Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Eat.” Jorie put a plate across from her spot at the table, gesturing him into the chair. A mound of crispy golden hash browns, scrambled eggs, and a small mountain of tangled bacon slices in varying stages of doneness leered at Caleb. Whole-wheat toast, buttered and sliced diagonally.

  After what he’d done, she was feeding him.

  “Um,” he managed, staring at the food. His fingers felt a little swollen; it was cold outside and the tanak was still pumping extra heat through his limbs to make him ready for combat. His hair was still damp—a turnaside worked for a little while, but the persistent drizzling rain in this part of the world ate right through. He could almost feel the wrinkles on his fingertips.

  “I’m a fairly decent cook, or so every Watcher’s told me. I don’t know how you like your bacon, so I gave you a choice.” She stepped briskly around the counter separating dining room from kitchen, dark curls bouncing, and fiddled with the burbling coffeemaker. She was almost lost in a chunky green wool sweater and long black skirt, pushing her sleeves up with unconscious grace. “And if you wanted your eggs other than scrambled, you should’ve been here to speak up. No, don’t apologize. Eat first.”

  He found his fork and took a mouthful of hash browns. They needed Tabasco and pepperjack cheese, but other than that, they were damn good.

  It felt odd to be at a table again instead of gulping down whatever was handy on his way out to patrol, or living off the released energy from killing Dark while sweeping the city. His stomach had almost forgotten what food was for.

  She brought two cups of coffee, set them both down, and swung back around the corner again. Caleb took a huge mouthful of piping-hot eggs and found a large lump in his throat blocking the way.

  Chew and swallow. That’s how we do it. It was so different than the charge of living off bloodshed and agony, he wasn’t sure he trusted it anymore.

  Especially when all he could do was just sit here and wait for the axe to fall. How was a man supposed to eat with that hanging over him?

  Jorie brought her own plate out—no bacon, and different toast. Sugar and cream in her coffee, and a glass of milk. “Now.” She dropped gracefully into her chair; the smudges of sleeplessness under her dark eyes taunted him. “Just so you know, you’re not being sent back in disgrace. Last night was unfortunate, and we’ll talk about how to—Caleb?”

  He hunched over his plate like an inmate, the fork clutched in his fist. The lump in his throat was still there. His gaze was fastened on her slim, beautiful throat, where the pulse beat steadily. Her aura was just as deep green as ever, the golden fringes sparkling with pain though the invisible cable had vanished.

  Caleb reached for the coffee cup, took a huge scalding gulp. It scorched all the way past the rock in his throat. He almost choked, and the thought of spraying coffee all over the witch’s clean, pretty table and linen placemats pushed the rock in front of it, down the slippery slope. Both plopped into his stomach at roughly the same time, and he suppressed a very impolite belch.

  “’Sgood,” he said, hot water brimming in his eyes. The coffee gurgled, splashed, and decided to stay down. “Very good.”

  “Really?” She sounded pleased.

  He made a vaguely affirmative noise, stared down at his plate again. There was just no way to avoid it.

  I’m going to have to eat all of this.

  Jorie applied herself to her own plate, and breakfast passed in an almost-companionable silence. Dawn strengthened in the windows, pearly rain-washed light spilling through glass and losing itself in the glow of incandescent bulbs. It smelled pretty close to heaven, between the coffee and the cooking and the warm spiced perfume from his witch.

  Caleb slid a quick, careful glance over the table. She was studying her mug, frowning at blue-glazed earthenware. The way her lower lip pulled down, her eyelashes lowered, and the curls fell forward over her face all conspired to make her the picture of a witch who needed some rest but was determined to do something foolish instead.

  He’d Watched a couple of troublesome witches, the kind who went out looking for bits of the world to save. So far, she was shaping up to be the most committed to that notion.

  I never had such an easy witch, Rust had said. Now Caleb wondered if the other Watcher had been paying attention.

  He had to force himself not to hunch again, not to shovel it in like they did in prison, and not to simply give a token tooth-crunch before swallowing. Chewing was good. There was orange juice, tart against his tongue. The world began to look a little less gray and hopeless.

  What’s she going to do? He started sneaking more glances at the woman across the table. Unfortunate. She called last night “unfortunate.” Instead of a complete goddamn catastrophe.

  Well, she was the witch. He was just the stupid, trigger-happy, cannon-fodder Watcher.

  “You must be hungry,” she said mildly, and he grabbed for his coffee cup again, draining everything including the dregs. “You never said if you wanted cream or sugar, so—”

  “Black.” He forced himself to sit upright once more, ready for the firing squad. Maybe this was just the last meal for the condemned. “Thank you.” The words were rusty.

  Her smile was still like sunlight, a warm gold glow much better than the paleness through the window. The rain dribbled to a halt. His head came up as dawn settled more firmly over the city. The subconscious loosening at the base of his neck told him the worst danger—night, the Dark coming out to play between skyscrapers and deep in the alleys—was past for a little while.

  Every Watcher was a little easier in his skin during the day.

  “I think we’re making progress.” Still in that mild, calm, even tone, and still she smiled, a balm against his raw nerves. “And you’re just about finished demolishing that. Do you want some more hash browns?”

  “No ma’am.” He caught himself. “Jorie.”

  “Miracles do happen.” Her laugh, while tired, was pure music. She liked tea, but most witches in the Western Hemisphere wanted java in the mornings. Some thought it was genetic. “All right, then. I’ll get some more coffee, and we’ll have a chat.”

  Oh, God. His stomach turned to a fist around everything he’d eaten, and he found now he could barely remember what he’d put in his mouth.

  She brought their mugs back and settled in her chair, pushing her plate away. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  He had to replay the question inside his head before he understood. “I was assigned. I—”

  “You’re here to be treated for despair.” She cupped her hands around her mug to warm them. Of course she’d feel the cold; she was a lacy, pretty hothouse plant. Not a weed like him, used to cracks and harsh weather. “I think part of your . . . trouble, and the way you’re reacting, might have something to do with that. You’re further along in despair than anyone guessed. You hide it so well.”

  Despair? Hell no, not now. I don’t want to die, I have too much to do. He decided against touching his coffee mug. The tanak burned right through caffeine the way it burned through poisons, and his stomach was turning into a ball of acid anyway.

  “I’m wondering if your . . . reaction to me is because I’ve treated so many Watchers for despair.” Jorie’s shoulders straightened under thick green wool, taking back a familiar burden. “The best thing would be to take you back to the safehouse for intensive treatment by a specialist.” She lifted one slim hand as he opened his mouth.

  Quiet, Watcher. He clicked his teeth together, hard.

  “We can do that,” she continued, softly. “If we do, I want it clear that I’m not going to be bringing yesterday to anyone’s attention, whether or not you put my work with Neil in my file. There’s no need. All right?” She studied him, and the naked hope and kindness shining from her face was enough to ram a bolt of hot pain through his chest.

 
Jesus. What was it about her that made him feel like he was having a coronary all the time?

  You know what it is. She’s your witch. Your one chance to make all this shit worthwhile, and all you can think of is throwing it away.

  What would happen to her if he did?

  Silence stretched between them while he worked it around in his head. She was considering sending him back. He could return to endless patrol and let her think it was just some fluke that didn’t rub acid along his nerve endings when she touched him. He could let her wait for another Watcher to bond with, maybe one a little gentler. The trouble was, a gentler Watcher might not protect her as well. Might let that goddamn cop Neil—or someone else—take advantage of her.

  And that was something Caleb couldn’t allow. She needed a Watcher who wouldn’t let that happen; she needed a complete and total bastard.

  In short, Jorie needed him.

  “Caleb?” she prompted. The hurt was camouflaged under softness.

  Now he was in a hell of a tangle. She was all ready to send him back, so he could return to the front lines and get himself killed like he should, like he deserved. Only she thought she wasn’t his witch. He’d completely failed at hiding his response to her, and now . . .

  “I’m not in despair.” He lifted his chin, stared at her. “You’re my witch.”

  There. It was done. The ache in his chest eased, as if he’d spat out a long-term, crippling poison like the Thains used to coat their blades with. The feeling was so new he froze, trying to pin it down. Maybe it was the food?

  “We don’t know. Not for sure.” Jorie looked so hopeful, dark eyes wide and her mouth a soft curve. “I just think maybe we should—”

  “Jorie.” The words bolted free. “You. Are. My. Witch.” He still held himself stiffly, his hands on the edge of the table. His fingers tensed.

  “Well.” She took a single, small sip of coffee, and nodded. “That’s that, then.”

  Of all the responses he’d expected, this was the last. He realized he was gripping the table too tightly as the wood groaned, and forced his hands to loosen.

  “I, ah.” He had to clear his throat. “You. Need someone. A Watcher who won’t let them . . . take advantage of you. But what you’ve got is me.” And I am going to make damn sure you don’t get hurt. Ever.

  “Them?” She looked confused for a moment, and it was sweet to think he could clear up any mystery, say something that would make it absolutely plain as day. “You mean Neil?”

  “Anyone.” Caleb thought it over, nodded sharply. “Anyone.”

  “Well, that narrows it down a bit.” Gentle amusement, like the soft scent of spring through half-open bedroom windows, and he wondered what she’d look like in shorts and a T-shirt, gardening in summer. She pushed up her sleeves again and stood, reaching to gather their plates. Even the shape of her wrist was built for maximum aesthetic effect, beautifully delicate architecture. “Now, go clean up. I want to get started.”

  “Get started on what?” He cursed himself as soon as the words were out. It was never a good time to question a witch, but right after she’d just overlooked a major infraction was a particularly bad time.

  And he’d only been here what, three days, starting on the fourth? It already felt like a lifetime.

  Jorie just smiled, a hopeful tremulous look that gave him that weird feeling in his chest again. This time it was less sharp, and more, well, unsteady.

  Vulnerable. He wasn’t quite sure if he liked it.

  “We’re going to the zoo.”

  “The zoo.” What the hell? But she was standing up and clearing the rest of the dishes, so he hurried upright as well, collecting what he could to help. “Okay.”

  “Stop that.” She took his plate with a swift glance that warned him not to protest. “You go get cleaned up completely, and dry off. I’ll put a stronger turnaside on you, too. It’s going to rain all day.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Caleb stood, his hands dangling uselessly. He heard her hum as she started to load the dishwasher. Rattling plates, silverware, the soft melody of a witch at work.

  Okay. Great. Going to the zoo. What the hell for?

  He had no idea what had just happened, other than him blowing his cover and making an absolute idiot of himself.

  Get cleaned up, she says, because it’s going to rain today. Going to the zoo. Does that even make sense?

  Finally, he decided didn’t care. Everything else was immaterial; the important part was the “we.” She could do just about whatever she liked, as long as she kept using we.

  And Caleb would keep her safe.

  Unimaginative

  HEAVY, LOWERING clouds parted for a few minutes as he opened the Volvo’s passenger door. Jorie slid out, a chill wet wind tugging at her hair, and blinked against sudden sunny brightness edging every dripping surface. If it was an omen, it was a good one. There were four bright-yellow buses in the parking lot, and he wondered who would send kids on a field trip in this weather.

  Still, if you waited for clear skies in this part of the country, you wouldn’t get anywhere.

  “Come on.” Caleb’s witch dug in her sage-green canvas satchel, coming up with a pair of sunglasses. “It’ll get wet again soon.”

  “Umbrella?” There was one in the trunk, a giant golf-sized number with a wicked spike at its crown. You could probably even use it as a weapon, if you had nothing else.

  You could use anything if you were motivated enough. That was a lesson learned before he was a Watcher, and it hadn’t gone away.

  “We have turnasides. Only tourists use umbrellas around here.” Jorie slid the shades on, and now she looked like a slumming movie star. Or maybe only he would see her that way. The tanak’s terrible low grinding agony in his bones retreated to a distant thunder, soothed by her nearness. The urge to catch her wrist, smooth his fingers over her shoulder—oh, it was a whole new set of temptations, and the penalties for a misstep weren’t just dying.

  Dying he could handle, probably. Being sent back to the safehouse in disgrace, bearing the tanak’s frustrated fury at being denied her presence, was a whole different ball of wax. Worst of all would be the quiet disappointment on her face, Caleb decided. She wouldn’t remonstrate, and she wouldn’t raise her voice.

  And of course he wouldn’t go back to the safehouse quietly. If it came to a choice between damning himself and leaving her unprotected, it was no contest; he was damned anyway.

  Might as well lean into it, as the saying went.

  “Caleb?” Jorie halted, pushing a curl behind her ear. Half her hair was pulled back and braided to keep it out of her face, but most of it resisted confinement with every step. “You all right?”

  Snap out of it. He nodded, shaking himself back into alertness. He was well in position for bodyguard work, habit taking over, but that was no excuse.

  She had a pair of very good engineer boots, and managed to step almost as lightly as a Watcher. It was probably all the dancing, and he wanted to ask how long she’d been doing that. It was normal for a Watcher to wonder about his witch; in training you were kept too busy to think about it, but once you were out on patrol the fantasy kept you company on long nights when the Dark didn’t want to stick its nose out. Or it was a flashing, transitory comfort when you were wounded almost too badly to stand.

  If you could stand, you could fight. Hell, you could fight from your knees if you had to.

  When I get my witch. . . . Oh, you couldn’t say it, because no soul-eaten bearer of black rune-chased knives deserved even half a chance. You didn’t get a tanak and a ticket to this whole violent, impossible merry-go-round by being a good man, or a decent one.

  But you could think about it all you wanted. You could brood on just how beautiful your witch was likely to be, just how good it was likely t
o feel. It didn’t approach the reality, or maybe Caleb was just unimaginative. In any case, it was stupid; plenty of Watchers died before they got a chance to bond.

  Stupid or not, he suspected every Watcher couldn’t help but dream.

  Jorie paused at admissions, paying for both of them and thanking the girl in the booth with a megawatt smile. She set off again, chin up and her stride lengthening.

  The zoo’s entrance was deserted, though sharp ears could pick up motion and excited voices in the near distance. He wanted to ask what they were doing here, but it wasn’t necessary. For once, he was right where he should be, trailing a witch who stopped on a long concrete walkway sloping between buildings too bulky to be anything but prisons.

  “I hate it here,” she muttered, and glanced in either direction as if looking for something.

  Then why did you come? He couldn’t ask, but she’d feel his attention sharpening and know he was paying attention. Or maybe she wouldn’t, distracted by her goal this morning, so he decided perhaps a noncommittal noise was in order.

  Just to let her know she wasn’t alone.

  Her aura flashed, its edges fringing into gold. He knew that flash, and began to get a very bad feeling about this little trip. “Ma—I mean, Jorie?”

  “Hm?” Jorie peered over the rims of her shades. The sun slid behind a thin white screen of cloud; thicker grey waited on every side to swallow it. “I just don’t like seeing anything in a cage, that’s all.”

  Did she think I was asking? He couldn’t figure out how to phrase the real question respectfully enough. What the hell are you doing? I don’t like this, even if it’s during the day.

  Jorie set her feet and swayed slightly, leaning first right, then left. Monkey House, one sign said; Tiger Alley, crowed another. Each sign held painted paw prints, and there was a babble of school kids to the left clustering a pair of teachers and a zoo guide, all three adults probably frazzled though it was only a few steps into the day.