The Veil

by Chloe Neill

Cold sweat began to slide down my back as my gaze snapped between the front door—the figures moving outside—and the back. He was bigger than I was, but I had magic, and enough time might have passed that I could use it again without hurting myself.

  He must have guessed my plan. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, lifting his shirt enough to show muscled abs and the gun belted at his waist. It was the same model carried by Containment agents, and I hoped I hadn’t made a huge mistake.

  “I don’t want to use this,” he said, “but I will if you try to use magic against me.”

  He cast a glance behind me at the store windows, at the bobbing flashlights that signaled Containment’s arrival.

  “Damn it,” I said, panic rising, but I pushed it down. I’d been in trickier situations before, and probably would be again. As much as I hated to admit that my father had been right, that it was better not to get involved, the evidence was piling up. “This is your fault. I’m going.”

  The man stepped in front of me, his big body completely blocking mine. “It’s too late. They’re outside, and they’ll have seen us in here. This is the only store in this part of the Quarter, and we’re probably the only sober people in a three-block radius. They’ll want to talk to you, see if you saw anything.”

  “They got me on camera,” I said, pleading with him to understand. “If I don’t leave, I’m screwed.”

  I’m Isle-bound/and there I’ll stay/wear the devil’s crown/till the end of days. That was how the song went. And if I wasn’t careful, it would become autobiographical.

  His eyebrows lifted, concern obvious on his face. Even he knew how bad the situation was. “You’re sure?”

  “I know how to recognize an activated Containment camera.”

  He considered for a moment, shook his head. “Containment agents are dispatched based on the detection of magic—the triggering of the sensor. These agents will probably have been rerouted from the party, so they won’t have reviewed the tape yet. If you run now, they’ll think you’re guilty of something, and they’ll stop you. And if they stop you, they’ll check the film.”

  Hope shone like a distant star, then faded. “Then I have to get to the video.”

  And how was I going to do that? Gunnar, I thought queasily. I’d have to ask Gunnar to do it, to get into Containment’s video system and delete the evidence.

  “We’ll deal with the video. But right now you need to calm down and do what I say.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Do what you say? I don’t even know you.”

  “And you don’t have a reason to trust me,” he admitted. “But the other choice is worse. PCC doesn’t like Sensitives. They don’t fit into its tidy little worldview. They’ll put you in Devil’s Isle, and as you probably know, Sensitives don’t have much to hope for in Devil’s Isle. They’ll wait for the magic to destroy you.”

  He didn’t look any happier about that than I felt. But that still didn’t give me much comfort.

  “Maybe they won’t catch me.”

  “You’ll still become a wraith, and you’ll hurt people.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but he shook his head. “You won’t have a choice, not when your body begins to break down, when your mind begins to go. You’ll kill, and that’s a fact.” His voice grew rougher. “And it would be my job to hunt you down. It would have to be my job to hunt you down. I don’t want to have to do that.”

  So he was a bounty hunter. He’d probably delivered plenty of wraiths and Sensitives to Devil’s Isle. And that explained how he knew the worst of what could happen to me.

  “I’m a Sensitive,” I reminded him. “You could just take me in now.”

  “I don’t trade in Sensitives,” he said. “You aren’t a threat to anyone, at least not yet. And that’s the point. If you want a chance to keep from becoming a wraith, to live outside the Marigny, to keep your store, you’ll follow my lead.”

  I didn’t have to trust him. I could still try to grab my bag, slip out the back door. But there were a lot of flashlights outside, and a lot of moving bodies. I’d never make it. And he was right—running would make it look like I’d done something wrong, and they’d take me in. If they saw the video? Same result.

  I swallowed hard, looked around the store like it could offer guidance, like my father might emerge from the shadows to give me advice that, this time, I wouldn’t ignore.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I nodded, gathered up all the bravery I could manage, because I was putting all my trust in a man I’d seen exactly twice in my life. “Okay,” I finally said, looking back at him, hoping I was doing the right thing. “We’ll try it your way. At least tell me your name?”

  His expression softened. “I’m Liam Quinn.”

  I swallowed, nodded, waited to be sure my voice wouldn’t shake. “I’m Claire Connolly. This is my place.”

  Liam nodded. “Then turn on the lights, Claire Connolly, and let’s get this over with.”

  • • •

  I’d been sweaty at the party, but that was nothing compared to the cold sweat that slicked down my back when two Containment agents walked into my shop in gray fatigues and boots, guns and batons strapped to their belts.

  I’d turned down the lights and moved behind the counter. Liam leaned casually against it, flipping through the day’s Times-Picayune. There wasn’t much to it these days—more a community bulletin than newspaper, a few sheets of thin, handmade paper run on a hand-cranked letterpress. They were delivered to the store every week or so, less often if the printer ran out of ink.

  “Gentlemen,” Liam said, folding the paper and standing straight when they walked in. The simple act of repositioning his body showed off his physical power. It would be an advantage against wraiths, probably a necessity, given his job. “Took you long enough.”

  One of the agents, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and eyes and a gleaming bald head, moved in front of the others. I’d seen him in the shop before. Phelps was his name.

  Phelps glanced at me, then Liam. “Quinn. What are you doing here?”

  “Same thing as you, I imagine. Chasing monsters.”

  The second agent nodded. “You saw them?”

  “We both did,” Liam said.

  Phelps looked at me. “You’re Claire Connolly, right?”

  My heart thudded in my chest and ears so loudly it seemed impossible they didn’t hear it. I wanted to answer the question, but was afraid to open my mouth, afraid of what I might accidentally say, or what they’d be able to glean from anything I did say.

  Liam glanced back at me. “Wake up, Claire,” he said, then looked apologetically at Containment. “Sorry. The wraiths freaked her out.”

  Phelps looked instantly sympathetic. “First time seeing one?”

  “Second time, actually.” A few months ago, I’d seen Containment agents capturing a wraith outside the door, binding it in what had looked like an old-fashioned straitjacket.

  My voice sounded rough, so I cleared it, made myself fake nonchalance. “But it’s still freaky. And yeah, I’m Claire. I’ve seen you in here before.”

  He nodded. “You get that pasta MRE I like.”

  I grimaced, knowing which one he meant. “Ugh. That so-called pasta is not good.”

  “It’s not great, but it’s better than the blue cheese meat loaf. Why would they put blue cheese in meat loaf? Sorry. I’m getting off track.” He pulled a small black disc from his pocket, put it on the counter. “I’ll need to get your statements about what happened. Do you mind if I record them?”

  Stay calm, I demanded, and shrugged. “No. Although I don’t know how helpful I can be.”

  “We just need to hear what you saw. It’s procedure.” He touched the glossy surface, which flashed green.

  “Agent Phelps, investigating Sector Twenty-seven combatant attack.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me that they thought of wraiths—humans who’d succumbed to the magical infection—as just another type of combatant, just a
nother evil Paranormal. That wasn’t the whole story, but it backed up what Quinn had said about PCC.

  “Interview with Connolly, Claire,” Phelps continued. “And Quinn, Liam. Now, you said wraiths, plural. There was more than one?”

  Relief rushed through me. If Containment didn’t know how many wraiths had been there, Liam had been right—they hadn’t watched the video. Yet.

  “Two,” Liam confirmed.

  “Where’d they come from?”

  Liam gestured toward me, the move utterly casual and mildly bored. “She saw them first. I was behind them.”

  “Near the Supreme Court,” I said. “They were in the foliage on the south side. They were attacking a woman. She got away, ran me over, and then moved into the street. The wraiths followed her there.”

  “Wraiths don’t hunt together.” The second agent had stepped forward. He was older, with pale skin, shorn silvering hair, and a dark mustache over a wide mouth. His eyes were deep-set and brimming with suspicion. “Thomas” was the name on his uniform tag.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know about that. Just telling you what I saw.”

  “And then what happened?” asked Phelps, sounding irritated by his partner’s interruption.

  It would have been too easy to get lost in lies, so I decided on the truth, or at least as much of it as I could tell.

  “They started to attack her. I yelled to scare them off, but it didn’t work. So I grabbed a tree limb and tried to scare them away. When that didn’t work, I hit them with it.”

  Phelps’s eyebrows lifted. “You beat two wraiths with a tree limb?”

  “I didn’t beat them. I hit them. And they ran away.” And a few things in between about magic that I didn’t really want to mention.

  Phelps gestured at my arm. “They gave you those scratches?”

  I looked down. Fear of Devil’s Isle had numbed the pain, and I’d forgotten about the scratches. “Yeah. One of them had pretty long nails.”

  “What about the sign on the ground?” Thomas asked.

  The back of my neck went hot. “The sign? What sign?”

  “There was a store sign on the ground, pretty well cracked.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe one of the wraiths knocked it down? They were moving all over the place. They kind of”—I hunched my shoulders over—“lurched around when they moved?”

  “And where did they go?” Phelps asked.

  “Uptown, toward the CBD.” We let the Central Business District keep the acronym, even though there wasn’t much business there these days.

  “And the girl?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know about her, either. I told her to get up and run, and she did. I didn’t see the direction. I was watching the wraiths.”

  Phelps nodded, glanced at Liam. “And when did you pop into this fight?”

  “After it was over.”

  “You looking for a bounty?”

  “Always,” Liam said coolly. “But it wasn’t to be this time.”

  “You could have chased them,” Thomas said. “Why are you still here?”

  “Because right now I want information more than I want bounties.”

  “Information about?”

  “Why two wraiths attacked a human together.”

  “They didn’t.” Thomas’s tone was flat. “That’s not something that happens.”

  Liam lifted his hands. “Like Claire said, I’m just telling you what I saw. You can watch the tape yourself. Matter of fact, I’d appreciate a copy of it when you’re done.”

  Just the mention of the tape made my stomach twist with anticipation. I thought I knew what Liam was doing—acting just the way a bounty hunter might act in this scenario—but the request still rankled.

  Phelps nodded. “You know there’s a procedure for that. Put in the request with the Commandant.”

  “Sure,” Liam said. “In triplicate, undoubtedly.”

  Phelps made a vague sound of agreement. “Bureaucracy.”

  “Bureaucracy,” Liam agreed.

  Apparently satisfied with the information he’d gotten, Phelps touched the recorder, which turned red as it disengaged; then he pocketed it. “That should be all for now, but stay around in case we have more questions.”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  He looked at Liam. “You’ll be around, too?”

  “Here and there. I can be found.”

  Phelps nodded. “Then we’ll finish up outside so we can get our report in. Y’all have a safe night.” He paused at the door, glanced back. “Oh, and happy War Night.”

  “Nous vivons,” Liam and I said together.

  • • •

  It wasn’t until the bell signaled the door’s closure that I took a full breath. I put my elbows on the counter, put my head in my hands, cursed. This wasn’t exactly how I’d thought War Night would go. I hadn’t had nearly enough Drink.

  “You’re a pretty good liar.”

  I slid my gaze to Liam, didn’t especially enjoy the smirk on his face. “I’ve had practice.”

  “So I see.”

  I stood up straight again, tried to compose myself. “God, what a mess.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “And right now we need to move so you get to those tapes before Containment does. Our window to minimize the damage is closing.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Where do we do that?”

  “Devil’s Isle.”

  I stared at him. Sensitives didn’t go into Devil’s Isle if they ever wanted to come out again. “What do you mean, ‘Devil’s Isle’?”

  “That’s where my mechanic lives. He’s the only man I know who can do it.”

  “My life’s goal is to stay out of Devil’s Isle. I’m not going to just walk in there under my own volition.”

  “If you want to take care of the video, you do it in Devil’s Isle.”

  “You can’t do it on your own?”

  “No, because the mechanic is only our first stop.” He moved a step closer so that I had to look up at him.

  “I promise you, Claire—tonight, you’ll enter Devil’s Isle of your own free will, and you’ll walk right back out again. But if you want to keep it that way, if you want to keep your free will intact, then you need to learn to regulate your magic.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Becoming a wraith isn’t inevitable, Claire. You aren’t the only Sensitive in New Orleans. Hell, you probably aren’t the only Sensitive in the Quarter.”

  I stared at him. “There are more of us? Sensitives who aren’t in Devil’s Isle? How many?”

  “Enough. And, like them, you’ve got to learn to normalize your magic, to keep the infection at bay. That can be done, with diligence.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Friends and experience.” His eyes darkened. “If you don’t learn soon, there’ll be no turning back. Once you become a wraith, there’s no reversal. There’s no pill, no cure, that can fix that damage. If you don’t learn, I’ll have to drag you to Devil’s Isle.”

  Liam Quinn had a crappy bedside manner, and he clearly wasn’t one to pull a punch. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure anything else would have been so effective. No, I didn’t want to walk into Devil’s Isle as a Sensitive . . . but I certainly didn’t want to go in as a wraith. I hadn’t known there were more of us—Sensitives who’d learned to deal with their magic, who’d kept from becoming wraiths. If there was a possibility I could have a life—a real life—then I’d have to take a chance on Liam Quinn.

  For the first time in a while, I felt a little bit of hope. But that didn’t make me reckless.

  “Even if I agreed to go, I couldn’t get in without a transit visa. And I don’t have one.”

  “You don’t need one. You’re going with me.”

  “You said you weren’t Containment.”

  “I’m not. I’m a bounty hunter. Containment pays the bounties.”

  I mean, it wasn’t the same as actually being a Containment agent, but it still seem
ed like a pretty thin line.

  “Do you kill the wraiths you capture?” The question wasn’t very diplomatic, but then again, I was potentially one of his bounties.

  “My job is to capture, not to kill. I promise you that we can discuss the details of my career later. Look,” he said, “I get that you’re still processing what’s happened, but if you want to deal with the video before they watch it, we have to go—now. We’re already cutting it close.”

  Final question, just for posterity’s sake. I narrowed my gaze at him. “This isn’t a trick to get me into Devil’s Isle without a fight?”

  He snorted. “If I’d wanted to take you in, I’d have taken you in.” There was no doubt in his voice, or in the steadiness of his gaze. And, in fairness, he’d already lied to Containment about my being a Sensitive, when he could have just turned me in for the money.

  “Taking you in like this doesn’t do me or you any good. I promise, Claire, you’ll be back in your bed before the night’s over.”

  I strapped that courage on a little tighter. “Okay,” I said, and looked up at him. “Let’s go to Devil’s Isle.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Seventeen minutes later, I was staring up at the concrete panels that rose high into the sky around the Marigny to the steel grid that curved above it like the Superdome’s roof.

  I’d never been this close to the wall, to the prison. The store was nearly a mile from the gate, and it wasn’t something most of those who’d stayed in the Zone wanted to focus on. Tourists occasionally would trek through the Zone to look at the walls, at the gates. They hadn’t seen the war, and they were curious about it, grim as that was. But we’d seen more than enough.

  The Marigny was shaped like a triangle, if someone had sheared off the bottom point. It was a wedge of a neighborhood. Peters Street, which was riverside, made up the short side of the wedge. A wall had once separated the neighborhood from the New Orleans Public Belt Railroad tracks that ran along the river, but most of it had been trashed during the war.

  Lakeside, Devil’s Isle stretched up to St. Claude Avenue. The Quarter bordered it on the west, Bywater on the east. And the Containment wall surrounded the entire neighborhood, made of what looked like a Hoover Dam’s worth of concrete.