.

''You're right,'' I said quietly. ''I don't want to do this. You don't want to do this. But somehow,

I think it's going to happen anyway, because I can't get in that van, Lee. Whatever's going on, I

can't take the chance. Let's think this through before we both start something that will end

badly.''

David had not moved. Hadn't spoken. Still, I was feeling the vibration of menace from him like

the subsonic pulses from a volcano about to blow; this was going to go south, very badly, very

fast.

''Who is it?'' I asked. ''Lee, tell me who's making you do this. It's not Lewis. It's not the

Wardens. Somebody's forcing you to take me out of circulation. Come on, man, we don't have

to make this a throw down. We can talk about it, work it out.'' While I talked, I used my Earth

powers, subtly sending calming vibrations to him, lulling him into a state in which he might be

more inclined to listen. To trust.

Antonelli shook himself, as if he were throwing off a wrestling hold, and I knew my brief second

of opportunity was gone. ''Save it,'' he snapped. ''I'm not some wet-behind-the-ears trainee.

You can't con me.''

And then Lee Antonelli, one of the best natural Fire Wardens I had ever seen, declared war.

I'll give him credit; it was a strategic strike, not just a general firestorm. He formed a fireball and

lobbed it not at me, but at my car. Clearly, he did not understand my relationship with cars. He'd

have gotten off easier if he'd gone ahead and set my hair on fire. I'd have taken it less

personally.

I formed an invisible cricket bat of hardened air, swung, lined up, and hit a solid line drive,

sending the fireball right back into Antonelli's midsection. It hit him hard enough to drive him

against the body of the van, which rocked and creaked on its springs, and his muscle tee caught

fire. He glanced down, a

nice round hole with scorched edges baring his carefully developed abs. He'd had a tattoo put

around his navel-a woman's face, with the navel representing her open mouth. Classy.

''Bitch!'' he snarled.

''Repeating yourself already? We just started,'' I said. I didn't alter my stance, and I didn't go

after him. ''Walk away. Just get in your van and go. We'll all be happier.''

Only it wasn't going to happen. He was scared, and he clearly didn't think walking away from

this was an option. Instead, he pointed his finger at me, and from the tip of it blazed a pinpoint of

red light, hot as the sun. Coherent light, concentrated a thousand times stronger than the brightest

earth-based laser developed by men.

Air wouldn't slow it down. Neither would water, although it would bend the beam and eat up

some of its energy in steam. Both options were sure to fail, and I knew from experience that if he

could break my concentration, he could hurt me badly enough that I'd have a hard time

defending myself at all.

Instead of defense, I went for offense. I had to end this fast, before some i

traipsed out of the diner and into the line of-literally-fire.

First, I summoned up a gale-force wind that slammed into his chest and pi

van. Then I took away his air.

It's damn hard to concentrate when you feel like you're suffocating. I started with the air going

in, filtering out the oxygen as he gasped. Then I focused on the oxygen inside Antonelli's

body-in his lungs, in his blood. I knew what I wanted to see, and it glowed bright blue for me.

I separated the hydrogen and oxygen atoms, took away an atom from the oxygen molecule, and

within seconds, he was shaking in desperation, nearly out. I let him continue to breathe, because

if anything it increased his panic, but I destroyed the oxygen before he could metabolize it.

There was a side effect of this, of course. Destruction creates energy, and I burned off the excess

in sharp blue sparks that danced on the ante

Antonelli's showy belt buckle.

It felt as though I were killing him, in a cruel and inhumane way, and that was exactly what I

wanted him to feel. I wanted him to know that I wasn't going to give in, and I wasn't going to

screw around. If he wanted to play hardball, he was going to have to live through the opening

i

''Think about it,'' I said. ''I could just as easily put water in your lungs. Drowning on dry land.

Sound good to you, tough guy?''

Antonelli sank to his knees, eyes wide and desperate. I hadn't noticed before, but he had brown

eyes, big and somehow childlike despite all the 'roided-up muscles.

I felt oddly detached about what I was doing, but there was no way I was going to let go until I

sensed he was more afraid of me than of the theoretical bad guys.

''Jo.'' David's soft voice. His hand touched my shoulder. ''You don't have to kill him.''

''Maybe not,'' I said. ''But if he's one of them, it'd be a damn sight safer in the long run.''

He didn't say anything. I could tell he'd dropped the veil concealing him from Antonelli,

because Antonelli's mouth stretched wide, and he tried to croak out something that was probably

a plea. His lips had gone the color of iron, and his skin looked dead and pale and rubbery.

He was about to lose consciousness, so I let him have a torturous, cruel gasp of air, loaded with

O2. He gagged and pitched forward, openly weeping; he wasn't coming after me, that much was

certain. He just wanted to live to get away.

But I didn't want him to get away. I let him have just enough oxygen to survive, not enough to

get his arms and legs in any kind of working order. Then I picked up my purse and walked over

to him, crouched down to where he was sitting against the wheel of the van, and pulled down my

sunglasses to look into his eyes.

''What were you going to do to me, Lee?'' I asked him. ''Don't lie. It'll only make me angry,

and you won't like what happens when I lose my temper.''

I let him have more oxygen, just enough. I'd scared him, all right. I'd terrified him almost more

than was strategically necessary, and I knew-again, in a detached, academic sort of way-that

it might bother me later. Maybe it would bother me a lot.

Or-and this was a lot more worrisome-maybe it wouldn't bother me at all.

It took Lee six breaths before he was able to decide to choke out, ''Going to kill you.''

''Meaning, you're still going to kill me, or you were supposed to kill me?''

''Supposed to.'' His face contorted with effort, and he bared his teeth. ''Going to.''

I'd known that was a possibility, but somehow, it was very different hearing it. I glanced up at

David. He was standing over us, quiet, but his expression . . . Antonelli was lucky not to be

relying on his mercy. I might have developed a nasty streak, but I was the kinder choice between