Ill Wind

He had a point. "Okay. What the hell are you doing here, showing up starved and sick on my doorstep? It isn't like we know each other, Lewis. At least, not in any way that matters."

Cruel but true. Lewis's eyes widened, and he looked down. "I know you," he said. "And I trust you."

"Why?" He gave me an off-kilter smile for answer. I felt myself blush hot up around the cheekbones. "Okay, rephrasing the question. What kind of trouble are you in?"

The smile disappeared, and he looked ill and tired. "The worst kind," he said. "Council trouble. I broke out."

I froze, my own mug of soup halfway to my lips. Steam tickled my nose with ghosts of spices. "Broke out?"

"They were keeping me in a hospital, the one where…" He had an inward look, and what flashed across his face didn't look like a pleasant memory. "They were keeping me at the Pound."

The Pound was a nickname among the junior Wardens for the hospital Marion Bearheart oversaw, where Wardens checked in and walked out—or were carried out—as regular human beings. The place where we got neutered, or in my case, spayed.

The place where our powers could be ripped away at the roots.

"No," I whispered, and put the soup down to take his hands. His felt cold, still. "God, Lewis, they couldn't. Not you."

"They hadn't decided, but I knew which way it was going to go. Martin didn't want it, but the others—" He shrugged. "I don't fit, Jo, I have too much power, and they can't control it. They don't like that."

No wonder he'd run. He had so much to lose, so much… I couldn't imagine Marion agreeing to it, but she was sworn to obey, like all of us. Lewis was right not to take the chance.

It explained why he'd come to me like this, wet and sick; he couldn't use his powers, not even to protect himself from the rain or burn the virus out of his bloodstream. Lewis lit up Oversight like a Roman candle every time he called power. Until he was back at full strength, he couldn't defend himself.

I put a hand on his burning forehead and stared into his eyes. The sparks jumped between us, weak but still there.

"Trust me?" I asked. He nodded. "Then sleep. Nobody's going to get you here."

He fell asleep within minutes, curled under the blanket. I washed the mugs and put them on the dish drainer, went back and let the cooling water out of the bathtub. By the time I'd exchanged the robe for a comfortable tank top and drawstring pants, he was snoring.

He looked very young, but then he was—older than me, but a lot younger than most other Wardens. I sat down on the floor next to the couch, leaned my back up against it, and listened to him sleep while I watched TV with the sound turned down. I didn't dare close my eyes; I kept watch in Oversight, alert for the approach of anybody who might be on his trail.

Toward morning, the rain stopped, and whether I meant to or not, I fell asleep. When I woke up, Lewis was gone from the couch. I heard the shower ru

"How do you feel?" I asked, and poured him a mug of liquid morning magic. He sipped it, watching me. His eyes were clearer, anyway, but his hair still stuck up in wet porcupine quills and gave him a vulnerable look.

"Better."

"Good." I reached for the coffee cake I'd put out on the counter and winced as another muscle group went on strike. "Wish I could say the same."

I didn't see him move toward me, and the shock of his warm hands on my back came as a surprise.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

"Um, hardly."

He moved his large, capable hands down to my waist and dug his thumbs in, right where it hurt in the long muscles. Slow, deliberate pressure that hurt at first, then dissolved into absolute pleasure. I pulled in a slow breath, let it out, and felt tension leak away from shoulders to toes. "Whoa. Ever consider a career in massage therapy?"

"I'm open to new ideas." I could hear the smile in his voice. His thumbs pressed more lightly, in slow circles. "Feel good?"

"Any better, I'd lose motor skills."

"I'm sorry I pulled you into this," he said. His hands moved up, chasing the tension. "It was—a bad night."

"I've had a few," I admitted. "It's okay, you know. You can stay as long as you want to."

His hands made it to my shoulders and squeezed away hours of stress. "No, I really can't," he said. There were a lot of ways to interpret that, but if Lewis meant anything more intimate, I couldn't tell it from the slow, steady pressure of his fingers on pressure points. His thumbs dug into the nerve clusters just behind my shoulder blades, and I felt my knees go weak.

"So you're leaving."

I felt that smile again. "What can I say? I've always been a one-night stand." He smoothed my back with gentle strokes. "I have to go. If I stay with you, it just puts you in the fire with me. You don't need to attract their attention."

"Me?" I turned, startled, and found myself chest-to-chest with him. He didn't step back. "Why?"

"You know why." His brown eyes were bleak, but they never quite lost their edge of amusement. "They only like Wardens to have so much power. You— you're different. Not to mention uncontrollable."

"Hey!" I put my hands on his chest and shoved him back a step. "Watch it, buster."

"I didn't mean it in a bad way." He shrugged. "I mean they can't control you. So they'll be watching you, Jo. Don't give them a reason."

"You must still have a fever. I'm just Staff, for God's sake. Why would anybody be watching me?"

Lewis held up his hands in surrender. "Point taken. I'm probably wrong."

No, he wasn't. I could tell. I glared at him. "Don't bullshit me."

"Don't pretend you don't know what you are."

"Well, I don't know." I felt my face set into a frown. "You tell me."

He reached out and took my hand in his.

Skin on skin.

Sparks. Waves of power echoing through me, back to him, amplified as they returned to me.

I pulled free and stepped back until I felt the kitchen counter behind my back. For a few long seconds we just looked at each other, and then he nodded, reached around me to pick up his cup, and wandered back to the bathroom, sipping it.

I barely tasted mine, even though I drank the whole cup while watching the closed door.

When he came back out, he was dressed in the blue jeans, a loose green knit shirt, and hiking boots he'd been wearing when he arrived. Dry, at least. And with some color back in his too-thin face. I went in the bathroom and grabbed the box of cold medicine, added it to a bag of snacks and bottles of water. As care packages go, it wasn't much. I tossed in the contents of my wallet, which didn't make an impressive addition, and handed it to him.

His fingers brushed mine, drawing those sparks again. He craved it, I knew. So did I. And neither one of us could afford that.

He'd left something behind in my hand, a folded piece of paper with meticulously crisp corners. I started to unfold it, but he stopped me. "It's an address," he said. "If you need me, that's where you'll find me. Just don't—"