Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  She lifted her chin, putting on a brave face. “I’m all right.”

  You are not. He let it go, staying silent until they bumped into her driveway again. As soon as he brought the car to a halt inside the garage, she scrambled out, bolting like a rabbit.

  She knew better, she knew to let him clear the environment before opening her car door. She’d done it yesterday, for Christ’s sake.

  What did I do? He followed, slowly, and heard the phone cut off in mid-ring.

  Jorie had the landline to her ear again, slumped against the counter. “I just got home, I haven’t had a chance . . . The last thing I need is another electronic device to go haywire,” she said quietly, her shoulders high and tense, almost reaching her ears. “I’m not a cop, Neil. I don’t need to be on call twenty-four-seven.”

  Caleb heard a shadow of the cop’s voice through the phone’s electronic throat; keeping his ears from picking up the details was getting harder by the second. He could almost taste its wheedling tone, the rhythm of psychological pressure. It was only a short step from there to physical pushing, and that thought caused another flare of wine-dark, acrid fury through him.

  “I’ve been feeling it all day,” Jorie whispered. “I’m surprised it’s not on the news.”

  Caleb froze between one step and the next, watching her. On the news? Oh, that’s not good either.

  She scrubbed at her temples with trembling fingertips, a pained, unconscious motion. More silence from her, eyebrows drawing together. “When? Right now?” She must have received an affirmative. Her shoulders slumped, a long slow hopeless sigh escaping before Jorie shook her head slightly, shaking away indecision. “Of course you can.” A sharp inhaled breath, gathering strength, and her chin came up.

  Caleb’s chest hurt. It wasn’t the barb-wire pain of the tanak or leftover twinges from combat. This was different, raw, and completely new.

  What the hell is that? Was he having a heart attack? Watchers usually didn’t—the tanak took care of keeping the old arteries clear.

  “Bring the pictures with you, items, whatever you have.” Her chin was still up, tears gathering in her dark eyes. Another pause, as salt water welled up and spilled down the soft curve of her cheek. “I can’t do it there, Neil. I can’t Find someone under those conditions, I’ve told you.”

  Fury coiled at the base of Caleb’s spine. He could just guess what the man was trying to insist she do. Fucking cops. Give ’em an inch and they’ll take everything down to your ass; I should know. He took a deep breath, searching for calm. Stop thrashing. Figure out how to stop her, because she’s going to do something dangerous.

  “No, Neil.” Her tone was terribly sad. “Why do you keep asking? You know I can’t.”

  Another tear gathered in the other eye. She wiped it away impatiently, and Caleb’s chest crunched with pain again. Was he having some sort of coronary despite the tanak?

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll expect you, then. The front door will be unlocked, just like usual.” A wince—the cop had hung up on her. Caleb could hear the harsh click of disconnection.

  Next time, he was going to listen. To hell with privacy, he needed to be prepared.

  Jorie laid the cordless in its charging cradle with finicky care. “Neil’s coming over.” Her voice was a pale shadow of its husky, beautiful self. “I want to take a shower. Make sure the front door’s unlocked, will you?” Her fingers left the phone, unwillingly.

  “What did he say to you?” The words rasped in his throat. I’m not screaming. It’s another miracle.

  “Just the same thing. That he doesn’t want to bring me any more official documents. That he does his work in an office without mumbo-jumbo and the reason why I’m not allowed to . . .” She took a deep breath, tearing the elastic band free of her hair. Glossy dark curls tumbled down her back, and the kitchen window lightened as the clouds thinned. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to go take a shower.”

  The pain was high up on his left side, definitely in the region of his ticker. “Why do you let him treat you like that?” Shut up, Watcher.

  “He’s a good man,” she repeated over her shoulder, and was gone before he could gather himself enough to get into even more trouble.

  The unspoken last half of her sentence hung in the air. Unlike you, Watcher.

  What was he doing? Maybe he could use the peculiar mental pressure a Watcher could exert to make the cop leave her alone. It would even be satisfying to add a few terms and conditions to the push.

  Did you just think that? A clear-cut violation of the regs, unless you can find some way around it. His hands had curled into fists, and the kitchen window trembled gently, once, in its seating. A brief final burst of light faded as the rain returned, probably not anything to do with his mood but still absurdly fitting.

  “Caleb?”

  He looked up to find her leaning against the wall just outside the kitchen. Jorie’s eyes were wide and brimming with pain; her aura thinned even further, a bubble of achingly fragile light. “I’m sorry; I forgot to thank you for getting me home. It’s good to have a Watcher.”

  Then she peeled herself from the wall and went slowly down the hall toward the stairs.

  Caleb stared, his mouth just a little open in surprise. He shut it with a snap, his hands gone loose and easy now. His shoulders dropped, and the thrumming rage simmered away, turning over and going back to whatever uneasy hole it lived in while he did his work.

  It’s good to have a Watcher. Just like a Lightbringer, worried and kind, trying to soothe. She deserved a Watcher she could be proud of.

  All she had was him. Caleb waited, frozen, until the shower came on. The mental image of her under hot water was enough to make a new type of tension rise under his skin.

  Down, boy. Do your work. Unlock the front door and wait for the cop.

  While he was at it, he could think about how he was going to keep this witch from getting railroaded by said cop. He couldn’t break the regulations, but maybe they could be bent.

  Just a little.

  What are you thinking? That’s no way for a Watcher to behave.

  Well, even if he wasn’t a good Watcher he could at least be an effective one. Right?

  It was the first step down the primrose path. But if it kept this particular witch safe, there was no reason not to.

  Caleb got moving. Two steps later he had made up his mind, and by the time he unlocked the front door he was fully committed.

  He was a damned soul anyway. Might as well make it worth his while.

  Still Fresh

  HER HANDS REFUSED to stay still. They quivered even while she combed her hair, and the Finding snagged in her solar plexus twitching and jerking enough to make even her hair sway. Wet strings slid against her shoulders as she swept condensation from the mirror and saw a wan, dark-eyed witch in the mirror.

  Who is that woman who looks so terrified? Why, that’s me. And why, pray tell, did she look so fearful in the wash of pearly, rainy afternoon sunshine from the bathroom skylight?

  Because this is different. This is bad.

  She’d never passed out from the intensity of contact before. Her training was the best Circle Lightfall could provide, the result of a few hundred years of trial and error since Jeanne Tourenay had begun to gather other gifted women, banding together against the Crusade’s homicidal fury. It was Jeanne’s husband or lover—the old books were unclear—Gideon de Hauteville who had struck a bargain with a tanak and become the first Watcher, and the whole violent, impossible dance had started there.

  All ancient history, but it meant Jorie’s schooling in the quasi-invisible was the best available, especially with the recent renaissance in New Age books and occult shops sweeping the country.

  There was still so much they didn’t know, and the gifted were growing more power
ful—and more vulnerable—all the time.

  Caleb’s aura downstairs was motionless, a redblack tornado of tightly controlled magickal energy in the living room reminding anyone who cared to look that she wasn’t safe even here. Paradoxically, she was safer than anywhere else except possibly a safehouse because he was a Watcher.

  Her Watcher. But he was apparently so disappointed he couldn’t bring himself to admit her aura didn’t hurt him. Was it something about her or her talents, or her patience with Neil’s demands? Or some other deep-seated flaw?

  Maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe she did hurt him, and there was some other reason for his behavior. In that case, how on earth was she going to help him through the despair?

  Her house shields flushed with Power, the hurtful edge of Watcher magick closing around her like a warm blanket. It helped, blunting the force of the Finding’s pull.

  That had never happened before, either. Unsettling new experiences were crowding along fast and thick these days.

  Get dressed. Stop dithering.

  Right on cue, the shields shivered afresh and her front door opened. She was too far away to hear if Neil had knocked before coming in as he usually did. Still, it effectively shook her loose. Jorie whirled away from the mirror, holding the towel wrapped, and strode into her bedroom, looking for some decent clothes. She was going to freeze to death if she stood around whining into the mirror.

  Five minutes later, fully dressed and with her hair pulled back in a damp chignon, she paused on the stairs, listening. The rain had stopped threatening and finally settled over her neighborhood, little kisses on the roof.

  “How long you been around?” Neil’s tone was quiet and level. “Jorie goes through guys like you all the time. Nice enough, but chips on their shoulders big enough to park cars in.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Caleb sounded deceptively mild, too, but unheard static crackled under the words. The heat pump kicked on, pushing warm air through vents—had he turned the thermostat up? Afternoon was already on its downward slope; dusk came early in winter.

  “I’m just asking.” Neil had used the same technique to bait many a criminal in the past—that reasonableness, the Hey fellow have you thought of this?

  “It’s not going to change the answer.” Leather and cloth whispered as Caleb shifted his weight; the anger pouring out of him mounted. “Petty psych crap won’t work on me, either. Save it for Jorie.”

  “You got a problem with me, kid?” Neil was enjoying himself.

  “Call me kid again, Officer, and I might.”

  That’s enough. Jorie stamped down the stairs, through the hall, and into the living room. “Hello, Neil. Caleb, will you make some tea? Neil’s is the kava, it’s good for his nerves.” She could taste the set smile on her face, a lemony bitterness pulling up her cheeks. “I’ll have some chamomile, and you can have whatever you’d like. Thank you.”

  Caleb inclined his head briefly, his blue gaze passing over her in a swift arc. It was a Watcher’s response, checking her for damage, and absurdly comforting. He slid past, the anger easing; his shoulders sank just a little, and he was careful not to brush against her.

  Just like a Watcher. Give him something to do, and he calmed right down.

  Neil looked up from his habitual spot on the couch, leaning back with his hands laced behind his head and his legs spread out, an I belong here attitude he rarely showed. He didn’t smile. Little drops of water clung to his sandy hair, his jean-hems were wet clear through, and his shoes were soaked. His tie was nowhere in evidence, too.

  This degree of dishevelment wasn’t usual. Not for him. And if a case had heated up to the degree that he was forgetting his tie, where was his partner? Sol would make sure Neil ate and at least tried to sleep.

  This doesn’t look good. Jorie decided to head off any trouble over Caleb’s presence at the pass. “I heard it.” She sounded strained even to herself. A wet slap of rain against the window filled her brief pause, cold and slithering. “There’s another body; I felt the shock.”

  Color drained from Neil’s face and he sat up, dropping his hands. “You’re sure?” The question was rhetorical. He of all people knew not to doubt her—despite his odd insistence on working in his cluttered office this time.

  She nodded. “It’s a fresh site. I can lead you to where the victim was taken, at least.” From there it would be the usual work, following the trail as far as she could, Neil and Sol working other angles depending on what she found.

  But Trevignan wasn’t here and Neil only sagged back into the couch, closing his eyes and sighing. “Jesus.”

  What’s the matter? “It’s still fresh. I can probably take you straight to the body once I get to the initial contact site; the pull is very strong.”

  He still didn’t look at her, his throat working as he swallowed, and she began to get a very bad feeling. His shoulders were damp, and his left knee—it looked like he’d knelt somewhere, probably examining evidence at a site.

  In that case, what was he doing here?

  “I don’t know how to tell you this.” He patted his pockets without opening his eyes and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one up, and Jorie, restraining the urge to roll her eyes, cast around for something to use as an ashtray. “I’m off the case, and damn near off my job too. Because I think something, and if it’s true, well . . .”

  “Off the case? But why?”

  “I couldn’t let you take the files because I stole them, Jorie. I thought you could . . . I’m technically off the case since I opened my big mouth. The killer’s too smart and slippery, and if we don’t have a body or any fucking forensics, we don’t really have a case. I said I thought he might be a cop.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth. “Among other things.”

  What other things? Jorie’s hand fell to her side. She made it to her grandmother’s rocking chair and sank down, her knees suspiciously soft. “You’ve been off the case? Since before you called me?”

  “Yeah. I opened my mouth to Marilyn Geddoes. She’s been trying . . . well, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Geddoes.” The name sounded familiar, and she had it after a moment. “You mean, like Channel Twelve Marilyn Geddoes? But why—” As soon as she said it, intuition served up the answer, confirmed by the slight flush spreading up Neil’s cheeks. “Oh. Well. There it is, then.”

  “She’s the one that brought me the initial cases.” He shrugged. “Guess it was just too good to wait on and she said something to the Loot. Or something.”

  Given your usual spleen when it comes to members of the press, Neil, this is a banner occasion. He usually went for brunettes, when he could be bothered to date at all. His ex-wife, however, had been blonde, and so was Geddoes.

  Jorie searched for something diplomatic to say, settled for not wincing when he fished out a blue plastic lighter from his breast pocket and lit a cigarette.

  He exhaled a long cloud of tar-laden smoke and hopelessness. “So now I’m off the case. They don’t even think there is a case. I thought you’d have something, it’s why I pushed you. I just . . .” He made another short movement, contained frustration turning his aura bright red for a moment. “I was so goddamn close. And I don’t even know what I’m thinking with some of this. It’s just so goddamn weird.”

  That was unsettling, too. Cases were never weird for Neil, they were odd or fucked-up.

  Weird was the term he used for what Jorie did.

  “All right.” The sound of movement in her kitchen was comforting. At least now they were making some progress. “What do we do now?”

  “Weren’t you listening? I’m off the case.” But his eyelids came up a fraction, and he peered at her.

  And you’re here. Plus, if I know you, you’ve found a way to get copies of those files. “Since when does that bother you?” Her eyebrows arc
hed just as Caleb came in, carrying two mugs. He handed one to her, carefully turning it so she could take the handle, then crossed the room and set the other one down with restrained precision on the table at Neil’s elbow, where a small cut-glass dish would serve as an ashtray.

  It wasn’t like Neil to smoke in the house, either. Not since the Alton Heights bomber case, all three of them using Jorie’s living room as a place to hide from the press while they tossed around ideas, speculations, as Jorie tried to find something, anything, she could use to Find the perpetrator. Going back to the safehouse each evening, sleeping there because she was between Watchers, pacing the pretty suite they’d given her while she paged through the copied reports searching for a single detail, a single thread to follow into the labyrinth—

  The bomber had struck four more times in separate, crowded public places before Jorie found that thread. Each bomb was a masterpiece stuffed full of shrapnel, and the cries of the wounded sometimes still echoed through her dreams at night.

  Caleb cast one sharp look at the burning cigarette and stalked away, disapproval evident in every line. The Watcher settled near the door to the hallway, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. His glamour was thicker than usual, hiding his weapons, but even Neil would notice he was keeping his coat on. Caleb’s hair hung in his eyes, and failing light cast shadows under his cheekbones.

  He might look sleepy, but he was tense as a bowstring. Ready to snap.

  Jorie settled herself in the chair and blew across her tea. The Finding twitched again, this time deep in her belly, but now that events were in motion it could be satisfied. “All right,” she repeated. “There’s a new body, I can find it or the initial contact site. Will that get you back on the case? Who’s working on it now?”