Firestorm by Rachel Caine

Everything’s okay.”
    She studied me for a long few seconds. “I never knew you were so good a liar,” she said. “Everything’s not okay. Kevin told me. I saw a lot of it for myself anyway. Things are all screwed up, and you people are the ones who can set them right again. I want to help.”
    â€œYou’re not—look, this isn’t about you. It’s just that you don’t have the kind of skills that this needs to—”
    â€œGive me a credit card and phone line, I’ll show you some skills. Step off my thing.” She stared me right down, turned to Lewis, and gave him the same treatment. “Wow, you guys just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t your planet. It’s our planet. And you may be all kick-ass powerful superheroes, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need our help. Well, my help, anyway. Because I am the goddess of getting food delivered, and don’t you forget it.”
    Lewis quirked an eyebrow and half a smile, and looked at me. I shrugged. “Girl’s got a point,” I said. “Maybe we need somebody with a little…practical perspective.”
    Kevin shot Cherise a thumbs-up. “Hey, let me know when you get the munchies ready. I could eat.”
    She made a shooing motion. Kevin ambled off in the direction Lewis had indicated…slowly enough to assert his independence, of course. He really was a gifted kid. I couldn’t exactly call him a good kid. Maybe he’d turn out all right—he certainly had been given the chances. But I couldn’t quite get the memories out of my head of what he’d been like when he’d had power over me. What he’d been like when he’d had power over his stepmother.
    He’d liked using it. Dangerous, for a Warden.
    I nudged Lewis with an elbow once Kevin was out of earshot. “You’re keeping tabs on Teen Psycho, right?”
    â€œHe’s not that bad.”
    â€œLewis…”
    â€œYes, I’m keeping tabs on him.” He sounded resigned. “Somebody needs to. Listen, I hate to rush you, but I can handle things here. What do you need?”
    â€œNeed?…”
    â€œTo make it to Seacasket and check things out.” He gave me that not-smile smile. “Fast car?”
    â€œOh, you think? Maybe I can borrow Cherise’s. She’s got a cherry Mustang that pretty much rips up the road…. Well, it used to be cherry. I think the last drive put a few dents in it.”
    â€œNo need to do that,” he said, and dug in the pocket of his blue jeans for a set of keys that he flung my direction. I caught them out of the air.
    â€œThis better not be an SUV,” I warned. Because Lewis had an affinity for that sort of thing. I was an on-road kind of girl.
    He flashed me a full grin this time. “How about a vintage SS Camaro? Midnight blue and black? I bought it in Jersey just for you. Somehow, I just knew you were going to need wheels.”
    My heart skipped a beat.

T HREE
    He wasn’t kidding about the car. It was pretty much the Holy Grail of cars, and I had the keys.
    It was parked in the secured, bomb-hardened garage downstairs—the one reserved for only the most senior diplomats and Warden staffers. Well, what with the death and destruction, there were bound to be plenty of parking spots open. It had a fabulous exotic gleam under the overhead lights, a polished sapphire hiding unsuccessfully in a field of pebbles. The conservatively styled BMWs and Infinitis looked drab in contrast, though somebody had spiced up his love life with one of those kicky little BMW Z4 Roadsters in sleek, polished silver. Very James Bond.
    I ran a hand reverently over the Camaro’s silky finish. It was a 1969 model, a V8 with a 396 engine—a big, boxy car, nothing really elegant about it, none of that designed-in-a-wind-tunnel slickness of newer cars. I opened the door and popped the hood, leaned in for a look, and