by Chloe Neill
It was a good minute before I could unstick my mouth to answer. “Because this is delicious.”
Liam’s gaze was direct. “Liar.”
“It’s practically Christmas dinner,” I said without much enthusiasm, picking up another slathered hunk.
“I wish we still had Christmas,” Gavin said, crossing his ankles on the empty chair beside him.
“We do have Christmas,” Liam said, and kicked his feet off. “Get your feet off the furniture.”
Gavin put his feet down but slouched in his chair to get comfortable. “I know we still have the day, the holiday. But it doesn’t mean the same thing anymore. Call it consumerism or whatever, but there was something magical about Santa Claus, stockings, presents.”
“There was something literally magical,” Tadji said, counting them off on her fingers. “Magical elf sweatshop. Flying reindeer. Corpulent bearded man who fits in chimneys. Ability to visit every house in the world in the span of a single night. Automatically knows who’s been naughty and nice.”
Gavin snorted. “Maybe he had magic monitors, ’cause that sounds like Containment.”
“Amen,” Liam said.
I smiled at them. “Did you celebrate with Eleanor?”
“Our entire family,” Liam said, crossing his arms on the table. “Eleanor spoiled us at Christmas. She was frugal for an Arsenault—as far as that goes—but when the holidays came around, she’d have boxes of presents for me, Gavin, Gracie.” Grief shadowed his face at the mention of his sister, but he shook it off. “Did you ever drive by the Arsenault house?”
“Everybody drove by the Arsenault house,” Tadji said.
That was Eleanor’s home on Esplanade Ridge, which had burned to the ground during the war. Every Christmas, Eleanor put on a monumental holiday display—thousands of lights, animatronic animals, a live Nativity scene, and a visiting Santa Claus. Neighbors fussed about the traffic, but that didn’t stop her. She said Christmas was for kids, and she made the displays bigger every year.
“Did y’all see the polar bear in the bikini?” Gavin asked.
“That was hard to forget,” Tadji said. “Didn’t some morals council throw a fit about it?”
“Yep, did,” Gavin said with a slow and satisfied grin. “Eleanor had asked us for ideas for the display that year. I drew Paulette the Polar Bear, complete with bikini and”—he held rounded hands in front of his chest. “Sure enough, she had a light board made.”
“Part of me wants to ask why you drew a polar bear in a bikini,” I said. “And part of me already knows the answer.”
“Polar bears live in the snow,” Gavin said. “If they want to relax by the ocean, they’re going to do it in a bikini just like anyone else.”
I narrowed my gaze at him. “I can’t find the hole in that logic, although I’m pretty sure there is one.”
The bell on the door jingled and I sat up straight, remembering we were sitting in a retail establishment.
“It’s just Gunnar,” Gavin said, glancing lazily over at the door and then back again.
“Good to see you, too,” Gunnar said, walking toward us. He looked a little less polished than he had that morning, his hair a little more rakish, fatigues a little more lived-in beneath a camouflage vest he hadn’t worn that morning. “When did you get back?”
“Today,” Gavin said, hand half covering his mouth as he chewed another piece of bread.
“You look like shit.”
“Aw, now you’re just being rude,” Liam said, reaching out to ruffle his brother’s hair. “He can’t help the way he looks.”
Gavin looked at me. “Is he always this funny?”
“Yes. The laughter died long ago.”
“Har-har,” Liam said this time, reaching past me to grab a piece of bread from the tray.
“And you’re having dinner without me.” Gunnar pulled off the vest, which was heavy and lined, and put it on the back of the chair.
It was a flak vest, I realized, and couldn’t tear my gaze away.
“It’s just a precaution,” Gunnar said, looking around the table before his gaze landed on mine. “We haven’t yet found the Reveillon members who escaped the bombing, so we’re being careful.”
“You’re searching door to door?” Liam asked.
“Every door in Devil’s Isle,” Gunnar said, taking a seat. “Quadrant-by-quadrant searches, but we haven’t found anyone yet. Evidence they’ve been hiding—empty water bottles, protein bar wrappers—but no people yet.”
“Are they waiting for an opportunity to escape,” Liam asked, “or an opportunity to strike?”
“Either. Both.” Gunnar scrubbed his hands through his dark, wavy hair, then linked them behind his head. “We don’t know if they ran into the neighborhood to avoid capture, or because that’s what they were supposed to do. If it was on purpose, they haven’t done anything yet.”
“What would they do?” I wondered.
Gunnar glanced at me, dread in his eyes. “If they bomb indiscriminately, pretty much anything.” He looked at Liam. “At the risk of sounding like a total fucking hypocrite, considering who I work for, have you considered moving Eleanor out?”
Liam nodded. “I broached the issue. She wasn’t interested.”
Gavin made a sound that was half laugh, half rueful sigh. “And one doesn’t tell Eleanor Arsenault what to do.”
“Pretty much.” Liam pushed the tray of bread toward him. “You need food?”
Gunnar held up a hand. “No, thanks. I was teasing. We spent the morning reviewing physical evidence. It doesn’t do much for the appetite.”
“Any new developments there?” Liam asked.
“Not as of yet. The forensic experts are running tests, doing the things they do.” He glanced at Liam. “Do you want to look through the photographs?”
“No,” Liam said. “But I will.” He looked at me, and I shook my head.
I could be brave when necessary. But since I didn’t have any particular forensic skills, didn’t know anything about explosives, I’d sit this one out. There were some things I didn’t need to see again.
Gunnar pulled a green folder from his messenger bag, passed it to Liam. The folder was marked with the Containment logo, TOP SECRET, stamped in red across the front.
“You have clearance?” I asked.
“I do,” Liam said, flipping through the folder. I kept my gaze on his face, on the shifting expressions. Disgust, pity, fear, sadness, rage. Each time he turned over a new photograph, the course of emotions crossed his face.
And I saw it the moment he stopped, frowned, squinted at one of them. And then he looked up at me. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”
I blinked at the request. “Um, yeah.” I’d set it out for the clock repairs. I walked to the counter, grabbed the brass-handled tool, and offered it.
“Thanks, Sherlock,” he said, eyebrows lifted as he looked it over. “Do you have one of those earflap hats?”
“It belonged to the store,” I said, knowing perfectly well that he’d said it to lighten the mood.
He turned back to the photograph, centering the magnifying glass over a bit of skin on the deceased’s arm. “There’s a mark here.”
“What kind of mark?” Gunnar asked.
“I’m not sure. It’s on”—he looked up at us, then down again—“it’s on one of the bombers’ arms.”
My stomach rolled. The arm had clearly been separated from the rest of him or her. And it hadn’t been a good separation.
“A tattoo?” Gunnar asked, moving closer.
“Maybe?”
Tadji edged in behind them, her eyes widening and lips thinning at the shot, the violence and gore. But she kept her composure. “That’s not a tattoo. Or not just.”
Gunnar looked up at her, frowned. “What do you mean?”
�
��It’s a Couturie code.”
“Camp Couturie?” I asked. Camp Couturie had been the largest refugee camp in New Orleans—hundreds of acres of tents in what had once been City Park. People still lived there; it had become its own neighborhood.
“Is it?” Liam asked, leaning down to check the mark again.
The ink was blurred with time, and looked hand-drawn on top of that. The tattoo probably hadn’t been very crisp even when it was new.
“It’s the Couturie X-Code,” Tadji said, tracing a fingertip over the uneven lines.
Like during Katrina, X-Codes had been used during the war to mark a house that had been searched for survivors. They’d also been used to create an address system in the camp, which took up a lot of real estate. Containment thought it helped give a sense of stability to the refugees.
“Huh,” Gunnar said. “That’s a damn good catch. Maybe Reveillon’s been recruiting at the camp.”
Gunnar took the folder back from Liam, scribbled a note inside it, closed it again. “I’m going to have to talk to the Commandant. Take a trip out there, get a look at the camp and a feel for what’s going on.”
“You can’t go,” I said.
Gunnar turned back to look at me. “Why?”
“You can’t just walk around Camp Couturie. You’re too conspicuous. Everyone in town knows who you are, and they’ll know why you’re there, why you’re poking around. If there are Reveillon members at the camp, you won’t be able to get any information about them.”
“She probably has a point,” Liam said.
Gunnar narrowed his eyes. “And what are you proposing, mistress of strategy?”
I smiled, walked to the aisle of the store where food and produce were organized, and picked up a basket of beets and greens I’d grown in the community garden on top of the former Florissant Hotel.
I walked back, put it on the table. “I’ll go. Because I’m in retail.”
Gunnar went quiet, eyebrows drawn together as they did when he was considering. “The camp has a farmers’ market.”
I nodded. “Every day of the week. It’s open to the public, and to whatever vendors want to set up shop. I’ve only been there a couple of times. It was a lot of bartering, and I’m not really in the market for more dry goods.” I gestured to the store’s interior. “I’m full up, so I haven’t been in a while. But I can go now, take some extra vegetables, do a little trading, and do a little recon.”
“You’re a civilian.”
I smiled. “No, I’m a bounty hunter in training, with a Devil’s Isle pass to prove it.”
Gunnar was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers together. Then he looked at Liam. “You’d go with her?”
“Not that I need an escort,” I muttered, but I wouldn’t have gone without Liam. It’s not like I could just whip out my magic, especially when facing down magicphobes.
“I could do that,” Liam said, glancing at the basket. “We play retailers trying to get rid of some stock, make some cash. See what we see.”
“And if the opportunity permits, ask some very subtle questions,” Gunnar said. “I’ll have to talk to the Commandant, the Joint Ops team. We’ve got all available resources deployed, so we’re running lean until PCC can get more troops across the border.”
“How’s that going?” Liam asked.
“Not great. Outfit out of Branson was attacked last night. They were attacked coming into Arkansas. PCC hoped a mountain pass would be an easier approach. There was a band camped out on the border.”
“They can’t have people along the Zone’s entire border all the time,” Tadji said. “That’s impossible.”
Gunnar nodded. “Exactly.”
“You think they’ve got somebody on the inside,” Liam said.
“I do think,” Gunnar said. “And I think it has to be someone in Washington, someone at PCC who’s sympathetic, who has access to troop movement information. Or, if not on the inside, a very talented hacker or spy. But that investigation is several pay grades above mine. We’re assured they’re looking into it.”
Liam snorted. “That sounds like bureaucratic bullshit.”
“I don’t disagree. But it’s another reason why your taking a look at Couturie would be beneficial.”
“They won’t be prepared for it,” I said, and Gunnar nodded.
“What about me?” Gavin asked.
“You have an apartment to fumigate,” Liam said, and Tadji and Gunnar both wrinkled their noses.
“Do I want to know why?” she asked.
“You do not,” I promised.
Liam glanced at me. “Are you going to make me sell beets?”
“And collards.” I waved a bunch of leaves at him. “Delicious, delicious collards.”
“Ham hocks are the only good things about collards,” Liam said, but fished his keys from his pockets, put them on the table. “Get what you need, and let’s head out.”
CHAPTER NINE
It took a little more than an hour to get the okay from the Commandant. Technically, we didn’t need permission to drive across New Orleans and sell some beets, and the Reveillon bounty was still in effect, which made its members fair play for Liam. But we also didn’t want to make things worse for Containment—or spook Reveillon.
“Joint Ops thinks it’s a long shot,” Gunnar said. “That the tattoo only indicates one of the Reveillon bombers lived at Camp Couturie previously, not that it’s now the Reveillon HQ. They also think the odds of actually finding something in the ‘canvas labyrinth’ are low enough that it’s not worth the effort to move an active team from their search quadrant into the park.”
Liam smiled. “But we’re expendable?”
Gunnar’s features went stony. “Not even funny as a joke. Joint Ops is playing the odds, and the camp isn’t the priority.” He looked from Liam to me. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful.”
“When have I ever been less than careful?” I asked.
The look on their faces was less than flattering.
—
“So,” Liam began, when we climbed into his rickety truck. “Tell me about this practice with Malachi.”
I guessed Tadji and Gunnar had been able to bait him.
“We practiced,” I said. “Hence the name.”
“What?” he asked, driving through French Quarter streets that would have once been full of people shopping, drinking, and dancing in Second Lines.
“Generally, anticipating the unexpected. And he gave me homework.”
Liam pulled onto Rampart. “What kind of homework?”
“The kind during which I practice my magic.” I slid him a glance. “Why are you giving me the third degree?”
His jaw worked as he eased the truck around a tree that had fallen into the street. There was no road crew in New Orleans these days. We’d have to tell Gunnar about the obstacle, if he didn’t already know.
“Because he is who he is.”
“Because he’s a Paranormal? You sound like Reveillon.”
“You know that’s not what I meant. Because he is who he is. And because you are who you are.”
Slowly, I turned back to him, eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you should be careful. He’s powerful.” He paused. “And he looks at you . . . like he covets you.”
That had me staring at the street again with enormous eyes. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Malachi—he didn’t trust him, at least not with me.
Good, I decided, when I’d processed the feelings. Liam was wrong—dead wrong—but I didn’t mind if he felt as unbalanced as I did. I was unbalanced, after all, because of him.
“He doesn’t covet me,” I said. “He thinks I’m a novelty—a human with totally green magic who he can teach and observe. And he’ll keep teaching me until I’m not a threat
to him, myself, or anyone else.”
Liam tapped his fingers on the steering well. “All right, then.”
“Damn right it’s all right,” I muttered. “I’m the boss of me.”
He snorted. “You should probably tell Gunnar that. He didn’t get the memo.”
He was quiet for a moment, then groped blindly for something beneath the front seat, pulled out an old beige cassette tape. For the first time, I realized he’d added an old tape player to the truck.
“I see you share my love of antiques,” I said.
By way of answer, Liam popped the tape into the slot. “Born on the Bayou” spilled into the car.
“All right, then,” I said, and relaxed back against the seat. “Apology accepted.”
And with heat and music and sunshine, we drove.
—
City Park was enormous, more than a thousand acres of meadows, trees, trails, and ponds. It had once housed the New Orleans Botanical Garden, the New Orleans Museum of Art, an amusement park, and a wooded area known as Couturie Forest—but that had been before the war.
Liam drove around the park to get the lay of the land. Nothing much had changed in the months since I was here, except that everything looked a little more worn. The white canvas tents—seven years since they’d been put up by FEMA, the military, the Red Cross—were still in neat rows, but the canvas was patched and dingy. The ground between the tents had been worn to dirt, and electrical wires skipped from tent to tent. Someone had figured out how to tie the tents to the grid, for what good that did.
In contrast to the still-straight rows, nature had crept in at the edges of the park, softening the lines of what had been a long rectangle of ponds and meadows.
Liam had turned off the music, the world outside quiet as we drove through. “The camp has a mayor,” I said, gestured to the small stone cabin where he lived. “I met him the last time I was here, and I don’t see him as being involved with Reveillon. He’s a belly laugher.”
Liam chuckled. “A what?”
“A belly laugher.” I put a hand on my stomach, offered a round, hearty laugh. “He has a belly, and a very big laugh.”
“So Santa Claus runs Camp Couturie,” Liam said. “Appropriate, since we were just hoping for Christmas.”
