The Veil

by Chloe Neill

  I looked away, torn as usual between who I was and what magic would have made of me, and let my gaze skim the rest of the revelers. The couple whose pale skin sheened with sweat, whose eyes were filled with love as they drank greedily from plastic cups. The friends who sat in a line on the curb, shirts soaked through, but all of them grinning. A man who stood alone, arms crossed, watching the party.

  He was tall, with a long, taut body, and wore jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that snugged over muscled arms and chest. His hair was dark and short, his eyes sharply blue and topped by thick eyebrows, his nose a sharp, straight wedge. He blinked long, dark lashes that fell like crescents across his tan skin.

  “Handsome” didn’t seem nearly a good enough description. His attractiveness was nearly visceral, bladed and sharp, like a weapon he could draw. He probably had women at his beck and call, probably had every romantic skill a woman might imagine.

  And because I lived in a war zone, I had a very active imagination.

  A casual glance would have said he was bored by the shenanigans. But boredom hadn’t tensed his body like a panther posed to attack, or put that intense gleam in his eyes. He was coiled energy, and his gaze was on the crowd, tense and watchful, as if he was waiting for something big to happen.

  His gaze suddenly shifted, those sapphire eyes streaking toward mine and locking on.

  Something settled low in my gut, like my soul had rearranged itself, changed and shifted to account for him. For this man I’d never seen before.

  Each dull thud of my heart ticked off another second, and still he didn’t move or look away. The intensity of his gaze didn’t diminish, and that made cold sweat skitter down my spine. Why was he focused on me?

  A group of men and women shaking tambourines and maracas passed between us, breaking our eye contact. There were nearly twenty of them, dancers with plastic coins sewed to their bodysuits, feathers braided into their hair. And when they finally cleared the block, he was gone.

  I turned in a circle, scanning the street and crowd for him, half annoyed to find him gone, half relieved. He apparently hadn’t been watching me. But he had been . . . interesting. Hard edges, serious eyes, beautiful body. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d ambled toward me, asked my name. And I didn’t say that very often.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  I blinked at the sound of Tadji’s voice. “Sorry. What?”

  “You were staring again.”

  It was a bad habit. Like the man with blue eyes, I was a watcher of the world.

  “Guilty as charged,” I said, putting a smile on my face, rolling the sudden tension from my shoulders. “What were you saying?”

  “I was asking if you were ready to get back out there.”

  “Absolutely.” I put an arm through hers. “Let’s get back to the parade.”

  • • •

  Three hours later, we stood in front of the Cabildo, where the parade had turned into a party.

  The Cabildo had been a city council building, a court, a museum. After the storm, the Louisiana State Police set up there. Now it was the headquarters for the Devil’s Isle Commandant—and Gunnar’s tidy desk sat outside his office. Its former buildings-at-arms, St. Louis Cathedral and the Presbytère, had been destroyed in the war, leaving the Cabildo as the lone sentinel in front of Jackson Square.

  Magic had mostly skipped over the Square itself. The plants had survived the war, providing a gorgeous spot of green among the gray of the Quarter. But the statue of Andrew Jackson, the hero of the first Battle of New Orleans in 1815, hadn’t made it through the second one. Jackson could beat back the British. He wasn’t as good with Paranormals.

  Around the Square and inside its gates, War Nighters abandoned paper flowers and costumes in the heat, switched from booze to bottled water shipped in by a snack food company outside the Zone that had apparently been feeling charitable—or wanted to market its goods to the folks who came into the Zone for a good party.

  We’d danced so long I was almost deliriously tired. But it was the right kind of tired—the kind of exhaustion that made troubles seem far away. War Night was about unity and debauchery, and we were taking full advantage, like hedonism on this one night could make up for a lot of want the rest of the year.

  Tadji and I sat in front of the fence that surrounded the Square, our feet stretched in front of us.

  “I am starving,” Gunnar said, hand on his stomach as he leaned against the fence. Bodies and sweat had smeared the paint on his arms, blurring the figures and landscapes into hazy stripes.

  He glanced speculatively at a pushcart on the corner selling unidentified meat chunks on skewers. The grill filled the air with the slightly gamey scent of swamp critters.

  “No,” I said.

  “What if I dared you?” Gunnar asked, poking me with the toe of a boot.

  “I’ve had my share of questionable meat,” I said. “And I don’t need to relive it.” Times had been even leaner during the war, when even FEMA had trouble finding food in New Orleans. Dealing with wars on American soil was politically complicated, and it had taken nearly a week for the feds to mount a response to the invading Paranormals. In the interim, before FEMA brought in the trucks, we did what we had to survive. If that meant nutria for dinner, so be it.

  “Our little scavenger,” Tadji said, patting my arm. “You know what would do us all some good right now?”

  “A bottle of very old Scotch?” Gunnar suggested.

  “That, too,” Tadji asserted. “But I was thinking good, old-fashioned yaka mein.”

  Yaka mein was another New Orleans specialty that took off during the war, but tasted a helluva lot better than gamey swamp critter. It was supposed to be hot broth over noodles with hard-boiled egg and green onions. Nowadays, it was bouillon cubes and dried, reconstituted eggs. Not exactly the same, but it still hit the spot, when you could find it.

  We probably could have wandered into one of the more residential neighborhoods, found someone selling bowls from the back of a truck. But I was running out of energy to find anything.

  I yawned hugely.

  “Lightweight,” Gunnar teased.

  “Guilty as charged. I think it’s time for me to head home. Who wants to carry me back to the store?”

  “I’ve got a little party left in me yet,” Tadji said. “But even if I didn’t, I’m not carrying you anywhere.”

  I looked at Gunnar, who shook his head. “You’re not a helpless damsel. Rescue your own damn self.”

  I couldn’t really argue with that. “In that case, my friends, this is where I leave you. I’ll drag my tired, old bones back to the store.” I held out a hand to Gunnar. “If you’ll at least help me up.”

  Tadji clucked her tongue. “She always gets so dramatic when she’s tired.”

  “I know. She’s twenty-four, acts like she’s eighty-four.”

  “I have customers who are eighty-four,” I pointed out, “and I’m sprightlier than at least some of them.”

  Gunnar offered both hands, helped pull me to my feet.

  Tadji stood up, too. She looked a little guilty, and I half expected her to give in and walk back with me.

  But before she could speak, a shadow fell over us. We looked up. The shadow belonged to a very well-built man. His skin was dark, and his eyes were brown and amused beneath slightly pointed eyebrows. His chest was bare, his abandoned T-shirt tucked into one of his back pockets. And across his gloriously broad chest was a black tattoo in a Gothic font: WORK HARD, PLAY HARD.

  I could relate.

  “Hey,” he said with a smile.

  “Hey,” the three of us said simultaneously. We all held out hope.

  The man grinned, a flash of white teeth, but it was all for Tadji. He put a hand on his chest. “I’m Will Burke,” he said, then hooked a thumb toward the band, currently offering us a lively rendition of “Tipitina.” “But everybody calls me ‘Burke.’ Would you like to dance?”

  “Oh, well, I—” Tadji looked a
t me, eyebrows lifted in obvious hope.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said with a smile. “I was just leaving. The store is calling my name.”

  Burke snapped his fingers, pointed at me. “I knew I’d seen you before. You run Royal Mercantile?”

  “I do.” The Marriott was only a few blocks away, and the soldiers who lived there bought sundries at the store, so I knew a lot of agents by sight. But Burke didn’t look familiar. “Have you been in?”

  “Only once. I haven’t been in the city very long. I’m with PCC Materiel. Just transferred.” He grinned. “I hear you’ve got the best store in the Quarter.”

  PCC was the Paranormal Combatant Command, the Defense agency that managed the entire war effort. Containment was one of its units, as was Materiel.

  “It’s easy to be one of the best when you’re one of the few,” I said, returning the smile, and deciding I liked him. And not just because he’d complimented my store. “But don’t let us interrupt you. You were going to dance?”

  “Thank you,” Tadji mouthed, and took Burke’s extended hand. They walked toward the crowd, began to move and sway to the music.

  “I like him,” Gunnar said.

  I snorted. “That’s because he’s your type: gorgeous and well connected.”

  “And apparently skilled at the art of materiel.”

  “And in civilian terms that means what, exactly?”

  “That means he has access to the good stuff. Food. Furniture. Uniforms.”

  I knew an opportunity when I heard one. I turned to him, linked my hands together pleadingly. “See if he can get me some cheese. The real stuff, not cheese-flavored product, not ‘cheeselike’ spread. Actual, real cheddar.”

  “You know refrigerated trucks don’t do well in the Zone.”

  I knew—it was another electricity problem—but I didn’t care. “I’ll give you a million dollars if you can get me some real cheese.”

  “You don’t have a million dollars.”

  “I have a million walking sticks.”

  Gunnar grinned. “I don’t want your walking sticks.” He pursed his lips, considering. “But I do need to make sure he’s on the Commandant’s visitor list.” He pulled out a small notebook and pencil to scribble a note. Gunnar took his job seriously, and wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to tell the Commandant about a material (or materiel) advantage.

  That’s precisely what made my friendship with Gunnar tricky. But he was too much my family to give up on him now.

  “Come on,” he said, shoving the notebook away again. “I’ll walk you back to the store.”

  I didn’t mind the offer, but I knew the Quarter better than I knew the guy who’d just asked Tadji to dance. I didn’t get any bad vibes from Burke the materiel guy, but better safe than sorry. And besides: cheese.

  I shook my head. “Don’t worry about me. You stay with Tadji. Keep an eye on her. And when they’re done dancing, find out which materiel he’s responsible for. Use your copious charm.” I spread my hands in a dramatic rainbow. “Think dairy.”

  “That’s my hilarious girl,” he said, but concern flashed on his face. “There were three wraith attacks last week. Are you sure you’ll be okay walking back alone?”

  He’d told me about each attack to warn me, to keep me on my guard. He hadn’t realized the irony.

  “It’s only four blocks,” I said, “and there are Containment agents everywhere.” That was a blessing and a curse. “I’ll probably have to push them out of the way just to get inside the store.”

  Gunnar didn’t look thrilled, but his pressed his lips to my temple. “Be good, Claire. And be safe.”

  I told him I would.

  And I really had meant it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Instead of heading down Royal Street, I walked around the Square to Decatur. It was only a block out of the way, and I liked the route better—I liked seeing the river and imagining the world hadn’t really changed, that life as we’d known it hadn’t really ended. That my father and I still lived in a house in Central City, and I was worrying about dating and getting a good job. That a giant prison wasn’t lurking behind me.

  When I was younger, I’d roam through the store’s antiques, making up adventures. I’d always thought it was cool that so many people who lived or worked in the Quarter knew my dad, considered him a friend. It was like being part of a secret club—the secret guild of folks who weren’t just tourists but who knew New Orleans. I guess I had a little of that now—Burke seemed to know who I was, for example. But it wasn’t the kind of familiarity I’d expected. And now it was dangerous.

  I turned up Conti, reached the building that held the Louisiana Supreme Court, an enormous marble structure that took up an entire block between Royal and Chartres. It was square on the Royal side, and rectangular on the Chartres side with rounded towers on each end.

  I’d heard the city had spent tons of money restoring it in the late nineties, only to have most of the back half destroyed in the war. Now the building was abandoned, and the few surviving palms and magnolias around it overgrown. The windows were supposed to be boarded over, but plywood was a valuable commodity, so it disappeared more often than not. This time, someone had gotten creative, removing the plywood from enough windows in one curved flank that the dark holes looked like a grinning skull.

  You could take the people out of New Orleans, but you’d never get all the crazy.

  I rounded the corner, saw movement near one of the magnolias. From the very unfortunate groans, War Night or Drink or both had gotten the best of someone.

  I nearly smiled in sympathy before she burst out of the foliage. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen, and she was screaming like a maniac.

  She didn’t see me in front of her and hit me full on, so we struck the sidewalk together like felled trees. Pain sang through the elbow I’d inadvertently used to break my fall, and the skin scraped against still-hot asphalt. She tried to get to her feet, kneed me in the stomach.

  I grunted, tried to help her up, but she wore only shorts and a tank top in the heat, and her skin was slicked with sweat. “What the hell?” I asked.

  She didn’t respond, and she was panting when she finally crawled off me, climbed to her feet, and loped into the street. She was limping.

  I sat up to watch her, confused. Did she need help, or was she just walking off the effects of a long and boozy night?

  But when her gaze met mine, her eyes were wide and terrified. She hadn’t been drunk, I realized; she’d been afraid.

  She knew had been my first paranoid and totally irrational thought. She’d somehow realized I had magic, thought of war and terror and death.

  But it wasn’t me she was afraid of.

  He emerged through the darkness like a horrible ghost, whipping past me like a raptor and leaving behind the scent of something sour and spoiled. The magic had left him desiccated and skeletal. He looked brittle, with pale, nearly translucent skin and hair that had gone white.

  He was a wraith. And he wasn’t alone.

  A second monster, another male, streaked after him, joined the first one as they followed the woman into the street.

  Their withered and angular bodies were partially covered by dirty scraps of cotton and denim, probably the remnants of the clothes they’d been wearing when they finally crossed the line between Sensitive and wraith.

  Fear flooded me, and with it, memories of war. Of the blood-hungry Valkyrie I’d killed with my own two hands. Of the angel I’d seen standing atop the Superdome, calling out to his troops with a golden horn, his ivory wings streaked with blood.

  I glanced up at the building on the corner. The light on the magic monitor that hung ten feet above the street blinked green, activated by the wraiths’ abundant magic, the energy they’d absorbed from the Veil. Containment had been notified. Agents would be on their way, so I shouldn’t get involved. That was always my father’s advice.

  One night, a few weeks before the Battle of
New Orleans, he’d stood beside me while we watched a Containment vehicle rumble down Royal. In the back, clutching each other with obvious fear, were male and female Paras whose naked skin glowed pale green in the twilight.

  “Will-o’-the-wisps,” he’d said. “Or what we’d call will-o’-the-wisps, at any rate.” That had been before the gaslights were turned on again, and it didn’t take the truck long to disappear from sight.

  “They look scared,” I’d said. They hadn’t looked like the enemies we’d faced, the Paras who’d threatened us with weapons and death.

  “It’s better not to get involved. What’s our motto?”

  He’d said the words a thousand times. “Stay quiet. Work hard.”

  “Good. You worry about the store, about the citizens of the Quarter, and let Containment take care of the rest.” He’d looked up at the stars that dotted the sky over New Orleans, visible when the power was out, and put a hand on my shoulder. “Someday, things will be back to the way they were before. Only hard work will get us there.”

  He told me that six weeks after he’d helped the army personnel who were left in New Orleans fight a battle it didn’t look like we could win. But he’d jumped into it anyway, because, his warnings to me notwithstanding, that was the kind of guy he was.

  He’d died two weeks later.

  The woman screamed, pulling me from the memory and back to the present. She’d moved into the empty street, shrieking wildly as she tried to scurry away from the wraiths. Her ankle crumpled, and she hit the ground again.

  All the while, the wraiths were getting closer, their eyes focused on her. And they weren’t going to wait. The surplus of magic short-circuited their brains’ impulse-control centers, made them extra aggressive. They’d kill her without hesitation, without remorse, because they existed to feed their hunger for magic. And damn anything that stood in their way.