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dragged her into the middle of something really, really bad. I had to believe the Wardens wouldn’t hurt her. They treated normal people with kind, despotic benevolence.
    They only ate their own.
    Well, even if they tossed her out on her ear, she’d be okay. Cherise would survive. She was the kind of girl who could stand on a New York sidewalk looking helpless, and in under thirty seconds, a dozen guys would dash to the rescue.
    We went to the back elevators, which were operated by key card; my minders kept exchanging significant glances, but I didn’t think I had much to fear from them. Wardens were never really unarmed, of course, and for the first time in a long time, I was feeling strong and confident. If this turned into a straight-out fight, I was willing and able to oblige. Provided I could get Cherise out of the line of fire—and in Warden terms, that was literal.
    The elevator rose up smoothly and deposited us with a muted ding at our destination. The doors opened…
    â€¦on a floor I didn’t recognize. One that looked like it was under construction, only construction would have been orderly, at least. No, this was under de struction. Paneling in splinters, pictures reduced to smashed frames and piles of glittering glass. Puddles of dark liquid that I really didn’t want to examine too closely in the emergency lighting. I’d been to this place recently, and I hardly recognized it at all. It had been a hallowed, hushed center of power.
    Now it was the gruesome aftermath of a war zone.
    â€œOh my God,” Cherise murmured behind me, and edged carefully around a pile of splinters and glass that had once, I remembered, been a huge photo of the senior management of the Wardens.
    â€œWatch your step,” our male guard said, and ducked under some low-hanging grids dangling from cables. “We’re remodeling.”
    The dry gallows humor didn’t thaw out the cold shock in my stomach. “What the hell happened?”
    The woman shot me one of those looks. The kind a mother uses when she’s out of patience with a child’s bullshit. “Guess,” she snapped.
    It hit me with a vengeance. They’d had a visit from some very motivated Djinn. Hence, the panic over Imara.
    I kept my mouth shut as we moved slowly around obstructions to the conference room about halfway down the hall. On the way, I spotted the big marble shrine to Wardens who’d died in the line of duty. It was only lightly chipped, and my name was still on it. I supposed, with all of the furor of the last few months, they hadn’t gotten around to chiseling off the writing. Or maybe they just figured my death was inevitable, and why waste the effort….
    â€œIn here,” the guy said, and pointed through the open conference room door. I say “open,” but it was more of a “missing.” Sharp fresh-bent hinges sticking out from the wall, no sign of the doors themselves.
    The room was lit with emergency lanterns and chemical lights, the kind the Wardens recommended for use in hurricanes and tornadoes. It gave everything a post-apocalyptic glow—splintered heavy furniture, a blizzard of paper scattered over the floor, dark splashes on the shredded carpet.
    The surviving Wardens were gathered around the splintered conference table. I counted heads. Nineteen. I made an even twenty.
    I remembered the hundreds of Wardens who could have been here, should have been here, and felt a sick jolt in the pit of my stomach.
    â€œJo.” Paul Giancarlo—my old friend and mentor—looked as bad as the room. He was a big guy, well muscled, but he was looking terrifyingly banged up as he limped toward me. I met him halfway in a hug that was careful on my part, desperate on his. He was bandaged around the head, dark hair sticking up in thick unruly clumps on top, and his skin was pasty yellow. He had Technicolor bruises over half his face. “Thank God you’re