Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He made a short, noncommittal noise, just to let her know he heard.

  Maybe she was waiting for more, because she studied his profile. Her closeness was still a balm to his nerves, one he didn’t deserve but still gloried in. Any Watcher would be glad of the respite, but he was the only sorry bastard who would be trying to figure out how to get a little closer and actually touch her as often as possible, for as long as possible.

  If he’d done his job properly, maybe he could have talked her out of the zoo, or found a way to short-circuit the Finding. If he could see that gossamer cable, he could affect it. It had snapped before when he grabbed it, and if seeing those hideous flashes meant she didn’t have to, he was willing.

  More than willing. Just like he’d drive her wherever she wanted to go, if it helped get her mind off a house fire and Darksickness.

  “Caleb?” Soft and worried. There was a line between her dark, prettily arched eyebrows. “I know you must be disappointed, but holding it all in isn’t good for you.”

  What? He replayed the last few minutes inside his head, searching for what the hell she meant by that, and took a hard right onto South Jenika Street. Businesses gave way to a residential area, but they’d have to cross Sanderson Boulevard to get to the right part of town. “Disappointed?” I was just thinking that’s what you’d be, witch.

  “Well. I mean, we haven’t talked about . . .” She smoothed her knees, in jeans instead of a skirt. The witches bringing up replacement clothes had tried to guess what she’d like, and of course she wouldn’t complain, but she seemed more like a dress-instead-of-pants girl.

  In his opinion, both were good, but nobody asked him. Which was just how it should be.

  “About the fact that I don’t give you the burn when I touch you.” She said it all in one breath. “And about how it’s been just one thing after another since you got assigned to me, and about you being hurt because of what I do. And about how I’ve kept working with Neil and Sol a secret and put Watchers in the position of having to do so as well, and—”

  Good gods, she was baffling. Caleb decided to take it one issue at a time, like writing a report. “Why exactly do you think I’d be disappointed?”

  The light at Sanderson was green for once; the Volvo bounced as the street sloped sharply down the second oldest of Altamira’s settled hills. He slowed, eyed a cross street that would take them to a tangle of residential cul-de-sacs that might have parking, and discarded it as too long a walk.

  “Most witches have more pleasant talents.” Now she stared straight ahead while he began circling the neighborhood, looking for good parking. The library was a couple blocks east; he didn’t want her to hoof it more than that. “And Neil’s never done something like this before. We have a system for clearing the cold cases I can help on. He’s not . . . well, it’s all strange.”

  You think I care about what that lying-ass cop usually does? “You’re perfect.” There, that about covered it. The houses here were older, their yards postage-stamp size, mostly full of university students being gentrified out by the newly rich pseudo-bohemian. Quirky paint jobs, fanciful gardens, campaign signs in windows, and ambling pedestrians were the order of the day, and he had to tap the brakes when one of them wandered across the street without looking—typical oblivious normal, a lanky pale young man in expensively frayed clothes and a kerchief around a mass of hair trying to be dreadlocks. Someone should do him a favor and clip those off; it was painful to look at. Dreads didn’t belong on Wonder Bread. “If anyone’s disappointed here, witch, it’s probably you.”

  Jorie was silent. Maybe he’d embarrassed her.

  Just like a witch, feeling the weight of the world and trying to carry it all on her own. Did she really think a Watcher would feel disappointed at bonding? You were with me to be treated for despair, she’d said; maybe she thought he was lying about her effect on him?

  A Watcher didn’t lie, but how often had he been considering it, lately?

  Christ. What a mess. He could start untangling it now, maybe. “And I can see why.” Stakeouts were hardly the worst training for this sort of thing; they gave you a sort of sixth sense for where to slide a car. He found a good parking spot halfway down another block under a huge elm that had somehow escaped disease and dropped all its summer leaf cargo, heading into winter sleep. “I should’ve killed that Slayer instead of throwing him through your kitchen door, I should’ve kept that cop away from you, and I should’ve kept you away from the zoo. I haven’t been very effective so far.” That’s about to change. If I can just figure out how.

  “That’s quite a laundry list of shoulds.” A pale but very welcome ghost of amusement filled the words. “I think you’ve done all right.”

  You would. Too kind for her own good. Well, he had enough unkindness for both of them. He nipped neatly into the parking spot, set the wheels away from the curb with a hard twist, and cut the engine. “Disappointed isn’t the word, Jorie. You sure you don’t want the umbrella?”

  “I told you, only tourists use those.” But she was smiling, and the sight damn near robbed him of breath when he snuck a glance at her. “So, we can agree not to be disappointed in each other, at least?”

  “Absolutely.” We could agree on a damn sight more than that, baby. If I can just keep you from running into danger at the drop of a hat, and figure out how to disrupt that cable. Sure, he’d snapped it almost instinctively, but if there was a better way, he was all for it. He’d still gladly take the nightmarish flashes if it would break the compulsion to go haring off after killers and Dark. But he had a bad feeling about this field trip, so soon after the last one. She should be resting, but he was beginning to think his witch didn’t have an off switch. “May I ask a question?”

  “You just did.” Her smile widened, and he wasn’t sneaking a glance—he was flat-out staring now, all but mesmerized. “But go ahead.”

  “If I could disrupt the Seeing, the Finding—the compulsion, whatever—would you let me? To keep you out of trouble?”

  The amusement vanished and she turned gravely quiet, those big dark eyes still and deep. “But I have to.” Just like she might say It’s still raining. “Nobody else can do this, it’s up to me. Even Sarah knows I’ve got to do this the right way, without letting anyone else muddy the waters. Besides, shouldn’t I help if I can?”

  “You might be able to help more if you’re a little more selective.” He was on the edge of flat-out revolt, and maybe she could sense as much, because she made a restless movement, her hair brushing her shoulders. The black curls were a soft, wild glory, and he couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to touch one.

  Or sink his entire hand in, feel the slippery softness against his palm, fill his fingers with that beauty.

  “If I could choose to do something else, I might.” The note of finality was soft but absolutely inflexible. You couldn’t argue with a witch who talked like that, because they’d just quietly agree with you and then go do whatever the hell they decided was necessary. “But this is what I was given. I’ve got to use it to help.”

  That makes you a Lightbringer, but it won’t keep you alive. “All right.” Caleb’s stomach settled, and his nerves did too. The battlefield was clear, all he had to do was keep himself on it.

  “I know you don’t like it, but—”

  “I said all right.” Now he was interrupting her, too. Great. He should have been looking out the windshield, scanning for threats, but he couldn’t look away from her earnest, open face. “It’s my job to keep you safe. And I will.” There. That’s simple enough for anyone to understand. Right?

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  He throttled the urge to say You just did, but go ahead. Just because she was kindly overlooking his disobediences didn’t mean he could push it. “Of course.” The Volvo began to ping and creak, metal contracting after
warm expansion.

  “If you could choose to do something different—”

  Jesus, did she think he was having second thoughts? It would have been laughable if it wasn’t so goddamn frustrating. “I wouldn’t.” Might as well make it completely clear. “I wasn’t so good at anything else; this is my last shot. I just hope you aren’t hoping for . . .” His hands ached on the steering wheel, and he forced them to relax. “I hope you aren’t wanting a good man, Jorie.” You’re not gonna find one here.

  Why was she still smiling? It was a soft, private expression, and it did strange things to the inside of his head. Jorie reached for her sage-green satchel, settling it firmly in her lap. “I haven’t met a bad Watcher yet.”

  Did she have to be so kind? “We’re pretty skilled at hiding it.” Caleb throttled another flare of frustration and forced himself to scan outside the car. Safe enough, even if the sky was a darkening grey lid and the afternoon was going to be a wet one. “The library’s only a couple blocks that way.”

  “I know where it is.” She didn’t reach for her door handle, either. A good little witch, staying where the Watcher needed her. “We should get started. This could take a while.”

  “Yes ma’am.” He meant I’ll be a good little boy too, just see if I won’t, but he probably sounded snide and unhelpful.

  Talking always got a man in trouble. Caleb decided that was enough for one day, and reached for the door.

  Making Jokes

  SHE SPENT THE afternoon in front of the all-but-abandoned microfiche machines in the library basement, spooling through old newspapers. Looked like the lady had been down here before, from the way the librarians greeted her.

  They hadn’t gotten around to digitizing a lot of the material yet—there was plenty of higher priority stuff to get pulled off degrading film and archived for posterity. Who cared about The Altamira Vista or the Courier Herald anymore, when you could stare at a glowing screen and get force-fed everything you ever wanted to know as well as told what to think about it all? Most people didn’t want to spend the effort of actually making their own opinions, and Caleb was probably one of them.

  At least combating the Dark was a simple, clear-cut Kill it before it kills you. It was everything else that fouled a man up.

  His attempt to help Jorie was met with a short but gentle I don’t know what I’m looking for, so it’s probably best I do it alone.

  So he let her. The library basement was practically deserted, dusty, and smelled of paper, discarded machinery, and a faint thread of his witch’s perfume. He could wander between the shelves and racks if he wanted to; he might even learn something.

  Instead, he quartered the basement once, already knowing the exits but it was good to have your terrain mapped. Just in case.

  Then he could return to the bank of microfiche readers, which Jorie handled with easy familiarity. And he could watch his witch making notes on the legal pad, a small line between her eyebrows and her profile sweet enough to stop a man’s heart.

  There was no rule against looking, even when you’d screwed everything up almost past repair. At least she was still alive and not Darksick anymore. His witch was still whole, and well, and breathing.

  As victories went, it was one he’d take with gratitude and maybe even a blessing.

  It took a while before she noticed he was just standing there, and her glance was apologetic. She stretched, catlike, her back probably aching from the substandard chair. “We can find you something to sit on.”

  “I’m all right.” If she only knew how all right he was. Nothing was attacking, he was standing near his witch—it was damn near a vacation.

  “I know it’s boring.” She tilted her head, apologetically, and it sounded like her nose was a little stuffed. Maybe it was the dust. “Neil always says detective work is mostly going through records. Fucking paper, he says.”

  “Most cops do. He’s not wrong.” That strange, unsteady, raw feeling was back in his chest. The woman could induce flat-out cardiac arrest despite the tanak, looking at him like that. Hell, she could elevate his pulse just by breathing. Did other bonded Watchers feel this way?

  Did it matter? They had their own problems; this one was all his. He liked it that way, too.

  “Was that what you were?” She looked down, made another notation on the legal pad. A tactful withdrawal. “Before?”

  Each witch asked her Watcher that particular question sooner or later. Get used to the idea, his trainer had said, and get your answer ready now.

  Caleb opened his mouth, but she shook her head almost immediately, spinning the dial a little more. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I know no Watcher likes to talk about it.”

  Now what could he say? “I was,” Caleb heard himself admit, dully. “But not like your detective.” I was dirty, Jorie. As dirty as they get, and I liked it.

  It wasn’t the filth that made him so ashamed. It was how much he’d enjoyed the power. Thinking you were God’s gift to the world, figuring you could do no wrong if you had the badge, because that shiny little shield was permission, wasn’t it?

  And then, the inevitable fall, the sick knowledge of having crossed the line, that he was after all just another criminal. Just one more piece of streetgrease. Even now he had nothing to be proud of, because he was simply escaping consequences, sliding through, because he’d had things the Watchers were looking for in trainees. No matter how many of his bones cracked or his muscles pulled in combat, it wasn’t enough. The pain was only what he deserved and penance was an afterthought because, after all, he didn’t want to go back to fucking prison.

  He’d do just about anything to avoid consequences. Which made him no different than the bastards he used to put behind bars—after he helped himself to whatever they had that he wanted, and after they weren’t useful to his career anymore.

  “Neil’s not the nicest person in the world,” Jorie agreed, mildly. “I think it’s because each case hurts him so badly. You keep poking a bear, eventually it gets a bad disposition.”

  His was probably bad to start with. Caleb shrugged, realized she probably wouldn’t see the motion, and cleared his throat. “If you say so.” What he meant was You don’t have to justify yourself to me. What it probably sounded like, he figured out a few moments too late, was I’d argue, if I wasn’t a Watcher and trained not to.

  “Hm.” She tapped the pen against her lips, a thoughtful movement, and he’d never wanted to be an inanimate object more in his life. “What do you know about Harold Alton?”

  Huh? There’s a statue of him downtown, isn’t there? “Uh, a bunch of stuff’s named after him. Industrialist, Gilded Age.” He tried frantically to remember the short course of city history every Watcher took before going on patrol the first time. If you knew a place’s past, you could guess at where the winds of gentrification would blow next or how the terrain was going to run.

  You also knew where Dark was likely to coagulate, collect, or infest. They liked bloodshed, the echoes of past violence or the unsteady febrile tension of present misery; it made them feel right at home.

  Jorie squinted at the screen. It bathed her face in amber light, like honey. She seemed to expect more, so Caleb dredged through memory again.

  “They were actually going to rename the western suburbs Alton City before there was some kind of scandal and he left town.” There. That was all he remembered from orientation. “Moved to California, I think? That’s all I know.”

  “Correct on all counts.” Now she beamed at him, a pleased teacher with a plodding but persistent student. “He had a grandson, who came back in the thirties.”

  “No kidding.” Well, this was America. That sort of thing happened, descendants returning to ancestral roosts. Not like Europe, where everyone remembered who even looked cross-eyed at their great-grandparents or something. He’d taken the requisit
e cultural sensitivity training doing his overseas stints, but he was never really comfortable outside the US. It probably showed; he was a damn redneck. “So what’s the connection?” Or is there any?

  “I don’t know yet.” She turned back to the screen and frowned, her boots squeaking slightly as she re-crossed her ankles. “It’s probably nothing, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Harold Alton built the zoo and . . . oh, he had a house somewhere, and his grandson built the Memorial Pool up in Layer’s End. The one body they found was in the alley next to the pool.”

  She sounded like a good partner, tossing a coincidence over the desk to be weighed for actual importance. It felt familiar, the reflexes of his old, dead life springing up around him like weeds. Did she make soft suggestions while that lying cop worked, smiling apologetically and expecting to be shot down?

  Caleb didn’t like the thought. “Okay. So . . .?” He let the word turn into a question, showing he was willing to be walked another few blocks.

  “I don’t know. It may be nothing, but . . .” She hesitated again, touching the dial to move down a few inches of newspaper column. “Okay, I’m going to ask them to make a copy of this, too.”

  “You’re killing me here, Jorie.” It was the sort of thing he might have said to his own partner, back in that other life.

  He didn’t even like thinking the man’s name. Of all the burned bridges, that one hurt the worst. Of course, anyone he’d known in his other life was probably dead by now.

  Caleb had been a Watcher for a while, and the tanak staved off aging. Just one more thing that seemed like a benefit when you heard about it, but turned out to be something else entirely.

  “Some reporter in the forties—Sieberman—did a series on Altamira history, and . . .” She glanced at him, those big dark eyes lighting up. Her peacoat’s shoulders were damp, but the wool would keep her warm despite that. “Did you just make a joke?”