The Beyond (A Devil's Isle Novel)

by Chloe Neill

  “You aren’t taking this seriously,” he said.

  “Taking what seriously? I’m trying to pack. This isn’t a good time to discuss relationships.”

  His eyes darkened. “We live in a war zone. When would be a good time?”

  “Well, not the night before we go into battle.” I pulled a box of protein bars from the cabinet, pushed them into his hands. “Get busy packing.”

  He muttered something in Cajun French that was probably swearing, and gripped the box with white-knuckled hands.

  I put a hand on his, looked into his eyes. “Tomorrow could be a mess. I need to get ready for it. Be ready for it. And I don’t want to jinx anything.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and I knew it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. My regret didn’t stop the flash of anger in his eyes.

  “You think our relationship would fall apart because of a ‘jinx’?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. It just—” I had to walk away from him, give myself room to breathe. “It feels like we’re so close to the edge, Liam.”

  “Our relationship?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, everything. All of it. This . . . life we’ve managed to pull out of leftover food and generators and humidity. And that life, everything we’ve managed to salvage, is so delicate. We’re going to be fighting for our lives tomorrow. For New Orleans, because we could lose it. We could lose all of it.”

  I could lose you, I thought. And I don’t want to risk that. It felt like tempting fate, like begging the gods—however they existed—to strike us down. Hey, these two lovebirds made a commitment before going off to war. That tragedy writes itself. And I couldn’t even speak that lame excuse aloud, because even that felt unlucky. It felt dangerous.

  He just looked at me, jaw working. “How, in your mind, does that make a commitment with me a problem?”

  “Because all those things could be taken away. Because the store is the only thing I have left from my life before. And because people are temporary.”

  His mouth thinned, jaw clenching. “You think I’m temporary.”

  “No,” I said. “But I don’t want to take the chance. I don’t want to lose anyone else. I love you, Liam. And I’m afraid.”

  He rested one hand against the back of my head, his forehead against mine.

  And left a lot of space between our bodies.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I found Liam in the kitchen the next morning, in a pool of light from a battery-powered lantern, eating peanut butter from the jar. He was already dressed, backpack full and waiting on a table in one of the former vehicle bays. He didn’t look up when I walked in, which made me simultaneously angry and sad.

  I didn’t know what to do about it. Liam was entitled to his feelings, to his anger. But so was I. And it was a hell of a time for a fight. The world was falling down around us, and we were about to walk into enemy territory to try to save what was left of it. We had to focus. Didn’t we?

  I took a bottle of water from the fridge, pulled a canister of dried fruit from a cabinet, and sat down at the island, began to munch. I wished I’d kept the fruit in its original bag so I at least had something to read in the awkward silence.

  I chewed strips of dried mango until my stomach stopped growling and my jaw began to ache, then put the lid on the container and looked at him.

  Liam was looking at me, and even in the dim lantern light I could tell his face was tight. He was holding his emotions back—holding hurt or anger back. But I wasn’t sure which.

  I spoke first. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  Ironic, wasn’t it, that by trying to keep us just where we were, I’d managed to push us further apart?

  I rose. “I’m going to start loading gear into the truck.”

  “Okay. I want to check on the dehumidifier, and I’ll join you.”

  “Sure.”

  He reached out, squeezed my hand, and headed for the stairs.

  That moment of kindness made me feel even worse.

  * * *

  • • •

  The air was hot, thick, and uncomfortable. In other words, typical New Orleans. I put the backpacks in the bed of the truck, not especially thrilled about the idea of fighting to get into the Veil in this heat. It was going to take a toll. But maybe the Beyond would be better. Maybe there’d be cool breezes and low humidity, public pools, and rum drinks with umbrellas in them.

  More likely, there’d be hostile magic and Paras who didn’t want us around, and certainly didn’t want us to take home their prizes. Too bad for them.

  I parked Scarlet in front of the store, met Liam’s gaze over the bed. “Could we have a truce? Just for now? Just for this?”

  He crooked his finger. I’d never been so happy to be beckoned.

  “We aren’t fighting,” he said when I reached him. He looked down at me, stroked a thumb down my jaw. “We’re just . . . not entirely aligned.”

  I wanted to insist that had been exactly my point—that war put up walls, even if you didn’t want them. But we didn’t have the energy to spare.

  “Don’t wait to live your life,” he said. “Whether for war to be over, or New Orleans to be safe, or anything else. Because you’ll miss out on all the good stuff in between.”

  I rested my forehead against his chest. And I hoped this wasn’t the last of the moments we’d have together.

  * * *

  • • •

  Gunnar, Gavin, and Tadji were at the store when we arrived. Gunnar in pressed fatigues, Tadji in her breezy work wear, and Gavin in a T-shirt and cargos. Gavin flipped through an old magazine; Gunnar and Tadji sat at the table with steaming mugs. The air smelled like sour coffee.

  “Good morning, adventurers.” Gunnar grinned. “How are Indiana Jones and Lara Croft today?”

  “No tomb robbing,” Liam said. “Discreet, culturally sensitive inquiries.”

  “Spoilsport,” Gunnar said, and sipped his coffee.

  “Did the Seelies do anything overnight?” Liam asked.

  “Not that we’ve found,” Gunnar said. “But the sun’s barely up and the day is young. Teams are already out searching.”

  “What about the storm?”

  “Tropical Storm Frieda is now Hurricane Frieda,” Gunnar said. “Category three and heading northwest toward Miami. Lot of flooding in the Bahamas. It’s expected to make landfall over southern Florida tonight, and then move through the Gulf. They’ve narrowed the target zone for the second landfall—somewhere between Biloxi and Port Arthur.”

  “That’s a big area,” Liam said.

  “Prediction isn’t perfect,” Gunnar said. “But New Orleans is right in the middle, so the scope hardly matters.”

  “Callyth?” I asked.

  He blinked. “Didn’t I already tell you that?”

  “No,” I said flatly. “I’d have remembered learning of the reason Paras are gunning for us.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It has been a very long week, and I’m still half-asleep.”

  In response, Tadji smiled, pushed his mug closer.

  “We found her in the fatality records. She was a Seelie. She was captured about two years after the war.”

  “About the same time as Aeryth,” Liam said.

  “Yeah,” Gunnar said. “That wasn’t a coincidence. They’re sisters. We found that out when she was interrogated.”

  My heartbeat was suddenly a timpani drum, beating in my ears like the climax of a terrible song. “Who—” I had to start again to get the word out. “Who interrogated her?”

  Please don’t say my mother, I silently pleaded. Don’t say she tortured someone and we’re paying the price for it.

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t in the file. Why?” But he answered his own question, jumping to his feet. “Christ,
you look pale as a ghost. Sit down.”

  I didn’t fight when he put me in the chair. Liam moved closer, a panther concerned and prowling.

  Gunnar crouched in front of me, put his hands on my knees. “It didn’t say your mother, Claire. It didn’t. If it did, I’d tell you the truth. Okay?”

  I swallowed past the knot of emotion that was strangling my words. “It could have been her. That’s what she did—interrogation and rendition.” Which would make my mother a cause of all this death. This destruction.

  “Was she tortured?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Honestly,” he added, crossing his heart with a finger. “The document I found only notes her death, that she’d been questioned. It doesn’t discuss details. It’s just statistics,” he said quietly, as if he felt guilty about diminishing even an enemy to a set of numbers. “But she was part of a contingent of Seelies responsible for the deaths of forty-two people that we know of. We’d have wanted to find the others. Tactics would have been used.”

  “War is ugly,” Tadji said quietly.

  Gunnar nodded, gently patted my knees, and rose again. “I won’t justify what was done to her, because that wasn’t my team, and it wasn’t my call. But war is ugly. And sometimes that ugly requires more still.”

  I looked up at him. “I need to know if Blackwell was involved.”

  “It won’t change anything.”

  “It will for me. And maybe it will for Aeryth.”

  Liam and Gunnar shared a glance, a nod. “All right,” Gunnar said. “I’ll find out what I can. But you know, whatever happened, that you aren’t responsible for your mother’s actions, and your mother isn’t responsible for Aeryth’s.”

  “Maybe not responsible,” I said. “But we’re all connected. All part of the wheel that just keeps on spinning.”

  “It will continue to spin whether we’re in it or not,” Tadji said. “We can’t control it. We can only react to the best of our abilities.” She leaned forward. “If the woman who birthed you—she was not your mother, so I won’t call her that—killed a Seelie, and Aeryth is punishing all of us because of it, the result is still the same: You stop her. Sympathize with her loss if you must. But we’ve all lost, Claire. And we aren’t committing mass murder.”

  “I knew I liked you, cher,” Liam said, giving Tadji a wink.

  “I’m quite likable,” she agreed with a nod, sipped her coffee.

  I blew out a breath. “You’re right. Okay. Okay,” I said again, when I was ready to move on to the next thing. Because Tadji was right: We had to move on to the next thing. “What’s next?”

  “The Beyond,” Gavin said, moving a hand in an arc as if marking a horizon.

  “You are not helpful,” Tadji said.

  “But I’m charming,” he said with a smile.

  “So, we’ve got field trip, Seelies, hurricane,” Tadji said, counting them off on her fingers. “Anything else?”

  “Only if Liam gets hangry on this trip,” Gavin said, pushing his arms through the straps of a pink backpack. A unicorn glittered across the front, midjump and trailing glittery stars in its wake.

  “Working a new style?” Liam asked with a smile.

  “What?” Gavin glanced back. “Oh. My other one finally ripped through, and I was out of duct tape. So I grabbed the first one I saw.”

  From an empty house, he’d meant. Scavenging was one of the great joys of living in a war zone.

  Liam flicked a pink pom-pom that hung from one zipper. “From a child’s room?”

  “Or a raver. Or someone who liked pink and unicorns,” Gavin said, utterly unflapped. “Either I wasn’t looking and didn’t care, or I loved it and picked it specifically.” He pointed at us. “You get to decide.”

  Gavin wiggled to adjust the backpack—which was at least a couple of sizes too small—in the middle of his back.

  “He will not be pink-shamed,” I said, and watched him stride away. “And I think he’s pulling it off.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When everyone had arrived—including a grouchy Moses, who refused to tell us good-bye or good luck and walked right past us into the store—we loaded the gear.

  Malachi frowned as he looked down at me. “Magic level?”

  I gave it a check. “Fine. Neither too much nor too little.”

  “Watch the language, kids,” Gavin said as he walked by to put a cooler with CONTAINMENT stenciled on the side in the back of the truck. “This show is PG.”

  “What’s in there?” I asked, ignoring him.

  “According to Gunnar, supplies for the Belle Chasse outpost. But I didn’t ask for details.”

  Rachel walked up, camouflage backpack over a fitted tank top, cargo pants, hiking boots. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail and wore a Containment cap to keep the sun from her eyes.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Good morning.” She shifted her gaze to Malachi. “Commander.”

  “Captain.” His voice was entirely pleasant, and equally uncomfortable. Hopefully they could maintain the peace.

  “I think we’re ready?” Liam asked, glancing around.

  When no one objected, he nodded. “Then let’s hit the road.”

  I tapped on the store window, waved at Tadji and Moses to say good-bye.

  She blew me a kiss.

  He flipped me off.

  “Love,” Gavin said beside me, “is a beautiful thing.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I drove Scarlet with Rachel in the front and Liam, Gunnar, and Gavin in the back. Malachi would fly and meet us near the boundary—and ensure from his better vantage point that our position was clear.

  Since the drive would take a good hour, I figured I might as well get to know Malachi’s nemesis.

  “Tell me about yourself,” I said, at a slow and steady pace, but keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of Seelies or their crimson calling cards.

  “Born in Oregon,” Rachel said. “Went to West Point. I graduated two months before the war began, asked for a transfer to Containment.”

  That put her at around thirty, by my math, which made her about five years older than me.

  “Why Containment?”

  “I was trained for it. And, frankly, I figured I’d enjoy being part of something otherworldly. It wasn’t what I expected.”

  “It wasn’t what we expected, either,” I said, thinking of the way Containment had spun the truth about Paranormals, hid the difference between Court and Consularis.

  “And Malachi?” I asked. “Was he what you expected?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “That was a sneaky little segue.”

  “I’m pretty proud of it.”

  Another moment of silence.

  “It’s not that I don’t like him. I respect him as a leader, as a person. But he’s . . . egotistical. And always has to have his way.”

  “I think he’s used to being in control. He told me about the Nephilim. That you wanted to incarcerate them.”

  “They were Paras, and there were procedures. And at the time, Containment didn’t know what it does now. Or it knew, and they didn’t tell those of us on the ground. Either way, I had a job to do, and I did it. Malachi didn’t like that. It was . . . personal for him. I understood that, but I couldn’t let it get in the way.”

  “So you both wanted to do what you thought was right. You just disagreed about the right.”

  “I suppose.” Her gaze narrowed. “Why are you asking me about this?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “You two seem to have a connection. So I just wondered why you weren’t acting on it.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t like to talk about my personal life. Especially not with people I don’t know very well.”

  “Yeah, that was the point of this talk. G
etting to know each other.”

  Rachel went quiet, and since she seemed genuinely uncomfortable, I figured I’d pushed a little too hard.

  “I’m sorry if I’m being nosy. Being in the Zone—I think I’ve lost my ability to be subtle. And stay out of people’s business.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, but crossed her arms. “I just don’t think there’s an easy answer. Or an easy solution.”

  “But you’re cool working together.”

  “Sure,” she said, the word a little too fast, a little too cheerful. But she was right. It was none of my business.

  So obviously I’d just try again later.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Veil, or what remained of it, between our worlds ran on a north–south line, right through the heart of New Orleans.

  The Containment outpost was set about a hundred yards back from the gap, a shimmering intersection between our world and theirs. No longer a barrier but an open door.

  Containment’s modern-day fort was a single building, a low, long box with a wide eave and a short turret on top to provide visibility. The eave kept the exterior of the building shaded, and the large windows provided air circulation, and were designed to keep the building as cool as possible given the frequent power failures.

  The squat outpost was surrounded by a palisade of wrought-iron rods of different shapes and sizes. Balcony balusters, fence posts, fireplace pokers. All of them cold iron, salvaged from New Orleans and the surroundings. They’d been placed side by side to form a kind of fence, then installed at an angle so the tops slanted toward attackers and made it as difficult as possible for enemies to break in.

  The Containment building looked empty. There was no sign of activity inside or out, and none of the things I’d have expected to see outside a human work space. No obvious front door. No sidewalk. No parking lot or employee vehicles. Just the bread-loaf building and its recycled fence.

  “Are you sure someone’s actually in there?” I asked. “It looks like it hasn’t been used in months.”