Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “There is no case, but Mulroney and Dutch have one or two of the disappearances.” Neil’s lip curled, and he took another drag. He wouldn’t drink the tea, but at least it was there.

  You couldn’t force a stubborn man to reason. All you could do was offer.

  “Oh.” No love lost there. They were pushing to have me arrested during the Compton case, too. She sighed. Finding the shadowy slayer of the Compton family hadn’t been easy, and her Watcher at the time—Hanson, who had talked her into the Volvo—had been fully prepared to go to the Council with news of Jorie’s side work before she could reason him down. “Still, if we find another body, one with some possible forensic value . . .” Patiently leading Neil through the chain of logic was so familiar, but it never felt comfortable.

  “What good will that do? They won’t even admit we’ve got a case here.”

  “Why not? Besides, having them go after us will bleed off resources that could be used for other things.” It will cause suspicion, and make things even harder. Of course he would have suspected she’d suggest what logically followed. “But if there’s not enough of a case for your lieutenant, and the Terrible Two are blocking you, there’s just one option. We’ll have to catch him ourselves.” Him was an assumption, but then again, most of the time it was the correct one.

  She hadn’t Found a female murderer yet. Whether it was statistics or the limitations of Jorie’s cursed talent was an open question.

  Caleb shifted restlessly; Neil shook his head, exhaling smoke from both nostrils like a dragon. “Goddammit, Jorie, the last thing I—”

  Jorie set her chin, wondering if there were dragons somewhere in the quasi-invisible world. Circle Lightfall’s researchers were divided on the question, mostly because of the problem of definitions; you could call a garter snake a dragon, given the right criteria. “Why did you come here, then? Whether or not you said something to a reporter, whether or not you’re in dutch with your lieutenant, it’s all immaterial. Whoever this man is, we know he’s killing, he’s killed again, and you’re here to see if I can Find something that can help you stop him. So go stand on the porch if you’re going to smoke that dreadful thing. Then come in, drink your tea for once, and tell me everything. Especially why you used the word weird.” She leveled her most serious look at him, ignoring the way Caleb shifted again. “Now go on. Let’s not waste time.”

  Neil must have been at the end of his rope. Because, for once, he did exactly as she asked.

  Complicit

  AS SOON AS NEIL stepped out the door the Watcher’s aura deepened, still tightly disciplined but obviously unhappy. “Ma’am?”

  Jorie rocked slightly, listening to water sweeping the roof. How many nights had she heard that soft, soothing music against so many different walls while Neil smoked and Sol stared into a cup of cooling tea, thinking over a case? “You don’t have to help. I swore the other Watchers to secrecy; I can understand if you don’t want to be bound.” She took a sip from her mug. The Finding mounted inside her bones, running through her marrow; she breathed deeply. Discipline was the key to surviving a Seer’s gift; Dorinda had said it time and time again.

  You have been given a Talent. Don’t let it rule you if you can help it. The willow bends before the wind, but it doesn’t stop being a willow—rooted deep in the earth.

  Caleb stilled, a Watcher’s silence like a living thing. A breath of cigarette smoke hung in the air, the ghost of Neil’s presence. Rain tapped and fingered her home’s exterior, whispered like the Finding. It wasn’t that she thought Circle Lightfall would be angry, precisely—she’d always been careful, and each Watcher she’d worked a case with had, in the end, understood.

  They kept her secrets, and she kept theirs. None of them liked to admit they’d been in despair; male pride was occasionally useful as leverage. She finally looked up from her sunshine-yellow mug. “Go ahead. Spit it out.”

  Amazingly, he didn’t begin with what every other Watcher had when faced with this situation. Instead, he studied her intently, and when he spoke, it was soft and level. “You’re pale.”

  It could mean anything from I don’t like him to If I decide you’re in danger, I’m going to do something about it. She suddenly wished the Watchers weren’t so damn reticent and obedient.

  Or did she just wish this Watcher wasn’t so goddamn restrained and disdainful at the same time? She settled for a noncommittal response. “I’m feeling a little pale. Yes.”

  “What can I do?”

  Another novelty. Most of the time, they started with Ma’am, I’ll have to report this and, less often, Are you sure about this, ma’am? Instead, Caleb sounded . . . well, not exactly repentant, but not angry either. Calm, and thoughtful, and genuinely concerned.

  He simply asked what he could do, and her relief was intense but possibly short-lived. Well, you could stop playing “big dog, little dog” with Neil. But he’s difficult to get along with, even for Sol. You wouldn’t be the first person to want to heave him through a window. “For right now, just . . . try to be diplomatic.”

  “No promises.” A ghost of a smile touched Caleb’s mouth, another first. “This wasn’t in your file.”

  “I suppose not.” Her conscience pricked, hard. “You can go to the phone and make a report right now, if you like. I’ll understand if you don’t want to be involved with—”

  “Oh, I’m involved.” He didn’t move, but his tone sharpened, low and fierce. His gaze flickered at the foyer, as if he suspected Neil was returning, but the front door didn’t open. “I’m completely involved, ma’am.”

  That’s good. Her conscience pinched again. Now she’d made him complicit. “For the love of Heaven, Caleb, call me Jorie. It’s my name.”

  “Yes m—uh, Jorie. Is he always this way?”

  She nodded. Her wet hair was a cold weight against her nape. “Always. He’s truly dedicated, though, and—”

  “Why did he leak to a reporter, then?”

  It startled her, and her tea sloshed. The Watcher shrugged, the dual hilts rising over his shoulders moving as well, a brief coordinated movement settling into disciplined stillness again. Caleb’s eyes glowed blue, half-lidded under his hair, and his mouth was set, not grim but thoughtful.

  So Jorie took a sip, composing herself and almost burning her tongue. “Well, if they were discussing—”

  He interrupted her again, generally something a Watcher avoided doing. “Cops hate the press. Even if they were screwi—ah, dating—a guy like him doesn’t just let something slip. Maybe he was trying to bring some pressure, and it blew up in his face.”

  It’s certainly possible. Neil was usually painfully honest, though, and in the worst of all possible ways to boot. It wasn’t like him not to openly admit a backfire in tactics. There was much more here than was readily apparent. “He’s usually so honest, though. I can’t think of a single reason why he would do such a thing.”

  “I just thought I’d bring it up.” He leaned back into the wall. “And other Watchers didn’t put this in the file because . . .”

  She couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or irritated he’d finally asked a familiar question. She hated this part of explaining. “Because I asked them not to. They agreed largely because if I don’t Find, the pull gets stronger until I start physically throwing myself at whatever’s in the way. There are other considerations, but that one’s the largest.”

  “Ah.” Caleb absorbed this, then surprised her again. “More tea?”

  “No, thank you.” A worm of doubt wriggled in the middle of her head, warring briefly and uneasily with the Finding.

  “Something bothering you?” It was the most forthcoming he’d been. It was only his second day on duty, but the term baptism by fire certainly applied.

  “Just the Finding.” Her smile felt shaky; it might slip free of her face and crash on
the floor at any moment. “It’s . . . loud.”

  Caleb peeled away from the wall, stalked efficiently across the space separating them, and promptly sank to one knee, examining her intently. He even stripped his hair back with stiff fingers, freeing his nose and those blue, blue eyes. “Can I help?”

  You’re certainly turning over a new leaf, aren’t you. But that wasn’t fair. She dredged up more of a smile, suddenly grateful for the stain of his aura and the hilts over his shoulders. As much as he might disagree with her methods, a Watcher would never let any real harm come to her. “I don’t think so.” You bolstering the shields makes it fade for a while, but the pull won’t stop. It never does. “Though I’m really grateful you’re offering.”

  “I’m your Watcher.” Plain and stark, as if she needed reminding. “All right?”

  Her heart wrung against itself. It was, sooner or later, where they always ended up. They thought they were so awful, these quiet, conscience-scarred men. And yet every single one of them had helped, in his own way and to the absolute limit of his ability. “All right.”

  The front door opened and Neil stamped in. Caleb rose gracefully to his feet and was behind Jorie’s chair as the detective stalked into the living room, more water clinging to his sandy hair. “It’s pouring out there.”

  “Well, this is winter, and in the Northwest too.” Jorie tried for arch, level amusement. “Now, sit down and tell me everything.”

  Lie to My Witch

  IT WAS DIFFICULT to stand still while the detective, despite his earlier protests, spread manila files over the witch’s coffee table, and even more difficult for Caleb to keep his mouth shut once the tissue of untruths and half-truths began.

  “First one missing.” The detective tapped one folder with a blunt finger. “Second.” Another. “Third. All in different parts of the city. No pattern I can figure out. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth.”

  Caleb’s witch said nothing. She sat on the couch, electric light glowing in her hair, her large dark eyes still and sad.

  The blond cop leaned back, darting a glance at her closed, motionless face. “Again, no pattern we can find. No witnesses, no suspect.” His voice dropped, turned confidential. “About all I’ve got is a hunch. A theory.” That was probably a half-lie—it sounded like one. “Nobody could be that clean, no witnesses when the kids are snatched, nothing. There’s not even any fiber evidence, and the marks on the one body we’ve got—” The cop caught himself. He ran a hand over his thinning hair, and the anticipation on him was like the fume of falsehood, a heavy shimmering coat. “Someone knows what to do. To destroy evidence.”

  It didn’t take any of a Watcher’s psychic ability to hear falsity. Caleb had listened to cops lying before, it came with the territory—and he’d done it himself more times than he cared to count. Now he wondered how often this particular cop lied to her.

  And if she ever suspected.

  “I see,” Jorie murmured. She leaned forward on the couch, uncurling herself, and her hands flew. When she finished, the folders were in a different order. “That’s how they died. But there are more before this one, and in between these.” She pushed aside a single file. “That’s the only one not involved.” She turned milk-pale, and her dark eyes glazed. The thin sparkling luminescence of her aura intensified, and Caleb twitched, halting with an effort that almost made him sweat.

  It would take so little effort to dump the cop outside in his car and push him, or warn him not to come back. Let the chips fall where they may—she might send him back to the safehouse in disgrace, but at least it would solve the immediate problem.

  Unfortunately, as soon as Caleb was gone and a new Watcher was here, the cop might return, even if pushed. And if other Watchers lent themselves to this lunacy, she could end up hurt or worse.

  It was a dilemma.

  So I just wait and see? Maybe that’s what the other Watchers were doing. A Seer’s compulsion generally overrode everything else, and it was common for the pull to take revenge upon the witch’s physical frame if it wasn’t followed. Still, she’d managed to swear every single other Watcher to secrecy and quietly gone about hunting down . . . what? Murderers?

  How many? Caleb’s guts were sick-sloshing with cold at the thought, and not just because of the danger. There were hideous things in the world, Dark and otherwise, and no Lightbringer should ever be allowed near them.

  “All right.” The cop leaned forward too, eagerness in every line of his body. “Makes sense with the timeframe. So, there’s other bodies somewhere. You got any idea where?”

  Caleb had seen that look before. He twitched again, brought himself under control. He shut his eyes for just a moment, his attention spreading out in concentric circles. Nothing amiss, the wards on the house humming along.

  “Yes.” His witch’s aura thinned even further. The sparkling at the edges coalesced.

  A frown pulled at the stone mask he kept his face behind; he killed it. Now that he was concentrating, it was more than evident something was pulling at her. A braided, gossamer cable he could almost-See with the strange inner sense the tanak gave every Watcher—not making you psychic, but damn close—stretching as a heavy weight pulled at the other end.

  What the hell is that?

  “There’s another one right now.” Quiet words, almost dreamy except for the undertow of pain. The softness made the agony stand out, sharp rocks under flowing water. “It’s very fresh. And damp, where he is. Very cold.”

  Caleb moved, whisper-quiet, a Watcher’s fierce hunting silence folding over him. The cable dragging at his witch drew closer, closer still.

  “Paper,” Jorie whispered, and there was a rustle. The detective already had a legal pad and pen, handed them over. Jorie’s eyes were wide and unseeing. She tossed the pen’s cap aside; the tiny plastic thing bounced off the table and skittered off onto the carpet. It was an action utterly unlike the tidy, gentle witch he’d seen so far.

  The pen’s nib dug into paper. Rain swept the walls as afternoon failed entirely into dusk. Caleb glanced at the cop.

  Neil leaned forward, avid, his mouth a little open. There was a spark in his bloodshot eyes Caleb recognized.

  It was a man getting exactly what he wanted.

  The fury was back. It circled, snarling; Caleb’s hand flashed out and closed around the humming rope, callused fingers sensing something fractionally more substantial than air, less than water. It was resilient under his touch, a thickened harpstring.

  Jorie gasped. Caleb’s hand tightened around the string. The pen scratched furrows under the murmur of intensifying rain. Another slight sound rose from Jorie’s lips, a tuneless tune like the one she hummed while loading the dishwasher. A very musical witch, indeed.

  Don’t. You don’t know what it’ll do to her if you break that line. Instinct fought with duty. The cable was pulling hard, humming with vile force, and her aura grew even thinner, its light draining away as if she was in shock.

  His fingers closed in a convulsive movement, fist snapping shut, disrupting the invisible cord. Jorie let out a hurt little cry, the pad spilling from her lap. The line resounded, and a flood of knife-sharp images slammed through Caleb’s head.

  Claws and wet black oozing tentacles, blood loosed from flesh, choked cries and twisted acts, horrible things no witch should ever see. Wet concrete with smoking blood splashed in high arcs, a mattress with a heavy pulsing stain in the middle, cries in the darkness, and a foulness so deep and disgusting, it turned his stomach into an icy knot and roused the tanak in his bones.

  Christ how does she stand it—

  Caleb was barely aware of his knees hitting the floor. The shock jolted in his shoulders and he toppled, choking on the smell, dear God the reek of it, thick-rotten-disgusting, full of pale wriggling things—

  “—help then shut up, Neil!” Jorie’s voice. Light, a
lamp kindled in the hideous darkness, driving away the terror. “Stay away!”

  Then the other sensation hit him, rolling down Caleb’s skin like spiked oil.

  It wasn’t pain. Pain he could have pushed aside, used to spur himself to redoubled effort. No, this was something else, and he drowned in it, his hands flickering up and crushing as barbed, honeyed pleasure roared down his spine and woke up something in him dead a long time ago, brought back to stinging life in a single blinding instant.

  “Caleb.” Jorie’s voice, soft and breathless. “Calm down. You’re hurting me.”

  It wasn’t right. That quiet, lovely voice shouldn’t say that. He came back to himself, blinking, the world swimming. His hands loosened, and he found himself clasping two warm, slender wrists.

  “Jesus Christ,” Neil whispered. “What the fuck is he, Jorie?”

  “He’s helping, dammit.” She sounded truly sharp and irritated for the first time, and while Caleb liked her snapping at the cop, he wasn’t at all sure he liked being on the floor or his witch dealing with any unpleasantness. “Stay over there. If he decides you’re a threat—”

  That was the wrong thing to say; the good detective took offense. “A threat? What the fuck?”

  “Stay over there!” Her voice rose, and Caleb’s eyes started working again. The blurring receded; he squashed the idea that he might have liked it to stay for a few more moments to insulate him from whatever he’d just done.

  Jorie. He had both of her hands caught in his, her knees were under his head, and the touch of her skin was a river of heat hitting right below the belt and spreading.

  Oh, shit.

  Caleb blinked again. Steady, Watcher. Be very cool. That’s your witch. His grip on her wrists eased. He stared up at her face, wondering at the shadows of sleeplessness under her eyes and the fever-spots high up on flour-pale cheeks. Even tired, wan, and shaking, she was impossibly beautiful. “Easy there,” she murmured. “Just calm down. Everything’s all right.”