The Sight (23 page)

She shook her head, took another small sip, then gestured toward the north. “There? I don't know how far away. I don't know if it's still there. It was a stain—a smudge, and then it was gone.”

But it had been there. And I didn't want to know what we'd find.

—

We let Eleanor catch her breath. And when her complexion had lost some of the peaky haze, Liam carried her back to the car again.

“You don't need to carry me,” she said.

“You could probably outrun me in a marathon,” Liam said. “But I won't have a chance to carry you for a while, so you're doing me a favor.”

“From ornery child, you've grown into a wonderful man.”

I snickered. “He's still ornery, Eleanor.”

“About damn time,” Moses said from the backseat, and offered Eleanor a cellophane-wrapped peppermint and a small bottle of water. “Refreshments?”

The question made her smile, just as he'd intended. “No, thank you, kind sir. But I believe I'm ready to get out of the city.”

“Je t'aime,”
Liam said, and pressed his lips to her forehead. Then he closed the door, and moved to Gavin's open window.

“Be careful,” Liam said.

“Walk in the park,” Gavin said, but his expression said Serious Business.

“I'll go back to the Cabildo,” Burke said as Gavin drove down the alley. “Tell Gunnar that there might have been some kind of attack. Maybe he can pull a patrol from one of the other quadrants, have someone take a look.”

I looked at Liam. “Magic doesn't sound like Reveillon.”

“No,” he agreed. “It doesn't. But that doesn't make me feel any better.”

—

For a long time, Tadji, Liam, and I sat silently at the table, the store quiet behind the sheets that still covered the window.

We'd managed to get Eleanor and Moses out of Devil's Isle, but Reveillon was still out there. And now we had to wonder what Eleanor had seen.

An hour later, Gavin returned, confirmed they were safely in Darby's, Erida's, and Malachi's hands. They'd stay at the church until darkness fell, then head toward Bayou Teche. Once at the cabin, Erida would stay with them until they were set up and she was sure Reveillon wasn't a threat.

An engine rumbled, drew nearer. We peeked through the
window. The crowd had disappeared, and we watched Gunnar and Burke hop out of an enormous Hummer.

Gunnar walked inside, offered the keys to Gavin. “It's all yours.”

Gavin's eyes narrowed. “I'm suspicious of this gift.”

“It's not a gift,” Gunnar said. “We've got every agent patrolling the city, the hinterlands. Because of the border skirmishes, PCC hasn't been able to send anyone else into the Zone. We're as short-staffed as we get. See if you can figure out what Eleanor saw. And if you see any Reveillon bastards, take them out.”

The words were harsh, but so was Reveillon.

“Come to papa,” Gavin said by way of agreement, gaze on the gleaming vehicle. “The rational part of my brain says this thing is too big for scouting. Too big and too noisy.” He grinned. “I'm just going to consider that a challenge to be overcome.”

“You do you, little brother,” Liam said, and clapped him on the back.

“Happy hunting,” Gunnar said, and Gavin gave a cheeky salute, walked outside, and began to caress and whisper to his new toy.

“You might want to sterilize that thing when you get it back,” Liam said.

“Already on the agenda.”

“I'll go with Gavin,” Burke said, then glanced at me. “Maybe we'll bunk here tonight, if that's all right with you. I'd feel better if we were together.”

Tadji nodded, wrapped her arms around herself. “I'd rather not be alone.”

“It would be convenient for me, too,” Gunnar said. “And better than the barracks.”

“They smell like feet,” Burke agreed.

I wrinkled my nose. “That is disgusting. And bunking here is
fine,” I said. “There's a bed down here and one in the storage room. We'll make it work. And I have a request for you,” I told Gunnar, and grabbed the questions I'd written down in Devil's Isle. I offered it to him.

He looked it over, then up at me again. “What's this?”

“I helped Vendi with home visits this morning. The Paras had some questions about Reveillon. I know they aren't constituents; they're prisoners. But they're under attack. They deserve to know what's happening. They deserve answers.”

Gunnar watched me for a moment, then added the list to his folder. “I'll see what I can do,” he said, then rubbed a hand over his face as if he might break up his obvious exhaustion. “I'm going back to the Cabildo.”

“We should plan some kind of meal when he gets back,” I said, realizing most of us were probably running on fumes. I glanced toward the kitchen. “Except I'm pretty sure we're nearly out of food. You people have been using my store like an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“I can probably get you an industrial can of beans,” Burke said with a smile.

“I don't want your government beans,” I assured him, then walked to the window, looked outside. It was sunny, at least for now.

“We'll go to the garden,” I said, and glanced at Liam. “I wouldn't mind a few minutes of peace and quiet and weed pulling. And since you did so well with the beets, you can go with me.”

“I want nothing to do with beets because they are disgusting,” he said. “But since it's a good idea that we stay together, I will sacrifice.”

“So noble,” Tadji said, reaching over to squeeze his hand, give him a solemn look.

“But I'm not pulling weeds,” Liam said. “I have too many memories of pulling weeds at Eleanor's house.”

“Because you liked to garden?” Burke asked.

“Because Gavin and I had ‘behavioral issues,' or so she said.”

“Yeah, that makes more sense.” I grabbed the canvas-lined basket that held my gardening supplies from behind the counter, handed it to Liam. “Let's go rustle up some grub.”

—

The Quarter's community garden sat on the top floor of the old Florissant Hotel. The deck, which had once been home to a luxurious pool, bar, and tropical garden, now held small plots of dark earth used by agents who lived in the barracks and by the few civilians who still lived in the Quarter. My plot was on the northernmost corner of the building, and was currently overburdened with fall vegetables. I hadn't been here to harvest in nearly a week.

I gathered the vegetables that were ready to eat, put the rest in the compost pile. Liam weeded without a single complaint, so I didn't argue when he took a break to look out over the city. I joined him at the roof's edge, took in the slate roofs of the Quarter's remaining buildings, the tall and glowing walls of Devil's Isle, the empty shells of skyscrapers in the CBD. And behind it all, the dark ribbon of the Mississippi River.

“Do you believe in fate?” Liam asked.

Not a question I'd have expected Liam Quinn to ask. “I think we are who we are, at least to some degree, within some kind of limit. I mean, I'm not going to become a trapeze artist.”

He smiled quizzically. “Was that on the list?”

“Briefly,” I admitted. “I went to a circus when I was a kid—this artistic carnival that set up in Audubon Park. The acrobats were gorgeous women in stockings and satin costumes with sequins, and I thought they were the most beautiful creatures I'd ever seen. They flew like birds, and I wanted to be one of them.”

He smiled. “Since I haven't seen you in a satin costume, I'm assuming it didn't pan out?”

“No. The carnival came back the next year, and they held a class where you could climb up the trapeze ladder and take a turn on one of the trapeze swings. You're hooked up to harnesses and there was an enormous net, but you'd still get the experience of flying. They strapped me into the harness, and I climbed up the ladder, hand over foot, and got to the little pedestal where they push you off. And then I looked down—all the way down.”

“And that was the end of that?” he asked.

I grinned, remembering. “I climbed right back down that ladder. My father wasn't thrilled he'd lost his deposit.”

“But probably happy you weren't going to run off and join the circus.”

“True. Heights don't bother me as much now, but my life on the flying trapeze is behind me.” I looked at Liam. “Do you believe in fate? Or would you like to tell me an embarrassing story of your childhood so we're even steven?”

Liam stood up, stuck out his chest. “I've always been a brave and resourceful lad.”

I snorted. “I bet.”

Before he could elaborate, the sky opened, and rain began to fall in sheets that left us instantly soaked to the bone.

“I guess I won't need a shower,” Liam said, scooping back his wet hair. He was somehow sexier in the rain, as if the rivulets of water had sharpened the lines of his face, the strong cut of his jaw, made his blue eyes shine like sapphires against his coal black hair.

“Me, either,” I said. I smiled, but stiffened when he brushed a lock of hair from my face.

“Saint Claire of the Florissant,” Liam said as rain streamed down his face.

The moment lingered and stretched, as they always did when we faced each other across this same chasm. But once again, the chasm defeated us.

“Let's get out of the downpour,” he said.

And the rain continued to fall.

B
urke and Gavin were back by the time we walked, drenched, into the store again. They were only slightly less damp than we were.

“This doesn't bode well,” Liam said as we approached them. “Do we have time to dry off before you tell us what happened?”

“It will be a quick update,” Burke said. “We think we found what Eleanor saw. There was a murder in Congo Square. A Paranormal.”

The store went quiet, an implicit moment of silence.

“Who?” Liam asked.

“No one I know or have seen before,” Burke said. “He had wings, but he looked like he'd been living on the street for a while.”

Liam frowned. “A homeless Para? That's a new one.”

“PTSD hits Paras as well as humans. He could have suffered a break during or after the war. It would have been easy for him to hide his wings. People might have thought he was human, maybe mentally ill.”

“How'd you know he was Para?” I asked.

Burke said, “The killer cut off his wings, and wrote ‘Cleansed' on the brick by the body.”

“Reveillon,” Liam said, and they nodded.

“It was a gory scene,” Gavin said, pushing a hand through his
damp hair. “One of the worst I've ever seen, including during the war. That must have been what Eleanor saw.”

“The blossoming blood,” I said quietly, and Burke nodded.

“He had golden eyes like Malachi,” Burke said. “Open and staring at the sky, like he was waiting to be called home.” He looked away, shook his head. “It's a damn waste, and a damn shame.”

“We happened to run into two Containment agents who were on their way back to the barracks,” Gavin said. “Had them stay with him until we could tell Gunnar, send a pigeon to Malachi.”

“I'm sorry you had to see that,” Tadji said, putting a hand over Burke's. “And I'm sorry it happened, and I'm sorry Eleanor saw what she did. The world is just completely screwed up right now.”

“Yeah,” Burke said, lifting their joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to them. “Let's be glad we've got friends and a safe place to sleep.”

Because not everyone was so lucky.

—

We were starving, but not really in the mood to eat. So we opted for sustenance, came up with canned white beans with onion from the garden, corn bread from a mix, and the last of the iced tea. The greens we'd gathered would take a while to cook; we'd eat them tomorrow.

We ate in silence as steady rain turned into a storm, each roll of thunder shaking the old glass in the store's windows. But they'd survived tropical storms and hurricanes; they'd manage a good wet-season soaking.

“I'll take care of the dishes,” Burke offered when we were done. “I don't mind.”

“I won't say no to that offer,” I said. “I hate doing dishes.”

We took the dishes and leftovers into the kitchen, blew out the candles. And then there was a knock on the door.

“No,” I said. “I am not accepting any more death or drama today. Just no.”

“Maybe Ezekiel wants to turn himself in,” Gavin muttered. “Excuse me,” he said in an exaggerated drawl. “I have come to my senses, and genocide is a nasty, nasty business. Please take me to the Cabildo.”

“Your impressions are as bad as your hand-to-hand,” Liam said, walking to the door. “He doesn't have an accent.” He peeked through the sheets that still covered the windows, then unlocked and opened the door.

A very young Containment agent in a dark shirt, skirt, and tidy heels blinked up at him. Behind her, Royal Street glimmered wet in the soggy moonlight. “I'm looking for Liam Quinn?”

“That would be me,” Liam said.

The woman pulled a dark folder from her leather portfolio.

Damn it. I also preferred not to accept any more Containment folders this week.

“Agent Landreau requested I deliver this to you. He's not able to get away from the office. He asked that I wait until you read it, get your answer.”

I rose, walked to the door to stand behind Liam while he read the sheet of paper inside the folder. It was a Containment form, with
PARANORMAL RECOVERY
in gothic letters across the top. It was a bounty.

“The wraith in the Lower Ninth has been spotted again,” Liam said, scanning the document. “And a group of Reveillon members have been wandering the neighborhood, harassing residents and causing trouble.”

The same group Malachi had run into, I wondered, or a second asshole brigade?

“Containment doesn't have the people to deal with it,” Liam said, and the agent nodded. He closed the folder, handed it back to her.

“Agent Landreau said to find either, or both. Your work would be appreciated either way. Oh, and I was to tell you to keep Claire out of trouble.”

“Acknowledged and accepted,” Liam said, then offered his thanks and closed the door. “Saddle up, trainee,” he said, glancing at me with resignation. “We're back on the clock.”

—

We drove back to the Lower Ninth, found Reveillon had been busy with billboards. We saw a dozen along the way, all in the signature yellow and red paint.

New Orleans was beginning to feel like a city under siege.

“He's appealing to a lot of people,” I said. “A lot of angry people.”

“Yeah,” Liam said, sliding his gaze from a
CLEANSE NEW ORLEANS
billboard back to the dark street. “And people who can't think for themselves.”

When we reached the neighborhood, we drove for nearly an hour through darkness, past lots still vacant since Katrina, up and down streets that dead-ended at the Industrial Canal Levee.

I wasn't an experienced hunter, but Liam was. That we'd spent two unproductive evenings looking for a wraith in an area with a lot of open and visible ground wasn't a compliment to either of us.

And then I glanced out the side window, and my heart went cold. “Liam, stop the truck.”

Tension snapped his body into fight-ready form, and he did exactly as I'd asked, pulling the truck into the quiet side street, idling the engine. “What did you see?”

“A group of people in the middle of the street, pale clothes.” I glanced at him. “Maybe that Reveillon fabric.”

His expression went hard. “How many?”

“It was a really quick glance. Maybe half a dozen? More than five, fewer than ten.”

Nodding, he reached over and opened the glove box, pulled out the .44 and a box of bullets that hadn't been there before. “Let's go take a look.”

“You sure you can shoot that thing?”

“Maybe not as well as you,” he said, climbing out of the truck, tucking the ammo into his pocket, holding the gun at his side, finger away from the trigger. “But I'll do my best.”

Side by side, we slipped back to the street we'd passed, edged around an empty house still marked by a Katrina X-Code, and looked at our foes.

There were eight of them—men in pants and shirts of stained homespun fabric, standing in the middle of a street beneath the sweeping branches of live oaks that were decades older than they were.

“Cleanse the Zone! Cleanse the Zone! Cleanse the Zone!”

Most of them were chanting; all of them watched avariciously the person who writhed at their feet.

It was a boy, I thought, based on the glimpses I got as the men moved around him. Small and slender, with pale skin and ratty clothes. They kicked him viciously, laughed at his obvious pain as he contorted.

“You are filth!” screamed a man of thirty-five or forty. “Garbage! Should have stayed where you came from!”

The boy screamed, the sound a barely human, high-pitched shriek that ripped through the air like lightning. It wasn't the sound of a normal human.

“Shit,”
I murmured, all the air rushing from my lungs. He wasn't a child—not anymore. He was a wraith, his essence winnowed down by magic to his single, overriding obsession: find more magic. It was the curse of the Sensitive; we had magic because we absorbed it. And if we weren't careful, we'd become nothing more than vessels for that need.

“Liam.”

He just nodded, watching them with an intense but otherwise blank expression. He must have thought of Gracie while staring at this boy, who couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve. This child had lost his life to magic in a very different way, but he'd lost his life all the same.

Liam pulled the keys from his pocket, slipped them to me. “Get the truck. Pull it up to the corner, headlights on bright.”

“It will blind them,” I said, understanding.

“For a moment, anyway. Cowards that they probably are, I'm guessing one or two will make a run for it, and the rest will stay because they're already pumped for a fight.”

“This may be the same group that Malachi engaged. They may also be pissed.”

“They aren't the only ones. I don't want to shoot them—maybe they're redeemable assholes—but I will if I have to. Otherwise we need to get them down and waiting for Containment. There are zip ties in the truck.”

“Did some stocking after Camp Couturie, did you?”

“It seemed wise. Bring those with.”

I nodded. “If you can get them away from the wraith, and he senses me, he'll move toward me.”

In truth, he'd try to attack me. He'd sense the magic I'd already absorbed, and he'd want it. He was small, but he'd be strong and
probably as vicious as the humans who'd attacked him, if not by choice.

“You can handle him? We only have to hold them off before Containment gets here.”

“Containment?”

Liam pointed to the blinking green light on a pole halfway down the block. “They've been signaled. Poor little bastard wandered into a neighborhood with a working monitor.”

“Are there cameras this far from the Cabildo?”

“Not usually. Monitors are cheaper, and they don't have the staff to watch feed from every block in New Orleans.” He looked back at me. “Containment won't be here fast; they don't have enough people for it. But they will be here eventually.”

So don't do anything to get yourself arrested, he meant.

“I can handle myself,” I assured him. “You've got the tranq kit?” That was the easiest way to keep a wraith from injuring himself or anyone else.

“Also in the glove box.”

The wraith screamed again.

“Go,”
Liam said, and I ran back toward the truck, climbed inside, and got it moving. I made a U-turn in the street, came slowly back around to the corner, and when the gun fired, I roared around it and flipped on the lights, silhouetting Liam's strong body.

“You a friend or foe?” asked the man who'd stepped in front of the others. He was tall and lean, with a shaved, pale head.

Two of the others were pinning down the wraith. A couple looked scared. Wise decision on their parts.

“Neither,” Liam said. “I'm a bounty hunter, and he belongs to me.”

The Reveillon member stepped forward, hands on his hips. “I don't give a shit who you think you are. We are Reveillon. We are
cleansing this city from garbage like him. And since you profit from the system, from garbage like you, too.”

“Do you know any bounty hunters? Do you know the kind of shit we put up with? The kind of shit we're equipped to handle?” Liam's tone had gone hard and glacier-cold. Bounty hunters had reputations for being badasses, and he was no exception.

“I've got people and guns,” the guy said, “and if you're smart, you'll get the hell out of our way.”

Two of his friends stepped forward, showed the guns stuffed into their waistbands.

Liam lifted the .44 and cocked it as I stepped out of the truck.

“Oh, you brought your girlfriend,” the man in front said. “Big fucking deal.”

“Capons,”
Liam spat, his gaze narrowing on the man who'd challenged him. “You want to go? Let's go. I've had one hell of a shitty week, and a workout might make me feel better.”

“Fine, asshole,” the man said, stepping forward. “Let's go.”

Liam had seen enough death, destruction, fear, and hurt from Reveillon. He was ready for a fight, and I wasn't going to take that away from him. So I took the gun he held out to me, kept it trained on the other guys.

Liam and the guy with the big mouth lunged at each other, piled into a grappling mess that hit the ground, started to roll.

While they battled, one of their crew slunk off into the darkness. The two men with guns moved toward me, leering smiles on their faces.

“You a traitor, too, bitch?” asked one of them.

“The only traitors in this town are Reveillon,” I said, holding up the .44. “I'm the one with the very large gun.”

“What?” said the other, elbowing his buddy. “You going to shoot us?”

I smiled mirthlessly. “Unless you put the guns on the ground by the count of three, yeah, I am.
One.
”

“Bullshit,” said the first guy. “You ain't gonna shoot nothing.”

“Two.”

They cursed, drew their weapons. One of them held his gun sideways like a moronic movie villain. Were all the assholes in New Orleans watching the same bad shows?

“And three,” I said pleasantly, and fired a shot between them. The one on the right scrambled to get away but tripped on the pockmarked asphalt.

The one on the left, all bravado, took another step forward, gun now shaking in his outstretched hand.

“Morons,” I said, and aimed at his feet, preparing to fire again.

I'd just taken a step forward, gun trained on him, when the wraith bounded out the darkness, screaming with the wrath of an angry god.

His hair was short and pale, his fingers tipped in nails sharp as diamonds. He fell on top of the man with the gun, and they hit the ground together. The man screamed and kicked, pushed back against the wraith's rubbery skin but couldn't dislodge him. The wraith clawed at his clothes, his skin, as if they held back the magic he needed.