Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “I’m sorry,” she said, breathlessly, all in a rush. “Are you hurt? Please tell me you’re not hurt.”

  What? “I’m not.” His hands dangled uselessly, a scrape across his left knuckles from punching one of the tiny things already healed. And it wouldn’t matter if I was. As long as you’re all right.

  “I didn’t even ask.” She shook her head, a curl bouncing over her eyes, blown away with a quick, irritable puff from her pretty lips.

  “I didn’t give you a chance.” I wanted you out of there, baby. Caleb decided a different question was acceptable at this point. “Where are we headed?”

  “Techwitches. This needs attention.”

  So maybe she wasn’t planning on hunting down these little things on her own. That was fabulous, utterly relieving news. “It does,” he agreed. “Those were the same things from the—”

  “I know,” she said, and Caleb closed his mouth so fast his teeth almost took a chunk out of his tongue. The elephant-headed god watching them both looked only mildly interested in proceedings, his gold-veined eyes sad with wisdom. “The library was an Alton building too, and they came from near the restrooms. It’s using the drains to travel, I think. There’s some kind of glamour on the microfiche about Harold Alton and his grandson, and I’m hoping this thing doesn’t know how much easier it is to affect electronic stuff. Then we need to find Neil.”

  Caleb’s jaw set. He all but glared at her, mutinously.

  She didn’t appear to notice, thank the gods. Instead, she hitched her satchel’s strap higher on her shoulder and glanced at the hall behind him, making sure nobody was coming along. They were blocking traffic. “Because we need to induce him to stay away from this. If it’s Dark, he’ll get hurt.”

  Hallelujah. She has some sense. “I can push him,” he offered. “With your permission, witch.” If there was a word for being given authorization to do what you wanted to in the first place, he didn’t know it. But he was sure one existed, and was damn glad for it.

  “I know.” Thankfully, she didn’t take umbrage at the suggestion. “And I’ll help. We have to figure out something to do about the media, too—or maybe not, if this thing is using glamour to avoid notice. Which is another reason we’re visiting the techwitches.”

  Caleb nodded. So her silence wasn’t displeasure with him. She was thinking furiously, planning all on her own because she didn’t rely on others. No, Jorie took the whole weight of the problem on her slim shoulders, and set about solving it without help.

  Not anymore. “You might tell me what’s going on,” he broached, tentatively. “I was a pretty good investigator, back in the day.” When I wasn’t shaking down informants and covering my own ass. The self-loathing arrived right on cue, but if it helped her, he’d swallow all that bitterness and more.

  He’d get out a knife and fork, and praise all the gods before every single bite, too.

  “I don’t know yet. I have some of the pieces, but something’s just out of . . .” Her gaze lifted over his shoulder, and the only thing keeping him from turning to check the hallway was his absolute awareness of their surroundings. She was thinking again, and he realized she was probably going to be the smart half of whatever investigative team they represented.

  Which was fine. He’d been the dumb bunny before; it never did a man any harm to play second fiddle.

  “It’s so frustrating,” she finished. “I can’t think. It’s just on the tip of my brain. But you’re right. You were a cop once; you can help me.” And, wonder of wonders, she extended one fine-boned, graceful hand. “Partners?”

  It wasn’t even a quarter of what he wanted, but it was more than he deserved. “Of course.” He took her hand cautiously, and the touch sent warm-grained honey jolting up his arm, detonating in his shoulder, spreading into his chest. “Partners, Jorie. Just go slow with me, I’m a little dense.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Now she was smiling, and the haze of pleasure was spreading up his neck. He was going to pass out if she kept this up, or do something unforgivable. “You’re a lot smarter than you want anyone to know, Caleb. Don’t think I’m unaware.” She withdrew her fingers, and the urge to clamp down, to trap her, to feel that devouring softness again, almost made him sweat as she sobered. “I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

  He was beginning to think this woman considered everyone in the world breakable except her own sweet self. Caleb was of the entirely opposite opinion, of course. “Likewise.”

  “I won’t. Not with a Watcher like you. Come on.”

  He followed again, his chest afire with the double whammy. Partners. And the crowning statement of faith: Not with a Watcher like you.

  It was a new feeling, this fierce pride. One he’d never had before, and he liked it.

  Almost too much.

  In Search of a Ferret

  SANDRA WAS THE techwitch at the receiving counter, and she brightened as Jorie came into view. “There you are. Andi’s been looking for you.”

  “I’m popular lately.” Jorie tried a smile, but her entire face felt like a badly designed mask. Andi was ferociously organized, and actually liked paperwork. About the only thing he wouldn’t do was Council liaison; it required too much socializing. “Is it insurance stuff?”

  “Oh, gods, no. They never want to pay out the first time anyway.” Sandra’s dusky braids were capped with tiny silver bells, and each cheerful shake of her head was accompanied by music. She was always moving, tapping her fingers to some private beat or fidgeting to the music in her head. “Something about messages from the dropline, since your house went kablooie. How are you holding up? Is there anything I can do, anything you need?”

  “I’m good.” Jorie’s shoulders ached. She needed a good stretch and some ibuprofen, since bourbon was out of the picture. The last thing she needed was to be intoxicated while trying to break a case. “Most of my super personal stuff is in storage.”

  “Very wise.” But Sandra’s face fell; she had been a flyer and knew what it was like to lose everything, that small expression said. She glanced at the bank of screens to her left, below the counter’s sight line. “You coming in? I’ll buzz for a guide.”

  “I’d like to, if there’s anyone available to chase something down.” Jorie hung well back from the counter—a witch’s aura could wreak havoc on batteries, let alone sensitive electronics. Techwitches, with their geometric, strangely brittle fields of personal energy, were exempt from that particular caution; some of the more historically minded researchers wondered if maybe they were an evolutionary response to humanity’s fascination with tools and machines. Another group of researchers thought it a function of the relationship between electricity and auras, living bodies producing power that could be translated with ease by circuits, chips, or metal.

  The truth probably lay somewhere between, as usual. Nevertheless, no techwitch liked another variety of Lightbringer getting close to their supercharged laptops, desktops, towers, servers, and other arcana without proper precautions. It was like rummaging in a Mindhealer’s bag or rearranging someone else’s bookshelves—you just didn’t.

  “Oh yeah. Tancred’s been getting bored lately, I’ll give you to him.”

  That was unexpectedly good news; Tan was who she’d been hoping for. “Really? You spoil me, Sandra.”

  “Well, we’ve all gotta do what we can.” One of Sandra’s hands was on a keyboard in front of her, working busily; she twisted to tap at another to her right as well, the way a concert pianist might play melody and harmony at once. “I’ll page Andi, let them know you’re here.”

  So Andi was a them now; good to know. Jorie made a mental note to remember the change and almost flinched when the door to the right of the counter was flung open. Tancred, lean and copper-skinned in a pale three-piece suit, piled out and flung his arms around her—his usual greeting, when he like
d you. Gold winked at Tan’s left ear to match the ring in his proud beaky nose, and behind him loomed Gary Red, his hair closely shaven and his black coat a little shorter than most Watcher’s. It was probably so he could keep up with his witch; Tan had no setting below full speed.

  Most techwitches were a little hyper.

  “I heard about your house,” he said, and hugged her so tightly she almost lost her breath. “What happened? Are you okay? Sarah said you and your Watcher were out doing something. Was it dangerous? Is it related? What can I find for you?”

  “One at a time, love.” Gary’s slight smile was expressive, for a Watcher. Freckles ran together on his nose like they were baked on, and sometimes Jorie suspected he’d chosen Red as a distinguishing name because of his coppery hair. It was far more humor than a Watcher usually allowed himself, but then, he’d been bonded for a while. “Honor, Caleb. Good to see you.”

  “Duty,” Caleb murmured in reply. “And likewise.”

  “We don’t know yet,” Jorie said, even though she had a very good idea. Tan smelled, as usual, of aftershave and bright ionizing electricity. “Danger is my middle name, I’m not sure if it’s related, and I have something that will either be very boring or explosive. Can’t tell which yet.”

  “Well, come in, let’s get you baffled. You.” Tan fixed Caleb with a bright, interested look, running an artless hand through his sandalwood hair. “Can you keep her from blowing circuits, or do I need to call another escort?”

  “I took the requisite tests, sir.” Caleb was a warm weight at Jorie’s back, and she suspected he was standing at attention. “My last refresher was three months ago.”

  “Good. Well, keep her under wraps, and let’s go. What are we looking for?” Tancred almost hopped from bare foot to bare foot, eager to be on the hunt. He didn’t like shoes while he was bored or working; his suit was creamy linen, beautifully tailored and only slightly rumpled. His subdued tie was heavy taupe silk, and loosened enough that she could tell he’d been at the keyboard for a while. “They’ve had me chasing down and cracking Dominion boxes for weeks now. I’m so ready for something new.”

  “It might be nothing.” Jorie followed him through the door and halted, staying still as Caleb held an open hand over her head. A shiver went down the outside of her aura, and a pleasant flush touched her from crown to soles.

  Now that’s nice. Ordinarily when a Watcher baffled her the feeling was like being trapped in a wet, itchy wool blanket. Gary handed Caleb a fist-sized chunk of bloodstone to sink any stray snippets of energy into, and as long as Caleb kept contact, Jorie wouldn’t blow out any delicate fuses.

  It meant she had to move slowly and stay within a few feet of him, but the pleasant warmth remained. It was a sign they were actually bonded, instead of it being some sort of mistake from her treating Watchers for despair.

  “I’ve never known you to bring me nothing, Jore.” Tancred sobered, tugging at his jacket’s sleeves to settle them correctly. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little . . .”

  “Frazzled? It’s been that kind of day.” My house burned down and I think we maybe broke something at the library. Neither was as important as stopping whatever was going on; she’d grieve later. “I’d rather not tell you too much to begin with. You know what they say about assumptions.”

  “Always so close to the vest. All right, we ready?” Tancred barely waited for Caleb’s nod before whisking Jorie through the far set of double doors.

  The techwitch haven was large, frigid, and brightly lit though several of its denizens tacked coverings over their cubicle roofs, preferring to work in darkened spaces. Globes of malachite or bloodstone were scattered on functional or whimsical stands to keep any stray surges from interfering with electronics, and there was an office-like murmur. Printers hummed, feet hurried, and a vanilla-scented candle was burning somewhere. Jorie hung back, careful to stay near Caleb, and Tancred took off at a trot. It was Gary who brought them along the safe route marked with a paler swath of carpeting, avoiding any sensitive installations.

  Finally, settled in Tan’s airy, familiar cubicle with its tiny shrine to Hermes in the corner, she took a deep breath and laid her purse in her lap. Tan flicked a few switches, and his bank of screens hummed. “Hit me,” he said, quietly, and Jorie almost winced.

  At least she’d had enough time to get her list in Tancred’s preferred idea of proper order. “Start with Harold Alton. Properties he owned, what those properties are now. Also, his grandson Eugene. Pictures of them both, if possible. Cross-reference with a reporter, John Sieberman—he was active in Altamira newspapers in the forties, went to the Pacific as a war consultant. I think he was killed in battle, but if you could confirm, I’d like that.” Her head ached, and her eyes were dry. She couldn’t wait to take a shower, but the thought of returning to the quiet, anonymous safehouse suite made her heart hurt.

  Damn it all, she wanted to be home. “Properties Eugene Alton owned too, and an overlay with Altamira sewer and drainage construction,” she continued, as Tancred’s fingers almost blurred on an armature keyboard brought down with a quick twitch. Jorie dug in her purse, pulling the legal pad free. “Oh, and child mortality rates—as far as we can get them—from five years before to five years after Harold and Eugene’s respective lifetimes.”

  Tancred glanced at her while his fingers worked. The clicking was familiar; he typed like he did everything else, at top speed and with unerring precision. “Altamira, or statewide?”

  “Altamira. Contrast with statewide with adjustment for population density.”

  “But of course.” Screens blinked into life as he wound them up, setting queries in motion, triggering crawlers through public and private databases, analysis algorithms waking and baking. Caleb loomed over Jorie’s chair, and she wished, furiously and uselessly, that she was something, anything other than what she was. What would it be like to have a techwitch’s talent?

  Of course, Tan had his own troubles. The Brotherhood had taken him for a short while, killing the Watcher on invisible guard duty. If the Lightbringer sent to bring him gently to Circle Lightfall hadn’t gone by his apartment shortly afterward, they might not ever have found him again.

  He didn’t ever talk about it, or about the raid that had freed him. Six of the seven-Watcher team hitting the Brotherhood installation hadn’t made it, Jorie had heard. The one who had was Gary, and he never spoke about it, either.

  A few moments passed in relative silence, but a line deepened between Tancred’s dark, winged eyebrows. “Huh,” he said, finally, and Jorie’s heart sank.

  “Tell me you’re not having trouble calling up even the most basic information about either Alton.” Her throat was dry.

  He cut her a short, distracted glance, his nose-ring glittering. “I know it’s there,” he said, softly. “But . . . huh.”

  “Exactly.” Jorie let out a long soft breath. “My Watcher remembers standard history from orientation and debriefs, and of course civics classes mention Horace Alton. But anything else is under a cloud. Whatever it is got at the microfiche at the library downtown too. I was hoping it didn’t know about electronic stuff.”

  “Easier to affect. But also, now I can start looking at the blank spots and figuring out everything by negative space.” Tancred chewed at his lower lip for a moment. “Gare?”

  “Yes?” Hovering in the cubicle doorway, Tancred’s Watcher stiffened slightly.

  “Want to get me some sage, a handful of blank chips, and a couple bloodstone knobs?”

  “Your wish, witch.” Gary turned on his heel and vanished, ghostlike, down the hall.

  “This is interesting.” Tancred leaned back in his ergonomic chair. Two of his monitors were fuzzing slightly, static crawling in their corners. “I know it’s not you doing it, and I’ve never seen this shit before. What are we dealing with?”


  “I don’t know.” Jorie sensed she was going to be very tired of repeating that before this ended—if, indeed, they ever did figure it out. “Either we have Harold Alton, a founding father of our fair city, into some very ugly, awful things, or we have something imitating him to confuse any scrutiny, or something entirely different that’s just moved into his old haunts . . . I just can’t tell, Tan. There’s not enough data, and you know what that means.”

  “It means I’m going down the hole in search of the ferret.” He nodded, sharply, and stretched his long, flexible fingers. His right wrist popped audibly as he rotated his hands, stretching. “All right. That’s your Christmas list, anything for your birthday?”

  “I have a list of characteristics.” Written in the car on the drive to the safehouse, as a matter of fact, and her penmanship was shaky all the way through. “Maybe put in a ping to Mari Niege up in Saint City, see if her library connection has anything about a type of Dark that eats children and . . .”

  “And?”

  “And turns them into things like this.” She swallowed, hard, tearing the list free of the legal pad. Writing it out twice had been wrist-cramping, but now it was paying off.

  How long had she been dreaming of the dolls? Shelves of them above that striped mattress in a cold, dank stone cell, water dripping down the walls and the terrible pulsing darkness taking notice of her invisible, hovering dream-self, lunging to attack?