Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Kids were hell to Watch. Nothing wore you out faster than little chaos machines bouncing around.

  The aquarium was a few miles downhill in the opposite direction, closer to the river; stamped zoo tickets would get you in for half-off. Did she come here for research, like riding the bus?

  Not likely. His heart was sinking. He wasn’t the smartest Watcher on the block, but he had an idea why she was so determined about this little field trip. The perpetual grey of rain-shrouded Altamira returned; mica in wet pavement glittered dully. Old concrete and brick buildings housing most of the zoo’s habitats studded acres of manicured green and fenced walkways, the brick parts left over from when this entire place was built in the twenties, only updated in the seventies. The tropical creatures needed indoor heating; the arboretum, with its netting waiting to catch the unwary before they bolted into the blue, was uphill to the east, and even though he knew the ground, Caleb was uneasy.

  No, not just uneasy. Flat-out alarmed.

  Her aura flashed again. Jorie set off to the right, nipping smartly between two buildings and pushing the sunglasses up to nest in her hair as the sunshine dimmed. A hedge reared beside them, turning into a vine-choked wall with an Employees Only door crouched in an angle, hidden from casual passers-by.

  “Caleb?” Very softly. She pointed at the door. Her eyes half-lidded, and her mouth turned down slightly, pained. “Through there.” It probably didn’t even occur to her that a Watcher might protest. There was a locked door, she needed through, so it was his job to get her there.

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Jorie . . .” Are you sure you want to do this?

  The edges of her aura stretched, yearning towards something as-yet invisible even to Sight. He suspected he’d see that gossamer cable soon enough, its braided edges pulsing. Would she start throwing herself against the door if he didn’t move?

  Fuck. He glided forward, touched the doorknob. A slight crackle of Power, a thin tendril of expended force, and it opened, its hinges creaking with a shower of rust.

  Looked like nobody had been through in a while. And Caleb found out there was nothing wrong with his imagination after all; he could think of a thousand ugly things behind that door that this beautiful, determined Lightbringer should never see.

  Jorie’s hands stretched out blindly, her slim pretty fingers spread, and Caleb surprised himself. He caught her wrist, the feel of her skin jolting up to his shoulder and sliding down into his chest, a slow soft burn. “Easy, witch,” he murmured. “Let me go first.”

  Not Safe

  NORMALLY WHEN she tracked a killer, she was blind to everything but the pull. The first time—in her last year of college—she’d scared the hell out of herself, and quite probably out of her assigned Watcher as well. She’d surfaced from blind confusion to find Piers Black in front of her, holding an otherwise normal man by the throat and the shotgun he’d taken from the fellow well away in his other hand. The man’s soon-to-be-ex-wife was cowering in a corner, and around them was a smashed kitchen she didn’t recognize.

  The only thing Piers had asked was a clipped, even Do you want him dead, ma’am?

  Jorie had blurted no, the almost-ex-wife, bruised and terrified, had yelped a yes, and Piers had to push both normals to erase their memory of Jorie’s presence—and her Watcher’s. It was the same old story happening a thousand times a day—a man who thought he owned a woman grabbing a gun to teach her the lesson, and Jorie couldn’t even feel good about saving a life, because Piers had told the husband to throw himself off a highway overpass the next time he thought about hurting a woman.

  Afterwards, horrified and nearly in shock, she’d raged against her talent. It had been the only time she’d ever come across a crime in progress, and later, she wondered about that. Piers, of course, had said nothing, just guided her home and put her to bed, then attempted to make her breakfast the next morning. The toast was cremated and the eggs were . . . well, he’d tried.

  Sometimes she wondered what happened to him. He’d been a good Watcher.

  Jorie’s eyelids fluttered, shutterclicks of her surroundings bulleting past a screen of terrifying images—leering mouths, bound wrists greased with blood, and those sad, dark, blind glassy eyes on shelf-stacked dolls. Still, there was a curious comfort, because every time she almost-surfaced, Caleb’s voice came, quiet and harsh.

  “I’m here,” he said, over and over. “You’re safe.”

  Oh, I know I am, she wanted to say. But someone else isn’t.

  Her shoulder touched a wall, and she strained against an iron bar over her midriff.

  She heard her own voice, soft and dreamy. “Down the stairs. We have to go down the stairs.”

  Metal clanged, rusting steps swaying underneath them, and Caleb’s coat made a soft sound as she was lifted, set on her feet light as a butterfly. The Finding yanked sharply in her midriff, but some other force closed around her, a hard shell keeping the worst of the pressure at bay.

  “Easy, witch.” Caleb exhaled sharply, whether with pain or effort she couldn’t tell. She was lifted again, and the jolt of landing was married to a heavy, clanging crash. Her head bounced against something hard and warm.

  It was his shoulder. He was all but carrying her.

  “Sorry—” she gasped. “No. No, that way. That way, we have to go that way.”

  Splashing. She caught flashes of crumbling brick, an archway, and a vile rotting smell drifted clotting-thick around her. Ugh. That’s awful. Where are we?

  The Finding twitched again, and yanked up. Straight up, as a matter of fact, and Jorie let out a weak cry because she couldn’t fly. At least, her physical body couldn’t; the rest of her tore free, rising wraithlike through layers of brick, concrete—and bursting into weak sunshine, collecting like vapor.

  Some invisible part of her was right in front of the tiger cage, watching the scene. A large male paced on the other side of the security ditch, tail lashing as he sensed the disturbance. He stilled, staring, gold-green eyes narrowed and stripes running like ink on wet paper.

  He’s not looking at me. The realization filled her with sticky, dozing dread.

  The scene was washed-out, as if she’d dialed the layer opacity almost completely down for a particular project effect. She wasn’t just seeing through physical location but time as well, and this was what the Finding wanted to show her. While she’d been dancing in Madame’s studio yesterday a man had been hunting, and his prey was a little boy with black bowl-cut hair who stared, fascinated, at the fluidly slinking cat.

  Wait. This isn’t right. Jorie cast around wildly, trying to spot the killer. A group of schoolchildren—looked like a second-grade class—clustered around two teachers and a pair of parents pressed into service for the day; a khaki-clad zoo guide was moving on to the next stop on their tour. But this little boy, his backpack shaped like a train engine’s front, just stood there, his head cocked slightly and his mouth half-open. His small sneakers were less than a foot from an antique iron grate sunk into the walkway; the decorative curlicues exhaled a deep, foul stench.

  He can’t be under there. Nobody can be under there.

  Except she knew who was underneath that grate at the moment—a witch and her Watcher. She had found the way in because that’s what she did, and she was standing right where the killer had, in a cramped tunnel below the surface.

  No. Please no, don’t show me this, please God, gods, anyone, don’t show me this—

  “Jorie.” Her name, edged with a tanak’s hurtful power. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

  But he’s not, she wanted to scream. He’s not, he’s not safe, someone look, please, someone listen, someone help!

  Glistening black ooze filled the grate. A sickening miasma took shape into dripping tendrils, disregarding the weak clouded sunlight slashing smoking weals on rubbery, congealing skin. The da
rkness surged up and shot for the child, who still stared at the crouching, tail-lashing tiger. The huge striped feline, alert to the presence of another predator, made a low, groan-barking noise that turned into a squeal of twist-stretching metal.

  Jorie screamed, helpless and lost; the tentacles flinched from the sound. But she was a mere ghost locked in the past, and she watched the ropy excrescence finish its work, dragging its helpless cargo into blackness.

  Underneath

  HER HEAD HURT. No, everything hurt, but her head most of all. For a moment she thought the gleaming-black tentacles had her and she fought, wildly, arms and legs starfishing, her left hand hitting something oddly warm.

  Caleb’s head snapped aside, but his arms didn’t loosen. “Easy,” he repeated, and the sense of motion returned. He was carrying her, and his eyes gleamed fiercely in the dimness. “All’s well, witch.”

  No. No it’s not, it’s not even close to well, are you insane? Jorie gasped again, suffocating on the stench of the thing, and realized why they were moving.

  Caleb’s breath came high and fast; he set her on her feet and pushed her against a damp concrete wall. The only illumination came from overhead, weak daylight falling in shafts starred with light mist. It would have been pretty, an indirect cathedral-like effect, if it hadn’t smelled so awful.

  Red light bloomed, dappling crumbling concrete and ancient brick walls; Jorie’s eyelids drifted up as she sagged. Caleb darted forward, and his knives flashed. There was a snap and a squealing crunch, and she recognized the sounds.

  Combat. He was fighting something Dark. She’d yanked him right into danger. Gods, she couldn’t save anyone, least of all herself, and now he was dealing with something she couldn’t even see.

  Her vision cleared slowly, reluctantly. The Finding, its work done for the moment, retreated with a last vicious twitch.

  Don’t move. She spread her hand, fingertips braced against cold, wet roughness.

  Part brick, part cement—it looked like a drainage tunnel. Water foamed and splashed along the bottom, the first of the serious winter rains beginning to fill an empty throat, but she was perched on a narrow maintenance walkway, pierced metal grabbing at her boot soles. There was another snap and a crunch; she saw Caleb, landing with a jolt on his left knee as he stabbed downward with one knife, its rune-chased blade alive with ruddy glow.

  His knives. Oh. The rest of the tunnel was empty, and it was a relief to figure out she knew exactly what to do. Her only job right now was to stay still; Watchers were trained for both stationary and moving defense, but stationary was much easier.

  Trembling spilled through her, and savage weariness. A hot fingertip touched her upper lip; her quads shook unmercifully, threatening to spill her onto her knees as if she’d taken back-to-back dance classes during a weeklong intensive.

  Ouch. Is it the bourbon? I should really quit drinking.

  But then she’d have no way to make the awful, insistent pulling of her talent go away.

  Caleb straightened and the reddish light cut off so abruptly terror rose in her throat. But it was only his knives vanishing into their sheaths, and he turned sharply on one heel, his shadow swelling as he approached. “It’s me,” he said, softly, in case she was still blind with Finding. “It’s Caleb. You’re safe, Jorie. It’s all right.”

  “Where . . .” I know where, we’re under the zoo.

  “Looks like drainage. Pretty old, too.” He stepped close, and she closed her eyes. The shaking in her limbs wouldn’t let up, and the hot slickness on her top lip was blood. “I’ll have you out of here in a few moments.”

  Did I get hit? No, it doesn’t hurt like that, I just . . . Her tongue wouldn’t work quite right. “Oh. That’s good.” The words slurred, drunkenly, and she swayed, but Caleb caught her, his hands warm and sure. The leashed strength was comforting, and she laid her head against his shoulder with a sigh. “Tired,” she mumbled. “I . . . I saw . . .”

  “Later.” Fingers on her cheek, scorching-hot. Watcher metabolisms ran warm, but this was painful, and she sucked in a shocked breath. He swore, softly. “Jorie? Look at me, baby. Look at—oh, Christ.”

  The world turned halfway over. No—he’d bent, and his arm was behind her knees. He lifted her; like a child, Jorie thought, and a hot bolt of nausea lanced through her. She was cradled against his chest, and the blood was coming from her nose. Another jolt in her solar plexus spread stinging heat-tingles through her, a Watcher forcing power into a witch’s aura, staving off shock.

  It didn’t seem to be doing much good.

  “Too close,” he continued, conversationally. “You’re Darksick. Stay with me, Jorie. All right? Stay with me.”

  At least he’s talking now. “Take me home,” she mumbled. Her own bed seemed like the most wonderful haven in the world right now, and all she wanted to do was sleep. “I just want to go home.”

  “Safehouse,” he said, grimly, and Jorie sagged against him. She didn’t have the energy to protest.

  The Only Lie

  THE TIRES CHIRPED as he stamped on the accelerator, the Volvo leapt forward, and Caleb swallowed another string of curses.

  “I want to go home,” Jorie insisted, in a soft, slurring singsong. “Take me home.”

  Oh, no you don’t. “Safehouse,” he repeated, just so she knew she wasn’t alone. Rust was right, she stayed right where he put her during a fight, and his shoulder ached as the tanak settled into deeper healing of stretched tendons and torn muscle. Rogue Street was the closest of the two safehouses; he flicked the radio off with a savage twist of his wrist and his hand jumped back, settling just above Jorie’s solar plexus. The heat-tingle left him with a jolt and she made a soft, inarticulate sound like it hurt, her curls bouncing as he twisted the wheel.

  Most of the drive was a blur, a tingle of precognition against his nerves jamming his foot onto the brake as a semi cruised through the intersection at Moore Street and 45th . Restraining the urge to curse again though the truck had the green light, he mashed the accelerator and the Volvo leapt forward again. He had to hope there weren’t any police cruisers around. Of course, the other Watchers at the safehouse could handle whatever chase he brought home to roost, but he’d still prefer to avoid it.

  The worst part hadn’t been the little skittering things boiling through Dark-contaminated water, taking shape and lunging for the tempting glow of a Lightbringer. It hadn’t even been the one that jumped on his back, sharp shark teeth worrying at the tough leather coat of his while it nuzzled absurdly like a lover. The things were quick, shifting between hind legs and all fours, and their teeth were tiny glassy serrations; it wasn’t any Dark he’d seen before, but that meant little.

  The ecosystem of not-quite-physical or just-physical-enough was wide and varied.

  No, the worst part had been Jorie’s eyes, wide and blank, and her forlorn attempt to halt whatever hideousness she was plainly seeing. The braided cable had returned, spinning into existence just as wastewater in the drainage canal frothed with the little Dark things. At first, he’d thought there were only three, but more had coalesced out of the gloom, and they were so goddamn quick.

  He all but stood on the brakes, the Volvo’s tires steaming, as he wrenched the car into the old intersection at the bottom of Rogue Hill, an almost hairpin turn because 28th Street had been a cart track back before paved roads and Altamira had simply accreted where the river made trade and profit inevitable.

  “Dolls,” Jorie mumbled. “The dolls . . .”

  “It’s all right,” he repeated, the only lie every Watcher told a witch. None of this was all right. The single flash of hideous things her gift forced on her just brought it home, underlined and in neon, and he smoked into the turn for the parking garage, the Watcher on duty there a flash of redblack as he stiffened, melting out of shadow.

  Caleb stood on t
he brakes once more, grateful Jorie was safely buckled in. Still, her head lolled more than he liked, and when he tore the keys from the ignition and rose from the driver’s seat, he felt the pressure front of other Watchers converging. Shit. I’m making a lot of noise.

  “Darksick,” he barked, clipped, angry syllables as he left the driver’s door hanging open. “I’ve got a Darksick Seer here, I need medical.” Somehow, he was over the hood in a mad slithering scramble and wrenching the passenger door open too, not caring that he was partially blocking the garage entry or that someone else would have to deal with whatever traffic chaos he left behind. “I need medical now, dammit!”

  Jorie’s purse spilled into the footwell; someone else could grab it. And there, scraping at the edge of his sensing range, were the soft bright gem-tones of Lightbringers—healers hurrying to tend one of their own.

  Don’t let it be too late. Let me be on time for once, God. Come on, you sonofabitch, just once in my goddamn life. Caleb lifted his witch, cradling her close, and one of his fellow Watchers caught the keys Caleb lobbed, a quick flicker of motion. “Goddammit!” The word bolted free. “I need medical now!”

  “This way.” Breathless, a round-hipped greenwitch skidded to a stop, her aura stretching as her arms did, ready to help. “Oh, heavens. Raina?”

  “I’m here.” Another greenwitch, her long cinnamon-colored hair flying, fell into step beside Caleb, whose legs tingled with the need to run, use every inch of speed a Watcher was capable of to get her to the infirmary. Jorie cuddled against his chest, small and light, a bright ribbon of blood threading from her nose to her upper lip.