Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

How many could she have saved if she’d pursued the matter instead of thinking the dreams mere slippage? “Maybe have Gary ask the Watchers if anyone else has run across these things and a map of sightings, if it’s possible.” Though if they had, someone would have said something when Caleb’s report made its way to the Watchers.

  “Anything’s possible,” Tancred quoted, “it’s just that so little is—”

  “—probable,” she finished. It was an old conversation, and ended up in the same place each time. Tan was pessimistic even for a techwitch; Jorie found herself arguing for hope more often that she really believed it was warranted. “And yet here we are, spinning on a rock around a nuclear reactor.”

  “At the mercy of forces we barely comprehend at best.” He shrugged, and opened a drawer to his right, peering in before selecting a few sheets of tissue-thin orange paper. He often folded origami while waiting for queries to run. It looked like he was settling in for the long haul. “Okay. Christmas and birthday, I’m generous today. What do you want for a cherry on top?”

  A plan to stop all this without anyone getting hurt. “If you don’t get anything from these characteristics, get me a list of Dark that likes to play with dolls.”

  That pushed his eyebrows almost to his hairline. “Dolls?”

  “Yeah.” She rubbed at her temples, gingerly. “I’m not making this up.”

  “In all the times I’ve known you, Jore, that’s never been the problem. Okay. You look half-dead, no lie. Have you eaten? Slept?”

  Of course he’d worry. Jorie attempted a smile. “I’m fine.” She watched him glance up at Caleb, who was obviously just as rumpled and tired as she was. “But my Watcher could probably use feeding.”

  “Jorie?” A shadow filled the doorway, and Jorie almost jumped. It was soft-hipped Andi, their red hair cut short, in a pair of honest-to-goodness denim overalls, a red flannel shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and a pair of steel-toed combat boots. Their Watcher hovered behind, one Jorie didn’t know but with the peculiar fierce stare of almost-despair peering through his shaken-down dark hair. At least Andi was good at treating them—they had a gift for it. “Thank goodness I’ve found you.”

  Indeed. “Hi, Andi.” She forced herself to think. “That’s all, Tan. Let me know the instant you have anything, all right?”

  Tancred nodded, waving an airy hand before returning it to click at a keyboard. “Will do, Cap’n. Now get out of my office, even with the baffle you’re making me nervous.”

  In the hallway, Andi gave Jorie a once-over, hazel eyes widening slightly. “You look . . .”

  “Like hell, I know. It’s all right.” Jorie crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s going on?”

  “I meant to say you look like you could use some good news. The insurance company’s not making any trouble, but someone keeps calling your house number. We set it up to ring through to Receiving and someone’s been leaving messages all damn day.”

  “Who?”

  “Some cop.” Andi had a double handful of message slips, and handed them over. “A detective.”

  Oh, Neil. Of course you’d call. Now she was hoping he hadn’t been digging from his end, too. He had no protection from the Dark. “Harvard?”

  “No colleges, sorry. The detective’s a . . .” Andi frowned at a leftover slip. “Trevanian? A Sol Trevanian? And someone named Meadows or Gedley, too, I can’t tell because she keeps calling from a cell. Won’t leave a return number, either, but she’s been calling every hour on the hour. Come on, let’s get you out of here. You look ready to fall down.”

  “I can’t fall down,” Jorie said numbly. She didn’t know a Meadows or a Gedley; they could be insurance people, or clients’ secretaries getting nervous. “I’ve got a phone call to make.”

  Because if Neil’s partner was calling her, something was definitely, awfully wrong.

  Punishment Beginning

  OF COURSE, THERE was a privacy cubicle at Receiving, a sleek black landline sitting to attention on a small table with a comfortable overstuffed chair and hassock next to it. Plenty of witches liked long phone conversations, and landlines didn’t fuzz out the way cells did unless there was some extremely high emotion involved. The windows were darkening, afternoon fading early as it always did this time of year.

  Jorie took a deep breath, looking up at Caleb from the depths of the floral-upholstered armchair. Dark circles stamped under her eyes, her hair working free of the chignon no matter how many times she pushed at it—she was a textbook illustration of an exhausted witch determined to do herself further harm.

  The urge to throw her over his shoulder and carry her kicking and screaming back up to the suite, then stand guard at the door while she slept, was well-nigh irresistible. But he was on borrowed grace anyway, so Caleb just folded his arms and tried not to glower.

  She arranged the message slips in order, riffled through them, and picked up the phone. Caleb found himself hoping it would go to voicemail, but today wasn’t his day.

  “Sol? It’s Jorie.” Such tentative hope in her sweet voice.

  Caleb winced. He’d decided he wasn’t going to refrain from listening this time, and to top it off, the man on the other end of the line was bellowing.

  “Oh, it’s my favorite nutbar! Conned any old ladies out of their life savings lately, Camden?”

  “I can hang up,” Jorie said, grimly, and there was a small gleam in her dark eyes that said she meant it, too. Caleb cheered inwardly, shifting slightly as the tanak’s attention sharpened, looking for the cause of his tension and her distress.

  Letting the symbiote flush him with Power and crushing the goddamn phone sounded far too appealing. Still . . . Jorie might forgive him, if he did.

  She was the forgiving type.

  “Nah, I’m just kidding.” The detective had a smoke-roughened voice, big and broad. It wasn’t the lying bastard Harvard, and Caleb trawled through memory; Harvard had said something about a partner. This guy was probably one of the fat, filthy motherfuckers you wanted to pad out a pair of shoe-leather knights, a bulldog to work with a greyhound.

  Though the lying fuck wasn’t a greyhound. Not even close.

  “Just put Neil on the line,” Trevignan barked. He sounded very used to giving Jorie orders.

  “I would if I could, Sol.” Jorie’s gaze fastened on the floor, and she looked very small in the chair’s embrace. “He told me you were reassigned?”

  “Yeah, well, Lieutenant thinks we’re still joined at the hip. I mean it, let me talk to him.”

  “I said I would if I could. He’s not here. I haven’t seen him since . . .” Jorie looked at Caleb, barely seeing him. “Friday? I think? He came by my house, before it—”

  “Can the act, Camden. He’s not at home, he isn’t showing up at work, I know you two are on the missing-kids bullshit. He’s not doing himself any good with this stunt, dammit. I’ve covered for him all I can, so just put him on the goddamn phone.”

  “Sol.” Jorie’s tone was very quiet, and very final. If she ever said Caleb’s name that way, he might drop in his tracks, or fall into a hole in the ground with only a grateful murmur. “I don’t know where Neil is, and he’s not working on any case with me at the moment. I’m a fruitcake nutso, remember? I’ve had a very bad week, thank you for asking, and I don’t like being accused of lying, either.”

  There was a short silence. When Trevignan spoke again, the hard edge of cynicism was gone, and plain old-fashioned worry softened every syllable. “Sorry. I just . . . I’ve been calling him for two days now, and nothing. When did you last see him?”

  “Thursday evening?” She looked despairingly at Caleb, who shrugged, spreading his hands. It was probably best if he didn’t make it clear he could hear every damn word. And no wonder she was a little adrift; a very bad week was the understatement of the century. “No, F
riday afternoon or evening. He came over for a bit, but left abruptly. We didn’t get a chance to discuss any case at all. He’s missing? He hasn’t even been to work?”

  Of course she’d tell the truth, just not all of it. Caleb wished she’d just outright lie; it would be better for her. He tensed, muscle by muscle, and wondered if he should melt the phone from here.

  Just to save her from herself.

  “No ma’am.” At least Trevignan sounded like he believed her. “You haven’t heard from him? Not at all?”

  “Not after he left my house. I’m fine, by the way. Thank you for asking.”

  “Glad you’re feeling okay.” Now the man sounded baffled. Had he not bothered to drive by Jorie’s house and see the damage? That was strange, and Caleb’s nape prickled.

  It was the same old feeling. Things were about to get worse, and since he couldn’t imagine how, it probably meant Jorie was going to walk steadily towards danger.

  Again.

  Maybe I should tie her up and stash her in a closet. Would that work? Caleb’s hands tingled, too, longing to close around the phone and hear plastic squeal-splinter. Then he could take her shoulders, very gently, and tell her a few things.

  Maybe he’d even get through to her, before other Watchers arrived and kicked his ass for holding down a struggling witch.

  “You really haven’t heard from him?” The cop was back to barking, just not as loudly as before. Caleb wished he’d listened in on her phone calls with Neil, but what just-assigned Watcher would? He’d screwed up from the beginning, out of an abundance of decency.

  Or maybe just out of cowardice.

  “I told you I haven’t, Sol. If I do see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking, all right?” Jorie took a deep breath. “Is it something I can help with? You sound upset.”

  Frankly, the asshole didn’t sound upset. He sounded like a real winner, all force and bluster, the type who wouldn’t hesitate to beat a confession out of a perp.

  “No, don’t tell him that. Fucker can’t stand me nowadays. But listen, Jorie—” The sudden softness was a trap, and Caleb wanted to shout a warning. “Listen, we don’t have an explanation for what you do and it makes me nervous. But you do good. We get the perps, and that’s what matters.”

  “I thought peace for the survivors and families mattered,” Jorie said mildly. She’d gone pale yet again, but two bright spots of color bloomed high and hectic on her cheeks.

  “Poe-tay-toe, poe-tah-toe. Just, I know you’re a stand-up gal, all right?” Now would come what he wanted out of her, and it was small comfort to Caleb that his instincts were still sharp when the man spoke again. “Don’t tell Neil I’m looking for him, okay? If you see him, stall him and call me. It might not be too late.”

  “Too late for what? Sol, what’s going on?” Jorie stared at Caleb without seeing him, and the note of agonized tension in her voice made the tanak move restlessly again. His aura was bleeding heat into the environment; the ambient temperature had gone up a few degrees already.

  “I don’t know, Camden. But if I can just find Neil, I might be able to do something about his little self-pity party. Will you call me if you see him? And stall him?”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said, blankly. And Caleb wondered if she’d ask him to help.

  “Good girl. Keep in touch.” And the fucker hung up.

  Jorie laid the handset back in the cradle, as if it were fragile. Then she stared fixedly at the floor, and her eyes were very bright because they were full of swimming tears.

  Oh, shit. He couldn’t help himself. Caleb took two steps and ended up on his knees with a jolt, scooping her free hand from her lap. For once, it wasn’t to feel that devouring, spike-honey pleasure spilling up his arm.

  No, it was the closest he’d ever get to being a Lightbringer. He wanted to help. He wanted to get that look off her face, get those tears out of her eyes, and kill whatever was hurting her so badly she was shaking, tiny tremors infecting him as well.

  “Jorie.” He hated being helpless. What is it? Let me fucking kill it. Let me at it, whatever it is.

  Except there was nothing here to kill, nothing to fight, just a witch who set her chin and wiped at her eyes with her untrapped hand. Roughly, as if she hated her own tears.

  “Neil’s missing,” she said tonelessly. “That was his partner. Or they used to be partners; Neil said Sol got reassigned. But . . . oh, gods, Caleb. What if he was working on the case and those . . . those things . . .”

  Good riddance. But he couldn’t say that. Not when she looked so lost, so small, and so utterly alone. “Then we can’t help him right at this moment. We can only make sure whatever it is doesn’t get you.”

  She shook her head. Maybe she didn’t even notice he was holding her hand, which wasn’t quite what he wanted. If she didn’t know, it wasn’t comforting, was it?

  But also, she couldn’t tell him to stop if she didn’t notice. And he could pretend he wasn’t glorying in the touch even as that strange piercing feeling in his chest came back, settling in like an unwelcome but very assured guest.

  “Listen.” He had to distract her. Something, anything to get that look off her face. “Why didn’t this Trevignan know about your house? Why didn’t he drive by to talk to you, if he’s so worried?”

  “He’s probably been calling all their old informants and hasn’t had time.” She blinked again, scrubbed at her eyes, and a single tear escaped, rolling down her soft cheek. “Caleb . . .”

  “I’m here.” Ask me to do something, baby. Anything. Ask me to take you up to your suite, ask me to go find him. I’d do that, for you. Christ.

  Except he was a liar even inside his own head. Because if she did ask him to find Harvard, he’d have to damn himself by disobedience, because leaving her alone—even in a safehouse—was just a recipe for disaster.

  “You know how to anchor a witch.” It wasn’t a question.

  His heart sank. “Yes.” Uh-oh.

  “Good.” Her shoulders came up, and she dropped her tear-damp hand onto his and squeezed. “You’ll anchor me, then. I need to Find him.”

  Oh, for the love of . . . The pleasure poured up his arm, a double dose because she was now deliberately touching him, and that soft, earnest look on her face was torture.

  He couldn’t let her perform a major act of Seeing right now, even inside a safehouse. She was overstressed, exhausted, and likely to slip too far. Her heart could stop, and he could lose her.

  But she searched his face, tremulous hope brimming along with the salt water in her dark, dark eyes, and every obscenity Caleb knew rose for his lips, was denied exit, and settled for obstructing his throat.

  “You’re tired,” he said, desperately. “You’re exhausted, Jorie, stretched too thin. You’ll slip. I can’t let—”

  “You’ll pull me back.” The woman had no mercy in her, none at all. She sounded completely certain, and that clear ringing faith was just the beginning of his punishment for daring to touch her. For daring to even dream. “You’re my Watcher.”

  Oh, God. “Jorie . . .” It was a faint fading objection, and she knew it, because she smiled. Hopefully, with that absolute trust shining in her big, tear-filled eyes.

  “We’ll find him,” she said, softly. “I know we will.”

  Caleb didn’t have the heart to tell her if the Dark was involved, it was probably too late.

  Another Unsolvable

  IT WAS A SAFEHOUSE, so of course the dispensary had packets of dried mugwort and the pretty sunshine-yellow suite had charcoal tabs in a handy drawer, along with a wand lighter and a small cast-iron censer. She made coffee, wanting tea but needing the short-term boost of something stronger, and washed her hands and face in the antiseptically clean bathroom.

  It wasn’t quite the preparation she would have preferred, bu
t they couldn’t afford to wait. How long had Neil been missing?

  The thing to hope for was that he’d gotten into a car accident and was in a coma somewhere, and somehow, the authorities hadn’t found his ID or notified anyone. Jorie could ask for healers and Mindhealers to attend him, of course, and he’d be back on his feet in no time.

  And how terrible was it that she was hoping Neil was in a hospital, or hoping he’d realized this case was something too strange for him to handle without backup? Or that maybe, possibly, he was holed up in a motel somewhere, waiting for the coast to clear?

  Not likely. Her hands shook, but there was no twitch of the sharpened fishhook in her guts. How had she not known? The trouble with being psychic was that you knew when the worst was about to get even worse but you didn’t know half of what you wanted to, or even anything that would be useful.

  Maybe the child-stealing, doll-making thing was blocking her? She’d been dreaming of it for so long, though. Perhaps the dreams were just slippage, and she was on the wrong track, barking up a wrong tree, or even Neil’s favorite expression, Chasing your own ass.

  And yet . . .

  Her hair didn’t want to behave, but a few stern words and a dampened, wide-toothed wooden comb convinced it to stay reasonably trapped in a braid. She wanted her favorite wine-red V-neck sweater and her rose-patterned skirt for this, but they were both gone. She wanted her long silver-drop earrings and the amber necklace Virgie had given her two Christmases ago, too—but again, they were gone in the fire. Maybe the amber had survived, maybe not. She hadn’t even been able to sort through whatever the Watchers could salvage, anything remaining was sitting in an ozone chamber to be leached of smoke before they checked every item for Dark contamination.

  Missing her house rose like a stone in her throat, and fresh fear for Neil followed. This kind of magick required calm preparation and patterning, but she had nothing even approaching the requisite tranquility.