by Chloe Neill
While they perused my inventory, I took the stack of messages to the cubby, began to file them.
One was for me—a note from Gunnar on his own letterpressed stationery, imported from outside the Zone: “Emme is awake and coping. She didn’t see the wraiths before they attacked her, and the attack itself is mostly a blur, so no luck there. Thank you for last night. Love you.”
I was glad to hear that she was safe, but disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to confirm whether we were dealing with the same wraiths. At least not that way.
The day was absolutely beautiful. I’d propped open the front and back doors to let the breeze move through, put a Preservation Hall Jazz Band CD in an old player. Even Containment agents smiled at the music. It reminded all of us, I think, that there was still something beautiful in the world, even if we didn’t see it every day in the Zone.
Unfortunately, jazz wasn’t enough to take my mind off Liam Quinn. Last night had rocked me. To come so close to something I didn’t even know I’d wanted, then to know that I did, only to have it ripped away . . . I wasn’t exactly sure what was going through Liam’s head, or what he couldn’t “afford” about me. But I had a sinking suspicion. I was a Sensitive—a wraith-in-waiting. I would become a wraith if I couldn’t learn to control my magic properly. If I wasn’t vigilant enough, or if I made a mistake, I’d become the same monster that had killed his sister, that he hunted. How could he want me when that was the case?
Logic didn’t work any better than jazz. I was embarrassed, sad, and getting in way over my head emotionally.
I was at the counter obsessing and organizing the month’s receipt copies when Tadji breezed in. Today, she wore jeans and a blousy tank, a worn messenger bag strapped across her body. She looked cool and chic as always.
“It is amazing outside.” She plopped the bag onto the counter. She was a welcome distraction.
“I know, right? It would be a beautiful day for a picnic by the river.”
She grinned, pushed a curl behind her ear. “If we had wine and fruit and cheese?”
“We have MREs and cheese product. If that’s good enough for Containment, it’s good enough for us.”
She snorted.
“How were your interviews?”
“Good,” she said. “One down, two more to go.”
She moved aside so I could take change from a man buying a Times-Picayune.
I thanked him, waited until the customer had waved his way out of the store. “Tell me about it,” I said to Tadji.
“First lady was from a speck of a town halfway to Lafayette. Her son brings her into the city every few weeks to shop for supplies. That’s how I heard about her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Delores Johnson.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “She doesn’t shop here.”
“This isn’t the only store in New Orleans.”
I humphed. “The existence of other shops doesn’t make it right. What did she have to say?”
“We talked about her history, her experiences. The way she thinks about the war and what’s come after, about magic, about where she lives.” She leaned on the counter, and her eyes lit with purpose. This was my favorite Tadji—because she looked happiest when she was working.
“It’s really interesting, actually. She told me she used to be very focused on what came later—on her rewards in the next world, the afterlife, on what would happen to her family when she was gone, that type of thing. She was really focused on the future.
“But now, since magic’s here, she talks about ‘here’ and ‘now.’ About ‘power’ and ‘making’ things, ‘doing’ things. War seems to have—I don’t want to say ‘centered’ her, because it’s war, after all—but maybe made her focus on the now.”
“Interesting,” I agreed. “She’s got, what do they call it, ‘agency’ now?”
“Yeah. I think that’s really where it’s going. Is it legit agency? I mean, she’s in a war zone. Can she actually do anything, or does she just perceive that she can?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s really interesting to watch how the change in language has mirrored the change in society.”
“Agreed. I’m glad it was a good interview.”
“Thanks. Any word about Emme?”
“Gunnar said she’s awake. She apparently doesn’t remember much.”
“I probably wouldn’t want to remember it, either. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Two wraiths running around for days causing trouble. You’d think Containment would have stopped them.”
“It’s still a big city, with a lot of places to hide,” I said. “And the magic monitors can do only so much.” Perversely, I was grateful for that right now.
“I know.” Tadji cleared her throat. “Listen, I wanted to tell you, I’m trying to get in touch with my mom. Taking a trip to see them, maybe. It’s been a really long time, and—I don’t know.” She looked up, stared absently. “These interviews just make me want to strengthen those connections.”
I didn’t bother to hide my surprise. “Really? I thought you didn’t know where they were.”
“I don’t, exactly.” She scratched absently at her arm. “But I know where we used to live. I figured that’s the best place to start.”
“How long has it been?”
“About two years.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun in a war zone.”
She made a vague sound of agreement. “I guess.”
I handed a customer a paper bag of goods I’d already packed for her that morning. She ran a tab with the store. I didn’t do that for many, but her son outside the Zone sent money every few weeks, and she always paid as soon as she received it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Rosenberg,” I said, and she nodded, carried the bag outside again.
Tadji had pulled a notebook out of her bag, was glancing at her notes. She’d broached the idea of her family, so maybe she’d be open to a few more questions. Even if she didn’t talk about it much, I wondered if magic was on her mind as often as it was on mine.
“So, your mom, your aunt,” I said quietly, although the store was empty. “You said they practiced voodoo when you were growing up?”
Tadji kept her eyes on her notebook. “Yeah.”
“When the Veil opened. When we figured out magic was actually a thing. Do you think any of what they did . . . was real?”
She paused, then closed the notebook, put it carefully back in the bag. “I guess that depends on your perspective.”
Not exactly an answer. “Where had they lived? They were north of Baton Rouge, right?”
She looked at me for a good, solid minute. “Does it matter?”
The tone in her voice had me standing up again. “Well, no. I was just asking.”
She picked up the bag, slung it over her neck, adjusted it. “I should go. Next interview’s in a few minutes.”
“Tadji—”
But she shook her head. “I should go.”
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. “Be careful out there.”
Tadji nodded, and I watched her leave, feeling like I’d screwed up my second relationship in two days.
I was living two lives—one magical, one nonmagical. And keeping the boundaries clear was getting more and more complicated.
• • •
Business was brisk. I was glad to have something else to think about, even if it was hard to concentrate on soap and batteries when my mind was occupied by Containment, Paranormals, wraiths, and now Tadji and Liam.
Half past noon, the door’s bell jangled. A man I’d never seen before walked in.
He was tall, with tousled brown hair atop a high forehead. His eyes were green and deep set, crowned by thick eyebrows. He wore a gray suit with a vest, and a button-up shirt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a man in a suit.
I pegged him as Containment. And even though I’d been helping Containment personnel all morning, there was something different about him. He was an unknown—and that scar
ed me.
He walked toward the counter, smiled. “Jack Broussard,” he said, pulling out a black leather wallet that held his identification badge.
I glanced at it, nodded, while my stomach clenched with nerves. I didn’t think there was a reason for me to be nervous about being a Sensitive—not when we’d taken care of the evidence—but the fact that we’d taken care of the evidence was probably a problem. Still, getting riled up wasn’t going to help anything, so I made myself stay calm.
“Claire Connolly.”
He put away the wallet again, gaze catching the owl walking stick, still on the counter, still gearless. He ran a thumb over the brass. “This is nice.”
“Thanks. It’s broken at the moment, but I’ll have it fixed soon enough. Are you in the market?”
“Agents can’t afford antiques.”
“More’s the pity,” I said. “What can I help you with, Mr. Broussard?”
“Jack is fine,” he said “I’m just here to ask some questions—follow up with your interview about the wraith incident Sunday night. You were working at the store on War Night?”
I figured he wouldn’t have been in the store if he didn’t already know the answer to his question. But there was no point in making things difficult for myself. “Yeah. I was here until about six. I walked in the parade with my friends until about two, then came back to the store and saw the girl being attacked.”
He nodded, moved down a few feet to peer into a case that held mostly costume jewelry. “Your father owned this store, and your grandfather before him?”
“And my great-grandfather before him.”
“And now you run the store?”
Why is it your business? was what I wanted to say. But I kept my tone light, even though I didn’t like where this was going. “I always helped out. But when the war started, my dad started selling dry goods, supplies. I became more involved. And when he died, I took it over.”
Broussard nodded. “Are you aware, Ms. Connolly, that there were questions about your father?”
I blinked at him, not understanding the implication. “Questions about what?”
“About which side he was on.”
I snorted. “Which side? I think you’ve been reading the wrong records.”
“I take it you weren’t aware of your father’s paranormal activities?”
“My father wasn’t involved in any paranormal activities. He sold antiques, and when the war started, he sold supplies.” There was, of course, the little matter of the building’s insulation, but I was almost positive that wasn’t my father’s doing. An accident of war, of magic. But nothing he’d had a part in. If he’d had magic, or was close to someone who had, he’d have told me.
And even if he’d had a paranormal friend who’d insulated the building, there was absolutely no doubt about my father’s loyalties. Broussard was just trying to rile me up.
“That’s not the information we have.”
“Then your information is wrong.” I could hear my tone turn snappy but didn’t bother to change it. His question was ridiculous and insulting. “My family kept this neighborhood alive during the war. We helped the military get supplies before Containment or Materiel existed. We fed soldiers when convoys were late. We stocked MREs so civilians would have food. My father died because of his war injuries. You want to know which side he was on? He was on New Orleans’s side.”
“My apologies. No offense meant.”
“Really? I’m pretty sure you said it just to gauge my reaction. So I think offense was quite intended.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m doing my job.”
“Which is?”
“Taking care of this city.”
I gestured at the store. “Then that makes two of us.”
“I understand you’re friends with Liam Quinn.”
I felt the blush creep across my cheeks. “I wouldn’t say friends.” I wouldn’t say a lot of things, but “friends” didn’t really seem to cover it.
“What would you say?”
Stick to what Containment already knew, I told myself. “As you’re probably aware, he’s training me.”
“You accompanied him into Devil’s Isle.”
“He thought I’d be a good bounty hunter. He wanted me to see it.”
Broussard leaned against the counter. “Being a bounty hunter would be a big change from running this shop.”
“I’ve already fought two wraiths,” I pointed out. “And I still run the shop.”
“Touché, Ms. Connolly.” He straightened, adjusted his suit jacket. “I understand you’ve seen his apartment.”
If the quick change of topic was supposed to trip me up, it succeeded. It figured there’d be cameras in Devil’s Isle, but not that Containment would have been interested enough to trace my movements, or his. Still, there was no point in lying, or in elaborating too much.
“Very briefly.”
“You know his sister died, and he has an unhealthy obsession with the manner of her death.”
I lifted my eyebrows. Had he seen the board, too? Had Containment been in Liam’s apartment? “His sister’s killer was a wraith. His job is hunting them.” I shrugged. “That seems pretty logical to me.”
“Does it? Or does it sound like a man obsessed? A man not quite stable?”
I wasn’t sure Containment was the best judge of anyone’s stability these days. “You’d have to take that up with him. Like I said, he’s training me, not psychoanalyzing me, or vice versa.”
Broussard nodded deeply, as though he was mulling over important, weighty things. “I could do that. I could talk to him. Wouldn’t be that hard to do.” He looked at me, considering. “He did mention that he investigated your father? Before he was shot, I mean?”
All the sound in the world dropped away. I’d never stood in silence so immense as the silence that fell around me in the wake of that question.
I’d gone into Devil’s Isle with Liam Quinn. I’d met his grandmother. He’d been in my store, met my friends, seen my magic. I’d told him things about me, about my family.
Maybe Broussard was lying. Maybe this was a setup, a trick, to get me to turn on Liam. But maybe it wasn’t. And he’d been hiding from me that he believed my father could have been a traitor.
Broussard watched my reaction, could probably see my skin buzzing with sudden and unexpected fury. “I see he didn’t tell you. That’s curious, don’t you think?”
He managed to look concerned, like he actually cared about my reaction, about my possible hurt. But I didn’t want his pity. And I certainly didn’t want his truth. I had my own to deal with.
I slid the owl closer, picked up a set of tweezers, was proud that my fingers weren’t shaking, because it was taking monumental control. “Get out of my store. And don’t come back unless you have a warrant.”
Broussard held up his hands. “I just thought you should know. In these times, we all have to figure out who to trust. In the meantime, be careful. It’s dangerous out there.”
• • •
I needed space. I needed air. The store felt suddenly stifling, the walls too close, my emotions too high.
I had to get out.
I’d go to the garden, my plot on the top of the former Florissant Hotel. There wouldn’t be anyone there, and it was up and away from Royal Street. I grabbed an apron and a canvas-lined garden basket from a hook in the kitchenette, flipped the CLOSED sign on the door, and locked up again.
I walked toward the river, passing the alley where my life had changed so suddenly only a couple of days ago. I passed the front of the abandoned hotel, the restaurant that had taken up a corner of the space completely empty, just like the rest of the hotel. Everything potentially useful had been removed long ago—from the chairs in the lobby to the snacks in the minibars. It had been scary and depressing, but also a little impressive, how carefully people could strip a hotel down to its bones.
I slipped around the building to the fire escape, pulled down to give t
hose of us with plots access to the roof, and climbed the steps. The edge of the building was marked by potted trees and plants that received plenty of water and light on the open-air terrace. A cabana at the far end had once held a poolside bar. It was now the storage room for extra pots, tools, and consecrated earth. There was a compost bin on the far end of the patio.
We’d shored up the rafters beneath the pool, filled it with dirt, and turned it into a garden for small trees and plants with longer root systems. The rest of the patio held raised rectangular planters where we could grow plants of our choice.
I grew vegetables for me, Gunnar, Tadji, and a few other friends who lived in the Quarter, mostly older folks who’d survived the war and didn’t have any plans to leave, but also didn’t have many resources. I sold any extras in the store.
October was leaf and root harvest time in our little Louisiana garden—kale, collards, spinach, carrots, beets. I put the basket on the ground and tied on the apron. I pulled the few weeds that had snuck into my box, scooped a few ladles of collected rainwater over plants that looked dry, and picked off dead leaves.
When my little plot was tidy, I got to the good part. I snipped spinach and collard leaves, tossed them into my basket. Three carrots, including a white variety that looked like a really creepy finger, and four small beets. Personally, I thought beets were disgusting and tasted like dirt. But they had plenty of fans in the Quarter.
I shook the excess dirt off the beets, put them carefully in the basket so I didn’t stain the canvas. Beets stained easily, but made a pretty good fabric dye.
As I thought of the perfectly fucking fantastic ways to use these perfectly fucking fantastic beets, I used a dirty glove to wipe tears from my face, probably smearing dirt across it in the process.
I thought I’d found someone who could relate to what I’d been going through. I felt mortified. And completely and utterly betrayed.
Had any of it been real? His being in my store on War Night? Taking me into Devil’s Isle to “help” me? Or was this all some sort of plan? Liam Quinn, bounty hunter, just continuing his work investigating the traitorous members of the Connolly family?