Heat Stroke

“Hey, fine, just pull one out of backstock and fire it up, there, buddy.”

“I freed them. All the ones I had.” He shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. I agree with David about the slavery issue, and besides, I wasn’t pla

“And yet here you are.”

“Yes.” He stopped playing with the bottle, folded his hands together, and just looked at me.

“Oh, no, don’t even,” I said. “I’m nowhere near ready for that kind of thing. Ask Patrick.”

“I did.”

I shot a hot, disbelieving, wide-eyed look at my so-called mentor in his porn Disney getup. He’d manifested some kind of breakfast while I wasn’t looking, but it didn’t look anything like a traditional bacon-and-eggs kind of thing; some kind of lumpy-looking yogurt stuff, thin little flaps of something that looked like unfolded blintzes, and a weirdly colored fruit mishmash. Whatever country it was from wasn’t anyplace I ever wanted to visit, or at least eat breakfast in.

“Patrick?” I demanded.

He took a bite of fruit surprise with no evidence of discomfort. “Joa

“Hey, pardon me, but nobody’s jumping me, okay?” I sucked in a couple of deep cleansing breaths, and tried to be reasonable. “Just to be clear, you want me to agree to be your Dji

Lewis had the grace to look appalled at the idea. “No! Employee. And only for a short time, maybe an hour or so. When the job’s done, I smash the bottle, you’re free again.”

“And even if I believe you, what makes you think I can do this thing you want done? ‘Cause I’m not exactly the most competent Dji

Patrick grunted and shoveled in pale gray yogurt with lime green chunks floating in it. “Less than half,” he said. “I’m afraid that to them, you’re a parasite. Better off dead.”

“Yeah, see? Parasite. I’m a parasite. You need somebody reliable. Like David.”

Lewis’s face had become a still life. How anybody could sit that quietly… “I can’t find David. Rahel turned me down. Patrick recommended you.”

“And that’s your entire list? What about the three you freed?” Because I was thinking hey, talk about owing favors… but his tense expression didn’t relax. I wasn’t breaking any new ground.

“They’re gone,” he said. “No longer on this plane of existence.”

I tossed that one to Patrick for an explanation. He gave another insouciant shrug. “They don’t want to be imprisoned again. You can understand their point of view. I myself am not willing to risk it, either. And while I trust that Lewis wouldn’t even consider it unless it was an emergency, I’m afraid that an emergency to the Wardens doesn’t necessarily constitute an emergency to me. There are plenty of Wardens equipped with Dji

Lewis’s chin set in that stubborn line. A muscle flickered in his jaw. “They can’t see it. I think the only ones who can are the Dji

“Meaning, only you.”

Lewis nodded.

Patrick slurped through another spoonful of slimy crap. “My, doesn’t that just make you indispensable, my friend? Fate of the world, depending on you? Whatever did we do before you came along?”

And the award for most cutting sarcasm goes to… Even I flinched. Lewis, not accustomed to having people accuse him of megalomania, just blinked and looked a little lost. “I’m just giving you the facts.”

“The fact is that you want it to be you.” Patrick leveled a spoon at Lewis like a nun with a ruler, ready to slap hands. “You need to be the hero, boy. A common human failing.”

Lewis opened his mouth, shut it with a snap, and pushed his chair back. “Fine. Sorry to have bothered you. I’ll just see myself out then. Oh, and I love what you’ve done with the place, Patrick. Kind of a whole Christopher-Lowell-goes-over-to-the-dark-side thing.”

Another shovelful of crap into Patrick’s mouth, this time the weird otherworldly-looking flat blintzes. “Oh, don’t be so sensitive. I didn’t say you were necessarily wrong. Occasionally you should be the hero. I’m just saying that it’s not a good habit to acquire. No long-term prospects. Cowards live longer.”

Lewis, already standing, wavered indecisively between staying and going. I put my coffee down and stood up, too. “I understand what you’re trying to do,” I said. “I just don’t think I’m ready.”

“Yeah. I get it. Thanks anyway.”

He turned to go. I grabbed him by the arm. “I didn’t say no. Convince me.”

“Of what?”

“Why I’m ready.”

He moved closer, or maybe it just felt that way; he had that kind of aura. Once it grabbed hold, it sucked you in. I felt weightless, drawn in by the intensity of his power and conviction.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re ready,” he said. “Nothing ever stops you, Jo. Nothing ever has. I need you because you’re the only person I’ve ever known who’s completely incapable of losing a fight.”

I felt a blush burn hot up through me—not a human blush, not really, this was more happening on the aetheric level than traveling through capillaries—and I said, with more humility than I probably ever had in my life, “Yeah, well, you don’t know very many people, Lewis. Your communication skills kinda suck.”

He gave me a long, slow smile. “You didn’t always think so.”

Which led me to memories that were neither situation-appropriate nor really germane, but were damn nice to recall. Storm energy flaring all around us, two bodies naked and moving in that sweet, hot rhythm, lubricated by sweat and lust and the awesome power of the moment…

Not a bad way to lose your virginity, all things considered.

“So,” he said, and raised his eyebrows. There was that cute little line between his eyebrows again, the one I wanted to smooth away with my thumb. “In or out, Jo?”

Patrick, still sitting at the table, rustled his paper as he turned pages to check out the fu

Lewis didn’t glance at him. “Is she?”

I reached out and scooped the perfume vial off the table. I held it out and dropped it into his open palm, then folded his fingers closed over it. “Guess so.”

There was a surprising lack of ceremony to the whole thing. First we waited for Patrick to finish his breakfast, which looked more revolting by the moment, and then for him to shuffle off to another room with his paper and unmentionable bathrobe. Lewis and I played my-God-how-tacky-is-that? with Patrick’s collection of objets d’crap, finally coming to the conclusion that only a going-out-of-business sale at a whorehouse could really explain a lot of it. When my own personal Obi-Wa

Lewis excused himself. I watched him go, then turned my attention back to Patrick.

“Does this have the Jonathan seal of approval?” I asked. It was kind of a joke. And kind of not. Patrick shot me a nakedly assessing look.

“Jonathan doesn’t concern himself with the details of the manufacturing process,” he said. His lips twitched into a strange little smile. “Not anymore. Although he once was—how would you say it? A great deal more hands-on in his management style.”

I settled down on the banana couch and drew my legs up more comfortably, hugging the tacky leopard throw close around my shoulders. There was a chill in the air—or, more likely, in me. “You know, nobody’s been overly forthcoming about the guy. What’s his deal?”