by Chloe Neill
He put down the spoon, turned around to look at me. “Let’s start with logic, Connolly.” He only called me “Connolly” when he was angry. That wasn’t a good sign.
“Containment interviewed you and Quinn in here after the Quarter wraith attack. You walked through the gate with him, were verified by the Containment guards. And when Solomon’s men attacked you both—which you also didn’t tell me—agents responded. You also admitted to Broussard that you knew Liam.”
I guess he’d read that report, too. “I had to ask.”
“Did you, Claire? Did you have to ask if your best friend played the snitch?”
“Someone told them something,” I said. “You and Burke are the only people I know in Containment.” I could have been wrong, but I had a pretty good sense Burke wasn’t talking.
“Are we?” Gunnar’s expression chilled. “Liam Quinn works for Containment.”
“He’s a contractor. He doesn’t really work for them.”
Gunnar’s expression didn’t change. “The paychecks come from the same place either way.” He crossed his arms. “You started acting different the second he walked into your life. You sure this isn’t about him? Are you sure you can trust him?”
How could I be sure anyone right now was trustworthy? In a matter of days, everything I knew about the world had been turned upside down. The splitting of the Veil had proven that magic existed, and it was no fairy tale.
“Are you sure Containment is trustworthy?” I asked him.
“Of course not.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean ‘of course not’? You work for them.”
Done with the silverware, he closed the cloth-lined box. “People always say it like that. Like Containment is a unified thing, a force against evil.” He looked back at me. “Containment is just people, Claire. It’s made up of people, some good, some bad, most in between. Just like any other organization in the world, it’s only as trustworthy as the people who are in it.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
He made a harsh sound. “It’s not exactly a popular opinion. And it doesn’t help people very much. They need to believe there’s good and evil in the world, and that the dividing line between them is very, very clear. That’s how we made it through the war, Claire. Because in the midst of tragedy and violence and death and worse, for all that evil, there was still good. There was still a good guy.”
Now, that sounded like the Containment I knew. But Gunnar wasn’t saying that the world really was black and white—just that people needed to believe it was. I couldn’t really argue with that.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Gunnar grunted.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t want to believe you had any part in it, even accidentally. But there aren’t a lot of options.”
“Again, I offer Quinn.”
I shook my head. “He plays it close to the vest, but I think he’s got a good heart.” Not that I’d ever tell him that. “He may be paid by Containment, but I don’t think there’s any love lost there.”
Gunnar walked toward me at the counter. “He told you about his previous employment? About his work for Containment?”
I nodded. “Ya. And that Broussard’s got it in for him. Do you think that would motivate Broussard?”
“I didn’t know.” This time, there was regret in this eyes. “I’m sorry. I know how much the store means to you. How much all of it means to you. But I swear, I didn’t know. Warrants shouldn’t even go through the Commandant without going through me first.”
I sat up a little straighter. That was very interesting. “They shouldn’t?”
“No. Which means someone avoided me. I wouldn’t have thought Broussard had the chops for this, but who knows. I checked him out around the office after you said he talked to you. The man’s like a dog with a bone. And he’s got it in for Quinn over that last contract.”
“But surely that’s not enough to decide that I’m hosting Sensitive tea parties. That’s a pretty specific accusation.”
“You aren’t, are you?”
He was grinning, which meant we were okay. “No. But only because I can’t find any tea.”
Gunnar smiled. “Don’t think about the world as good and evil, Claire. Those are labels that don’t mean anything. We assign them out of fear. Think about what is objectively right, and what is objectively wrong. That’s how I stay employed in Containment. Because I understand the difference between those things.”
God, I wished I could tell him about everything. I knew I couldn’t—it would put everyone at risk.
He looked at the wreckage of the store with his hands on his lean hips. “I work for Containment, Claire, because it helps New Orleans. That’s what I was born to do. But that’s not all I am. For now, let’s do what we can. Let’s get back to work.”
Gunnar was a good man. And sooner or later, I was going to have to do right by him. I was going to have to tell him the truth.
• • •
It was well dark when I locked up the store, turned off the lights, headed up the stairs. I was too exhausted to do anything but fall into bed.
I reached the second-floor landing and made the turn . . . to see light streaming down the stairs. I’d turned off the light—I remembered doing it, always made sure that I did it in order to conserve what energy there was.
Someone had turned it back on again.
Was it Liam? Had he found out what had happened, come to comfort me? It didn’t make sense that he’d not have used the front door—he had such a fondness for it—but nothing else made sense, either.
And God, I would have liked to see him tonight. He’d become an axis—a stable, center point that all the crazy traveled around.
I put a hand on the railing, began to pull magic just in case it wasn’t him and I needed to use it against whoever was trespassing in the store. I took the stairs one at a time, each creak sounding like a gunshot in the quiet. I stepped onto the landing and looked inside.
He stood in the middle of the room, a lock of dark blond across his forehead, wings folding at his back, disappearing. The window was open, the curtains thrown back. Moonlight streamed across his body and sent shimmering light through the room.
Malachi.
There was an angel in the third floor of my French Quarter town house, looking as relaxed as any average and casual visitor from the street. Which he most definitely was not.
I walked into the room. “If someone saw you come up here, reported you, we’ll both be in trouble.”
“No one saw me,” Malachi said, with utter self-assurance.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, still a little wary.
“I introduced a pigeon to the flagpole, fed him. It’s part of their training process.”
The pigeons. Of course.
I walked to the window, moved the curtain aside. A gray pigeon blinked round eyes at me from the flagpole outside my window.
“Cool,” I said, then dropped the curtain again.
Malachi smiled. “He’ll fly back home again shortly. Next time you see him outside, give him a bit of grain. With time, he’ll learn to return here should we need to get a message to you.”
I nodded.
“I also came to see if you were all right.”
“You heard about the raid?”
He nodded. “In a manner of speaking. I wanted to see your store for myself, had planned to check on you when the sun went down. I waited nearby—there are ways that I can be very discreet. I saw them come in.” Guilt etched in his face. “I am sorry that I didn’t intervene.”
I wouldn’t fault him for that. “They’d have arrested you on sight.”
“Likely,” he said. “But that’s no excuse for standing by. You’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine. We’ve started putting the store back together.”
“We?”
“My friend Gunnar helped.”
He crossed his arms. “Why did Containment come?�
�
“They believe I’m holding secret meetings of Sensitives here.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Where did they get that idea?”
“I don’t know. Probably from someone who wants them focused on me, instead of on the Veil opening again.”
“That’s a reasonable strategy. And apparently a successful one.”
“Yeah.”
Malachi walked forward, cast his gaze on the ceiling. I’d hung an assortment of stars there—some crystal, some glittered, some old-fashioned mercury glass. They caught light through the window, swirled it across the across the floor. Some nights I’d lie on the daybed and watch them spin, watch the light turn and shift. It usually helped me calm down.
Malachi looked up at them. “Those are beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“You know angels, as you’d call us, prefer high ground.”
I nodded.
“My home was near the top of a mountain. And when darkness fell, it seemed every star in the universe was visible. There aren’t nearly so many stars here.”
I smiled. “Not below sea level, no. But more stars now than before the lights mostly went out.”
He nodded, looked back grimly. “I remember seeing the glow of the city—an orange haze. I didn’t come here—it wasn’t allowed by the Court soldiers who’d conscripted me. But I could see it in the distance.”
“New Orleans was a wonderful place. Complicated. Rich. Sometimes awful. Sometimes wonderful. It’s like that today, too. Just in a different way.”
He watched me speak, nodded. “I can see that. Well,” he said, “it’s late. I should go and let you rest.”
He walked to the window, glanced back. “Good night, Claire.”
And then he was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I opened the store the next day, right on time. We’d gotten almost everything upright and off the floor, but every shelf and table was covered with things that needed fixing, organizing. I could have asked folks to shop somewhere else until everything was clean and tidy again. But that would hide what Containment had done. And there was no more hiding. Not anymore. Not after this. I didn’t have family they could come after. But I had my store, and my friends. They’d already screwed with part of that. I wouldn’t give them a chance to screw with the other.
Broussard might not have liked me very much. And Containment might not have trusted me. But the Quarter liked me a lot—and more, they liked Royal Mercantile. It was an institution. Part of the Quarter, part of New Orleans, part of the Zone. It had helped them through lean and leaner times. And when they discovered Containment had taken its wrath out on this cornerstone of their lives, they were pissed.
They came in slowly, one at a time, then groups of three or five as word spread through the Quarter and uptown. I sold out of batteries, combs, hammers. I doubted anyone needed any of those things. But today they were shopping in solidarity, not in consumption. I even managed to sell two slightly warped walking sticks. Heavily discounted, of course.
Mrs. Proctor brought in a bowl of what she called “mock pie”—a mash of powdered biscuit mix and canned fruit. (She hadn’t bought any butter, but she’d ended up borrowing half a stick from a neighbor.)
I wouldn’t fault the agents who were following the chain of command, who probably thought they were doing the right thing—keeping an eye on a dangerous element. Containment agents still came by the store throughout the day, although none of them had participated in the raid. But they still wore apologetic looks.
It was late afternoon when Liam appeared on my threshold.
He’d skipped shaving again, and the scruff seemed to make his eyes even more brilliantly blue. He also looked tired. Maybe he hadn’t slept any better than I had.
“What happened in here?” he asked, surveying the store.
“You should have seen it before we cleaned it up. And I’m not being sarcastic.”
He walked toward me, looked me over. It was warm out, and Liam smelled like hard work and clean sweat. “You’re all right?”
I looked at him, tried to sound totally nonchalant, which was definitely not how I felt. I was relieved, more than I should have been, to see him standing there. “I’m fine. Your favorite Containment agent came by yesterday with a warrant to search for Magic Act violations. Seems to think I’ve been having secret Sensitive meetings here.”
Liam’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d he get that idea?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. Gunnar didn’t know, either.” I looked around. “He helped me get things cleaned up. It doesn’t look like we made much of a dent, but we actually got quite a bit done.”
“Is it possible someone saw us at the refinery?” Liam asked.
“Maybe? My best bet is that it’s someone who wants to open the Veil and is working really hard to keep Containment distracted. And Jack Broussard, who is most definitely a tool, is a very good tool for that. I didn’t see him today. Maybe he’s cooled off.”
“I’m sorry, Claire.”
I nodded. “What about you?”
“I’ve been hunting,” he said, and I realized there was a faint shadow on his left cheekbone.
He hadn’t asked me to go. It didn’t surprise me to learn he’d wanted space. Hell, right now, even though part of me wanted him around all the time, I needed space. I wanted that beach scene Burke had mentioned, and a few hours of sunlit oblivion. I wasn’t sure either of us was having very good luck with that.
“Caught me with an elbow,” Liam explained. “Male wraith in Irish Channel.”
That was between the river and the Garden District. “He was one of Delta’s Sensitives?”
“He was. Lizzie’s got him now.”
I nodded. “Best place for him,” I said, but knew that wasn’t saying much.
“Speaking of Delta, do you want to go see Moses?”
“He found something?”
Liam nodded. “I’m not sure what, but I got a message he had something he wanted me to see. I’m headed back to Devil’s Isle, thought I’d see if you wanted to go with.”
I grimaced, gestured toward the still-disorganized store. “Do you think it’s safe for me to go in there right now?”
Liam considered. “You’re also supposed to be my trainee.” He pulled out a laminated card. “And I got you a transit pass.”
I took it, checked the print on both sides. It looked legit. “How did you manage this?”
“Like I said, I have friends in PCC. I didn’t know about the store—about what Broussard did—but I think going proves you aren’t afraid of Containment, or of being in Devil’s Isle. That says you’ve got nothing to hide from Containment or anyone else. I think that’s our strongest defense.”
“And how do we explain our visit to go see Moses?”
Liam smiled. “I’m a bounty hunter; he’s got information. We’re still trying to figure out where the wraiths are coming from, which is completely legitimate.”
“You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you?”
“My good looks are exceeded only by my brains.”
“And your humility.”
He grinned. “I’ve got no need for humility.”
He had me there.
Since organizing literal nuts and bolts didn’t sound any better, I opted for the field trip.
• • •
I served a few last customers, then closed the shop a little early and locked it up. We walked down Royal. There were a few strollers out tonight, men and women that I recognized from the neighborhood or the store walking in the same direction as we were. The reason rang through the air the closer we got to Jackson Square.
“Memorial in Song,” Liam said as we reached the wrought-iron fence. We walked to the gate, looked inside. A hundred people stood in the Square singing “Over in the Gloryland.”
It had taken four days after the Second Battle to arrange for a memorial for the folks who’d died. Every year, just as we celebrated the victory of War Night, New
Orleanians gathered in the square four days later to mourn those who were lost. They’d sing hymns until darkness fell, and then they’d light candles and sing until the wicks burned down, until the square was left in darkness again.
It had been so crazy since War Night, I’d totally forgotten about the memorial. I couldn’t carry a tune, but I loved being so close to something so beautiful. It made me feel, just for a little while, closer to my dad.
“Can we stand here for a minute?” I asked, closing my eyes and letting the voices wash over me. “Just for a minute.”
I could feel Liam’s gaze on me, looking, questioning. And then he settled in beside me. “Of course we can,” he said, and he began to hum along.
• • •
As it turned out, Liam could sing pretty well. We listened for two more songs, swaying to the music before we turned back to our task.
Hawkins was at the gate again. If there were standing orders to look at me sideways, he didn’t act on them. He scanned our IDs without comment, and didn’t say anything until the warning speech.
The streets of Devil’s Isle were unusually quiet. “Where is everyone?” I asked.
“It’s memorial day for them, too,” Liam said quietly. “They have their own dead to mourn.”
I felt stupid and insensitive for not realizing they’d need to grieve, too.
We walked to Moses’s shop, found him deep in an argument with something he kept trying to hit with an old-fashioned flyswatter.
It buzzed through the air toward us, zooming right into my face, pausing long enough for me to get a look at a curvy green female with wings like a dragonfly’s, and probably twice as big as one.
She looked me over, flipped me off, and flew out of the store through a flapping pet door.
“Charming. Peskie?”
“Peskie,” Liam confirmed. “And a very unhappy one by the look of it.” He walked toward Mos, smiled. “Who’d you piss off this time?”
We walked to the back of the store, where Mos worked on what was left of his hair with a small plastic comb.
“No one. She wants unacceptable terms, she can get her electronics from somewhere else. Keeps messing with my hair.”