When I woke up, someone was holding me in strong, warm arms. I tried to burrow closer and felt the embrace tighten. "Jo?"
I lifted my head and saw that it was David. We were sitting against a wall in a hallway, next to a giant brushed-steel vault door. I felt . . . empty. Clean, but empty. Exhausted and powerless.
I felt wrong.
He was stroking my hair gently, letting it curl around his fingers. Crap. Curly hair again. Something hadn't gone right . . .
"Easy," he murmured when I tried to get up. He rose to his feet, still holding me, and set me down on shaky legs. "Oh God, Jo. My God. You're alive."
Sara. Patrick. It had seemed so real, hurt so much ... I drew breath. It felt . . . wrong. Clumsy. Mechanical. "Maybe." Memory slammed back with a vengeance and flooded me with alarm. I turned to look inside the vault.
It couldn't have been the hours it had seemed, up there at the top of the world. It had been seconds, minutes at most.
The confrontation was still going on.
Lewis was still standing, but even as I watched he swayed and collapsed to his knees. The white burn of energy I'd seen him giving to the motionless, broken body of Kevin Prentiss was almost spent, just flickers now, pulsing in time with Lewis's labored heartbeat.
God, he was dying. I couldn't believe he'd held on so long, or that Yvette had let him . . . but then I saw the look on her face as she watched him, and I knew why she'd waited. He was suffering.
She liked that kind of thing too much to stop it prematurely.
Jonathan was more of an absence than a presence in the room-blank, stiff as a statue, no sense of the restless energy and power that had been as much a part of him as the sarcastic half-smile. Yvette could not be allowed to keep him. The damage she could do ...
"We have to do something," I said to David. He reached out, encountered the barrier, and slid his hand along it.
"I can't." His voice was rough and low in his throat; he hated being helpless, hated seeing Jonathan reduced to this.
I reached out, and my hand slid past his, into the barrier, through it without pause. I heard his intake of breath, but then I was committed, and I had to move. No time to think about things.
I threw myself forward, onto Yvette.
She was stronger than she looked, and softer. I'd caught her by surprise; she really hadn't believed any Djinn could get past that barrier. We hit the floor hard enough to make her scream and me gasp for breath, rolled, and fetched up in a tangle against some metal shelves that teetered precariously from the impact.
They were full of bottles.
Full of Djinn bottles.
Every one of them marked with a black seal.
These were the Djinn who'd been infected with Demon Marks, who'd been sealed away, never to be released again, because if a demon ever succeeded in taking over a Djinn, the power of that combination would be-Nobody even wanted to think about it.
It was the equivalent of a room full of nuclear bombs, rocking back and forth over our heads.
Yvette still held Jonathan's bottle, I hadn't succeeded in making her drop it. She opened her mouth to scream out a command. I punched her in the face, hard, felt my knuckles explode into white pain when they crushed her lips against her teeth.
"You," I panted, and punched her again, "don't say anything."
She was still trying to mumble a command. I grabbed her shirt, tore it, and stuffed the blood-spattered satin in her mouth.
Jonathan hadn't moved.
His bottle was clenched in her right fist. While she battered at me with her left, I grabbed hold and smashed her right hand painfully back into the metal shelves. I saw blood and didn't let that stop me. I did it again. Her fingers loosened.
I grabbed for the bottle, but she clung to it like an octopus. She yanked my hair hard enough to bring tears to my eyes, then spat the gag out of her mouth to yell, "I order you to-"
Panic gave me the strength of at least two, if not ten. I grabbed her right hand again, took hold of her index finger, and snapped it in two with a brisk, crackling sound.
She interrupted her command with a shriek.
The bottle rolled free. I grabbed for it, but she caught me with a wild swinging left hook, and tossed me off of her in a heap.
"Bitch!" she panted. Red blood drooled from her cut lip, and she looked savage, utterly crazed. "I'm going to make you suffer-"
She devolved into cursing, scrambled after the bottle. I tackled her and pulled her back.
Right about that time, Lewis collapsed face forward on the floor. He was still holding David's bottle. He flipped over on his back, stared blankly up at the light fixtures in the ceiling, and rolled over again to crawl his way toward the half-open door.
I saw Kevin's limp body take in a shuddering, unaided breath.
He raised his head, and I was frozen by what I saw in his eyes ... It was confused, painful and full of rage.
Lewis had healed him. What that had cost I couldn't imagine ... to Lewis, or to Kevin. The fury in the kid was like nothing sane.
He lunged forward at the same time as Yvette for Jonathan's bottle, and got there first.
I saw the shift in Jonathan instantly as his loyalty shifted from mother to son.
Yvette pushed herself away and got to her feet, backing up as far as the room would let her. Kevin and Jonathan were between her and the door.
"Don't," she said, and wiped blood from her face with the back of her hand. "Sweetie, don't do this. You know you don't want to-"
"You," Kevin said tightly, and looked at Jonathan. "Kill Yvette. Now."
Jonathan didn't hesitate. He leaped like a cat, cleared me as I rolled into a ball and covered myself, and on the way formed steel-hard claws from the tips of his fingers.
I felt a hot spray of blood on my face, and gagged on the taste. Oh God, oh God . . . not that she hadn't deserved it, but . . .
Kevin was watching his stepmother die with a blank, intense stare. When it was over, when the blood stopped and Jonathan stepped back with the claws red-misting away, Kevin transferred that stare to me.
God, those eyes. So empty. It was like looking into a grave.
"You left me," he said. "I told you to come back. I screamed for you."
I didn't dare answer. Or move.
"You said you wouldn't let anything happen to me," he whispered. "I don't like liars."
He had my bottle. He dug it out of his pocket and held it in his left hand-such a small thing, to rule everything about me, life and death-and smiled at me and said, "I want you to burn. Burn yourself alive. Burn until I get tired of hearing you scream."