Gale Force

''I've been wanting to get you out of that dress all day.'' His voice dropped low and quiet, barely

a murmur in my ear. I felt my pulse jump and my skin heat in response. ''Jo, I don't want to go

on like this. I can't stand knowing that at any moment they could come for you again. If I lose

you-'' His hands moved through my hair, urgent and possessive. ''If I lose you-'' He couldn't

finish the sentence.

We both knew that he was going to lose me, in the end. But it was the fullness of time, the

richness of time, from now until then that would make that pain of parting something worth

bearing.

''I love you,'' I said, and his mouth found mine. He tasted of tears, but I saw no trace of them in

his eyes or on his face. ''No more mourning. I'm here. While I'm here, we're together.''

''Yes.'' Another soul-deep kiss that left my knees weak and every nerve tingling. ''We'd better

go inside. Security cameras. Wouldn't want to shock the guards.''

''Mmmmmm.'' He'd destroyed my ability to form words that didn't include adjectives, such as

faster and more.

David picked me up and carried me across the threshold . . . and stopped. He had no choice. The

entire room was filled with cartons, floor to ceiling, rows and rows and rows of them.

And each one was neatly labeled MISC.

''Ortega!'' he bellowed, and let me down. ''Dammit-''

The other Dji

looked past us, at the makeshift warehouse, and seemed a little embarrassed. Just a little.

''Well,'' he said, ''I did warn you that I needed to clean up.''

That wasn't messy; it was obsessive-compulsive. I'd met a Dji

Now that was new.

Ortega did something I couldn't quite follow, and two columns of boxes disappeared-probably

moved into the mansion, I guessed. He gave David a questioning look, then sighed and repeated

the maneuver with all the boxes in view.

''Any other rooms?'' he asked.

''Bedroom,'' David and I said together. Ortega's eyebrows rose. ''Please,'' I added. ''Umm-

bathroom. And kitchen.''

''Done.''

And it was. The areas I could see, at least; I had no doubt that if I opened up a closet (or for that

matter, a drawer) I'd see more of Ortega's collecting fetish, but right now, the only things that

mattered to me were open space and privacy.

Ortega was waiting for something, watching David, and once again I caught a hint of something

otherworldly in him, something not quite in sync with the harmless human exterior he projected.

''I have what you asked me to find,'' he said. ''When you're ready to see it.''

David had been looking at me, but now his gaze cut sharply toward the other Dji

it? Here?''

''In the main house. It's warded. I can't open it myself.''

''What is it?'' I asked. If I'd only left it alone, we might have been able to ignore the tempting,

dangling bait and go on to a fevered night of fulfilling every delicious, decadent fantasy, but

noooooo. I just had to ask.

Ortega's face brightened. ''The Ancestor Scriptures. ''

David went very still. I sensed whatever chance we had to forget all this and hit the sheets

vanishing like mist in sunlight. ''You persuaded the Air Oracle to give it up?''

''No.'' The Dji

what we were smiling about. ''I persuaded the Air Oracle to let me make a copy. You have no

idea what I had to give up for that.''

I'd met the Air Oracle once; it wasn't one of my most treasured memories. I'd had lots of scary

encounters, but the Air Oracle had been one of the strangest, most remote, most malevolent

creatures I'd ever met.

The fact that Ortega had charmed something out of him/her was fairly damn impressive.

David glanced at me, and I saw the frustrated apology in his expression before he said, ''I have

to take a look. This could be important.''

My hormones were not understanding, but my brain tried to be. ''I know. Mind if I look, too?''

''I want you with me,'' David said, and he meant it on a whole lot of levels. I smiled, and he

turned his attention back to Ortega, who was waiting with a polite, attentive smile. ''Main house,

you said?''

Ortega nodded and blipped out, then almost immediately blipped back, looking chagrined. ''You

can't travel so quickly, can you?'' he said to me. ''I do apologize. We'll walk.''

The stroll back to the main house was just as lovely as the first time, only with less anticipation

of fun to come. Still, the destination was certainly interesting; when Ortega led us through the

front door, I was struck once again by the incredible scale of the place. The massive chandelier

overhead, loaded down with an entire year's production of Swarovski crystals, glittered like a

captured galaxy. The ceiling was as tall as any respectable opera house lobby, and the foyer was

just about big enough to stage a road-show production of Aida, complete with elephants. There

was a sweeping grand staircase, of course, with all the usual marble and mahogany features.

What didn't quite fit in this oh-so-upscale setting was the clutter. Boxes piled randomly against

walls, paintings (nice ones, at that, to my relatively untutored eye) leaning against the boxes,

knickknacks, and gadgets strewn over every flat surface. It was like walking into one of those

clutter stores, crammed with bargains and cool finds, if only you can contain your sense of

claustrophobia long enough to find them. My eyes couldn't focus for long on any one thing.

If every room was like the foyer . . .

''Sorry.'' Ortega shrugged. ''There's never enough room. This way. Watch your step.''

There were boxes on the staircases, too, all labeled, unilluminatingly, MISC. I wondered if they

were the ones he'd banished from the guesthouse, but I was more afraid they weren't, actually.

At the top of the stairs he took a right, edging around another bulwark of stacked cardboard, and

led us into what should have been a spacious-no, gracious-room. It was a library, old style,

with floor-to-high-ceiling shelves. An honest-to-God rotunda, and a sliding ladder on rails.

He kept books in the library, but it was about five times more books than could safely fit on the

shelves. The stacks teetered and leaned everywhere, and of course there were the inevitable

boxes. These were labeled, not very helpfully, BOOKS.

Ortega blazed a trail through the maze and brought us to what must have been one of the few

open spaces in the entire house. There was a massive podium, all of carved black wood,

decorated with leaves and vines, and on it lay a closed, massive book with an iron latch, secured

with a simple iron peg. No title was on the worn, pale leather cover.

Ortega stood back and indicated it with one graceful wave. David stepped up to the podium,

studying it, and reached out to touch the latch.

It knocked his hand back with a sharp, sizzling zap of power.

''I thought you said it was a copy,'' David said, rubbing his fingers against his jeans.

''It is. An exact copy. And I believe I did say it was warded.'' Arms folded, Ortega watched with

half-closed eyes, looking like nothing so much as an eccentric Buddha.

David nodded, never taking his eyes off the book, and touched the spine. There was no zap this

time, but as he moved his fingers toward the pages themselves, I felt the surge of energy building

up. He quickly moved back to safer territory.

''Jo,'' he said, ''give me your hand.''