The Sight (3 page)

I nodded.

Liam watched me for a moment, then put a hand behind my head, made sure I met his eyes. “If you need a break, find me. I'll walk you back.”

I nodded again. I didn't have the words for anything else.

—

Lizzie had already moved on to her next patient—a Containment agent with dark skin and shorn hair—when I reached her. His eyes were closed, a gory and angry-looking wound in his shoulder.

“I could help.”

Lizzie looked up at me, and it took a moment for recognition to dawn in her eyes. When it did, she gave me a frank appraisal. “You can handle it?”

“I was here during the war, the Second Battle.” Every word out of my mouth sounded awkward. “I helped some. And I can follow directions.”

She considered it for a moment. She nodded, dipped her chin to gesture to her hands, which applied pressure to a pack of bandages covering a gaping wound on the man's shoulder.

“The civilian medics aren't here yet. Pressure here,” she instructed, and when I'd scooted beside her and replaced my hands with hers, I felt the officer's blood—warm and pulsing—beneath my fingers.

“I could cauterize it with a fingertip,” Lizzie said, fire dancing on
her neck as she pulled off one pair of gloves, pulled on another, and moved to his leg. “But they'd consider that a felony.”

Lizzie pulled a wad of gauze from a pocket of her tunic and wrapped it around his thigh, just above the knee, where the violence had torn another gash.

“Over here!” she shouted, to a man and woman who drove a small utility vehicle with a stabilizing board strapped to the back.

“Get him to the clinic,” she said as they followed her orders, stepped in to whisk him up and away. The only functioning civilian hospital in New Orleans was on the north side of the city—too far away to be helpful now.

The skin on my hands felt tight, and I glanced down. Blood—his blood—had dried on my palms, stained my nails.

“I was hoping I wouldn't have to be in this position,” she said, pushing streaked hair from her face. “That I wouldn't have to pretend my allegiance.”

“To humans?” I asked.

“To idiots who refuse to accept reality.” She looked around. “Something is beginning.”

“Something is beginning,” I agreed.

We'd have to hope it ended quickly.

W
e worked for hours.

Six years of peace had weakened my ability to deal with death and gore, wiped away the desensitization that had been necessary all those years ago. But dealing with blood and horror again made me numb to the sight and smell of it quickly enough.

Not counting the protestors, four people had been killed, twelve more injured. Those closest to the gate had caught the brunt of the explosions. Two of the dead were Containment agents who'd done nothing more than show up for work. The other two were Paranormals. Sunday in Devil's Isle wasn't unlike Sunday outside it, and families had been gathered on the long strip of green that reached into the prison from the gate, enjoying the fresh air, maybe pretending they were somewhere else.

Containment moved the dead, and we helped move the injured. But the ground was still littered with debris and evidence of carnage. Containment's forensic unit picked through it now for evidence, although it seemed pretty obvious who'd done the damage.

Containment counted fifteen protestors who had engaged us on their trip down Bourbon Street. And when they'd reached Devil's Isle, they'd gone to war. Containment believed seven of them had been killed, either because they'd carried the explosives or had been fatally
injured in the explosions. In the chaos, Containment hadn't arrested any of them, and believed three had escaped back into the Quarter. That left five unaccounted for . . . and still in Devil's Isle.

I watched Lizzie peel off a pair of latex gloves, toss them onto the ground. She uncapped a bottle of water, poured it over her hands to clean away powder from the gloves.

“Was fighting like this in the Beyond?” I asked.

She dried her hands on a clean spot of fabric on her pants, then took a drink.

“Life in the Beyond was very structured,” she said. “Society was tiered, regulated, hierarchical. It was stable, peaceful, refined, orderly. But not flexible.”

Paranormals had roared into our world with golden armor and weapons, many dressed for battle in brilliant, flowing fabrics with braided accents. Some had ridden horses through the Veil, and they'd been bridled with gleaming, tooled leather and golden armor of their own. It wasn't hard to imagine the rest of their society was orderly and refined, too.

“The Consularis was strict,” I said.

She nodded. “There had been war in our world for a very, very long time. Our Dark Ages—when the Beyond was led by warlords, and civilians were cannon fodder. The Consularis changed that. They brought peace, and they brought rules.”

Which the Court of Dawn apparently hadn't liked, since they'd split the Veil in search of a new land to rule, bringing magically impressed Consularis Paranormals with them to serve as soldiers. When the war was over, humans had bundled Court and Consularis together into Devil's Isle. Few humans knew the truth. I'd only just learned, and I'd lived in New Orleans my entire life.

“That's why the Court rebelled.”

She nodded. “The leaders of the Court believed they were
entitled to more than their stations allowed them. More possessions, more respect.”

Screaming split the air behind us. We looked back, watched as three Containment agents dragged a sobbing Paranormal back inside the walls. She was petite, her skin brilliantly crimson. Small, iridescent wings fluttered in panic at her back. They'd pulled her arms behind her, and there were dark smears of blood across her face, her knees. Probably where she'd fallen while fighting back.

I watched them carry her away, feeling equally guilty and impotent. I looked back at Lizzie. “You could have run today instead of helping. Tried to make it out, into the bayous.” That's where the fugitive Paranormals generally hid to avoid Containment.

She shook her head. “I swore to myself that when it was time to leave, I'd walk out of here with my head held high. I wouldn't crawl, I wouldn't be carried, and I wouldn't be dragged. No manhunts, no canine searches.” Her voice softened as she watched the Paranormal struggle against the agents. “She only
nearly
made it out. Now she's on their radar.”

Lizzie turned away, dark shadows beneath her eyes. I knew there was nothing I could say, so I tried to think of something I could do.

“What can I do to help you and the clinic?”

She looked at me for a long minute, embers burning in her eyes, as if the flames had tired and cooled from her efforts on the battlefield. “You can get supplies?”

The question surprised me, although it shouldn't have. Why would I be surprised that a clinic for Paranormals had needs Containment wasn't satisfying? There'd have been no public support for that kind of spending. “What do you need?”

“Salt,” she said without hesitation. “Sea salt, if you can get it. It's an antiseptic for most Paras. I can only get table salt from Containment, and not much of it.”

I nodded. “What else?”

“Clove, thyme, lavender. Any or all of those.”

“Are they medicinal, too?”

She smiled. “They are, and thyme's good for turtle soup. Turtle shows up in our food allocation with regularity. And can you get some suckers? Lollipops, or whatever you'd call them? Something like that? Moses used to get them for me, but . . .”

Moses was the first Para I'd met in Devil's Isle. He was short of stature and big of attitude, and had totally saved my ass. He'd owned his own fix-it shop, a sliver of a building full of discarded electronics. But that was before he'd blown it up to keep his gear out of the hands of Containment and the defense contractor who'd worked for it. There weren't many who knew he'd survived the fire; I think he was enjoying the subterfuge.

“Yeah. Hard candies are easier than chocolate. They don't melt as easily.”

Lizzie nodded. “That would be good. Wraiths like them.”

The statement, which was so frank and simple, made me start. “What?”

“They have a calming effect. Maybe it's the sugar, maybe it's having something to focus on, something pleasant. Whatever the reason, they work. I'd appreciate getting more.”

I nodded. “I'll put it in my next order.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “It's that easy? You'll do it because I asked you?”

“I'll do it because I can, and because it's the least I can do. And I'll do it because someday I might end up in the clinic, and it matters that you care. It matters that you help people when it would be really easy to hurt them.”

She looked at me, evaluated. “You're in a unique position, Claire. You've got friends with skills who are willing to teach you, to ensure
that you stay on the right path. To ensure that you don't become a wraith. Most aren't so lucky. Most don't know any better, and others just want to use it, to feel good.”

I nodded. “I'm working on balancing.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I like you. You've got sense and you seem to have some gumption. But do me a favor?”

“Sure. What?”

“Stay that way. Stay balanced, and stay out of here.”

I'd do everything in my power.

—

With Lizzie gone, and Gunnar and Liam helping, I found a spot out of the way, and watched as Containment and its contractors worked to put the prison back together.

Shrapnel was tagged, photographed, and bagged. The damaged gate was measured and assessed, and contractors began the work of sawing away broken spindles and rails, welding in temporary replacements. The government could move quickly when it wanted.

Fifty feet away, behind the make-do barricade Containment had erected with chain-link fence, stood the wary Paranormals who watched the cleanup. I didn't doubt there'd be some Containment agents who sympathized, at least a little, with Reveillon, and who believed the world would be better off without Paranormals. I hoped the Paras wouldn't suffer for their beliefs.

“When the levee breaks, it breaks.”

I looked back, found Gunnar beside me. His hair was furrowed into rows where he'd raked his fingers through it, and there were streaks of grit and grime across his clothes and face. He looked physically tired and still plenty pissed off.

He offered me a bottle of water. I thanked him with a nod, opened the cap, and drank deeply.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I'm managing,” he said, but sounded like a man on the verge of not managing. “Reveillon has officially claimed credit. They say they want to clean the Zone, but they mean cleanse it. Every Para is the same to them, and they should all be wiped off the face of the earth. They've promised to continue to destroy any vestiges of magic left in New Orleans—and the ‘systems that support them.'”

“Containment,” I guessed, and he nodded. “Who did the claiming?”

“Ezekiel, I understand.”

“So he wasn't wearing explosives. I guess that doesn't surprise me.”

“Me, either.” Gunnar's eyes darkened. “They have their mission, and I by God have mine.” His gaze followed the agents who carried someone out on a stretcher, a dark sheet draped over the body. “Every bit of this was intentional. A war they're determined to wage against the lives we've built here.”

“Ezekiel called Liam out,” I said, sickening as I remembered our interaction on the street. “Knew about his sister, and thinks he supports them.”

Gunnar looked at me, sympathy in his expression, and nailed it in one. “That doesn't mean he's a target.”

It didn't
necessarily
mean that, I thought, but it might.

“Any more longing in your eyes and I'll think you're a basset hound.”

“It's not longing. It's . . .” I sighed. “Fine. It's longing. But calling it what it is doesn't make me feel any better.”

“Sorry,” he said, and ran a hand through his hair, which deepened the furrows. “That was an unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood.”

“I'm not sure that's possible,” I said, glancing at the slender
woman with almond-shaped eyes who stared at us from the other side of the fence.

Her pale hair fell in waves around her narrow and equally pale face, which was marked by the line of crimson that colored her skin from nose to chin, and marked the fingers that were tightly twined in the chain link.

She was a Seelie Paranormal, a member of the Court, and a woman I'd seen in Devil's Isle before. Human mythology said Seelie fairies, like so many other Paranormals, were mostly “good.”

Human mythology had been wrong.

She met my gaze with a look of unadulterated hatred. She had the bearing of a queen, but instead of sitting on a throne, she languished in a war-torn neighborhood behind chain-link fence with her enemies.

And yet, a dozen yards away, another Para passed what looked like a piece of bread through the chain link to an exhausted-looking Containment officer, who took a bite, thanked him with a nod.

The Seelie caught the action, tossed her head in disgust.

Two worlds, thrown together in prison. Probably not the outcome the Court had predicted, and certainly not one they'd wanted.

Gunnar caught the direction of my gaze, watched the Seelie turn, her long dress spinning around her as she moved, and disappear into the crowd.

“Do you think Reveillon would care about the difference between Consularis and Court?”

“I don't know why they would,” Gunnar said. “Based on the hand they've shown so far, everything is black-and-white for them. Consularis and Court are both magic; that makes them the enemy.”

He sighed.

“You look tired.”

“I am exhausted. Why don't I meet you at the store later? We can debrief.” He rubbed his temples. “Maybe I can find a bottle of booze in the Cabildo in the meantime.”

“I wouldn't say no to booze,” I said.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

And the pro-booze feeling grew stronger.

We both turned to find Jack Broussard. A Containment agent, Broussard had been the one to tell me my father was a Sensitive, and he'd trashed the store to find proof I'd been hosting illegal meetings of Sensitives. He'd been wrong, and didn't know the truth about me, but that hardly mattered. Like Reveillon, he'd already decided who the bad guys were—and Liam and I both fell into the category.

Broussard was a tall man with brown hair and green eyes. Not an unattractive face, except that it was usually pinched by anger and irritation. Or maybe just weighed down by the giant chip on his shoulder.

“Not that we need to explain anything to you,” Gunnar said, “but we're helping with the response. We were in the Quarter and heard the explosion.”

Broussard's gaze, which lit with anger, stayed on me. “Do you really think she should be here? In Devil's Isle?”

“
She
can speak for herself,” Gunnar said. “But since you're asking me, yes. She has a pass, and she's done her service today working triage. Unlike some of us,” he added, with a disdainful look at Broussard's clean clothes.

“I was out of the city.”

“And now you're here,” Gunnar said. “If you want to work, talk to Smith.” He gestured toward a tall man with dark skin and a white clipboard. “He's handing out assignments.”

“You aren't my superior.”

“And you aren't mine, nor am I interested in wasting time
arguing with you. If you're here to help, then help. If you're here to make trouble, do us both a favor and save the paperwork: go back to the barracks and stay the hell out of the way.”

Broussard stepped closer to Gunnar. They could have bumped chests if Broussard had been dumb enough to start something.

“You know what, Landreau? One of these days, you're going to get knocked off your high horse. You're going to lose all that social cachet, those special privileges, and you'll be treated like the rest of us.”

“You're an idiot, Broussard, if you think I have my job because of my name. I'm good at what I do. Very good. Why don't you do everyone a favor and back off? It's been a helluva day, and we've lost good people.”