The Sight (26 page)

Gunnar walked in with a woman I didn't recognize. Slight, with pale skin and blond hair. She had a button nose and wide mouth, and hazel eyes that looked around the store curiously.

“This is Agent Alice Colfax,” Gunnar said when they reached us. “She's PCC Logistics and Community Relations, and she's been seconded with Containment for the last sixteen months. She loves red beans and rice, is a helluva bowler, and is available to Royal Mercantile today to answer any questions customers may have.” Gunnar glanced at her. “I forget anything?”

She frowned, considering. “I love broccoli, I'm allergic to cats, and I run a five-minute mile.”

Tadji blinked. “Like, on purpose?”

Colfax smiled, shrugged. “I like a challenge.”

“Then you've come to the right place,” Tadji said, gesturing her to the counter. “Let me tell you about Mrs. Proctor.”

I couldn't help laughing.

—

I found a couple of Containment surplus knapsacks, loaded them with bandages, water, protein bars, the tokens I owed Solomon. Tadji offered me a pencil, a small notebook.

“Just in case you hear anything interesting,” she said, and tapped the larger versions she'd put on the counter. “Use of language in wartime, new curse words, that kind of thing.”

“Always a linguist,” I said, giving her a hug.

“But of course.” She pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Be careful out there.”

“Be careful in here. And if worse comes to worst, leave the store. Go to the Cabildo, or your house. Just get someplace safe. I love this place, but you're the most important thing in here.”

“What she said,” Liam said, giving her a hug, too. “We'll be in touch when we can.”

“I'll walk you as far as the Cabildo,” Gunnar said when we headed to the door. “I need to talk to the Commandant. Then I'll find you in Devil's Isle.”

“How long do we have?” Liam asked.

“Based on the satellite images, estimates of troop movement, less than twenty-four hours. If they're smart, they'll stay dispersed, attack from all sides, with maybe the strongest force at the gate.”

“They're going to use the C-4 from Camp Couturie,” I said. “They'll try to tear down the walls.”

“They will,” Gunnar agreed. “The walls, the Cabildo, the barracks. We've put up extra security as we can. But without backup, if the caravans can't get through, we won't have enough people to keep them from hitting all targets.”

“There will be loss of life,” Liam said.

“Yeah,” Gunnar said. “Lizzie's getting the clinic ready. They'll have to triage as they can. This really is all hands on deck.”

We reached the Cabildo, the beautiful building at the head of Jackson Square, the only building that had survived of the three that had once stood there.

Gunnar reached out, gave me a hug, then offered Liam a handshake. “Try to keep her out of trouble.”

“I'll do my best.”

“I don't need a minder.”

They both just looked at me. Which wasn't especially flattering.

Knapsacks on our backs, Liam and I walked the rest of the way to the Devil's Isle gate.

I wanted to say something, to breach the companionable silence and ask about us. I didn't want last night to have been my only night with Liam. On the other hand, I couldn't fault him for who he was, or blame him for taking me at my word. I'd told him there'd be no expectations. That's how it would have to be.

“And once again,” I said, feigning cheerfulness I guessed both of us needed, “I walk into Devil's Isle, and hope I walk out again.”

“We'll walk out again,” Liam said, and took my hand. “Together.”

Okay. That was something. I'd take it.

—

Two dozen volunteers—some Containment agents, some Devil's Isle staff, some civilians—gathered near the old, open-air Marigny Market Building. Captain Reece had apparently volunteered to lead this part of the preparation. He stood beside a large map tacked to a rolling board.

“What's the plan?” an agent asked.

Reece pointed to a map and a red square drawn around several blocks in the middle of the neighborhood. “We want to move everyone in this area. That will allow us to create a second safety perimeter around the residents. Every resident or family unit has an assigned spot or unit. We're going to help get them there in as orderly and efficient a manner as possible.”

There was something off about calling prisoners “residents,” even if I understood the reason for it.

We were split up, assigned to “resident groups.” Mine was a group
of adults and children a dozen in number: an extended family, as far as I could tell. The adults, whose pale and hairless skin, spotted with light orange, marked them visually as Paranormals, didn't speak English.

They carried only a few necessities—a bag of what food remained in their homes, diapers for children, their Containment-assigned papers—for the walk down to the emergency barracks.

I did a final sweep of the small house, found rooms with brightly colored paint, toys and games that looked completely foreign, an impressive garden of herbs and vegetables. And when I stepped onto the threshold again, I squinted at the bright light.

A tiny hand took mine. “There's going to be another war.”

I looked down. The child couldn't have been more than six or seven, a wisp of a thing with the same pale and spotted skin as her family. She wore pink overalls and a matching headband over her smooth head, and her voice carried a subtle New Orleans accent, probably because she'd learned English from the Containment agents and workers.

“Maybe not a war,” I said. “But probably a fight.”

“How come?”

“Because sometimes people make very bad decisions.”

“Humans, or people like us?”

Wasn't that the big question? “As far as I can tell, pretty much anyone.”

“That's pretty stupid,” she said, then clamped her free hand over her mouth. “I'm not supposed to say ‘stupid.'”

“I won't tell,” I said with a smile. “Because you're absolutely right.”

“Okay!” she said in a loud whisper her mother—and anyone else in a ten-foot radius—could plainly hear.

We joined the flood of Paranormals making the same walk
deeper into the prison. Some looked worried; some looked unfazed. Others looked downright pissed. I couldn't fault them for that.

The building to which we'd been assigned was an empty room with dozens of rows of cots. The family I'd helped move nodded at me, then walked off to find their designated spot.

Nedra, Thora, and the girls took a set of cots in the opposite corner, the girls bouncing on their temporary canvas beds with visible excitement. Nedra and Thora shared a look of obvious concern, then pressed their palms together before organizing their area.

It was an internment camp inside an internment camp. And that didn't make me feel any better about Devil's Isle.

I walked to Reece, who stood at the end of the building, watching the “residents” find their new home. “Do you think we can keep them safe?”

It took a long time for him to answer. “I don't know. But today, we have a common enemy. And it's our obligation to try.”

I couldn't argue with that.

—

There were a few thousand Paranormals in Devil's Isle, and it took hours to get them moved, situated. There were disputes to address—not enough beds, not enough blankets, too close to the exit, not close enough to the restrooms, and the occasional missing pair of shoes or bag of rice.

The sun was setting when the volunteers were dispersed. By that time, Containment had created its security perimeter, arranging people and concrete bollards in a ring around the square of buildings.

I found Liam waiting outside. We walked together back to the gate, where the front perimeter of the ring was being assembled.
Nearest the gate, agents sat on the sidewalk beneath the eaves of the market building. Inside were dozens more agents, a scale model of Devil's Isle, cases of bottled water, and a kettle of soup over a flaming propane tank.

Containment had been busy.

“I guess that's dinner,” Liam muttered, sniffing the air. “Or laundry.”

Gunnar stood near the scale model, answering questions. We waited until he acknowledged us, just so he'd know we were there, then grabbed bottles of water and prepared to wait for instructions.

There was commotion outside, snarky comments and raised voices, including one that was much too familiar.

Liam must have recognized it, too. “Son of a bitch,” he said, and we followed him outside.

Moses stood between two Containment agents, their hands on his shoulders.

“What the actual fuck?” he said, shaking them off.

“Is there a problem?” Gunnar asked, stepping into the fray.

“This Para won't go about his business,” the agent said.

Gunnar lifted his eyebrows. “Moses?”

Moses shrugged himself loose of the agents, stepped forward. When they moved to follow, Gunnar held up a hand to stop them.

Moses had come back to Devil's Isle.

“I don't like the idea of you all being out here without me,” Moses said. “I got pretty good skills.”

“I don't doubt it at all,” Gunnar said, and glanced at the agents who'd manhandled Moses. “A militia of murderers and traitors to this country and to humanity is coming to kill you, to destroy the city we've saved, and to kill every Paranormal inside it. Does it seem wise to you to turn down anyone—anyone—who wishes to stand up with us? Who wants to fight with us?”

The agent wet his lips, looked away. “No, sir.”

“No,” Gunnar said. “It does not.” He looked out over the crowd of agents who'd gathered to watch. “Anyone wants to join in this fight, we say yes. I don't care if you object to their height, their religion, their preference in bourbon, or whether they came from Boston, Bermuda, or the Beyond. They want to fight, they get to fight. Is that understood?”

“Sir!” the agents shouted.

Gunnar acknowledged with a nod. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get back to planning this war we'll soon be fighting.” He glanced at Moses. “Can Claire and Liam get you settled?”

“Course,” he said.

“You rock my world,” I whispered to Gunnar.

His expression was bleak. “It's do or die now, for all of us. And I hope to God we know what we're doing.”

“I like that kid,” Moses said as Gunnar walked back into the market. “He's got spine. Don't always agree with him, but there you go.”

When Moses looked back at Liam, Liam's expression had gone stone cold.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered. “You should be long gone by now.”

“I walked back.”

We stared at him. “You walked back. From Freret to the Quarter.” Liam blinked, obviously dumbfounded. “And then you just waltzed into Devil's Isle?”

“I did. And my feet are killing me.”

We looked down at his calloused toes. They looked pretty much the same as before, as much as I was any judge of things.

“Let me ask another way,” Liam said, one bitten syllable at a time. “You walked back from Freret to the Quarter without a disguise? In full view of everyone?”

Moses's eyes went mean. “What's wrong with the way I look? Least I'm not some gangly, pasty asshole.”

I couldn't help the snort.

“Not the time,” Liam said. He didn't look at me, but the stern tone was clearly aimed in my direction. He was absolutely livid. I understood the emotion—the frustration over the risk we'd taken to get Moses out. On the other hand, if we could get him out once, we could get him out again.

“Look,” Moses said, looking at Liam, then me. “You did me a solid by getting me the hell out of here. I appreciate that. But that was before I knew a goddamn army was on its way.” He kicked at the ground. “You think after all that teary good-bye shit I'm going to leave you here to fight alone?”

War could make enemies of allies. I guessed it could also bring allies back together.

I put a hand at Liam's back. Whatever “we” were, that seemed to ease the tension. “Moses, you want water or soup?”

Moses sniffed the air. “I could eat some soup.”

—

Moses wasn't the only one who joined us. Civilians came from the Quarter, from Mid-City, from Tremé, with food, weapons, and supplies. They'd seen Ezekiel's signs, and word had spread about the coming battle. New Orleans was still their home; Paranormals or not, they didn't want anyone tearing up the city they loved.

Some came with feathers and beads, with the traditions of the Mardi Gras Indians.

Tony Mercier, tall and lanky, had dark skin and short, cropped hair, and a patch over one eye. He'd fought with a company from the Lower Ninth in the war and now led the Vanguard, an organization
of New Orleans veterans. He'd brought a dozen of them with him tonight.

His suit was in his signature color—feathers of deep, buttercup yellow, layered from head to feet. There were hand-beaded panels on his chest, shins, and arms that showed victory scenes from the Second Battle of New Orleans. The ensemble was topped by an enormous headdress that stretched nearly three feet over his head.

His costume was the largest, the most impressive, because he was the Vanguard's big chief. His lieutenants also wore feathered suits, but no headdresses. And there was nothing remotely decorative about their weapons—guns, large and small; knives; swords; and pretty much anything else.

This,
I thought. This was why we'd stayed in the Zone. Because for all of New Orleans's problems, its issues, its inequities, the people of this city rallied. We were the community, the unity, that Ezekiel wanted, but that he and Reveillon would never understand.

Gunnar met Tony proudly, offered a hand. “Chief Mercier. It's a pleasure to see you here.”