I went back inside the apartment, changed into a turquoise blue bikini, grabbed a towel and a folding chaise lounge, and made myself a pitcher of margaritas. My arm still throbbed, but it didn't look as if it was badly damaged. I had shadowy bruises forming on my wrists to match the far-sweeter marks of David's lovemaking from earlier in the morning.

Party on the patio, Detective. Intimidate this.

I slid on my sunglasses, oiled up, and saluted him with a drink as I soaked in the morning rays.

What's the cardinal rule of sunbathing? Oh, yeah. Don't fall asleep.

Well, I did. I was lying on my stomach, sun massaging all the tension out of me, and I was thinking about David and hot-bronze eyes and golden skin, and getting that pleasant liquid ache that made me want to call his name, and somewhere around there I slipped into dreamland. It was a nice place. I stayed.

When I woke up, I knew immediately that I was as burned as if I'd stuck myself under the oven broiler. My back felt puffy and numb, and I'd sweated so much I'd soaked through the bikini and the towel. I sat bolt upright, grabbed the rest of my warm margarita and bolted it down, and hastily decamped from the patio into the apartment.

The white van was still downstairs, sitting innocently in a legal parking space.

No sign of Rodriguez. I couldn't tell if there was still a shadow in the driver's seat or not, but right at the moment, I had another problem.

I dumped the chair, oil, pitcher and towel, and hurried into the bathroom. My front looked fine. I bit my lip and began to turn, very slowly. Tan... tan .

. . redder... red... scarlet...

Oh man. I peeled down the back of my bikini bottoms and found the contrast to be just a little bit more than a barber pole's stripes. This was really going to hurt.

I stripped off the bikini and got in the shower; that was a mistake. The numbness wore off fast, replaced by a nice selection of agony and pain, depending on where I directed the spray; I gingerly patted myself dry and slathered as much of myself with burn cream as I could reach. And suffered.

When the phone rang, I was in a high temper, ready to bite a telemarketer's head right off. "What?" I barked, and clutched the towel looser around my aching back.

"Damn, girlfriend, I knew you'd be in a bitchy mood after the Sunny costume," Cherise giggled on the other end of the line. "But you looked so cute and cheerful!"

"Oh, please, Cherise. At my age, cute? Not really what I'm going for." I tried sitting down. My thighs and back lodged a violent protest. I paced instead, went to the patio doors and pulled the curtains shut, then dropped the towel on the pile of Things I Had To Pick Up Later and continued pacing around naked. "That was Marvin's little joke, right? Because I one-upped him yesterday?"

"Sorta," she agreed. I could practically see her checking her fingernail polish.

"Hey, there's been somebody asking questions about you down at the station. Tall guy, Hispanic, real polite? Sound familiar?"

Except for the polite part, it matched the description of Mr. White Van downstairs. "What does he want to know?"

"How long you've been here, where you were before, past history, how long we've known you, shit like that. Hey, are you in trouble? And is it, you know, serious?" She didn't sound worried. She sounded breathless with excitement.

"No, and no."

"Is he your stalker-guy? Because usually they don't interrogate your close personal friends. They're more of the scary watching-from-a-distance kind of weirdos. Oooh, is he from the FBI?"

"No. Cher-"

"Did you see the UFO over the ocean last night?"

"Did I-what?"

"The UFO." She sounded triumphant. "I'll bet they're tracking down everybody who saw it. There was a thing on the 'net about it; the IT guys told me over breakfast. Don't open the door if guys in black suits and buzz cuts show up."

"Cherise."

"Call me if Mulder drops by. Oh, speaking of that, look, could you do me a favor? I, ah, lost Cute British Guy's phone number..."

"You never had his phone number."

"Yeah, but your sister had it and she was going to give it to me only-"

"I'm not giving you Eamon's phone number."

"Oh, so now it's Eamon," she said. "Fine. Be that way. Break my heart, since you won't share Hot Boy David either."

"Bye, Cherise."

"See you at three?" We had some promo commercial thing. I checked the clock.

Still four hours to go. "I'll pick you up."

"Yeah. See you then."

I hung up and kept walking. The air-conditioning kicked on and felt like ice on my back, which was good. Maybe I could find something light to wear-gauze would be just barely acceptable. Anything heavier would be torture.

The phone rang again before I could put it down. It was Cherise again. "I forgot to tell you: Marvin said you were supposed to wear the Sunny costume for the promo. Don't worry, I stuck it in the car. I'll bring it." She hung up fast.

Before I could scream.

"Wow," Cherise said, when she saw me in the halter top and shorts and flip-flops. "You've really mastered this business casual thing."

I threw her a dirty look and tried to ease myself gently into the passenger side of her convertible. Gasped when my burned back touched the leather. Cherise exclaimed and grabbed me by the shoulder to inspect the damage.

"Oh, man, that's bad," she said, and clucked her tongue, just like my grandmother. "You can't wear the Sunny suit like that. I mean, jeez, you'll die. Foam rubber on a burn?"

Like I had a choice. I sent her a miserable look.

"You're so gonna owe me, girlfriend." She slammed the convertible into reverse, peeled out, and shifted like a Grand Prix champion on her way out of the parking lot. The white van flashed by in a blur. I saw tail lights flare as it started up. "I may have to blow Marvin to get you out of this, you know. Hell, we may both have to blow Marvin. Oh, don't worry, we'll figure it out. He can't ask you to put on the damn suit like this; it's got to be against some government OSHA rule or cruel-and-unusual punishment or something."

I groaned. "Yeah, that Marvin, he's all about the work rules."

She knew I had a point, and frowned at the traffic as she merged onto the street. A Lincoln Continental seemed to have personally offended her, from the scowl she threw the driver. "So maybe you had an accident. I could drop you off somewhere. Like the hospital. You could even have a bill to back it up."

"Much though I'd like to pay a thousand dollars to have some teenage barely-out-of-medical-school intern diagnose a sunburn..."

She was already moving on from the idea. She looked at me with the utmost gravity, the kind of look you'd get from a close personal friend if they'd decided to donate a life-saving organ to you. "I'll wear the Sunny costume. You be Beach Girl today."

Which was quite a sacrifice. Cherise was always Beach Girl; that was her thing. Tiny bikinis and a perfect smile. Except for being too short, she was a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. And she never did costumes. I think it might have been against her religion. She'd have to say ten Donna Karans and one Tommy Hilfiger to make up for it later.

Tempting as it was, I honestly couldn't see Marvin going for it, not when he had such a golden opportunity to make my life miserable. "He'll never agree," I said morosely. "And besides, Burned Beach Girl? What kind of message does that send? This is supposed to be a spot talking about the dangers of the sun, remember?"

"Oh, come on, they'll only shoot your front, anyway. And hey, baby, if your back isn't a cautionary tale, I don't know what is..."

I gave her a wan smile and held back my hair as I turned to look over my shoulder. I wasn't all that shocked to see the white van turning out of the parking lot in pursuit-well, not really pursuit. He wasn't in any big hurry to catch me.

"Something wrong?" Cherise asked, and checked the rearview. "Oh, shit, you've got to be kidding me. Is that the same guy from the mall?"

"Yeah." I turned back to face front, slid on sunglasses, and leaned my head against the seat. "Don't worry about him. He's just-"

"Obsessed?" Cherise put in, when I didn't. "Yeah. I totally get that. You know, I've got at least three fanboys who send me letters every week wanting me to-well, you don't really need to know that. Anyway, it comes with the territory. We come into people's lives, and they want to keep us."

Cherise merged onto the freeway, blew her horn at a trucker who made a kissy face, and whipped around traffic with a speed and ease that would have impressed a NASCAR crew chief. Her Mustang-which I coveted, badly-was a new model, gorgeously maintained, and Cherise had never been one to keep her light under a bushel, so to speak. She was dolled up in a denim miniskirt that rode three-quarters up her tanned, toned thighs, a tight, midriff-baring little top, and a Victoria's Secret bra that gave the top a little lifting and smooshing action. Her hair streamed out like a silk flag in the wind. She was one of those women who would arrive at her destination, after thirty minutes of sixty-mile-per-hour hair abuse, and look salon-fresh with a pass of her brush and a quick, careless flick of her head.

I used to have that. I missed that. My hair was curling again. Not that it would matter under the Sunny Suit.

"So," she said. "Tell me all about him."

"Stalker guy?"

"No, idiot. David." Cherise weaved in and out of steady traffic, keeping us in the shade of big trucks. She waved at a cop car as she passed it. The cop winked and waved back. "How'd you meet him?"

"Taking a cross-country trip," I said. Which was true. "He was on his way west. I gave him a ride."

She let out a high-pitched squeal. "Oh my God, was he hitching? 'Cause all the guys I see hitching are three weeks out of safe-hygiene zone, not to mention all skanky-haired and not cute."

"I gave him a ride," I continued, with wounded dignity, "and he helped me out with some trouble. We just sort of-clicked."

"I'll bet it wasn't so much a click as a bump... never mind. So where's he from? What does he do? I mean, I'm assuming he's not a homeless guy wandering the streets..."

"No, he's-" Man, how had I gotten into this conversation? "He's a musician."

That was nearly always safe. No visible means of support, odd hours, weird habits. Ergo, musician. "He plays gigs here and there. So he's in and out. He's not always around."

"Bummer. Then again, it's tough to get tired of them when they're not hanging around farting on the couch and complaining about the Lifetime channel. Is he hot in bed? I'll bet he's hot."

"Cher-"

"Yeah, I know, I know. But still. Hot. Right? C'mon, Jo, throw me a fantasy bone, here. You know half the fun of having a hottie boyfriend is bragging."

I smiled. "I'm not complaining."

"And look, I die. Thank you very much." Cherise suddenly eased off the gas. I opened my eyes and looked at the road; traffic was slowing up ahead. "Oh, dammit. Wouldn't you know? Two miles to go, and what the hell is this... ?"

Traffic was stopped heading up onto the overpass. As in, stopped, all lanes screeching rubber. Cherise came to a halt, put the car in park, and eased herself up in the seat to try to catch a look. People were bailing from their cars to point.

I popped the door and got out to stand and gawk like everybody else.

There was a guy standing on the railing of the bridge, clearly about to go over to his death and splash on the concrete below. Okay, that was clearly bad.

But it really was way, way worse than anyone else could possibly know. I realized almost instantly that nobody else there was seeing what I was seeing.

There were Djinn fighting over him.

There were two of them, facing off against each other. One of them was instantly recognizable to me-little pinafore-wearing, blond-haired, straight-out-of-the-storybooks Alice, who'd done me a few favors back in Oklahoma. She looked sweet and innocent, except for the nuclear fire in her blue eyes. Regardless of appearances-which in Djinn were notoriously unreliable-she was right up there in the don't-mess-with-me rankings. I liked her, and so far as I know she didn't dislike me, but that didn't make her a friend, exactly. You don't make friends with the top predator when you're below her on the food chain. You just enjoy not being on the menu.

Alice was standing between the stopped cars and the side of the bridge, staring up. The poor bastard on the railing-who in my view was looking less like a suicidal maniac than a pawn in a high-stakes card game-was teetering on the narrow rail itself and, to most eyes, he probably looked as if he was precariously balanced in midair; in actuality, his arm was being held in a viselike grip by another Djinn who was standing up there with him.

I recognized her, too-I'd nicknamed her Prada, once upon a time, because she had a pretty sharp fashion sense, but she was looking a little the worse for wear right now. The fine designer jacket was torn, the crisp white shirt stained, and whatever jewelry she'd been affecting was long gone. The look was, well, feral would be one word for it. She was glaring at Alice, who by contrast looked unruffled and altogether too clean to have been in a grudge match, although that was obviously what was going on.

I'd arrived just in time for Act III of an ongoing drama. And possibly a tragedy.

Even if the cops arrived, they weren't going to be able to handle this.

"Um... stay here," I said to Cherise, and moved around the stopped cars, heading for Alice.

"Hey! What are you doing?" She bailed out on the driver's side. "Do you know that guy?"

"Just stay here!" I barked, and I guess the ring of command must have come through; Cherise stopped where she was, watching me as I moved carefully toward the railing.

Something she said made me think. The guy up there did look vaguely familiar, but no, I wasn't sure I knew him. But there was something...

He fixed on me. Like recognizing like. He stopped flailing with his free right hand for balance and held it out to me. Palm exposed.

And I saw the swift, silver glitter of a glyph.

He was a Warden.

Prada, balanced on the railing with the ease of a hawk on a high wire, shook him violently for moving without permission. His feet scrabbled for purchase on the slick metal and he yelped, face gone pale and blank with strain.

Alice suddenly flicked that nuclear-hot stare in my direction, and there was nothing childlike in those eyes.

"You shouldn't be here," she said to me.

"Tell me about it," I said. "I'm not thrilled about it either."

"This is what you bring as reinforcements?" That was Prada, indulging in a sneer while Alice's attention was elsewhere. I wouldn't have, if I'd been her, but then, I wouldn't have been stupid enough to get into the fight in the first place. Alice was definitely not a power you wanted to mess with. "This human?"

Prada had killed me once. Well, temporarily. And to be fair, she'd been under orders to do it, since she was enslaved to a master-speaking of which, no sign of her hit man Warden boss. Which made me both happy and nervous.

Alice didn't so much as look at Prada, just shifted her weight slightly in the other Djinn's direction, and I felt the aetheric swirling in new, scary ways.

Oh, this was way ugly, and bound to get worse. Wardens having at it with their powers was bad for humanity at large; Djinn had the potential to be far, far worse.

Why were they fighting? And more importantly, what were they fighting over?

And wait... reinforcements? That sounded bad. That sounded like Prada might have help coming. Did Free Djinn fight in public like this? I'd never heard of it happening before.

Especially not with a Warden as the chew-toy between two attack dogs. That, I would have heard of.

"I didn't call for help," Alice said, in that sweet little-girl voice. "I don't need any. One last chance. Let him go."

Prada gave her a mocking little laugh and jerked the Warden off balance again.