The Hunt

by Chloe Neill

  And I wasn’t the only one affected; Liam’s groan was a low, deep rumble. Then he stepped away, putting space between us, and ran a hand through his hair.

  “What’s going on?” I even sounded breathless. “Tell me what happened to you—what happened at the battle.”

  He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  I didn’t think he meant to hurt me. But that didn’t matter much. “What wouldn’t I understand, Liam? Magic? What it’s like to run from it?”

  “This is different.”

  “How?”

  Liam shook his head, the war he was waging clear on his face.

  “I don’t know who you are right now,” I said. “And I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “I want nothing. And everything.” He took a step closer, heat pumping from his body, muscles clenched like a man preparing for battle. “I haven’t stopped wanting you. But it’s inside me like an organism, a living thing full of fuel and anger. You think I’m going to bring that to your door?”

  “I don’t need protecting.”

  “Don’t you?” He grabbed my hand, pressed it against his chest. His heart pounded like a war drum. “Feel that, Claire. That’s because you’re here. Because I see you, and I want to claim you like a goddamn wolf.”

  I stared at him while heat pulsed between our joined hands, and goose bumps rose along my arms. And it was long seconds before I had the composure to pull my hand away. I fisted my fingers against my chest, like that would cool the burn and diminish the power of his touch.

  “Tell me about your magic.”

  My question had been a whisper, but it still seemed to echo through the garage.

  I watched him shut down, shutter his expressions. But there was something he couldn’t hide, a flash of something in his eyes. Not just anger, and not just stubbornness. There was fear. I recognized a man facing down his demons, because I’d faced down demons of my own. I was still facing them down.

  “If you won’t tell me what you’re going through, I can’t help you. And I can’t fight your monsters on my own.”

  When he stayed silent, although it made my chest ache to do it, I walked out and left him behind.

  • • •

  The air had already been heavy with humidity, with heat. Now it was heavy with things left unspoken, things that weighed on both of us.

  When we reentered Moses’s house, everyone turned to look at us. To gauge what had happened—and what might happen next.

  “Power supply,” I said, walking to Moses and handing him the box. “You need anything else, you can find it yourself.”

  His gaze narrowed, but he turned it on Liam. “I’m so glad the trip was productive.”

  “Install the damn thing,” Liam said.

  Moses muttered something under his breath, then hopped off the stool and began to tinker with parts in the case. Plastic, now charred and black, went flying, as he made room for the new piece. He hooked it up, plugged in the system, and looked back at the screen.

  But there was only silence. No whirring motors, no bright letters.

  “Hmm,” Moses said.

  “Maybe it was corroded,” Gavin said.

  “Might have a trick,” Moses muttered, then reared back and whopped the case with the side of his fist.

  The entire tower shuddered, let out a belch of grinding plastic, and then whirred to life.

  “And away we go,” he said, and we all moved closer to watch the screen. Liam slipped in beside me, putting his body between me and Malachi.

  That was fine. He could do whatever he wanted.

  And so could I.

  It took Moses a few minutes to get back into Containment-Net, and Gavin cast wary glances at the tower the entire time, waiting for another round of sparks. But the system held together, and Moses made it back to the stub of the file Broussard had reviewed.

  “Here we go,” he muttered. “File was called . . . Icarus.”

  “Isn’t that a myth?” Gavin asked. “The guy who flew too close to the sun and his wings melted?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s the myth.”

  “That mean anything to anybody in this context?” Gavin asked. “Regarding Containment or New Orleans or Paranormals?”

  When we shook our heads, Gavin looked at Malachi. “The theory is that a lot of our myths come from the Beyond. That we anticipated your existence, or were visited before.”

  “I know the theory,” Malachi said. “And I know the myth. But there’s no comparable story in the Beyond. We don’t need wings made of wax.”

  “Fair enough,” Gavin said, and glanced at Moses.

  “I don’t know anything from my corner of the world, either,” Moses said, turned back to the screen, pressed a couple more keys. “Presuming Containment’s telling the truth about when he died—and who knows if it is—Broussard opened this file less than an hour before he kicked.”

  “Coincidence?” Gavin asked.

  “Maybe,” Liam said quietly. “But it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

  “Did Broussard create the file?” I asked.

  It apparently took a moment for him to check. “He did not. The stub doesn’t show who created it, only that it wasn’t Broussard. It’s some kind of binary security feature. ‘Yes’ if the creator looked at it, ‘No’ if a stranger to the file’s looking at it.” Moses traced a finger across the screen, following a line of letters. “I can tell you he sent this file to someone. Can’t tell who, but based on the metadata, he looked at it, transmitted it. And that’s the last task he performed.”

  “Can we see the stub again?” Liam asked. “Or what was left of it?”

  “You got it,” Moses said, then clicked keys emphatically. There was a music to his typing, like he was building songs with the percussion of stubby fingers on keys. “Here we go,” he said, and swiveled back so we could see the screen.

  “No flames,” Gavin said, stepping forward. “That’s a good start.”

  “Har-dee-har-har,” Moses said as he frowned at the screen.

  “I can’t make heads or tails out of it,” Gavin said.

  The numbers and letters didn’t mean anything to me. But the longer I stared at it, the more I thought I could make out a shape.

  “It looks like part of a model,” I said.

  “A model of what?” Gavin asked.

  “A molecule, maybe?” I frowned at it, trying to remember something of Mrs. Beauchamp’s chemistry class. “We had to make one for our eighth grade science fair with painted foam balls and straws.”

  When they all gave me blank looks, I waved it off, then pointed at two clusters of letters. “Here and here,” I said, “like these are foam balls, and see how they’re kind of linked together by these things?” I pointed at the lines, now crooked, that I thought were supposed to connect them. “But instead of balls and straws, there are numbers and letters.”

  “A molecule,” Gavin said. “So this is something scientific.” He glanced around the room. “I don’t think any of us are scientifically inclined, other than Balls-and-Straws over here, but anybody got any ideas?”

  “None,” Liam said.

  “Science in the Beyond is differently constructed and imagined,” Malachi said. “But even so, this doesn’t look familiar. We need to talk to Darby.”

  This would be right up her scientifically minded alley.

  “I think I can clean it up,” Moses said, fingers busy at the keys again. “Let me do that, and I’ll get you a hard copy. She can work her scientific magic on it.”

  Malachi nodded. “All right.”

  “It’s also probably time to go see Gunnar,” Gavin said. “Tell him what we know, and find out what he knows.” He glanced at me. “I assume you want to go?”

  “Of course. It would be good to see him.” The thought
of it made me simultaneously excited and nervous. I was pretty sure we had the kind of friendship that could make it through an absence, but this was the first time we’d been apart for so long.

  “I’m going to dig around here a little more,” Moses said. “Maybe I can find something else.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Identity of the person who created the file, when, maybe a note about related docs. I’ll see what else he worked on, in case this is a blind. Lots of information to look through. Whoever among your ilk invented metadata gets a thumbs-up from me.”

  “We’ll be sure to tell him or her,” Gavin said, then gestured to the door. “Saddle up.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Once upon a time, St. Charles Avenue had been an ode to architecture, a boulevard marked by one mansion after another, and the lead-in to a neighborhood of gentility and Southern wealth.

  The Landreaus had owned one of those houses, the so-called Palm Tree House, which was as yellow as the cottage near Moses’s, had long porches, fancy columns, and dozens of palm trees. The family had refused to give up on or abandon New Orleans. Instead, they’d repaired the damage war had done to the house and lived there still—Gunnar, his parents, and his siblings. It was a testament to their love of New Orleans—and their absolute stubbornness.

  It also occurred to me that every one of my friends was stubborn. Probably in part because it was the stubborn people who’d stayed.

  Gavin parked on the otherwise empty street, and we took the cobblestone sidewalk to the front door. The house was dark but for the front room, which glowed with light.

  He gave the brass door knocker a questioning look, then rapped it lightly.

  Seconds later, the door was yanked open. And the man standing there—tall and handsome, with dark, rakish hair that fell over his forehead and teasing, intelligent brown eyes—opened his arms.

  I ran past Gavin and into Gunnar’s arms.

  “It’s been too long,” Gunnar said. He was tall enough to rest his head atop mine, and his arms were banded around me like I might fly away if he didn’t hold tight enough.

  “Yeah, it has.” I reached up to knuckle away the only tear I’d let fall. “It’s good to see you.”

  He brushed back my hair, pressed a kiss to my forehead. “It’s good to see you, too.” He looked up, offered nods to Gavin and Malachi, then glared at Liam.

  “Well. Look who’s here.” If anything, Gunnar’s embrace tightened. “Let me guess—you pissed off everyone outside New Orleans, too, so you’ve come home again?”

  “Landreau,” Gavin said, cutting off the argument. “We need to talk. Can we come in?”

  “Just telling it like it is,” Gunnar said. He looked down at me, concern in his eyes. “But do come in. I actually have something for you,” he said, then released me to push open the door.

  She sat on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, a binder in her lap. Her dark hair was curled now into tight ringlets that brushed her shoulders.

  “What’s going—,” Tadji began, then looked up. Her brown eyes went wide with surprise. Then she made a half-scream sound before jumping up, dumping the binder on the floor, and running toward me, the flowy tank she’d paired with leggings and boots shimmering in the air like wings as she moved.

  She yanked me into the house, then wrapped me in a fierce hug that almost broke the few ribs Gunnar hadn’t managed to crack. She squealed as we swayed back and forth—at least until she let me go and slapped me on the arm. Hard.

  “Ow!” I exclaimed, rubbing it. “What was that for?”

  “For showing yourself,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “You’re not supposed to be running around the Garden District.” But she pulled me into a hug again. “And I have missed the crap out of you.”

  Then she pulled back again, slapped my other arm. “Why are you here?”

  “Stop the cycle of violence,” Gunnar said, extending a hand between us. “Claire, Tadji’s glad to see you and concerned about seeing you.” He smiled at her. “That cover it?”

  “It does.” But her eyes were narrow. “For now.”

  “Good,” he said. “There’s water in the refrigerator, and the bar’s open,” he said, as the others filed inside. But no one moved for booze. Not when there was work to be done first.

  He closed the door, then turned back to me, ran his hands up and down my arms. “And how are you?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  Gunnar’s gaze found Liam. “I take it that’s how long he’s been in the universe again.”

  I nodded, really glad to be back among my allies. “Pretty much.”

  “He say anything about what happened? Why he left? Maybe groveling for mercy for leaving you behind?”

  “Not yet.”

  Gunnar nodded, looked at Liam. “Never fear, Claire-belle. If the way he looks at you is any indication, it’s on its way.”

  “Where are your parents?” I asked, thinking the house seemed unusually quiet. “Your brother and sister?”

  “They left after the battle,” he said. “Couldn’t stay in the Zone any longer.” He glanced back at the room, the fancy Southern décor, like he might be imagining them there, cooking or talking or laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and squeezed his hand.

  He nodded. “I’m managing. I assume you want to talk about Broussard?” he asked as we moved to stand with the others.

  “Among other things,” Gavin said. “Let’s sit down.”

  Gunnar didn’t look thrilled about taking orders in his own home. But when Gavin took a seat on a yellow gingham sofa, Gunnar went to the windows and began lowering the shades.

  “All right,” he said, when he’d secured our privacy. “Let’s talk.”

  • • •

  We joined Gavin on the couches in the living room. Or everyone but Liam did. He stood by the window, apart from the rest of us.

  Gavin did the talking, telling Gunnar the parts of the story he hadn’t yet heard—from our trip to the bayou, to the bounty hunters, to the roadblock.

  Gunnar didn’t speak until he looked at me. “You walked into the bayou?”

  “Yes.”

  “With gators and snakes?”

  “Yep.”

  “Should I be pissed you hiked around southern Louisiana even though the Containment heat’s been turned up? Or should I be proud you walked among gators and snakes?”

  “Technically,” Gavin said, before I could answer, “we drove for part of it.”

  Gunnar slid his gaze to Gavin. “This was your idea?”

  “All due respect, since she was a trouper, Claire’s really not the focus of this particular story,” Gavin said. “We’re more concerned about Broussard and this very obvious frame job. And Icarus.”

  “What’s Icarus?”

  Gunnar’s expression was blank, and he looked genuinely confused. Which was probably what Gavin had been testing.

  “The last file Broussard reviewed before he was killed. Assuming Containment’s telling the truth about his time of death.”

  “I’m not going to ask how you know what files Broussard was looking at. But I don’t know what Icarus is, and I don’t have any more details about the murder than I did the last time we talked.” Gunnar looked at Liam. “I’m not involved in the investigation.”

  “You’re second-in-command of Devil’s Isle,” I said. “How are you not involved?”

  “Because you’ve been shut out,” Malachi guessed, and Gunnar nodded.

  “He was killed outside Devil’s Isle, so his murder is technically outside our jurisdiction. Any normal day, that wouldn’t matter. But it seems to matter now, and to people at a higher pay grade than mine. Investigators have been assigned. I don’t have access to files, reports, or anything else. I’m shut out
completely.”

  “This the Commandant’s doing?” Gavin asked.

  “Above his pay grade, too. I don’t know who’s pulling the strings, but it’s someone in the PCC, someone who ranks high enough to shut out the Commandant.” He looked at Liam. “Being that I’m the curious sort, I talked to one of those investigators, asked what he believes set you off—why you attacked Broussard when Gracie has been gone for nearly a year. He didn’t have a satisfactory answer; he’s just assuming you did it.”

  “That’s a shitty investigation,” Gavin said.

  “It is. I realize Containment isn’t perfect. But it’s usually minimally competent. That’s not what this is.”

  “It’s bigger,” I said.

  “Yeah. Let’s go back to Icarus. What is it?”

  “We don’t know,” Gavin said. “Found a stub of a file that someone tried very diligently to erase.”

  “And someone else, probably a Para with electronic skills, managed to dig out?” Gunnar asked.

  “No comment,” Gavin said with a thin smile.

  “And did this individual get anything of substance in that stub?”

  “It looks like something scientific,” Gavin said, glancing at me. “But we don’t have enough information to figure out how or what it is.”

  “You going to talk to Darby?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Gunnar nodded. “That he looked at the file last could be just coincidence.”

  “Could be,” Gavin said. “But it’s the lead we’ve got, so we’re following it through.”

  “Who else knew Liam and Broussard didn’t like each other?” I asked. “Does that narrow it down?”

  “It doesn’t,” Gunnar said, and looked over at Liam. “I assume you don’t disagree?”

  “No,” Liam said. “He didn’t like me or trust me, and he wasn’t shy about sharing that with others.”

  Gunnar furrowed his brow and nodded. “I can look into this Icarus deal quietly. Assuming it’s not personal nonsense he happened to store on our network, it could be a PCC project. If it is, it’s not one I’m privy to.”