Rachel Caine - Weather Warden 1A - No Love Lost

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No Love Lost

a Weather Warden short story by Rachel Caine

This story is set at the time period of Ill Wind.

She was made of light, and silk, and he could not stop touching her. Fingertips traveling over the delicate

arch of her collarbone, as fine as a bird's wing. Skimming over the curve of her shoulder to trace the long,

elegant line of her arm.

She stopped. She stopped for me. It was an odd source of wonder to him. She could have waved him aside

and pulled her car back on the road. She could have simply asked if he was all right, and left him in her dust

once she was sure he wasn't hurt.

But she'd asked him, Need a ride?, and he had made a choice. The kind of choice that altered the course of

his life, of hers, of everything they would ever touch.

He had chosen to love. She wouldn't know it yet -- and maybe she would never know it -- but what he had

done was irrevocable. Possibly even unforgivable.

She murmured in her sleep, arching into his warmth. She'd intended some great sexual adventure out of this

-- for her, it had been wildly daring, to pick up a stranger on the road and end up at a motel with him. An

insane level of trust that fascinated him. He could see her past, see that she was a sexual creature, but not

... not so reckless. Never so reckless in her life.

It was the fear that had made her reach out for him. The truth was, she was so soul-deep frightened of what

lay ahead of her on the road that he'd felt the ache of it rising off of her skin, and he was not yet such a

heartless bastard that he could ignore that kind of pain.

So he'd trailed his fingers over her body, spreading warmth and peace, and she had relaxed in his arms.

Asleep, and breathtakingly trusting.

David, having granted oblivion to her, stayed awake. Djinn could sleep -- needed to sleep, sometimes -- but

there was something so undefended about her that he felt compelled to watch. The normally active face was

so still, so peaceful. Her lips were slightly parted, and her dark hair had slipped forward across one smooth

cheek. He let his eyes travel down the elegant column of her throat to the arch of her shoulder. He lingered

over his appraisal, moving the sheet in slow increments to bare more of her lovely matte-tan skin. He

supposed it was intrusive, but he wanted -- needed -- to burn her into his memory, perfect in this moment.

Joanne burrowed closer to him in slow dreaming movements. He placed a light, warm kiss on her shoulder,

and as he did, he felt the unmistakable twinge of another Djinn seeking his attention.

No, he replied. The tug came again, very strongly. No, I said. Go away.

This time it was painful, a yank as if a piece of him had been torn away. Careful not to wake Joanne, he got

up and walked into the motel bathroom.

He shut the door and put his back against it, and said, "I don't like to be summoned."

His visitor was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, looking disdainfully around; she tilted her head up to

consider him, cornrows of beads clacking. Rahel was blindingly bright against the plain white tiles --

neon-green, today -- and she raised her eyebrows and nodded at what he was wearing.

Which was nothing. Without comment, he formed clothing: a pair of blue jeans and an open flannel shirt.

She barely paused. "Why do you do this?"

"Why is what I do any of your business, Rahel?"

"You had your freedom. You had the chance to break free of these humans and take your rightful place, and

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Rachel Caine - Weather Warden 1A - No Love Lost

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