All Your Wishes

 

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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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This book is dedicated to my mother, a strong, generous woman with the kind of kindness and determination worth emulating. I love you, Mom. You're the best.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, there are a million people I should thank for the help I have received in this book. First, my son, James, for everything. Cathy Clamp, my frequent coauthor, who may not have participated in the writing of this particular book but is always a great sounding board, and a better friend. Melissa Singer, the esteemed editor at Tor, who makes every book
so
much better; my agent, Lucienne Diver, and the folks at the Knight Agency; all the people at Tor who walk my books from start to finish and produce a product we can all be proud of; Charles, for his gun and police knowledge (and willingness to use it!); Shawn and the beta readers, who let me know when I've run off the rails.

Thanks to you all.

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I made it up.

I have created the culture and significance of the djinn in the world of Celia Graves from scratch. The terms
genie
and
jinn
and
ifrit
are used, but that is not to say that they bear any resemblance to any other beings in any religions or books of fiction or nonfiction currently existing. I do not mean any offense to any member of any religion.

Also, while I tried to be as accurate as I could, I made a couple of changes to the bridge on the causeway to Treasure Island. It is a drawbridge, and I tried to be pretty accurate. But there is a concrete barrier between the traffic lanes and the sidewalk that didn't “work” with the action I had planned. So I took it out. You'll note that the authorities decide to put one in after our heroine's little adventure.

 

1

I took the
third exit off Oceanview and drove toward my new office. Despite the fact that I'd had a huge fight with Bruno last night—well, actually in the wee hours this morning—I was in a pretty good mood. I'd given everyone on staff the morning off today because of the great job they'd done last night; my new desk and safe were being delivered today, and, with any luck, I'd actually be able to unpack and get my personal office organized.

Dawna and I were finally in the process of moving Graves Personal Protection into our spiffy new digs.

We'd managed to purchase a decommissioned, Mission-style church complex from my friend, Emma Landingham, who had spent a fortune renovating and upgrading the property. She'd have kept it, but her new husband got transferred to Seattle. Her loss was Dawna's and my gain. The place was absolutely gorgeous, with Old World charm and all of the modern amenities and security. Best of all, thanks to the on-site cemetery, it was, and always would be, holy ground. Bad ghosts, demons, and vampires couldn't cross onto it.

But my absolute favorite thing about the office was that it existed.

My previous office had been close to downtown, in a three-story Victorian. It had a big porch and a little balcony that opened right into my office. I'd loved it, and probably would still be there if it hadn't been destroyed by a bomb meant for me.

That little fiasco had been all over the local news, so no one would rent to me. For months we'd been working without an office—and I'd had to put up with having boxes of stuff filling my home, and Minnie living with me.

Now I could get my house back to normal.
Woot!
No more tripping over boxes. No more looking for things here, only to find out they were packed somewhere else. No more litter box in the bathroom. Just the thought of being able to walk easily from room to room made me giddy with pleasure.

I would always have a soft spot in my heart for my dear, departed Victorian, but this office, while a completely different style, was still wonderful. The main structure was a big old stone building with beautiful architectural details and a pair of bell towers. I was a little surprised the church had decided to part with it. Then again, it wasn't old enough or important enough to qualify for the historical society's mission trail, and the church itself was small and outdated by modern standards.

Too, the grounds had to have been expensive to keep up. Em had been forced to sink a lot of money into landscaping the courtyard area alone. What had been barren dirt and mown-down weeds was now an aesthetically pleasing area planted in xeriscaping, with wildflowers and native trees. There was a fountain, too, and if I listened hard, up in my office, I could hear the water burbling in it. It was very soothing.

In all, the complex took up more than an acre, including the walled compound with a parking area on the east side and the small cemetery, which held the remains of the first missionaries who had been stationed there, on the west.

There was a rectory attached to the main church by a covered walkway that also passed the graveyard. We had a couple of spare bedrooms in there for when we needed a safe place to stash a protectee, or an employee needed a place to crash. One of the rooms had been Kevin's before Emma moved out, and he was still using it, with my permission. It seemed more than a fair trade since he was letting a former client use his place in the desert while she acclimated to being one of the monthly furry.

The third building was a small, detached storage shed for the mower and lawn equipment. Since the parking lot was bigger than we really needed, I'd chosen the north end as the location for the casting circle.

Approaching the entry, I hit the button on the automatic gate opener clipped to my sun visor. The gate looked like wrought iron, but was made of heavy-duty, spelled silversteel; it rolled smoothly out of the way. There was barely enough time for my rear bumper to clear the perimeter before the gate began moving back into place. And that perimeter! The magic of it hit my senses like a ripsaw, making me gasp. I keep telling myself I'll get used to it—but so far, no such luck. I've been able to sense the magical perimeters around buildings for a while now. Most are no big deal. The better ones are a little uncomfortable. But this one hurts. Still, it's only for a minute, and the security it provides is worth the bother and expense.

I was surprised to see a car parked in the lot—a silver-gray Mustang convertible, it belonged to our newest employee, Tim Sawyer.

Tim had been hired just last week to replace Dawna's cousin, a mage who had been injured in the line of duty. I already liked him. He's twenty-two years old and biracial, with skin the color of heavily creamed coffee and curly, light-brown hair cropped close to his head. He has a sunny disposition and the kind of grin that lights up a room. He jokes around but knows when to settle down to work. I'd been a bit worried about him, but in the past two days I'd given him two serious challenges. Both times he'd risen to the occasion. As a result we now had no sound problems in the office
and
a portable spell-casting circle. Fifty percent of that would belong to Graves Personal Protection, and unless I was off on my estimates, it would be bringing us in a very nice chunk of change.

After slathering on sunscreen, I climbed out of the car. It was only a pair of steps from my reserved spot to the door, but even in that short distance I could feel the heat of the sun trying to burn me to a crackly crunch.

I'm an abomination, a human who has been partially turned by a master vampire. It's caused me a slew of biological changes, including problems with solid food and a severe allergy to sunlight. I've been like this for quite a while now, so I've worked out some coping mechanisms, but it's not something I'm happy about. Still, it's not all bad. Vampire speed, strength, and healing can be damned handy in my line of work—particularly since I find myself protecting clients from the monsters often as not.

I punched in the security code and the door latch clicked, the light on the electronic lock flashing bright green. Stepping from bright sunlight into the shadows of the side entrance was like stepping into a cave. The temperature inside was easily ten degrees cooler, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the relative gloom. There was also that sense of calm and peace that so many holy places have, as if years and years of prayers and ceremonies have seeped into the structure itself. I wondered if after we'd been here a while, that feeling would wear off. I hoped not.

“Hey, boss. What're you doing here?” Tim's voice came to me from the main area.

“I'm supposed to meet the guys delivering my desk and my safe.”

“Ah.”

“You?”

“I wanted to finish getting my desk together so I can get the patent paperwork done and have the attorney go over it.” He was grinning, his face alight with pride and excitement. I didn't blame him a bit.

“Well, I'll leave you to it. I'm headed upstairs.”

He nodded and went back to work.

I strolled down what had once been the main aisle of the church, looking around with proprietary pride, checking out how much of the move had been accomplished. I was pretty pleased with the result. Oh, it was still chaos, but it was organized chaos. The conference table was in the altar area, just below the big screen that could serve as both a television and computerized video display. Separate work areas had been set up on the main floor.

It was all very high tech, and the geeky part of me was overjoyed. Never again would I have to make do with makeshift, thrown-together tech. I was glad my staff hadn't wanted cubicles. Not only did an open floor plan mean less expense (yay!), cubicles would have ruined the aesthetic. Instead, the four employee desks sat two by two in the main area.

Bubba's was the desk closest to the dais. I could tell because his desktop was already organized and decorated with a perfect model of a yacht, a photo of him with his wife, Mona, and their daughter, and a baseball autographed by Mr. Cubbie himself, Ernie Banks. A box of files in a banker's box sat atop the black two-drawer cabinet beside his desk.

Kevin Landingham had taken the desk directly across the aisle from Bubba. Because of his PTSD he has a service dog, Paulie, a golden lab. Her doggie bed and a chew toy were tucked discreetly into the corner formed by his desk and credenza. Kevin's our tech guy, and despite the PTSD, a complete badass, a former member of a quasi-military organization. He keeps more secrets than a mob boss's priest. He is also one of the monthly furry.