Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “You’ve taken up smoking again.” She tried not to sound chiding, but failed miserably. “Oh, Neil. You promised to try.” Not that she blamed him—what else was there to do with a job this stressful, other than kill yourself by inches?

  Jorie could treat Watchers for despair, but cops were another thing entirely.

  “Hey, I don’t drink anymore. Much.” A rare gleam of amusement was quickly snuffed in Neil’s dark gaze, and he dug in the paperwork on his desk. Mostly for theatrical effect; he knew exactly what was where in any pile. “You sure your bruiser there—”

  “He can be trusted.” Jorie settled herself, hanging her purse on the back of the chair. There wasn’t even a plant in here. It was probably a good thing; even a ceramic cactus might well melt under the sheer force of Neil’s neglect.

  But it was so lonely.

  “You and trusting people.” Neil shook his head and found what he wanted. “What have I told you?”

  We’ve had this discussion. “You’re a cynic, Detective.” She sighed and gave him her best wide-eyed look. “I have work to do tomorrow and it’s past my bedtime.” It wasn’t quite true—her work was largely at-will, but boundaries were good.

  They were healthy.

  “I just hate showing you shit like this, Jorie.” His tone changed, softened. Nobody would ever know what gentleness this man was capable of, if he had anything to say about it.

  Jorie looked down. Her fingers knotted together in her lap, against her skirt. She had dance class tomorrow and a pile of laundry to do—she’d just washed Rust’s clothes yesterday, not her own. The Boyleston project had taken up far too much of her time.

  Maybe she should add an extra charge to the invoice. She was halfway to deciding to, though she’d probably talk herself out of it on the drive home. Being known for quality work was professionally exhausting, no matter the satisfaction.

  The Watcher stayed in the cubicle doorway, looming ill-tempered as a storm. He wasn’t going to like any of this, but at least with Caleb here, she wouldn’t be harmed.

  As comforting as the thought was, she could have gone without leaving the house tonight.

  “It’s all right,” she told them both, softly, smoothing the rough edges of aggression and agonizing pain. Most anger had its roots in hurt, and vanished when the cause was treated. Certainly a Watcher’s despair did. “If I can help, I will. What do you need me to find?”

  Neil paused. He had a stack of file folders, rescued from the drift of paper lapping against the computer. “It’s a little different than the usual. We’ve only found the one, ah, the one body.”

  That was a change; Jorie was usually a last resort. She didn’t protest, but her eyebrows shot up.

  Neil hunched in his chair. “But there are plenty of missing, and some we only think might be involved.” The words were barely audible, and something about his tone was strange, too. “It’s a sure bet they are, though.”

  “Why?” Her voice was no less soft. She already knew what he’d say, but there was no avoiding it.

  For either of them.

  “I’ve got a feeling,” Neil said, miserably. “Besides, the one kill we have is too clean. Practiced.”

  Jorie knew immediately which cases she could make a difference on. The feeling was a frozen fishhook in her middle, its edges so keen, they were invisible until a case tugged at the line and the sharpness twitched. “Ah.” Her fingers had turned white, tangling against each other and clenching hard.

  “Are you sure you want to see this?” Just like every time, the same question. Neil’s mouth drew down, his long nose and narrow eyes adding to the mournful look. He’d been handsome once, and could still be, if he relaxed a little.

  “It’s that bad?” Don’t let him answer you. Jorie nodded firmly. “Of course I’m sure. If I can help, I will.”

  The Watcher made a slight restless movement. She could almost read his mind—it was after sunset, it was dangerous, and no Watcher would like what she was about to do. She took a deep breath—leather, a ghost of peppery aftershave, burnt coffee, indifferent carpeting, paper, official reports leaking sharp, precise pain.

  Nothing could hurt her with a Watcher around, even one in the second stage of despair. But the worst dangers weren’t anything they could do something about. The world was full of rocks, invisible even to those with Sight.

  Neil made a slight sound, leaning forward. Jorie accepted the stack of files.

  “Jorie?” Caleb said, low and edged. The question sounded like a warning.

  It probably is. “It’s fine.” She blinked and glanced up. “Really, it’s all right.”

  The Watcher’s blue eyes all but glowed. He subsided obediently, his coat moving as he shifted.

  “He’s like that other guy. The blond with the attitude.” Neil reached for his cigarettes again. “Whatever happened to him?”

  “Hanson? Oh, he moved away. Nice guy.” Jorie flipped the first file open. She had to do it quickly, or she would lose her nerve. I wonder what did happen to him. He was a good Watcher. Kept my car running at least, and persuaded me to buy the Volvo.

  Bile crawled up her throat. It took a moment for her brain to arrange the shapes into a coherent picture, and her fingers immediately went cold and clumsy as the shock burned through her.

  “Oh.” A tiny, wounded breath escaped; she couldn’t help herself. The small body sprawled among weeds was in pitiless black and white, but Jorie’s talent filled in the color—and showed her far more.

  Oh, gods. Please. He can’t be more than eight; why do I have to see this? Jorie’s throat worked, trying to swallow. What happened instead was a dry click, like a Watcher out of ammunition.

  Neil inhaled, sharply. “I know that look.” It was a familiar moment, for both of them. Tell me you have something, he meant. Please.

  “He took the eyes,” she whispered. Darkness clotted over the photograph, a cloud of ink. “So small. They’re . . . oh, gods.”

  Paper flew, Jorie let out a short, wounded cry, and Neil cursed.

  Square One

  CALEB HAD HER wrist, warm fingers gentle despite obvious, crushing tanak-fueled strength. He had the files in his other hand, snatched and held carefully away like something dangerous. “Easy there.” Two harsh, quiet words, their ends bitten off, almost rattled the cubicle walls. Paper fluttered uneasily, soft sliding slithering sounds.

  “What the hell?” Neil made it to his feet on the other side of the desk, human reaction speed pretty fast but not Watcher-quick.

  Jorie stared at her wrist, caught in the Watcher’s fingers.

  He was touching her. If it hurt, he didn’t show it; Jorie’s gaze flew to his face and stayed there, caught. His pale eyes took the glow from Neil’s lamp, focused on her with laser-like intensity. He ignored the detective, but Jorie felt the Watcher’s readiness, the gathering of a rattlesnake.

  If Neil moved around the desk, there might be trouble.

  So she did the only thing she could, laying her free hand over Caleb’s as she teetered precariously in the chair. His skin was almost feverish, a Watcher’s higher metabolism bleeding heat. “It’s all right, Caleb.” Soothing, quiet, she watched his pupils dilate slightly and his jaw turn to stone.

  He made no move to free his hand. No faint sting of scraping pain jolted up her arm either; even the most controlled, contained Watcher couldn’t hide their usual reaction to a Lightbringer’s skin contact without some kind of echo.

  Well. This is certainly turning out to be a night for surprises.

  The building was silent except for the faraway sound of human traffic—on the other end of the homicide division, and downstairs where the officer on duty checked in the night’s load of drunks and others, tipping them into the maw of processing. If there were more detectives on this floor they were occupied with
their own affairs, thank the gods.

  “Jorie?” Neil, careful but mystified, froze on the other side of his desk. He was probably contemplating digging for his sidearm, and that wouldn’t do anyone here any good.

  So she cleared her throat, a forlorn little sound. It took two tries before her voice would work. “It just took me by surprise. That’s all.”

  Caleb’s hand loosened and he gave the files back, a stack of anonymous paper heavy with suffering. She didn’t want to touch them again.

  There was no other option. She was the one who could Find; that made it her job. Her vocation, what the gods had intended when they gave her the dose of whatever-it-was that made a Lightbringer.

  “This is dangerous.” Caleb subsided, however, and went back to the door. His face set, his eyes glowing, he was as unhappy a Watcher as she’d ever seen.

  Well, no Watcher would be happy about this, even Rust, who was the easygoing sort. Of course, Rust only knew about her work from one or two semi-social bar sessions with Neil and Sol, discussing old cases, keeping her on the line as an “informant.” Of course, he’d probably put together more than Jorie would have liked, but she hadn’t hidden anything from the Watchers.

  It was useless to even try. Even if she’d argued one or two of them into keeping her secrets.

  “I can’t let a copy of this out of the precinct house.” Neil decided to say it again, as if she’d protested. “I know how you work, Jorie, but—”

  Her mouth was sour, and her heart wanted to lodge in her throat. I can’t drop my shields and do a Finder’s work here. “Has there ever been a problem with me going to the press?” Odd, how the implicit accusation managed to hurt her feelings, as if she had any left after working with Neil for so long. “Haven’t I already proved that I hate publicity more than you do? Why is this even an issue?”

  “If a copy of that gets out, I won’t have a job anymore. Ever.” Neil folded his arms and his chin set stubbornly; Jorie knew that look. “Do you want to see the body?”

  Oh, gods. Bile rose in her throat, but she didn’t have a chance to respond.

  “No.” Caleb spoke up again, and he didn’t sound conciliatory at all. “Absolutely not.”

  Well. Now we know how you feel. Jorie regarded him levelly. “Did you just give me an order?” It was surprising—obedience was hammered into them during training, and what that didn’t accomplish the tanak itself, vengeful and jealous of its chance to potentially bond with a witch, took care of.

  His chin dipped so he could peer out from under his hair—he needed a better trim, as usual. Most Watchers did by the time they got to her, fresh off the unrelenting grind of patrol and aching for treatment.

  Caleb’s coat moved as he stirred and subsided. “It’s in the codes.” He didn’t have to say anything more.

  The only time a Watcher is allowed to disobey a witch is when the witch’s safety is threatened. Chapter and verse, once more. Jorie throttled a sigh. “I’m not in any danger. I’m just going to—”

  “You’re a Seer. An unprotected work out here in the open—”

  Oh, sure, just tell Neil all about Seers and Finders, instead of letting him think I’m a one-off. Jorie’s temper almost snapped. “Hush.”

  The Watcher closed his mouth so quickly he almost bit his tongue in half. It didn’t change the fact that he was right. If she tried to do any Finding here, in a public space after dark, she’d bring all sorts of predators out of hiding.

  It might be fine, he might be worried for nothing—but he’s a Watcher. It’s his job to worry. Jorie’s stomach was full of hot acid; she wished she hadn’t eaten dinner at all.

  “This just gets more and more interesting.” Neil wasn’t reaching for his sidearm. Instead, he folded his arms and studied Caleb, the same look she’d seen him deploy on a perp who behaved in an unexpected manner.

  “You stay out of it.” Jorie rubbed at her forehead, delicately, trying to massage away the incipient headache. Men. Why do they have to make everything so complicated? Gods give me strength. “Neil, please. I can’t do my work here in your office. I have a system; it’s as procedural as your work. Why can’t you understand that?”

  As usual, when challenged with logic, he shifted ground. “Goddammit, Jorie—”

  “When have I not given you results?” She was so out of patience she actually scowled at him. Coming down to the precinct to find out if she could help was one thing; expecting her to work in his cubicle was another thing entirely. “I’m not a charlatan, and I’m not a circus animal. If you want my help to stop this, you need to stick to our agreement. It won’t do anybody any good if I end up getting—”

  “I can’t let the files go.” Neil dropped back into his seat. “Not even copies. Not this time.”

  Why not? The urge to help warred with cold consideration in Jorie’s chest. She looked down at her lap, touched a single manila folder with a fingertip. So many dolls. All those dreams, so many dolls. Shelves and shelves of them, and their blank little eyes. Was this what the nightmares had been warning her of? Bile rose in her throat, and the tugging in her midriff intensified.

  She had to help. “Maybe—”

  “No.” Caleb’s voice cut across hers. “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s not up to you, cowboy.” Neil didn’t look away from Jorie. “It’s up to her.”

  “You’re taking advantage of her, you bastard.” The Watcher’s tone could have broken glass. “She’s not going to do her work here, and that’s final.”

  It was the longest speech from Caleb so far, and she couldn’t even feel victorious. The Watcher looked coldly furious, his cheeks paling and his gaze fixed on Neil. He was a hair away from deciding the detective was a threat, and if that happened, Jorie would have a hell of a time calming everyone down.

  She stood, took the two steps to Neil’s desk, and laid the files down. It was hard—they cried out, in their mute way, for someone to help them.

  Someone to Find their bodies to be laid to rest, and to find their killer. Someone to see justice done.

  “I cannot do my work in the middle of a police station.” She said it very softly, hoping her quiet would keep the Watcher calm. Her skirt whispered against her legs. The night was cold, and she’d come out here for nothing. Neil didn’t often get stubborn, but when he did there was no moving him. “If you think I’m going to go to the press at this point in our relationship, Neil . . . that hurts. I can’t work with you if you truly believe that.” I can’t just let this go, either. Gods.

  She turned away. Took a step, then another; it was hard work. She wanted to stop, turn back, agree to anything she could do to help the mute dolls, all lined up in rows on those listing shelves. To find whoever had done such terrible things to a child and left the body discarded like an empty soda can, and make sure he was locked up so he couldn’t hurt anyone else. To maybe give a grieving family some closure, some tiny measure of peace.

  “They’re little kids, Jorie. Not a one of them is over twelve years old.” Neil said it like it hurt him, and it probably did. It hurt her, too.

  “Shut your fucking mouth.” Caleb surged forward, but he would have to go through her to reach the desk, the cubicle was so small. She put her hand up, blindly, and felt the Watcher’s fingers close around her forearm. The reflexive movement gave her a bearing, and it also told her that his control still held. The Watcher’s priority was still to focus on her safety, and if she gave him that to latch onto, he might leave Neil be.

  Unfortunately, Neil was still talking, maybe thinking he could overcome any objections if he simply pushed hard enough. Just like a man. “Jorie. I need your help. You can’t just walk away.”

  “You sonofa—” Caleb’s voice rose.

  My, he’s aggressive for a Watcher. Then again, no Watcher would like this at all. It was dangerous to
be out after sunset, and if he suspected Jorie was even contemplating doing a Seer’s work in the open, he was probably beside himself.

  “Caleb.” She deliberately swayed so he had to steady her; she wanted his attention on her instead of on Neil. “Take me home. Please.”

  He pulled her out of the cubicle. Neil’s gusty sigh and curse followed them. Jorie scrubbed at her temples, where a true mother of a headache was building.

  “You put up with that?” Caleb muttered. “Did the other Watchers put up with that? Did they?”

  “You’re hurting my arm,” she answered mildly, as he all but dragged her down the hall and into another with the elevators at the end. The Watcher turned sharply to the right, palmed the door to the stairwell open, and pulled her through. His fingers softened, but she could no more tear her arm free than she could take her own head off.

  And he was still muttering, his chin down and his eyes blazing. “I can’t believe the goddamn nerve of that fucking cop.”

  Well, at least we’ve found a way to make him talk. Small victories were all she was going to get today, but Jorie would take this one. “He’s never asked me to perform in his office before.”

  “Now might be a good time to tell me what you were planning on doing.” He set a punishing pace, her feet barely touched the stairs. “Middle of the night you’re out here, and does he actually want a major act of Seeing in a goddamn unshielded building?” Caleb’s voice rose, the leather coat creaking, and she took a deep breath.

  “You have to stop. Now.” She put all the command she could into the words, and was gratified when he halted. Her heart beat high and unsteady in her throat. Get him distracted. Or, hell, get both of us distracted. “You touched me.”

  The stairwell was painted an ugly institutional yellow and echoed with the silent static of anger as he shifted his weight, boots creaking. He set her on her feet, exquisitely carefully, and took his hands away, one finger at a time. A muscle flickered in his cheek under a faint haze of stubble, and she was close enough to see faint lavender lines in the blue of his irises, alight with the tanak’s burning.