Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  The expression wasn’t hard to spot. It reminded Jorie of a photo in a long-ago art catalogue—a hawk in a cage, staring through bars with vicious disdain. Their training could only do so much to alleviate the psychic strain of constant alertness and combat, and once a Watcher fell into despair, he started taking progressively more suicidal chances unless he was treated.

  Or until he got himself killed.

  Caleb was tall, and moved with the usual fluid slinking grace. He was another rarity; he carried two swords instead of the usual one. Either he was ambidextrous or he was prepared even for a Watcher. He had blue eyes, much icier and lighter than Melinda’s, and short dark hair with odd toffee highlights. The most amazing thing was his nose, which gave him an even more striking resemblance to the hawk in that old photo. And his cheekbones stood out and gave the nose a run for its money. It was an interesting face, almost cruel one moment, profoundly thoughtful the next, with the only difference a trick of light shifting across the landscape.

  His long black leather coat—part of the Watcher uniform since the seventeenth century and only recently fashionable again—swayed as the bus downshifted. Her stop was coming up. Disapproval, reined but still visible, boiled off her new Watcher in waves. Public transportation was dangerous, and largely incomprehensible to them when a Lightfall witch could just sign out any car she wanted from a safehouse’s underground parking garage. Still, he hadn’t protested in the slightest, just clambered on the bus after her and picked a defensible spot halfway back.

  She could have brought the Volvo, but she liked collecting faces to draw later. And public transportation gave her time to study a new Watcher’s reactions, since so many of them were sent to her for treatment. That was the thing about being a witch; you learned to suspect how things would go.

  Or maybe it was just adulthood.

  Jorie tugged the stop cord and met the Watcher’s gaze. His dark eyebrows had drawn together, a vertical line between them. He looked puzzled under his fierce haggardness. Even though his hair was neatly trimmed and his gear was in good condition, he still looked . . .

  Well, he looked exhausted. Circles under sharp flinty almost-grey eyes, his mouth drawn bitterly and set in a hard, straight line. Even his chin, beginning to darken up with early stubble, was set and intransigent.

  This might be a difficult one. She had to suppress a sigh as the bus jolted to a stop. The Watcher moved, sliding around and preceding her off the bus, his step light as a falling leaf and the invisible waves of awareness he sent out familiar after years spent in Circle Lightfall. He’s farther along than Melinda thought. He’s in the secondary stage right before deconstruction sets in; I can almost smell it. How am I going to handle this?

  Jorie hopped down onto pavement and stepped away from the bus, shivering in the sudden chill. The right answer was to call Melinda and ask for him to be remanded to a specialist, but the Mindhealers and other Seers were swamped, especially with the Mindhealers working around the clock fine-tuning solutions to the Dominion infecting non-Lightbringer psychics with a virulent Dark parasite and setting them to hunt women who were just going about their business trying to help the world—oh, there were a lot of things to hate the Crusade and their new partners for, if Jorie could find the time and energy to hate anyone.

  Anger detracted from the work that had to be done, so she did her best to push it aside. Besides, Melinda wouldn’t have asked if she had any other place to stick this poor man. Jorie’s Watchers were generally with her to be treated. It wasn’t anything new.

  Jorie stared at the bus shelter, lost in thought for a moment. Anemic sunlight barely battled the prewinter cold, a frigid breeze ruffling her hair and cutting right through her wool peacoat. The bus heaved away on a cloud of diesel smoke, more traffic whizzing by. When she glanced up, the Watcher was gazing over her shoulder, scanning the street. His jaw had set even harder, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable.

  The sun slid behind a cloud. Martins Avenue wasn’t very pretty in the afternoons; rush hour started at two p.m. in this part of town since it was a major artery leading west from the downtown district.

  Just like a Watcher. He hasn’t said a single word, just stands there and waits for something awful to happen. No wonder they get this way. She squared her shoulders. The first step was to make him feel a little more comfortable, and the best way to do that was with food.

  Everyone had to eat. Even half-Dark symbiotes. “We’ll stop at the grocery store on our way home.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the traffic, hitching her purse higher on her shoulder. “What do you want for dinner?”

  The only response she got was a shrug. Even for a Watcher this man was quiet.

  “Well?” she persisted, despite the numbness in her fingers that demanded she get moving. “You’re going to have to eat something, so it had better be something you like.”

  “Whatever doesn’t run away. Ma’am.” He snapped the end of the word off—not angrily, but as if he was unused to talking. “I’m not picky.”

  Gods have mercy. “Watchers never are.” Jorie’s patience wasn’t exhausted yet, but she suspected this fellow was going to try. “But what do you like to eat?”

  Caleb stood absolutely still, even his coat motionless though a steady breeze skipped up Martins from downtown. “Don’t know, ma’am.” Grudging, giving nothing away. Or maybe he truly didn’t know.

  She folded her arms. Let’s try another way. “All right. What don’t you like to eat?”

  Caleb thought about it, visibly perplexed. She watched, a sudden wave of exhaustion threatening to swamp her. There was so much damage in the world, and so few people interested in fixing it. It was an uphill battle to reclaim what one could.

  Uphill, but necessary.

  “I never was fond of okra,” he finally volunteered. “But I’m really not picky, ma’am.”

  Irritation warred with a warm feeling of accomplishment. The cocktail was a familiar one, and temporarily dispelled the shivers. “It’s not ma’am. It’s Jorie.” She softened, seeing him all but flinch. “So, no okra. I’ve never liked mucilage myself, so you’re in good company.”

  He gave her a look that would have been a scowl if he hadn’t been so well-trained. The hard, shimmering edges of his glamour, keeping his weaponry from being seen by normal people, scintillated.

  Well, we’ve gotten through to him a bit. “That gives me some idea, at least. Let’s go.”

  Of course, he didn’t reply. Still, if he could get irritated, he could be treated; he wasn’t sunk that far in suicidal apathy. Of course, Watchers weren’t supposed to get irritated, or so they thought.

  They were still human, after all. Just like witches.

  He fell into step behind her, his boots making hardly any sound on concrete. It was such a familiar, comforting sensation—a Watcher just behind her shoulder, his waves of awareness pinging out in all directions—that Jorie’s shivers fled completely.

  To a Fault

  HE SPENT THE afternoon getting acquainted with the house and the neighborhood as Jorie finished up the Boyleston project, getting everything—logos, storyboards, alternative angles, palettes, the entire works—finally packaged for a sixth pass through corporate focus groups. If they changed their mind again she was going to charge them extra. This was ridiculous.

  Most witches were patient almost to a fault, or so the Watchers said. Jorie was beginning to feel like a little bitchy boundary-enforcing was a good thing, if it kept people from running right over you.

  With that done and the updated packages in their electronic dropbox, she stretched, shut down the office desktop, and padded into her bedroom. A half-hour nap before making dinner seemed like a fantastic idea; her eyelids were lead-coated and she couldn’t stop yawning hugely. Weeks of lost sleep took their toll all at once.

  The last time I felt
this tired was the bombing case.

  That was a bad thought, and she splashed her face with tepid water to get rid of it. She never wanted to think about that case again, especially the sound a fast-swinging crowbar made when it bit into human flesh. Or Neil’s husky, broken voice afterwards.

  Don’t you ever do that again, Jore.

  Her left leg twitched. Jorie dried her face carefully, taking deep calming breaths. Her bed was neatly made, so she just dropped across it, rescuing a pillow from its pristine prison under the comforter. She buried her face in softness and forgot all about setting an alarm clock.

  She was out in mere moments.

  Time to Shine

  NICE WITCH, WITH pretty dark hair and kind eyes. Nice house, even a spare bedroom freshly made up as if a Watcher was a guest instead of a necessary evil. Nice neighborhood, with fallen leaves cinnamon-crunching underfoot on cracked, aging sidewalks instead of slushy and rotten like they would be when the rains moved in.

  Caleb’s head hurt; it wasn’t physical. The tanak kept you in tiptop shape, and you didn’t have to worry about sinus pain or a bum ticker. No, this pain was different.

  Why me? Of all Watchers, why me?

  Jorie didn’t crowd him, took care not to go around the end of a grocery store aisle without him, and didn’t make a game of edging in one direction or another to see where he moved to cover possible fire angles like some witches new to Watchers might. She’d bought a bag’s worth of groceries and carried them herself, leaving his hands free for weapons despite his attempt to take the load. If anything happens, you’ll have to drop it and bruise the apples, she said tartly. Just let me. The house isn’t far.

  And it wasn’t. A nice little two-story number, well-painted and well-kept, with a purely ornamental garden full of easy-to-care-for plants—lavender, feverfew, things with cast-iron roots. There were a couple of peony bushes dying back for the winter, and a board fence with a locked gate, just like a Watcher would want.

  She was in that pretty blue house right now—a witch whose aura didn’t scrape salt and broken glass over his skin. Which meant that instead of a head full of cool, calm jotting-down of cover angles and likely attack points, he had a skull-load of noise and speculation.

  Fluke. It’s a fluke. Stop it.

  He was turning over some interesting ideas as he canvassed the neighborhood. Ideas like moving in close on this black-haired witch and breaking a few rules, seeing if he could brush her bare wrist with his fingertips, maybe. As an experiment.

  Just to see.

  Shut up and do your job. Even if her light doesn’t, her skin could hurt you plenty. Then you’ll be left trying to explain why you grabbed at her. Just let it go, kid.

  But if her skin didn’t hurt him, if the Dark in his bones didn’t twist with agonized furious pain when—if—he got a chance to touch her, it could only mean one thing.

  A witch, his witch, for the very last Watcher who deserved one, a dirty cop turned Watcher who definitely didn’t deserve a nice little house in the suburbs, with quiet neighbors and a small grocery store where even the tongue-tied stock boy knew his witch’s name. The kid stammered Miss Jorie like it was a talisman.

  Who wouldn’t?

  Caleb trudged up the flagstone walk through the front yard, absently calculating tactical weak spots in the fence. His coat made a slight, familiar sound; he took in the wards laid over the property line and concentrated on bolstering the layers of shielding attached to the house. The neighborhood had traps and alerts scattered in the most likely places courtesy of the other Watchers on this job before him, and hard geometric layers of Watcher warding vibrated over her home. It was as protected as could be, except for a safehouse.

  Still, the bright glow of a Lightbringer leaked under the warding, tempting and teasing. Any truly hungry Dark might be stupid enough to go after that glow.

  Then it’s time for you to shine, right? You’re wishing for a Dark attack so you can try to get yourself killed. An attack that will scare the hell out of a very nice witch who wants to make you dinner. What a good guy you are.

  He let himself in the front door, the wards receding into humming alertness as they recognized him.

  Jorie’s house was old, with mellow waxed hardwood floors and each room painted a different color. The entry hall was soft yellow, the living room a deep blue with gold stars hand-daubed on the ceiling and full of comfortable, overstuffed furniture in indigo and gold. A glimpse of the pale pink dining room, with a very nice rosewood table and chairs. She’d wound silvery Christmas tinsel around the banister; a large water-clear mirror on the antique dresser at the end of the entry hall, tall and slim, momentarily reflected a Watcher’s shabby gauntness. The flash of his eyes in the mirror stopped him.

  He couldn’t stand to look at himself for more than a bare second. Jorie’s gold-tinged aura was overhead in her bedroom; it had the particular motionlessness of sleep. A nap was a good idea, especially if she was waking up at night and taking on public transport with every normal’s messy mind scraping her sensitive edges.

  Caleb paused at the foot of the stairs. Then, miserably impelled, he touched the banister. Tinsel scratched at calluses on his fingers from daily knife and sword drill.

  As if he needed a reminder that he was a thing, a weapon. Cannon fodder. He took one step, another. If she was asleep, there could be no harm done.

  It’s that sort of thinking that got you in over your head, Watcher. He went up another step, nice and easy, his weight shifting in increments because he could sense a squeak just waiting to ruin silent movement.

  It would be easy. She was a Lightbringer; she wouldn’t suspect a thing.

  Stop it. You’re a Watcher now. New name, new job, new set of responses. Don’t fuck it up now.

  Her aura pulsed above him, golden edges giving out a powerful flash of anguish.

  What the hell? Caleb cleared the rest of the steps without noticing, bolted down the hall, and made it into her bedroom, his left-hand knife sliding free. The crimson traceries on its black metal blade cast thin, temporary ruddy dapples over the walls as his witch sat up, gasping, her dark eyes wide and ringed with white.

  “The dolls—” Her voice was high, sweet, and choked with fear. Caleb glanced at the window, his instincts telling him what he already knew—it was clear, there was no Dark or other danger lurking in the pretty pale-green-and-blue bedroom full of late-afternoon sunshine. “The d-dolls . . .” Her teeth chattered, and the spice of her perfume curled over a brassy note of terror and a tinge of—yes, it was Dark. The fume of acrid, nose-stinging evil vanished almost as soon as he identified it. She struggled, her arm momentarily trapped by a pillow that went flying, her back hitting the wall, and immediately began babbling about eyes and mouths.

  He’d witnessed Seers in the throes of their gift before. Many simply stared, their eyes wide as inner vision blinded them. Others moved frantically, playing out the scene they saw in their heads. Still others thrashed in almost-seizure; some spoke in quatrains or blank verse, poetry hard-wired into precognition.

  But this was something else. She trembled like a whipped dog, cowering against the headboard, and he belatedly realized she needed something to orient with. Her aura flashed, thinning at the borders, and he also knew exactly how to handle this particular situation.

  Rust had told him. And besides, it was his job.

  “Jorie.” Caleb slid the knife back into its sheath, made his tone as calm and firm as possible. “You’re at home, you’re safe. I’m your Watcher. I’m here.” It shouldn’t have felt so good to say the words. Your Watcher’s here. Don’t worry.

  Jorie blinked, her eyelids almost fluttering. The defenses on the house shuddered, responding to distress. Her flinch stopped him as Caleb took a step forward, intending to comfort.

  He was very far from fucking comforting, and
it paid to remember that. “I’m your Watcher,” he repeated, helplessly. “You’re at home. In your house. You’re safe.”

  Sense spilled into her dark eyes. She shook like a windblown leaf, her hands vibrating as she held them up to ward off invisible violence. “Almost caught me,” she whispered. “It almost caught me.”

  If you hadn’t been so busy planning how to break a few rules, you might have headed off this trouble at the pass, Caleb. You bastard. “You’re in your house.” He pitched the words low, his throat aching. “You’re safe.”

  Her aura flared, green-golden light brushing the edges of his dark stain. The sensation was electric, and not unpleasant.

  Not unpleasant at all. Christ. It’s happening again.

  “It almost caught me,” she repeated, a child just awakened from a bad dream. “Where’s Rust?”

  So she’d liked the other guy; she was outright asking for him. Caleb throttled a sick red flare of something he had no right to feel—after all, Rust had been with her for half a year.

  Caleb was a new quantity, and probably not one she liked very much. “He’s been reassigned.” You’re stuck with me, unless you tell them what I was about to do. If you knew, would you? The knot in his stomach twisted tighter. “What do you need?”

  “Oh.” Jorie’s gaze focused. “Caleb,” she said softly, reminding herself, and her hands dropped. “That’s right. I’m sorry.”

  What the hell is she apologizing to me for? “Do you need anything? Are you all right?” Is this my punishment for even daring to think about touching you?

  That last bit wasn’t anything close to helpful, but if it stung, it was only what he deserved.