Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He said nothing else.

  So we’re back to square one. There was something other than despair bothering this Watcher. Mystified, Jorie studied his profile.

  His nose was still incredible. Maybe she could get charcoal and paper out, and draw him. It would be soothing, and he’d probably sit still long enough for her to do so.

  The thought of the files on Neil’s desk returned. She should stay, and do anything she could to help. A Watcher’s idea of safety was all well and good, but if there were children being taken, families in agony, and Jorie could stop it . . .

  Finding was, after all, her particular talent. Nothing to be proud of—how she wished she was a healer like most greenwitches, or another type of Seer, or even an overly Dark-sensitive Mindhealer. Anything, anything but what she actually was. She could even wish for whatever confluence of genetics and environment made her a Lightbringer to vanish, but that wouldn’t do any good, would it?

  No, it would only mean she couldn’t even attempt to help. It was utterly selfish to wish your responsibilities gone, and she hated how often she did.

  At this time of night, the stairwell was abandoned, but she didn’t have to worry about getting out of the building with a Watcher at her side. Locked doors presented very little problem to any witch worth their salt, or any Watcher worth his.

  “If you stayed in the office with me, I could maybe do it,” she offered tentatively, already suspecting his response.

  Caleb’s gaze flicked over her. He took a deep breath, leather creaking a little as the straps holding his weapons responded to motion. What would it be like, not to need all that hardware? “I can’t agree to that, ma’am.”

  So we’re back to ma’am, are we? But at least he was speaking. “I have to help.”

  “You’re a Lightbringer. He can play you like an accordion, because you’re a good person. I’m not hampered by that restriction.” The words bounced off concrete, made the handrail groan and ring. “You can turn me in for disobedience if you want, but I’d still have to protest.”

  He said protest like it meant stop you.

  Well, it absolutely did. He was taller, broader, and trained for mayhem, not to mention living with a tanak inside him. He could have demolished the whole building, if necessary; Jorie couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him.

  But he was a Watcher, and that meant she was safe. She let out a long breath, tension sliding from her shoulders. “You’re right. I hate it, but you’re right. Can you take me home, please? I’ll probably have another nightmare tonight, but I’d like a glass of wine before I get to it.” She tried for a smile, could feel the wan attempt falter. “I’m sorry you had to—”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I’ll turn myself in.” He half-turned, took another few steps down. That presented his broad back to her, though she was short enough their heads were now level.

  What? “Caleb—”

  “There’s Dark outside. Best we move on.” Quiet, level, with no trace of anger. He’d gone cold. He was all over the map, not responding like a regular Watcher in the second stage of despair. His aura tightened, the sheen on his dark hair running like oil under fluorescent light. It looked like he only had highlights in sunshine.

  Well. This is a mystery. She followed him down the steps, since he kept his pace steady and slow enough for her. Her belly was tender, aching, the pressure slowly building behind her solar plexus.

  The urge to Find.

  Going home wouldn’t help. Nothing would, now that the pull had been triggered. She was in for yet another sleepless night. I wonder if more than one glass of wine would be in order. Like maybe the whole damn bottle.

  One-Way Ticket

  THE VOLVO WAS cream-colored, boxy, and heavy metal, built to be the safest car on the road. Its engine purred, and the beautiful, maddeningly quiet witch in the passenger’s seat turned her head to look out the window, black hair cascading past her shoulders, brushing her jacket and the sweater underneath. The night had turned chillier, rain cold enough to sting riding the wind and slapping with ice-freighted pellets when he’d tried to shield her from the worst of it.

  At least he could do that. Just like a Watcher should.

  Jorie sighed, dewdrops caught in her hair. A bloody glow touched the dashboard as suspended traffic lights swung on their cords, the wind giving them helpful shoves like adults pushing kids on playground swings.

  His throat was hot and tight, full of something he couldn’t name. Whatever it was, it held a core of solid frustration. He’d done what he should have avoided—broken cover, flown above the radar, given direct orders to a witch, and manhandled her. He’d even let her touch his bare skin, and hadn’t acted like it hurt him.

  Now she knew.

  Good luck getting out of this and back to the front lines, you idiot. Self-hatred showed up right on schedule, sneering in the back of his head. You knew what you were supposed to do and you blew it. You don’t deserve a witch. You deserve the shot to the head or the knife to the heart. You haven’t even begun paying for what you did.

  The Lightfall witch’s voice was a surprise. “I should thank you.” The words were quiet, soothing. Restful. She had a pretty voice.

  Pretty words, pretty witch. Everything about her was goddamn lovely. It was enough to make a man furious at his own ugliness.

  They were less than five minutes from her house. His aura flared; he scanned the surroundings again. Outside their rolling cage of cold iron, plastic, and fiberglass, the darkness breathed wet chill and danger. The Lightbringer’s aura-glow had already attracted attention, but Caleb’s redblack stain had managed to warn off most of the predators. A Watcher, the iron in the car, and the smoky red of warding added up to a dangerous snack for any Dark stupid enough to attempt it.

  But hunger often trumped stupidity, and she was a buffet.

  She’s thanking me? What the hell for?

  “You’re right,” she continued, soft and sad. “Neil shouldn’t have asked me to do that. I could say that he doesn’t understand the way I work, but . . .”

  The light turned green; Caleb pressed the accelerator. He was manipulating you. If I hadn’t been standing right there, gods alone know what might have happened. Did other Watchers lend themselves to this kind of idiocy? He kept his mouth buttoned, albeit with difficulty.

  “I wish you’d say something.” Now Jorie sounded wistful, her face averted and her curls quivering as the car bounced over uneven pavement. “You asked me if the others let me do my work in Neil’s office. It was never a consideration, before. This is the first time he’s asked me something like this. Probably because the other case, the biggest one got so . . .” Infuriatingly, she stopped. “You’re a little aggressive, for a Watcher.”

  You think so? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, babe. “Fresh off patrol, ma’am. My nerves are a little raw.” They might get to her house without an attack or even an annoyance, actually. It would be better luck than he deserved.

  “For the last time, it’s Jorie.” It was the first time she’d sounded sharp, and though she might be mortified at it, he was oddly comforted. It was good to hear she had some temper, even if it was hardly enough to keep her safe from prying, pushing, selfish cops. “Leave the ma’am somewhere else, will you? Please. And I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Her driveway hove into sight. Ask all you want. You’re the witch here, I’m just the Watcher. Caleb said nothing, slowing down to negotiate the sloping driveway turn. This was a nice car, just exactly what she should have. Safe, dependable, and mostly built with real metal, not the plastic junk of other cars these days. Why the hell did she bother with buses? It boggled the mind.

  She waited. He pulled into the driveway and stopped briefly as the garage door began its usual creaking dance, a warm bath of yellow light spilling out. Go ahead and ask, he wanted to
say. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

  It was a lie, like all the others.

  “Can I?” she persisted.

  “Ask away. You’re the witch.” In other words, why do you even bother? You can do what you want. I’m just the dumb muscle around here. He tried not to scowl, tried to keep a neutral expression. Let’s play it like that, safer for both of us.

  “You touched me.”

  That’s not a question. But his heart sank. “I did.” He eased the car into the garage, cut the engine. A messy pile of boxes on the driver’s side contrasted with a heavy bag and weight set on the passenger’s, used by several Watchers before him.

  He was just one of a chain. If he was very careful, she’d never know she didn’t hurt him, and he could escape to his penance. Some other Watcher would arrive eventually, someone a little better for her.

  Nobody knew what made a Watcher bond. Some held the tanak had a hand in it, some thought it was chemistry, some bonded Lightbringers politely insisted it was fate or gods. It didn’t matter; all Caleb cared about was getting back to his atonement each night on patrol.

  Right?

  Jorie’s patient gaze was a weight against his shoulder, his cheek, his chest. “Did it hurt you?”

  Oh, Christ. Caleb struggled with falsity, tasted it, hot and acid against the back of his tongue, and gave up. The training just went too deep. You could lie all you wanted to yourself, but no Watcher would comfortably mislead a witch.

  Lying was the surest and shortest way back to whatever hell Circle Lightfall had rescued a Watcher from. And it made the tanak unhappy, too. “No.” Well, that good intention lasted all of thirty seconds. As per usual.

  “You know what that means.” Did she sound disappointed? Probably.

  It means I screwed up on my very first day on the job. I wasn’t supposed to let you know. I was supposed to finish out this rotation and get back on patrol where I belong. You’re something I don’t deserve. So he took the easy way out. “We’d better get you inside.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it?” She smoothed her skirt over her knees. “Am I such a disappointment?” The honest bafflement in her soft voice was almost as bad as the shadow of pain.

  Old, familiar anger at his own inadequacy rose. He bottled it, said nothing. The garage door finished its rumbling and halted, poised for descent.

  She didn’t give up, of course. “Where are you from?”

  A very dirty city with an underside you would know nothing about. But he had to give an answer; when a witch said jump you didn’t even ask how high. You just leapt and hoped it was enough. “Illinois.”

  “Which part?” Was she interested, or just making conversation?

  “Chicago.” And I’d really rather not say anything else about that.

  “Ah.” Like it confirmed a private hypothesis. At least she took pity on him then. “Let’s go inside. I’ll have a glass of wine. You don’t drink?”

  No Watcher does. “No.” He opened the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary, wincing when it reached the end of its swing and bounced. Great. Break her car. That’ll help. The sound of rain filled the garage, and he realized he hadn’t jabbed the button to shut the door yet.

  Because he knew, on some level, that tonight still had a few more nasty surprises up its sleeve. Which meant he needed to be outside the car and possibly the house, ready to meet them.

  “Caleb.” Quiet and firm, just the way she’d spoken to the stupid, brain-dead detective.

  How often did she let that fuck run right over her and talk her into performing a Seer’s vulnerable art out in the open?

  If I find out which Watchers allowed that, I’ll goddamn well have a little chat with them. The unsteady feeling behind his ribs wouldn’t quit. He stared at the windshield. Settle the fuck down, Caleb. Too much anger and you know what you’ll get.

  A one-way ticket right back to where you started.

  “What’s wrong?” The witch made a slight movement, as if she wanted to touch his shoulder and stopped herself just in time. “Can you tell me what’s bothering you so much?”

  No. I can’t. He stared at the back wall of the garage. Her washing machine and dryer stood off to one side. The car’s hood ticked and pinged, cooling down.

  “All right. If you want to talk, I’m here. Do you want some tea while I dose myself with Cabernet?” The gentle edge of amusement almost hid the hurt, and he suddenly felt like the lowest thing on the planet. She was only trying to help.

  He didn’t deserve a witch’s help.

  “Tea.” His voice didn’t want to work right. “Would be fine.” He levered himself out of the car.

  Caleb wasn’t looking, but he felt her smile like sunlight against his skin. She didn’t press further, just got out on her side and headed for the door into the house, skirting the weight set and the heavy bag. There was even a small CD player plugged into an extension cord, in case a Watcher liked music while he worked out.

  She moved like a choreographed nymph; her skirt swayed, its pattern of blue and green rippling. Her hair swayed too, water-gems caught in dark curls.

  My witch. And now she knows. Dammit.

  He was saved from further pointless chewing at himself by the unmistakable sensation of wrong, and close. His nape prickled and his entire body chilled before training took over, pinpointing the location and categorizing the sensation.

  Dark, close to her house. Hungry enough after all, and just what I expected. He closed the driver’s door with just enough force as the witch paused, looking over her shoulder. Her dark eyes were suddenly huge, pupils dilating, and he knew she felt it too.

  Caleb’s left hand closed around a knife hilt. “Get in the house, please.” There. That was polite enough, and calm too. “Close the garage door.”

  “What is it?” She was close enough to reach the button that would close the garage, but she hesitated.

  He turned his back on his witch and stalked for the driveway, the pelting hiss of rain taking on a new slippery urgency. “Don’t know yet.” But don’t worry, witch. Nothing Dark’s going to get you. Not while I’m around.

  “Caleb—”

  “Shut the door.” No time to be polite. He ducked out into the stinging rain and heard the garage door’s motor start.

  It was down her street, padding between circles of wet streetlamp light, something with claws and dangerous breath. The door rumbled down, slices of warm golden electric light thinning and vanishing. Layers of warding on his witch’s house shivered as he touched them, providing a last-minute flush of Power to keep them intact. Better safe than sorry.

  Cold rain dripped under his coat collar, slicked his hair, and tapped at his shoulders. Caleb reached the end of the driveway and paused, a knife hilt chilly under his rain-damp fingers.

  Something’s not right. This doesn’t feel like ordinary Dark. He went still, quiet and deadly next to the dripping laurel bush marking the edge of the yard. Invisible to normal eyes except for the blurred blotches of his face and hands, he was a beacon in red and black to anything with otherSight—Keep away, or I’ll bite.

  Or even, he thought, Beware of dog.

  A low snarl drifted between cold sheets of rain. Caleb stepped out, eyeing the street, and his right hand flashed up to clasp a sword hilt.

  But the Seeker had already launched itself, a low lethal bullet of a body with a silvery leash clasped to its unhealthy neck. It was one of the new kind, incubated in a human victim and peculiarly sensitive to a Watcher’s blacksteel knives.

  Even as Caleb crouched, his heartrate hiking as the tanak woke in a burst of coppery pain, dilating his own pupils and jacking his adrenaline balance to prepare him for combat, he realized what was wrong.

  Nobody’s holding that leash.

&nbs
p; Which meant he’d been drawn out by a Seeker, and the bigger threat—a Slayer—was somewhere else.

  Oh, shit.

  Saying Please

  HE HIT THE KITCHEN door so hard it almost shattered, flung wide and smacking the wall. Caleb drove the man down, shock grating through his wounded shoulder as they hit the tiled apron in a scrabble of water, blood, and cursing. His cursing, since the Slayer was deadly silent, twisting under rubbery skin like a viper as the parasite in him—one of a type even the Watchers hadn’t known where to classify last year—fought to escape the tanak’s grip.

  Oh, no you don’t. His fingers cramped, driving into flesh hard enough to bruise, and the knife blurred down with a sound like an axe sinking into soft wood. There was no cry of pain—these bastards fought silent. The Mindhealers said these Dominion fucks were infected with the parasites against their will.

  Caleb couldn’t see anyone sitting still for that kind of treatment. Unless it was a Watcher, getting ready for a tanak. A Watcher had a reason.

  Maybe this guy does too. The thought was gone in a flash; he was too busy for philosophy right now.

  The lean dark-haired Slayer thrashed, numbness blooming on the side of Caleb’s skull. Hot wetness coated his cheek, and his knee was going to ache for a few hours until the tanak could get around to healing the deeper ligaments. But he’d stopped the Slayer, at least.

  Or I’ve almost stopped him. Pay attention, Watcher. These bastards are tricky.