by Chloe Neill
“Eh,” I said, waving it off. “Compared to saving the world, what’s a little treason between friends?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I found out the next morning, when they blew in like a hurricane—eight men and women in dark gray fatigues with helmets and very large guns, led by Jack Broussard.
He wore a dark gray suit with a pale blue tie, his wavy hair gelled back above his forehead. His badge was on a chain around his neck, and there was a folded piece of ivory paper in his hand.
When he flipped the store’s OPEN sign to CLOSED, my heart jumped into my throat. This was not going to be good.
I knew the signs of a Containment raid—agents busting in to look for Paranormals, for prohibited magical goods. There’d been hundreds of them during the war, when Containment decided Ouija boards and tarot cards meant the difference between victory and defeat, and after the war, when they were still trying to round up Paranormals who hadn’t yet been driven into Devil’s Isle.
I hadn’t heard about a raid in the Quarter in years—probably two or three. There wasn’t a point to it. There weren’t enough of us left, and certainly not enough “implements of magic,” as Containment called them, to make raids worth anyone’s time—or the bad PR. It didn’t do much for morale to bust people who were just managing to get by.
I kept my hands on the counter, forced myself to stay calm, to look bored, even while I was fuming inside. But anger wouldn’t do me any good now, and panic would only make them suspicious. Mild irritation might help. Their believing I didn’t have anything to hide might get them out of here sooner.
“Agent Broussard.”
He walked forward, and the agents fanned out across the front of the store.
“Claire. Lovely to see you again.”
“I’m sure. What brings you and your . . . crew . . . in today?”
“An inspection,” he said. “For potential violations of the Magic Act.”
I made myself laugh, but my chest ached with fear. Had they found out about our meeting yesterday? Had we been followed? Had Burke been a plant?
“That’s hilarious. Is soap a Magic Act violation now?”
His expression didn’t change. I guess the joke hadn’t landed.
“You’re serious?” I said, with mock surprise.
“Very.” He extended the piece of paper to me. I scanned it. It was a form legal document that named me and my store, gave Broussard and Containment “permission” to search the store under the Magic Act. There was nothing to indicate who’d signaled Containment that I might be hiding something . . . except for the Commandant’s seal at the top.
Gunnar’s name wasn’t on it, obviously, but the possibility he knew about this—and hadn’t warned me—made my stomach churn with anger and fear. We were going to have a long talk when this was through.
“This paper gives Containment permission to search the store for violations of the Act, tools of magic, and the like.”
I leaned forward, voice as fierce as I could make it. “As you damn well know, there are no violations and no tools in this store. There’s nothing that could be here. Everything I get comes from the ground or a convoy.”
“I have a valid warrant.”
Fear began to transition to fury. “If you’ve got a warrant, then use it, and get the hell out of my store.”
His smile was thin. “You heard her, folks. Let’s use it.”
They didn’t waste any time. Each agent moved in a different direction, began ripping open drawers, emptying baskets, opening boxes. An agent reached into a vintage Redwing butter crock that was obviously empty. When he didn’t find anything, he pushed it over. It hit the floor with a crack, sending shards of pottery across the wood. Another agent moved to the stand of walking sticks, pulled one out, rapped it hard against the edge of a bookshelf, shattering it in two. I flinched at the sound, which echoed off the brick walls like gunfire.
“Damn it, Broussard, control your people.” My voice was pleading, but Broussard didn’t intervene. When I tried to move around the counter to stop it myself, Broussard stepped in front of me. He was close enough that our toes met, that I had to look up at him to meet his gaze.
“If you attempt to interfere with a Containment investigation, I’ll have to arrest you.”
“This isn’t an investigation!” An agent pulled a framed oil painting from the wall—a portrait of a planter who’d owned land on the River Road outside town. The agent, a woman with a square face and cold eyes, ripped away the paper backing, felt around the frame for something that might have been hidden there, which she obviously didn’t find. She tossed the portrait away like trash.
“You’re destroying my store.”
“We’re investigating,” Broussard said, and made no move to rein in his people. And Paras were the bad guys? Nix had helped me learn how to not become a killer. Broussard was as human as they came, and a bully.
I pulled away from him, afraid I’d give him the kick to the balls he deserved, which would only make things worse for me. I winced as an agent clawed through the small pile of beets I’d pulled from the garden, tossed a couple onto the floor to make his point. That was food. You didn’t waste food in the Zone, damn it.
“None of this destruction helps you.” I looked back at him, pleading now. “If you want something, just tell me.”
Broussard pulled a little black recorder out of his pocket, and it blinked green on the counter. “Are you hosting illicit meetings of Sensitives here?”
I stared at him for a moment. He’d missed the truth—if only by a little—which was helpful, because it meant I didn’t have to fake an answer. “You cannot possibly be serious.”
“You’ve been seen with Liam Quinn on several occasions. His loyalties are questionable.”
“Yes, I know all about your history with Liam Quinn.”
For the first time, Broussard’s composure slipped. His eyes flashed. “Liam Quinn is a traitor.”
“Liam Quinn is a bounty hunter, and as you probably know, he’s training me to do the same.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“What, precisely, is hard to understand about that? Surely you don’t think a woman can’t bring down a wraith. ’Cause I’ve done it twice now. He’s training me because I’ve seen wraiths and what they can do. I was here during the war, Broussard. I saw people die. I don’t want that to happen again.” And I’m trying to keep it from happening.
The cuckoo clock chimed, and one of the agents moved toward it, reached up a hand to grab it.
Enough, I thought. If I couldn’t go around the damn counter, I’d just go over it. It wouldn’t be the first time. I braced a hand on the wood, used the shelves like the steps of a ladder, hopped onto the top and onto the floor on the other side.
“Don’t touch that,” I yelled out, and prepared to move forward, but Broussard grabbed my arm, fingers pinching hard enough to bruise.
“Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.” His teeth were clenched.
“I’m not the one making it difficult. Your thugs are destroying my store for no reason. You’re going to regret this.”
“Is that a threat, Ms. Connolly?”
I managed to wrench myself free, saw the gleam of enjoyment in his eyes. “You’re trashing what’s left of my family for nothing. But no, Broussard. I’m not threatening you. I’m just telling you the truth.”
I tried to wrench away, but Broussard grabbed my other arm, too. And he held them behind me while the agent ripped the clock off the wall.
Tears sprang to my eyes as I tried to jerk forward. “Stop! Just stop, please! Stop!”
But he didn’t stop. He ripped off the doors, broke off the girl and the wolf, wrenched away the hands of the clock. He looked inside. Satisfied there weren’t any Secret Court of Dawn Plans inside, he dumped the pieces onto a nearby table.
If Containment wanted a war, this was precisely the way to get one.
• • •
They went through the front and back rooms, the kitchenette. And then they headed for the stairs.
For the first time, I remembered there was something incriminating on the second floor—the go bag I’d tucked back into the armoire after my run-in with the wraiths. There wasn’t anything magical in it, but there were copies of my papers, a change of clothes. The purpose would be pretty obvious.
Broussard had let go of my arms, but stood beside me in case I decided to bolt. Like there was a chance I’d leave the store with these people in it.
But when the first agent made for the stairway, I jumped toward the staircase, put my arms against each wall to bar her way. “That’s private property, not part of the store.”
“Get out of the way,” she said. “Or I’ll move you myself.” She pulled the stick from her belt, adjusted her fingers around the grip.
The bell rang on the door, and we all looked up. Gunnar walked inside.
I didn’t think I’d ever been so glad to see him.
There was a pile of wooden-handled brooms in front of the door, spilled from the umbrella stand I’d stored them in. Gunnar looked at them, then the rest of the destruction, the men and women in fatigues, me standing in front of the stairs, arms crossed. His gaze fell on Broussard, and his eyes went ice cold. His jaw clenched, body stiffening, chest rising with indignation.
He strode right to Broussard with fury in his eyes, and his voice was low and dangerous. “What the hell’s going on in here?”
“Containment raid,” Broussard said. “For potential violation of the Magic Act.”
“We haven’t actively enforced the Magic Act in three years.”
Broussard didn’t look intimidated. “That doesn’t make it less valid. Just means the enforcement has been lax.”
“He asked me if I’m holding secret meetings of Sensitives,” I said, my gaze still on the agent in front of me. Oh, how I’d have liked to use my magic to take her down.
Gunnar looked up, found me on the first tread, arms across the stairway, then dropped his gaze to the agent in front of me, who looked like she was ready to tear my arms from my body.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, holding out a hand to Broussard. “Give me the warrant.”
“You’re not an agent.”
“No,” Gunnar said. “I’m not. But I’m the Commandant’s adviser, and he’s your boss. I have no knowledge of this ‘raid.’ I find it questionable, considering where you are and how many people you’ve brought.”
He looked around the store, met the gaze of each agent. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing here, but the Commandant does not support the destruction of private property. If you found magical objects here, you take them, you log them, and you turn them in. You don’t destroy nonmagicals in the process.”
“You’ve got an obvious conflict of interest,” Broussard said, slanting his gaze to me. “She’s your girlfriend.”
“You are completely oblivious, Broussard. She’s not my girlfriend; I’m gay. But she’s a private citizen with civil rights. And I didn’t ask for your opinion. I asked for the paper.” He held out a hand.
Gunnar stared Broussard down with a look that was a mix of fury, irritation, and sheer daring. I wasn’t sure if he actually had any authority over Broussard, but he sure looked the part.
Broussard looked pissed, but he pulled the paper from the inside of his coat pocket, handed it over.
Gunnar unfolded and read through it while we waited in silence for his verdict.
After a moment, he looked back at Broussard. “This says the warrant covers the store.”
“And?” Broussard says.
“The store is here, on the first floor. There’s no store upstairs, so you have no right or authority to go up there.”
“The warrant—”
“Says what it says,” Gunnar said, folding it and putting it in his own pocket. “You had authority for the store, which you’ve clearly inspected.”
“How do I know there’s no store upstairs?”
Gunnar rolled his eyes, looked back at the rest of the agents. “Is there a store upstairs? Have you ever bought products up there?”
Silence, until a man in the front shook his head. “No, sir. Not upstairs.”
“And there you go. And since you’ve trashed it, I strongly suspect the Commandant will have some questions about how you went about inspecting said store. And Claire will probably have some thoughts about whether you can ever come back.”
“I do,” I said to Broussard. “Don’t ever step foot in this store again.”
Then I lifted my gaze to the agents. A couple looked embarrassed, maybe that they’d let things go so far, maybe because they’d followed Broussard in here at all against their better judgment. Maybe they’d followed tough orders even though they knew better. We’d all done difficult things in difficult times.
Others just looked irritated. For whatever reason, or because of whatever Broussard had told them, they believed I was Public Enemy Number One. And that was fine. They could believe whatever they wanted, no matter how naive.
“If you believe I’d try to hurt this city,” I said, “you’re not as smart as you think. And you’re no longer welcome here.”
Broussard directed an agent to pick up the crate that contained the “evidence” they’d gathered. He gestured the man to the door, walked toward me with a piece of paper in hand. “You can come to Containment in forty-eight hours to check the status of your things. They may be retained as evidence in the event further action is warranted, but the clerk will advise.”
I scanned the receipt, felt immediate relief. Among other totally innocent things, they were taking a saltcellar, candles, a pearl-handled knife, and a book about nineteenth-century spiritualism. “None of those things are magical,” I said, handing the receipt to Gunnar, “and none of them are banned.”
Broussard’s expression was flat. “These are all goods that could be utilized to develop magic.”
He said it like magic was something that could be made from scratch, like baking a cake. Like lighting a candle and saying a few words over the flame could raise someone from the dead or make someone fall in love. Hadn’t the Veil proven that what humans knew of magic was just illusion? Just manipulation or coincidence? There was magic, absolutely. But the thing we’d imagined it to be had been only a sickly shadow of the real thing.
“No,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “They couldn’t. And I’m pretty sure everyone in the room knows that.”
“Forty-eight hours,” he said, then looked at Gunnar. “Perhaps we should both speak with the Commandant.”
Gunnar nodded. “I think that would be best.”
Broussard strode to the door, yanked it open, and moved into the overcast day outside.
The door closed silently behind him. They’d even taken the bell off the doorknob. Because that was clearly the key to my improper magical undertakings.
Silence fell as Gunnar and I stared at the remains of my store. No, they hadn’t destroyed everything. But they’d tossed over enough furniture, dumped out enough nuts and bolts, that the floor was littered with stuff. It would take hours to put the room back into order.
I walked to the table where the agent had dumped the broken and shattered pieces of the cuckoo clock.
It had taken me a few weeks to get it cleaned and running the last time around. Now it wasn’t just about the movement, but the pieces themselves. I’d have to figure out how much of the wood could be glued back together, or figure out a way to get new pieces cut. It would take months if I was lucky. I stood up Little Red Riding Hood, put the wolf upright beside her. And hoped I’d be lucky.
“I’m sorry, Claire,” Gunnar said.
I nodded. But I couldn’t stop to think about regret or how presumptuous Broussard had been, how sorry he should have been, and probably never would be. That would only enrage me even more, and Containment wasn’t exactly on my good side right now.
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The damage had been done. It was time to clean it up.
• • •
Gunnar offered to help before heading back to Containment, and I accepted. We worked in silence, started with the furniture. Turning over chairs. Righting tables. We put drawers back in their homes, piled their contents on top of tables. Together, we got the stand for the walking sticks upright again, began slotting them back into their spaces. They’d broken three of them—one basic cane, a stick with a brass monkey on the end, and a stick that held a small sewing kit. They’d left the broken slivers of wood, but taken the sewing kit. Because a couple of old needles, a bit of string, and a thimble were clearly the keys to my evil plan.
I put the pieces of the sticks on the counter, looked back at him. “I didn’t ask you why you came into the store.”
Gunnar was putting antique silverware they’d upended back into its box. He smiled. “I came by to give you an update—Emme’s doing better. Her fever’s gone, and she’s been up and around the house.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s good. Any other sign of the wraiths?”
He shook his head, divvied up forks and spoons into their slots. “No. But there was another pair sighted in Mid-City last night. They didn’t harass anyone that we know of, but the monitors are farther apart out there.”
I nodded. “Why would Containment authorize the warrant?”
“Specifically, I don’t know. Broussard must have made a case.”
I had to ask. There just wasn’t any way around it. So I gathered up my courage, looked at him. “I need to ask you something.”
He looked up at me, brows lifted.
“I’m sorry, but I have to know: Broussard questioned me about Liam. Did you tell them I’ve seen him since the night of the wraith attack? That he’s been here?”
Gunnar froze, a serving spoon in hand. I could see the hurt in his eyes, the set of his jaw. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not saying you’d have done it on purpose, but is there something you could have said that would make them suspect me of something?”
