Finder (The Watchers Book 6)

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Sir.” Caleb was in the doorway. “She just woke up.” Give her a minute, you asshole, was the unspoken message, and Tancred grinned, his own answer of Typical overprotective Watcher not needing to be voiced.

  “I get it. I’ll make some coffee. I hope this is one of the suites with a cup machine; I hate waiting.” He turned and marched smartly past Caleb, careful not to brush against the Watcher’s aura.

  Then Caleb filled up the entire doorway, and his eyes glowed at her. He said nothing, and Jorie wondered if he was as disappointed as Tan must be. She held onto the blankets, grimly, and wished she’d been saddled with other abilities. Like whistling in tune, or even a talent for baking cookies.

  It would have been a nice change. Being given just enough sensitivity to see what was wrong but not enough power to fix it was a particular type of hell. Maybe she was working off a past life’s karmic debt.

  “I’d like to get my weapons,” Caleb finally said, quietly. Gary and Tancred were in the kitchen now, and Tan laughed at something his Watcher said. They were so easy with each other, and Jorie, the professional treater of despairing Watchers, couldn’t find a way to stop making her own so damn . . . upset.

  “Sure,” she said. “Come on in, I won’t bite.” To top it all off, he’d evidently had to bring her out of shock skin-on-skin, and Jore ached all over except the places she’d want to if the situation had, so to speak, developed.

  She didn’t hurt him when she touched him, but she didn’t make him happy, either. And it had only been what, five days? No, six, counting this morning? Almost a week.

  He drifted to the bedside, bent with fluid grace, and the harness came alive in his hands. Black T-shirt, worn jeans, his scarred boots, and now the straps settling in their accustomed places, each weapon checked with fingertips to make sure they settled right. Finally, he glanced sideways at her, as if he couldn’t bear to look. “How do you feel?”

  Like I was pulled apart and put back together wrong. “I’m sorry.” She had to say it softly, so Gary wouldn’t hear. Watchers had sharp ears. “I had to find Neil, I just—”

  “Don’t apologize.” Caleb bent again, and his coat hung from his hands, a discarded skin. He shrugged into it, a breath of leather filling her head with safety, that constant in a Watcher’s presence. Any time she got a whiff of tanned cowhide she felt cradled, walled in. Secure. He dropped his hands, rolled his shoulders, and was the picture of a determined Watcher once more, fixing her with a steady, pale-blue look. “You don’t have to apologize to your Watcher, Jorie. Ever.”

  So he was taking refuge in the codes of behavior, those archaic rules meant to make sure the tanak—let alone touchy, heavily armed male tempers—didn’t run amok. Great. “All right.” There was a clatter from the kitchen and Tancred’s half-muffled laughter. She wanted a shower, a gallon of sweet strong coffee, and breakfast. She wanted her own kitchen, her own house, and her own bedroom.

  What she had was a safehouse suite, a Watcher too good for her, and a serious problem growing deeper by the moment. Nothing about this made any sense. If it was a non-Dark case, why was Neil missing, and why did scrying for him lead her to that terrible room and those blank button gazes?

  And if the Dark thing casting glamours over any mention of Horace Alton was involved, why hadn’t anyone seen it before? That kind of power made a large disturbance, and the Watchers would have been alerted to it by now.

  It just didn’t add up. If the two were related . . . but how? And why?

  Caleb regarded her for a few moments more, then stepped to the bedside. He leaned over her; Jorie froze, and his hands landed on either side of her hips. He braced a knee on the mattress, the bed frame giving a soft, subtle groan, and leaned into her personal space, almost nose to nose with her.

  Oh, gods, my breath could kill a tree at a hundred paces. Why is he doing this? Embarrassment flamed in her cheeks, all the way up to the roots of her tangled hair.

  “You’re never doing that again,” he said, softly. “My heart can’t take it. So if you’re going to take my knives for disobedience, babe, you’d better do it now.”

  What the hell? Taking a Watcher’s knives was the worst possible punishment you could inflict. It meant a Watcher had done something so terrible there was no chance of forgiveness; it had only happened a handful of times in the history of the Circle, and most were temporary. Or so Jorie had heard. “I wouldn’t take your knives,” she said, trying to figure out how on earth she could have threatened anything so awful. “If you think I would, I’m sor—”

  He moved. She almost flinched, but Caleb simply lay one callused finger against her lips. “No apology,” he repeated, solemnly. “Not to me, Jorie. Not ever. Clear?” As if she was a trainee instead of a witch.

  Jorie buttoned her mouth, more so she didn’t paint him with morning breath than anything else, and nodded. Her lips moved against his skin, and his eyes half-lidded, his own mouth softening just a fraction.

  Oh. Well, I guess that answers that. He does feel something.

  She just couldn’t figure out what.

  “Good,” he said, in that same soft, intense half-whisper. “Take your time getting dressed, I’ll get you breakfast. Don’t worry, I won’t cook, but that techwitch might be able to.”

  Tan? Oh, if you want something complex, messy, and kitchen-destroying but very tasty. Gary’s the better bet. She couldn’t say anything because his finger was still against her lips, and he was looking like he might lean in a little closer. It was a subtle change in his posture, a half-whispered invitation, and Jorie froze.

  He straightened, almost reluctantly, turned on his heel, and stalked for the door, leaving a very confused—and just a little bothered—witch on a tangled bed that smelled like both of them, and the second pillow held a very definite head-sized dent.

  Wow. I thought he was going to . . . wow.

  It was the only word that applied. But once he swept the door mostly closed, giving her some privacy, she scrambled from the bed’s half-drained warmth and hurried for the white-painted dresser across the room, her bare feet scratching luxuriously on carpet. There was a connecting door to the bathroom, thank goodness, and none of them would bother her while she got cleaned up.

  Tancred must have found something. And Jorie had found something, too.

  She just didn’t know what.

  A Real Winner

  THE TECHWITCH didn’t cook. Instead, the other Watcher took a long look in the fridge, poked in some of the cupboards, and set to work. By the time Jorie emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered except for her hair, there was toast, scrambled eggs, and tolerable frozen hash browns almost smoking-crisp, not to mention sliced apples, and coffee ceremoniously handed to her in a yolk-yellow mug.

  “There she is.” Tancred beamed at her. The techwitch was a snappy dresser, and the way he moved around the other Watcher said bonded. Still, he was careful not to brush against Caleb’s aura, and he waited respectfully enough while Jorie took her first few sips of milk-and-sugar coffee, her slim shoulders relaxing a bit and her solemn dark gaze resting on Caleb. “So, you presented me quite a puzzle yesterday. You see before you a man who had to be dragged to bed.”

  “You didn’t fight very hard,” his Watcher murmured at the stove, and Jorie’s smile, half-hidden behind her mug, was a balm to Caleb’s nerves. The jeans weren’t hers and the bright-blue sweater suited her, but they weren’t what she’d have chosen to wear.

  Already he knew that much about her. It was only, what, five days in? Six? It felt like a lifetime.

  He was beginning to believe she was safe, and that she didn’t hate him. The confusion on her sweet face, the widening of those eyes when he touched her—oh, he was a lucky bastard indeed, and maybe it was because he’d done the right thing last night.

  For once.

  Except he’d pretty
much destroyed any good deed by telling her he intended to disobey at the first opportunity. Fair warning, and all that, but she didn’t look like she believed him. She looked, in short, like a witch who had been pulled back from the brink of death and was determined to go back if she decided it needed doing.

  “I was at it early this morning, too,” the techwitch continued, loftily ignoring the interruption. “It’s the damndest thing, Jorie. This Dark, whatever it is, doesn’t want us finding anything out. It’s wiped all sorts of stuff electronically, which is frustrating as all hell. I hope you’ve got something useful, because I was able to come up with exactly squat unless it’s the child disappearance and mortality rates.”

  “Let me guess.” She blew across her coffee, resting a hip against the counter. “Altamira’s running a little higher than the national norm in that particular statistic.”

  “Oh, my dearly beloved.” Tan spread his supple, long-fingered hands. “Guess by how much.”

  “Here.” Gary set a plate on the countertop, pushed it towards her with a fingertip. “Go sit down, ma’am. You too, Tancred, we’ll bring yours. Caleb, you want some coffee?”

  Gary was exactly what a Watcher should be, smoothly taking care of the details so his witch could snatch Jorie’s plate and head for the table and chairs in the miniature dining room. “Oh no you don’t,” Tancred said, keeping the plate out of her reach. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you carry it, my dear?”

  “You just want to steal my toast.” Around other Lightbringers, Jorie relaxed. The techwitch’s glow brightened as hers did, both of them sharing without thought, strengthening each other.

  Just one more thing that made them so, so vulnerable.

  “Pfft, you’re a cynic.” The techwitch eyed her toast but didn’t steal a single piece, and his voice receded towards the dinette with its sunny striped tablecloth and matching chairs. “Anyway, guess by how much.”

  “Double the usual nationwide rate,” Gary said softly to the pan on the stove, and shot Caleb a meaningful glance. “The Council liaison dropped by to chat with my witch this morning.”

  Double? That’s . . . not good. Caleb opened his mouth, shut it. If it’s something Dark, it’s capable of keeping a low profile and affecting electronic and other records. Means it’s smart, not the usual greedy gullet. And if the Council liaison visited the techwitch . . .

  Well, it looked like someone else might help keep Jorie out of trouble—someone she couldn’t order around. Which was a blessing. Caleb was starting to think corralling her was beyond his capabilities. “How bad is it?”

  Gary shrugged. “Something about the media. Though if Tan can’t find anything, they certainly can’t. It still doesn’t explain why they’re calling your witch.”

  “Media?” Caleb shook his head, accepting another filled plate. The other Watcher’s hands were swift and skilled, and he had judged the amount of hash browns that could fit into the skillet perfectly. At least the cookware in a safehouse was always good and sturdy. “This is for your witch, right?”

  “No, that one’s for you. I know how my witch likes his eggs.” Gary’s smile was slow and subtle, lighting up his broad, freckled face. “Go eat. Looks like you need it.”

  “—about double,” Tancred was saying. He had turned solemn, and propped his cheek on his hand as he examined Jorie, his gold earring glinting. “And why on earth is Channel Twelve calling you?”

  “Because my house burned down and they want a human-interest story?” Jorie stared at her plate like she didn’t know what to do with the food, which was such a change Caleb’s stupid heart ached again, like an icepick right through the muscle. The tanak, narcotized by an entire night spent listening to Jorie’s soft breathing, twitched inside his bones. “But . . . you’re sure? Twice the national rate?”

  “On average, yeah. There’s spikes every thirty years or so, which drag the entire curve up. But the weirdest thing is—”

  “But there aren’t television crews in front of City Hall. Not to mention the cops and the entire city council, and the mayor and the state legislature, aren’t wringing their hands.” Jorie didn’t even look at her breakfast. “Every thirty years?”

  “As far back as we’ve got statistics, yeah.” Tancred made a face, staring into his own coffee mug. “I hate to ask, Jore, but what do you think we’re looking at here?”

  Caleb’s witch had turned pale. He restrained the urge to lay his own plate in front of the techwitch; it didn’t seem right to eat before either of them. Gary saved him by appearing with his witch’s breakfast, sliding it in front of Tancred and laying down a handful of silverware, too. “Eat,” the other Watcher repeated, heading back into the kitchen. “You need it.”

  Tancred applied himself to a small mountain of toast, but his gaze didn’t leave Jorie, who stared at her coffee as if she couldn’t remember what it was for, either.

  “You too,” Caleb said, finally sinking into a chair at the tiny table, leaving a spot for Gary. The furniture wasn’t as nice as hers, though she gave no sign of even thinking about her destroyed house. She was probably just sitting on the pain, ignoring it until the emergency was over. It also looked like she’d done it before; nobody was that good at putting off trauma without a little practice. Caleb’s hands wanted to curl into fists. Why hadn’t anyone been looking out for her? “I can’t if you don’t, Jorie.”

  That pushed her into action. She picked up her fork. “Not dolls,” she said suddenly, eyeing the fluffy, golden scrambled eggs. “That’s what I found out . . . yesterday?” She looked to Caleb for confirmation and he nodded, his entire body going cold.

  It had been so close.

  “Uh, okay.” Tancred looked just as mystified as Caleb felt, at this point. “What’s not dolls? You’re killing me here, Jorie.”

  “Don’t say that,” Gary muttered as he reappeared with his own plate, subsiding when both witches looked at him. Maybe bonding made him brave. It was more likely that he was a good Watcher, and his witch gave him a lot of leeway.

  Caleb couldn’t imagine. If Jorie would simply give a few orders, he could settle into the regulations and just . . . work. But she was too kind, too forgiving, and entirely too soft and patient.

  Then you’ll just have to be a better Watcher, kid.

  “We don’t know what kind of Dark it is,” Jorie said, slowly. “But we know it takes children, we know it runs on a thirty-year cycle, and we know it makes puppets.”

  “Those things . . .” The cold was all through Caleb now. Dolls didn’t ring any bells, but puppets? That certainly did. It was one of the Dark’s favorite tricks with victims it didn’t kill outright. “Its victims. Hollowed out like a kalak, but we’re dealing with at least a dozen of them at a time. How many does it have?”

  “I don’t know,” Jorie said, miserably. “But if it’s been here for a few thirty-year cycles, probably quite a few. It’s covering its tracks, and it knows a witch is after it now. And I couldn’t Find Neil.”

  “Except maybe you did.” Caleb could have kicked himself for opening his mouth, but it was too late. “If Harvard’s even a halfway decent investigator, he probably found some edges and went picking. Like a scab.”

  “Harvard?” Tancred’s eyebrows almost reached his hairline. “Investigator?”

  Jorie’s shoulders tensed, the same heavy burden settling on her. Like usual. “The detective I work with.”

  “Oh, that guy. He’s a real winner, Jore. You know how behind he is on his alimony?” Tancred took a huge bite of wheat toast, chewing with finicky precision. Jorie didn’t answer. The silence stretched, soft and excruciating, until the techwitch coughed. “Sorry. I just got curious about him after you were in the hospital that one time.”

  “Just because we can . . .” Jorie’s quiet disappointment was just as excruciating as Caleb had imagined, but
thankfully it wasn’t directed at him.

  “Doesn’t mean we should. I said I was sorry.” Tancred shook his sandalwood hair, arranged in a very fetching razor cut. “You’re one to talk, chasing down cold cases for people who wouldn’t pee on you if you were on fire.”

  “Have you ever heard of something capable of controlling that many puppets?” Jorie nibbled on a triangle of dry toast, turned to Caleb. “Any kind of Dark at all?”

  He had to swallow, hurriedly. “Not modern stuff.” Even the eggs weren’t as good as hers, but if he was eating, she would too. And she needed it. “Maybe older.”

  “I can ask the rest of the Watchers.” Gary set his coffee mug down, his eyes half-lidding. “There’s always the chance that it predates Altamira itself.”

  Now there was a chilling thought. Something very old, very powerful, able to cloak itself from arriving Watchers? A thin cold frisson slid down Caleb’s back.

  “Yeah, we shouldn’t assume it wasn’t here first.” There was a line between Tancred’s eyebrows, and he dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin. “I’m sorry, Jore. Really I am.”

  “I know.” She touched his hand with her pretty, gentle fingertips, and just that gracefully, all was forgiven. “You were up all night with this, weren’t you.”

  Caleb’s throat had a trapped lump that wasn’t food. Why couldn’t the gods have made everyone so willing to forgive? Never mind that the techwitch had a point, and at least he said it so Caleb didn’t have to.

  “Well, it’s interesting, and I was bored to tears before.” Tancred was freshly shaven, but there were dark smudges underneath his eyes. “And I don’t like it when I can’t see something; it makes me nervous. Anyway, we have the edges of the holes. Whatever this thing is, it doesn’t want us looking into Alton, or his grandson. So maybe that’s where we should start a deep dive, after you talk to Sarah.”