Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “First time that’s happened during the day.” She ran shaking hands back through her hair, the resultant wildness tumbling over her shoulders and alive with highlights. The windows were full of thick late-autumn light, probably the reason she’d bought the house. It suited her exactly, a beautiful nest for a bright, terribly fragile bird. “Gods. Did I scream?”

  “Not so much. You flashed a bit.” His entire body tilted forward, anchored only by his stubborn boots, stuck fast in the floor. His fingers ached, and so did his jaw. “Do you need anything?”

  Her eyes closed as she slumped against the headboard. “No . . . I think I’m all right.” As if to prove it, she lifted a hand, watched her fingers as they attempted to stay steady. “I should cook something.”

  What? “You look a bit pale,” he hedged. Maybe you should just stay there for a second. He couldn’t figure out if the sensation in his chest was the usual self-loathing or something else.

  Either way, it was sharp and quasi-painful.

  The blue coverlet was rucked-up, the flung pillow sliding floorward and landing with a soft plop as she hopped lithely to her feet. She wasn’t going into shock, but her aura had gone thin and sparkling-luminescent with pain.

  “I’m just not used to this sort of thing during daylight hours.” Jorie ran her fingers through her hair, grimacing and tugging so hard on a tangle that Caleb’s own scalp twinged. “It’s getting dark soon, isn’t it? I promised you dinner, and I fell asleep. I’m sorry.”

  Slow her down. The flush of short-term, fear-spurred energy gave her aura a powerful glitter, a star’s distress right before it finished its last meal and collapsed. Her cheeks flushed, and she headed for the bathroom, light bare feet brushing carpet, toes first. “Ma’am, maybe you should sit down for a moment?”

  “I told you not to ma’am me,” she said over her shoulder, and paused, framed in the doorway. “Go down to the kitchen and put some tea on, will you? The kettle’s on the stove, and the filtered water’s in the fridge. Chamomile for me, and whatever you want. You look like an Earl Grey sort of man, you know.”

  Never been told that before. “Ma’am—Jorie.” He was about to protest, but she shut the bathroom door, effectively cutting off any feeble dissent he might muster.

  Just do your job, Watcher. You know what happens when you get fancy. With anything.

  He backed away, out of the bedroom, and figured out his hands were burning with an urge or two best left buried. Being able to name the feeling didn’t help; Caleb knotted his fists as he found the stairs again.

  Don’t get in over your head. He made it to the first floor like an old man, stiff not with pain but with creaking shock.

  Her aura didn’t hurt him. The only thing left was to manufacture some excuse to touch her, see if her skin made his bones twist with agony.

  Caleb already suspected it wouldn’t. The strange piercing sensation in his chest intensified as he tried to think of how to escape.

  Six months watching over his witch—his only chance at redemption—before he could get back to punishing himself, if he was strong enough to do what he should. He had not nearly suffered enough for what he’d done.

  Half a year. It was going to be a lifetime.

  A Circus Animal

  DINNER WAS A quiet affair. No doubt she was a good cook—nothing burned, and it smelled appetizing enough—but five minutes after she began clearing the table he couldn’t remember what she’d made or if he’d even taken a bite. He carried plates into the kitchen, barely listening as she asked small polite party questions, giving equally polite monosyllabic answers.

  You could never ignore a witch, but making conversation wasn’t a skill that came naturally to most Watchers.

  The kitchen’s golden electric light glowed against her black curls as night fell, a cold breath of desultory rain brushing the windows. Jorie hummed a wandering melody as she finished filling the dishwasher, no graceful motion wasted as her skirt swayed. Then she scrubbed pots and pans as if she couldn’t think of anything better to do, looking so goddamn happy and content it was enough to make a man sick with dread.

  She didn’t suspect a thing.

  The phone rang, a soft electronic warble. “Can you get that?” A smile over her shoulder, all but blinding him. “My hands are wet.”

  “What should I say?” Caleb managed, reaching automatically for the cordless. Of course she had a landline; Seers were hell on cell phone batteries. Idiot. I’m an idiot.

  “Hello usually works. If they ask for me, find out who they are.” Her smile remained gentle, and hot shame boiled under Caleb’s ribcage.

  He couldn’t even answer a goddamn phone without screwing up. By the fourth ring, he found the talk button and pressed it. “Hello.” If a touch of growl seeped into his voice, it was hardly his fault.

  “Jesus.” A male voice filled his ear, full of cigarette smoke and hard command, beeps and crowd noises in the background. “Jorie?”

  Neither, good sir, I’m hanging up now. “May I ask who’s calling?” There. That’s polite, isn’t it? He glanced at the window, tested the wards on her walls again, and hoped the rippling curtains of energy would make the phone short out.

  No such luck. And whoever this guy was, he was used to someone else answering for Jorie. “Just tell her it’s Neil. I’ll wait.”

  “All right.” Caleb held the phone away, covering the mouthpiece. “Some guy named Neil. What should I—?”

  She moved so quickly, he almost flinched, her damp hand brushing his as she snatched the phone away and retreated a few steps. “Hello? Neil?”

  Caleb stayed, nailed in place. The simple touch of her fingers against his burned—but not with pain.

  No, not with pain at all. His hand tingled with a sensation so different from the usual low groaning discomfort of a tanak wedded to his flesh that he had to think hard to figure out what, exactly, it was.

  He half-lidded his eyes. The word was in there somewhere, out of all the ones he’d ever knew, wasted, or forgotten. Caleb’s chin rose, and he regarded the witch intently.

  “You’re sure?” Jorie leaned against the counter, all the color draining from her flawless skin. Her pallor was almost translucent; her knees buckled, but she grabbed the counter to keep herself upright. “How many? When?”

  He stared at one ebony curl, falling in her face. Even her lips looked chalky, but it didn’t detract from her beauty. She made even fear look good.

  It’s official. She’s my witch. It doesn’t hurt.

  His hand burned. He stuffed it in his pocket, fingers tingling and twitching. Habit made him check the borders of the shielding on her house once more, Watcher-laid wards resonating under the lash of his attention. Distraction meant danger, and what kind of jackass would think about how pretty she was instead of moving to deal with whatever was frightening her? Was it a crank call?

  I’m not going to last six months. She’s my witch. If anyone finds out—

  But nobody would. He could make sure of that, at least. All it took was keeping his mouth shut, and since he’d been accepted for training, he’d tried to excel at that particular skill.

  At least they wouldn’t send him back to prison if he screwed this up. The consequences would be exponentially more severe, and utterly irrevocable.

  “Gods above.” Jorie slumped against the counter. Her shoes, soft ballet flats, wouldn’t last two steps outside. She should always wear them, though; they looked just right on her little feet. “All right. This is just the most recent?”

  Another long pause. Caleb stared at her hand clasping the phone to her ear, slim fingers that had touched his and sent a bolt of agonized heat up his arm.

  Now he knew what to call it. Pleasure. Pure, sugared warmth. A reward he absolutely did not deserve.

  “I suppose it can’t.�
�� Heavy and hopeless—it wasn’t right for a witch to sound like that. Who was she talking to? “I’m willing to try. You can bring copies of the—yes, I know, Neil. When has that ever been a problem with me? You’re calling because you want my help, don’t you?”

  This pause was full of her aura dimming, its borders sparking gold. The misery in her bowed shoulders was echoed by a staticky wave of pain. He’d seen that before—a Lightbringer taking on someone else’s heaviness, whether of guilt or of anguish, seeking to soothe.

  Trying to help, the way they always did.

  Oh, goddammit. What’s going on?

  “I refuse to do my work in a dirty stationhouse full of noisy cops, Neil.” Quiet and firm, but as she stared at the counter, her chin trembled for a moment. “I’m not a circus animal, I don’t do tricks. I’ll use the files and see what I can Find, and when I’m done, I’ll return them to you. As usual.”

  What the hell? That didn’t sound good. If Caleb focused, he could hear the voice on the other end—a Watcher’s ears were inhumanly sharp. He was refraining out of respect for a witch’s privacy, as a Watcher should, but now he wondered if maybe it was the wrong choice.

  Do your job. Do not get fancy. Just stay on the straight and narrow, kid.

  A long pause. Jorie sighed, shut her dark eyes. She paid no more attention to Caleb than to a piece of furniture. That was just fine; it was how it should be. No Watcher wanted to fly above the radar.

  Still, the sight of her leaning against the counter, absorbed in whatever some smoke-roughened voice was saying, her shoulders curving even further under a burden he could only guess at, made the tanak’s heavy dragging pain inside Caleb’s bones suddenly seem inconsequential.

  He was built for trouble. She wasn’t.

  “If you can’t let go of even a copy, I can’t work.” Soft and regretful, she almost whispered into the phone. “I’m sorry, Neil.”

  Even without concentrating, he could hear a faint tinny sound—whoever was on the phone, wheedling her. The urge to let his senses sharpen and listen in was well-nigh irresistible.

  He resisted anyway; the gods knew he had practice. I don’t like this.

  “You’re right.” Suddenly, all the firmness was gone. Someone had talked her into something, as usual. A Lightbringer was an easy mark. “I’m on my way. Bye.”

  She hung up, the cordless beeping as she laid the handset back in its base and stared for a moment. Maybe she thought it would achieve sentience and try to bite her. “Gods damn it.”

  Caleb held himself very still, one hand dangling and still alive with the feel of her skin, the other on the butt of a gun. The metal was comforting, warming as his aura bled a bit of heat—some of his emotional state escaping despite training’s iron grasp.

  Jorie turned, a light movement on the forefoot. Her skirt flared like a ballerina’s; if she hadn’t taken dance, he’d eat a hat or two. “I’m going to get changed and wash my face. Then we’re going downtown.”

  To do what? But it wasn’t his job to question, just to keep the witch alive and whole. “This late, ma’am?” He dared only that much. A Lightfall witch would understand the implication—night is when the Dark comes out to play; it’s safer under cover.

  “I’m like a Mindhealer, Caleb.” She halted and swung back, folding her arms as if she expected him to wheedle too. “When the call comes, I go. What did Rust tell you about what I do?”

  His coat whispered as he stepped back, retreating in more ways than one. “Not much,” he mumbled, staring at the pale-tiled kitchen floor. Must be hell if she ever drops a dish in here. Stick to the point, kiddo. “Just that you’re a Seer.”

  “I’m a Finder. I find things.” She turned again, the edge of her skirt touching his coat, and he had to clamp down on control so he didn’t reach out and grab her slim arm. She almost overbalanced, too, as if blind or drunk.

  No, she was just hurried. Someone had called, and she was about to do what Lightbringers did—put herself in danger taking care of an asshole who in all likelihood didn’t deserve it. “We’re heading down to Precinct 13. I have a friend—Detective Harvard. He needs my help.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. A cop isn’t a Lightbringer’s friend; I should know. Christ knew he hadn’t been anyone’s friend in his own days behind the blue line. “Jorie—” A strangled, useless protest, one she probably didn’t even hear. At least he’d used her name. His fingers had finally stopped tingling and began to ache with need. If she was about to get on another bus, maybe he’d have a chance to touch her.

  Maybe he could make a chance. The thought arrived on a wave of self-loathing so sharp, he could almost taste it.

  “Get ready to go, Watcher.” She shook her head as she swept from the room. “You can drive, it’s standard procedure. And make your glamour thick—Neil’s a little sensitive.”

  Usual Protocol

  DETECTIVE NEIL Harvard rocked back on his heels, taking in Caleb’s tall, glowering presence behind Jorie’s shoulder. The Watcher was making no effort to control his disapproving scowl, and his aura was a tightly furled streak of hurtful awareness. Neil couldn’t see Caleb’s weapons—they were covered by the ever-present slow glimmer of glamour, hiding guns and knives from unfriendly eyes.

  Even if said unfriendlies were slightly sensitive, with a little bit of psychic shine. It helped Neil do his job, but it also exacted a terrible price—one Jorie knew all too well.

  “Christ, where do you find these guys? They’re all eight feet tall.” Neil beckoned her through the door, the long wide room holding the precinct’s homicide department eerily silent, fluorescent lights dark. There were a few occupied desks further down, closer to the windows and holding a murmur of conversation, but Neil’s cubicle near the elevator was lit only by a single tensor crouched on his overflowing desk.

  Well, Caleb was on the tall end for a Watcher, so Jorie smiled. “He’s more like six-and-a-bit. But he’s got boots on; he might look taller.” She folded her arms, wishing she didn’t feel like this was some kind of test. Neil just brought that out in everyone. “Caleb, this is Detective Harvard.”

  Neil shook his head. His suit jacket was somewhere between grey and charcoal, but his blue tie was loosened and the ghost of old coffee lingered on his shirt. “Good God.”

  “Neil.” He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my Watcher. But how on earth would I explain that to you? And besides, her personal life was off limits, just like his. “You promised.”

  “I know, I know. I did.” He ran his fingers through thick sandy hair, curls sticking up anyhow. His rookie nickname had been Goldilocks, but by now, he was the Retriever. Two marriages had gone down on the rocks of his dedication to his job, and he was known for going obsessively over the cold cases, trying to find the one detail that would unlock a murder like a puzzle cube, spreading it wide to expose the guilty party. “You just have this air of mystery, hotcakes. I like mysteries.”

  “Go figure. Otherwise you could have been a plumber.” She half-leaned lightly against the cubicle wall, putting no real weight on carpet-covered cardboard, her purse pulled tight into her side. “Did you call me here to air your opinion on my boyfriends, past and present?”

  “Nah, just to look at gruesome pictures.” Fortunately, Neil never suspected her so-called boyfriends were anything other than gym rats or boxers. It was just one more tiny misdirection allowing her to survive in the world, and it bothered her less than most. Still, Neil studied Caleb from top to toe, and his expression, from bloodshot eyes to stubbled lip lifting a little, wasn’t welcoming. “Seriously, though. You’ve got a type. If I start taking steroids and wearing goth-boy drag, you think I’d have a chance?”

  He was trying to put her at ease, treat her like one of the guys. Her smile felt cold and rusty. “You’re already married to your job, Detective. Besides, I’m a fruitcake nutso psychic, remember?�
�� Her tone dropped, a fairly accurate impression of his partner Sol’s dismissive insults delivered in front of other detectives.

  At least Neil had the grace to wince. “We had to, Camden.”

  “I know.” It was probably uncharitable of her to bring that particular case up again, but her left leg still ached when the weather changed and wouldn’t quite obey her during dance class sometimes. Bodies healed; pride was something else. And Sol wasn’t here. Maybe he was just the tiniest bit ashamed of himself, though Jorie wouldn’t bet on it. “If word had gotten out how you tracked Mikkels down, the evidence would have been tainted from the get-go. But still, you didn’t have to be so hard on me.” And you especially didn’t have to let your lieutenant threaten to hand me over to the media.

  “Aw, Jesus.” But Neil lifted both hands in surrender. “Well, come in and sit down. You too, big guy. I suppose you know the score, if you’re here.”

  “I know enough,” Caleb replied curtly, as Jorie edged in and settled herself on a rickety chair Neil had just cleaned off for her, judging by the stack of paperwork leaning against its legs. “I’ll stand.”

  Jorie restrained the urge to roll her eyes. If he sounded any more he-man, he’d be spitting and snarling. At least he’s still irritated—that bodes well for his treatment. She eyed the cubicle’s disorder and its single desk, the empty coffee mugs probably with a ghost of whiskey clinging to the coffee in the bottom. This made her uneasy, and not just because Neil had insisted on her coming down here instead of the usual protocol. “Where’s Sol?” Generally, Trevignan could be counted on to keep Neil from pulling too many all-nighters, even if he did watch Jorie with the air of a cat just waiting for a mouse to make a misstep.

  “I’m between partners; Sol decided he couldn’t deal with me. You want some coffee?” Neil’s hand made an abortive movement, reaching for his breast pocket.