by Chloe Neill
Malachi nodded.
“What can we do in the meantime?” I asked.
“We’re shorthanded as it is, and we’re going to be focused on the grid. You can help canvass the neighborhood. Talk to residents, ask if they’ve heard anything about her plans. Politely,” he added.
“Good thing I left my brass knuckles at the store,” Liam said dryly.
“You’re hilarious as always,” Gunnar said, but squeezed his arm warmly. “I’m going back to the insanity.”
When he was gone, I looked back at Malachi. “You want to go with us? They might be more willing to talk if you are.”
“I don’t think that’s necessarily true. But regardless, no. I want to look.”
I presumed he meant by air, flying above New Orleans for some sign of the Seelies.
“Good flying,” Liam said.
But instead of lifting into the air, Malachi glanced at me, concern etched in his face. “You’re nearly at the edge.”
I didn’t need to ask what he meant. Not when my head was still spinning. “I know. I can feel it. I haven’t had a chance to cast it off yet.”
“Find the time,” Malachi said. He strode away in the direction of the cottages and of the Paras beginning to emerge to look around, check the status of their neighborhood.
“I didn’t see it.”
I looked back at Liam, found glimmering heat in his eyes. “See what?”
“The magic. You’re swimming in it.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Or I will be when I cast off. I can deal.”
“I didn’t see it,” he said again, and this time the words were edged with frustration. When he strode away from me, it took a moment for me to gather my wits enough to follow him.
“Hey,” I said, and, trotting until I’d reached him, grabbed his hand. “What’s going on?”
“The end of the fucking world, and I’m not competent enough with magic so that I can actually see you’re hurting.”
There was an edge to his voice—anger and frustration and irritation warring together.
“I’m fine.”
“Malachi knows you aren’t fine.”
I didn’t think this was about jealousy or balancing magic, or anything other than the fight we’d just witnessed. I moved in front of him, put my hands on his cheeks. “Look at me,” I said, and waited until he did.
“I’m in charge of my body and my magic, not you, not Malachi, not anyone else. That’s my burden and I’m dealing with it. It’s not a thing you can control—or need to. And I’m fine.”
“He saw it.”
“Yeah, and I told him the same thing.”
This wasn’t like Liam—either the sniping jealousy or the insecurity. Liam was no less confident than Malachi was. So what was really going on here? What had put that unfamiliar grimness in his eyes?
I searched his face, as if I could find the answers there, laid bare. But I couldn’t read the cause. “What’s wrong?”
“I should be taking care of you.”
I lifted my brows. “As you’re well aware, I don’t need taking care of. But since you’re a guy with plenty of alpha in him and I understand your urge to protect, I’ll remind you that we fought together. So try again.”
“We live in a war zone.”
“Also not new information. Try again.”
He growled, put his hands behind his head, showing a tantalizing strip of hard muscle between shirt hem and jeans as he paced like a caged tiger. And when I looked at him—really looked at him—I realized there wasn’t just anger in his eyes, but worry. Fear.
The magic.
Stupid, I thought. Stupid that I hadn’t seen that until now, that I hadn’t realized he was still grappling with his own battles. He was fighting his own war with magic, and had worried—or assumed—that I was, too.
“You held your own.”
He stopped short, looked at me for a long time. “Did I?” There was a rawness, a vulnerability, in his eyes that was so unlike him, and it made my heart ache to see it. Liam was a man with a plan, with strategies, with solutions. A man who’d lived through war and come out the other side. He wasn’t accustomed to being uncomfortable.
“It was like she was made of power and hatred. I could feel that, all of it, running through me. I’m glad you don’t have to face that.”
“So am I. And I’m glad it chose you, because I know you’re strong enough to deal with it.”
He looked back at me, doubt in his eyes.
“You didn’t give in to it,” I said, “even when you wanted to. Even when it was calling to you, and reaching inside you. You said no and you fought with me against it.”
I closed the distance he’d put between us, put a hand on his cheek, and turned his face to mine. “Magic is a burden for us. That’s just a fact of life. But you’re handling it. You’re thinking through it, and not giving in. And when you felt it fighting back, you asked for help.”
He put a hand over mine, squeezed. “You are amazing.”
“Yeah, sometimes I am.” I grinned at him. “And if you suggest one more time that it’s your job to protect me, I’ll punch you in the mouth. And throw out all the pad thai MREs.”
His eyes narrowed, glinted dangerously. “You wouldn’t dare. They’re the best ones.”
“Then you better shape up.”
His mouth curled, and he turned his head, pressed his lips to my palm, and had my toes curling. But then he frowned.
“Hey,” he said, turning my arm. “You’re bleeding.”
I craned my head to look, found a bright red slash just below my elbow. “I guess I am. It’s okay.”
“I got it,” he said, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was linen and embroidered with birds of paradise, and bore a fancy “E” in one corner.
“Your grandmother’s?” I asked as he folded it into a triangle, then rolled it up to form a long strip, which he tied around my elbow.
“It is. I found a few things she left behind.”
I winced as he tugged the bandage tight. “Anything you want to get rid of?”
He looked down at me, smiled. “Always looking for a good deal.”
“I try.” And it made him smile, which had been the point.
Liam finished the make-do bandage, pressed a kiss to my forehead. He lingered, as if taking a moment to reassure himself that I was there. “That’ll do for now. And thank you for centering me.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for bandaging me. Now, let’s go see how we can help.”
* * *
• • •
It had been a long time since I’d strolled up and down the streets of any neighborhood in New Orleans and simply stopped to talk to the people I passed.
The wedge of the Marigny had been a lively neighborhood, famous for the jazz clubs on Frenchmen Street, which had once overflowed with tourists and locals. To the east had been colorful Creole cottages, shotgun houses, and town houses that characterized New Orleans architecture. There’d also been a handful of warehouses and industrial buildings.
The neighborhood was considerably thinner now. The war had destroyed dozens of houses and buildings that hadn’t been rebuilt, and Containment had taken down others to provide a better line of sight to the occupants, or to make room for Devil’s Isle facilities. Still, even with the gap-teeth of empty lots and blocks, the Marigny was still New Orleans. It still reflected the city’s history—the influence of the Spanish and French—even as it housed people who were new not just to New Orleans, but to our world.
A few of those stood on their narrow stoops or in the street, children close, as they looked around, watched us, or simply stared at the sky. This might have been the first time the children born in Devil’s Isle had seen the sky without the green haze of the security grid. The first time they’d seen the
blue. Some began to weep, to smile. And some looked rueful, as if angry they’d missed out on the color for so long.
Liam and I talked with two dozen people as we walked, and all the responses were nearly identical. They didn’t like Seelies, they didn’t know how information about the Seelies’ attack could have been passed to Aeryth, and they didn’t know anything about the Seelies’ plans. If the Seelies had allies in Devil’s Isle, we didn’t meet them.
When we’d walked for two hours—and my hands were beginning to shake from excess magic—I knew I was running out of time.
“Let’s go back to the store,” I said. “I could use food, and we both need a break.”
He wiped his brow, looked guilty. “We shouldn’t have to take a break.”
“In an ideal world, no. But I need to cast off, and I feel weird doing that here.” Notwithstanding that I’d taught Sensitives how to do it, my casting off in Devil’s Isle still felt like cheating. Unfair to be a human who could deal with her magic without penalty in a place where Paras had been imprisoned for it.
“You know how war works. It’s hard on everyone—mentally, physically, emotionally. If you can take a few minutes away, a little time to clear your head, that’s what you do. And don’t discount the magic,” I said. “It screws with your mind, Liam. It’s no friend to humans, and yet we use and manipulate it because it’s the best tool we’ve got. Sometimes it’s the only tool we’ve got.”
He looked at me for a long moment, and I watched the fight finally go out of his eyes.
“Break,” he said.
“Break. They’re going to want help searching, and that’s right inside your wheelhouse. But Containment will have to get organized first. We’ll find Gunnar, tell him we’re going back to the store and he can find us there when he’s ready for civilian help.”
Liam’s eyes warmed. He leaned down, kissed my forehead. “You’re a marvel.”
“Remember that next time you come up with ‘I have to protect you’ nonsense. I’ve had magic a lot longer than you.”
When Liam snorted, I knew we were okay.
* * *
• • •
We found Gunnar near the gate, hands on his hips and squinting toward the sky at the workers who futzed with the transformer.
“They making any progress?” Liam asked.
“Hell if I know.” He dropped his gaze to us. “You leaving?”
“Going back to the store,” I said. “We need a rest.”
“Be careful,” Gunnar said, squeezing my hand. “The search is on for the Seelies, but this is a very big city, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot of luck to find them. I’ll be in touch once I’ve talked to the Commandant.”
“You be careful, too,” I said, and pressed a kiss to his sweaty cheek. They were all probably roasting in their black fatigues. Whoever had come up with that design idea, I thought, had probably never been to New Orleans in summer.
We walked out of Devil’s Isle—and out of the Marigny—and the city became immediately quieter, more still. There weren’t many people left in the city, and fewer still in the French Quarter, and we saw no one as we neared Jackson Square, the small park of grass and palm trees and overgrown shrubs, and the statue of Andrew Jackson that had bullheadedly survived the war. I stopped, watched a swaying tree, and felt calmer for it.
“I’m going to cast off here.”
Liam looked at me, worked hard not to argue. But still looked around. “The Seelies could still be close.”
“You know they aren’t. They’ll have wanted to get away from the Quarter, put space between them and Containment, and regroup.”
He sighed, nodded. “You’re right.”
“It’s my favorite thing to be. Besides, even if something happened, Containment HQ is literally right there.” I pointed at the Cabildo, on the other side of the plaza.
Liam breathed out, and I could tell he was forcing himself to relax. “Be careful.”
“Always.” I stood on tiptoes, kissed him lightly. “Find me something to eat at the store. I’m going to need it.”
And I left him standing on the stone slabs where psychics and artists had once hawked their services, and walked into the park.
* * *
• • •
He let me be, but I knew he wasn’t done, that he wasn’t over his imagined shortcomings.
I couldn’t worry about that now. Not when my hands trembled and my legs felt like they’d barely carry me through the wrought-iron gate. I’d worry about him when I was in control of myself.
I grabbed a fence post to calm myself, jerked back after sensing the searing heat that had settled into the dark iron. I guess my brain wasn’t working any better than the rest of my body.
Was this how the wraiths began to go? The body becoming numb and the mind following, until there was nothing but a base and primal thirst for magic? Until need replaced logic?
I walked to a curved oak, went down to my knees in a move that wasn’t exactly controlled or elegant. And there, on my knees in the shade, I closed my eyes and gripped handfuls of grass until I could feel myself center.
I took several breaths, rolled my shoulders until the tension loosened. I’d done this dozens of times, but that didn’t make it easier. It was still a small war—a battle between human and power that didn’t like to be controlled. There was more than there should have been, and it had to be expelled carefully, deliberately—an exhalation of magic. And so it didn’t sneak its way inside again, it had to be bound somewhere else.
But I hadn’t brought anything to cast the magic into. I considered the detritus in my pockets—store keys, pocketknife—but they weren’t big or solid enough. I looked around, and my gaze settled on Andrew Jackson, his statue still standing proudly in the middle of the park. He was on horseback, and he and the horse were positioned atop a large pedestal proclaiming the Union had to be preserved.
Jackson might have been an asshole, but the words still applied.
The stone and metal were plenty sturdy. And if I destroyed them, I’d blame the Seelies.
I looked at the plinth, focused my gaze on the sculpture until the rest of the world faded away, my peripheral vision blanked, and my attention narrowed to myself, the magic, and the make-do focus.
“Far from me,” I murmured. “Cast away and bound, out of my hands, secured and safe.”
I’d started using a mantra after war had begun again; it was harder to concentrate when guns were firing, or silence might be interrupted by air raid sirens. That’s how I’d come up with the mnemonic for the students—because the mantra had worked for me.
I closed my eyes, but let myself reach out, feel the magic in the air. And while it might have been deadly, it was beautiful. Shimmering strands of power that sparkled in the air, particularly this close to Devil’s Isle and its Paranormals. I could feel them inside me as well, the slight vibration of the threads that spooled inside my body, always grasping, always seeking more of itself, like drawn to like.
I visualized gathering the strands, pulling them together into a kind of sheaf. And slowly and carefully, I imagined drawing them from my body, the sensation cold and jittery, and leaving a hollow ache in my chest. But that was usual—and preferable to the magic overtaking me until there was nothing left.
I stayed very still, slowly batted my eyes open, and kept my gaze on the pedestal. On my target.
With the power cast in my magical grasp, I lifted my hand to the sculpture, imagined its size increasing until it was larger than me, a doorway, a closet. A place of storage. A place of confinement.
A kind of battery, if someone could figure out a way to pull the magic out again.
And then I shoved the magic into the metal and stone. The welds creaked as the magic filled and settled. The metal seemed to breathe as it absorbed the magic, molecules stretching to incorporate
the power.
I waited for a moment, arm now shaking with effort, gaze trained on the sculpture, for the signal that my work was done. Or the explosion that would mean I’d failed.
One more wobble, and Jackson went still, accepting the offering.
The weight of magic lifted from my body, from my fingers, from my chest. I closed my eyes, raised my face to the sky, and breathed deeply, air filling the space where magic had been. For now, that was enough.
CHAPTER FIVE
I saw no one, Seelie or otherwise, on the walk back to the store.
The AC wasn’t running, and the store was dark but for the light that slanted through the windows. The power was out again, probably because of the busted transformer or the magic that had literally fogged the Quarter. Magic and electricity weren’t friends, and power outages were frequent.
I found a glass of tea and a bowl of red beans and rice waiting for me on the counter. While I appreciated the gesture, we made them on Sunday, as was the New Orleans tradition, and ate them through the week, supplemented by vegetables from the garden, unless something better came along. This week, like many other weeks, it hadn’t—with the exception of Tadji’s party. If I never had to eat red beans again, I’d be fine with that.
Liam came downstairs, naked but for jeans, a T-shirt in his hand. He must have taken a shower, had probably wanted to rinse away the grit of magic.
He paused when he saw me, hand on the banister. “You all right?”
“I’m okay. You?”
He nodded, came toward me. “I’m managing.”
“Good. Because this is probably going to get worse before it gets better.”
He kissed my forehead. “You are ever the optimist.”
“Realist,” I corrected. “Pragmatist. Better to see things the way they are than pretend otherwise.”
He put a hand on my cheek, stroked a thumb along my jaw. “Some things don’t need pretending.”
“No,” I agreed, closing my eyes and letting myself focus on the sensation of his hand, the soft and soothing touch. “Some things don’t.”