Ill Wind by Rachel Caine Page B

he asked.
    â€œLet’s just say I’d rather you had four rubber tires between you and it when you give it a shot. C’mon, Paul, get in and we’ll talk. Comfy vinyl seats—”
    He grunted. “You know as well as I do that rubber tires won’t do a damn thing against half a million amps.”
    â€œNo, but my car has a steel body. It won’t melt like that plastic POS you’re driving over there.” I jerked my chin at his late-model Porsche.
    He looked wounded. “Don’t badmouth Christine. She could give you a five-second start and still blow your doors off.” He let the smile come out, finally, and I felt it warm me like a bonfire. I’d lost count of the times we’d debated cars, discussed the finer points of auto repair, trash-talked about who’d win the fantasy drag race. “Jeez, Jo, it’s good to see you. In spite of every little damn thing. Listen, come inside. I promise you’ll be safe.”
    â€œNo offense, Paul, but I can’t exactly trust you, can I? You’re a little too far up in the food chain not to know the orders are to detain me for questioning.”
    â€œSure, I got the memo,” he said. “I’m willing to hear your side of it.”
    â€œYou’d be the only one.”
    â€œNot the only one. You may think you’re on your own, kid, but you don’t have to be. You’ve got friends. Now’s the time to count on them. Have a little faith in the system.”
    I wanted to—dear God I wanted to—and if it were just a matter of a death and some questions, that would be one thing. The Demon Mark was something else entirely.
    â€œOkay, if Muhammad won’t come to the mountain, whatever,” he said. “Open up.”
    I popped open the passenger door. He walked around the car and got in; the springs shuddered at the addition of his weight. Paul, not a small guy, looked uncomfortable squeezed into the shotgun seat, and we fiddled with adjustments until he had circulation, if not leg room.
    The smell that filled the car was warm, sexy, and familiar. I sniffed closer to him and raised my eyebrows. Paul’s face reddened. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s just a little aftershave, okay? I got a date for lunch.”
    â€œLucky her,” I said. “So who’s trying to kill me?”
    â€œWish it were that simple,” he said, and shifted uncomfortably. “Jesus, would it kill you to do a little reupholstering here? It’s more springs than padding.”
    â€œYeah, your big fat ass is just used to that luxurious German craftsmanship.” But I knew that what was making him nervous wasn’t the springs in the seat. “Come on, Paul, you have to have some idea.”
    â€œThere’s a lot of folks that loved Bad Bob. Personally, I thought he was a gigantic pain in the ass, but that’s just me. No question, he was one hell of a Warden.” Paul shrugged, looked down at his large, strong hands. “I know you two didn’t get along.”
    There was a lot I could say about that—a lot I wanted, desperately, to say—but it wasn’t the right time or place, and I wasn’t sure Paul could ever really understand anyway. Things were simpler in Paul’s world. I wish I lived in it.
    â€œYou need to tell me what happened that day,” he said when I didn’t start talking. “It’s important. Unless you’re planning on pleading guilty, you need to think about mounting some kind of defense. I can help you. I want to help you.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œJo.” He twisted in the seat with a creak of springs and looked directly at me. Nothing soft in his eyes now, nothing but direct, unmistakable warning. “You have to. I’m not saying this as your friend, I’m saying it as a Warden. You don’t give yourself up and start telling your side of the story, you know they’re coming