The Sight

  “Did you actually look through these?”

  “Not really.” I padded toward him.

  “There’s a deed for a building in Mid-City. Your dad signed it.” He held it out to me, flipped through the rest of the documents.

  It read QUITCLAIM DEED across the top, and then had a bunch of legalese I didn’t recognize. And then there was an address on South Carrolton, my father’s signature on the bottom. The entire thing could have been written in German, for all that I understood it—and what it meant.

  “Where is this?” I asked.

  “Mid-City, maybe?” He looked at me. “You didn’t know about it? I mean, he didn’t say anything? You’d probably own it now, since he’s gone.”

  I shook my head. “Is there anything else in the papers about it?”

  “No,” Liam said, looking back at the papers again, pressing some of them flat. “I mean, not the sale. It’s all related to the property’s history. Looks like it’s a commercial property.” He flipped through one page, then another, like he was reading a story. “There was a small restaurant there at one time. But nothing about what your father did with it, if anything.”

  “I want to go see it,” I said, and turned for the door. I didn’t know what I thought I’d find there; I just knew I didn’t want any more mysteries. Any more guesswork.

  Liam gently took my arm before I could walk away, pulled me back. “Claire, it’s the middle of the night.”

  My face was throbbing, and my wrists burned, and I was exhausted. But I had a mission, and I was damn well going to act on it. “My father owned another place that I know nothing about. I want to see what it is.”

  I could hear the anger in my voice. Anger at my father, anger at Liam.

  “It’s late, and Reveillon is out there. This could be nothing—just an investment property he didn’t have a chance to use.”

  “Then why hide the papers in a book and never mention its existence?”

  Silence. “I don’t have a good answer for that.”

  “There could be something there that I need to see.”

  “And that building could be rubble on the ground, Claire.”

  I hated him for that. “Bastard.”

  “Claire.”

  “No. You can go to hell, Liam.”

  “Claire,” he repeated. “Stop it. All right? Just stop. I know you’re angry at him. I can see it in your eyes. Be angry if you need to. Be pissed. But use your brain. You don’t need to do this right now. It’s too dangerous to run around New Orleans right now.”

  He was right. Of course he was right. But that didn’t make me feel any better. “I just want to know why he didn’t tell me.” I looked up at him, let him see the misery in my eyes. “He could have prepared me for this, for magic. He could have taught me how to deal with it. How to live with it without feeling like an enemy all the time. Without feeling like a criminal.”

  “Claire.” This time he said it softly. He put a hand at the back of my neck, long fingers sliding into my hair. He pulled me toward him and into his arms. He wrapped himself around me, making a sanctuary of his body.

  I dropped my forehead to his chest and rested there, let myself be, let my hands rest at his lean hips. He smelled male—like hard work in sunshine and faint cologne.

  Liam had called me reckless, and maybe I was. But I tried not to be completely reckless with my heart—not when I knew how this would end.

  I dropped my hands, pulled back. He gave it a last bit of strength before letting me step away.

  “I want you to stay with me,” I said, looking up into eyes that reflected stormy seas. “And you probably want to stay. But you don’t trust me not to become a wraith.”

  Temper flashed in his eyes. “I do trust you. But it’s not that simple.”

  “I know it isn’t. For me, or for you. It’s who and what we are. It’s who and what the world is.” I gathered my courage and found words to speak the unspoken.

  “Yes, the possibility exists that I’ll become a wraith. That I won’t be able to control myself, that I’ll become a monster. I’m doing everything I can to avoid that. And I know you don’t believe me; you don’t think you can believe me. But it’s the truth. Either you can accept that, or you can’t. But that has to be your call.”

  He stepped forward, closing the distance I’d put between us, and put a hand against my cheek. I fought back the desire to settle my head into his hand, to find comfort there. “I’m a bounty hunter, Claire. If something should happen, I’d have to be the one to take you to Lizzie. To take you to Devil’s Isle. I can’t be the one to put you in prison.”

  “I know,” I said. I knew that wasn’t enough for him—not for his sense of honor, for the vow he felt he had to uphold. And so I mustered all my courage, and I took a step away from him.

  The sudden distance of his body made me feel small and cold. “You should go downstairs.”

  “Claire.”

  I looked up at him and his eyes seemed to glow brighter, like he burned from within. And maybe he did. Maybe he burned for me as brightly as I burned for him.

  “I want you,” I said, and his lips parted, chest heaving with desire that was obvious in his eyes. “But not like this. Not when you’ll regret it.”

  Anger and insult flashed across his face. “I wouldn’t regret it, Claire. And that’s exactly the goddamn problem.”

  He turned and walked to the door, and I listened until his footsteps faded away. And when he was gone, I let myself sigh—long and haggard—before closing the door behind me.

  He would come to terms, or he wouldn’t.

  The decision had to be his.

  —

  I wanted to kick things, punch things, scream until my voice was raw and hoarse, until this feeling of longing dissipated, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. Emptiness and serenity. I’d be alone, but I wouldn’t want for anything.

  I wouldn’t want him.

  I wouldn’t have an ache in my bones, a tingle in fingertips that wanted to touch and grasp, to pull him against me and finish that kiss—and more. And more. And the wanting made the sense of phantom touch stronger.

  Although I was exhausted, I still had energy to burn.

  I walked into the storage room, picked up the box that sat on a bureau by the door—the one I used to cast off my excess magic.

  I walked into a spot clear of secretaries, bureaus, and baroque headboards, put the box on the floor, and sat down in front of it, legs crossed. I put my hands on my knees and closed my eyes, tried to clear my brain of the jumble of thoughts and emotions: the violence of our capture at the camp, Ezekiel’s slap, the sharp pain that still smeared my abraded wrists, the possibility of Liam . . .

  Eyes closed, I reached inside, using that sixth magical sense to find the particles of it, burning into the part of my brain that controlled anger and violence. I let myself feel them, the foreign pinpoints of magic, spearing into places they shouldn’t be and lodging there. Waiting.

  I grabbed handfuls of them, felt them prickle against my grasp like a handful of hornets. I imagined squeezing them into filaments, just as I’d done in Algiers, and could actually feel them coalescing inside me, cold and heavy and faintly alien. Disconcerting as that was, I made myself keep a grip on them and opened my eyes to fix my gaze on the box.

  I blew out a breath, forced myself to concentrate, and pushed those filaments toward the box, one slow and steady inch at a time. Sweat plinked from my forehead onto the floor with the effort of moving the magic, condensed and heavy as it was. Energy waning and my arm shaking with exhaustion, I gritted my teeth and made a final shove, let the box’s lid fall down. It settled back onto the base with a satisfyingly heavy thud.

  Exhaustion settled into bone and muscle where magic had been. I closed my eyes, rolled my shoulders in relief.

  I’d told Liam I w
as doing everything I could to avoid becoming a monster.

  Tonight, I’d kept that promise.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Another dawn, another cooing pigeon, another beckoning from an angel: HQ. Noon.

  I guessed that filled in part of my day.

  I tested my ankle, found it only vaguely achy. That was good enough. I dressed and came downstairs to hear voices in my store, the clink of glasses on wood.

  “What are you going to do about Claire?”

  I stopped on the staircase at the sound of Gavin’s voice. And I nearly turned around to go upstairs again to give them their privacy, until I heard what came next.

  “There’s nothing to do about Claire,” Liam said, the words clipped.

  “You two have a connection.”

  “Sa fait pa rien.”

  “Bullshit it doesn’t matter,” Gavin said.

  My chest hurt at the fact that Liam had apparently spoken those words—even if in Louisiana French—but I wasn’t going anywhere. Not when he was actually talking about it, about what was between us and where we stood.

  “‘It doesn’t matter’ doesn’t put that hangdog look on your face, or hers.” There was a pause. “Is this because of Gracie?”

  This time, Gavin’s voice was soft, comforting. I hadn’t heard him talk about Gracie before, their younger sister who’d been killed by wraiths. But from the tone in his voice, he was affected, even if he didn’t talk about it.

  And for a long moment, Liam didn’t answer.

  “Gracie has nothing to do with it.”

  “T’a menti.”

  “She doesn’t,” Liam insisted. “I’m a hunter, for God’s sake. Claire’s a Sensitive.”

  “And you’re both adults,” Gavin said. “You pick your bounties, and she trains so she stays out of trouble. She’ll be fine.”

  “And do you know that? Can you be sure that something won’t happen? That the magic won’t win? Jesus, Gavin. You’ve seen what it does to people.” He went quiet. “You haven’t seen her near the gate. You haven’t seen her face. The horror in it, when she thinks they might take her.”

  I put a hand on the wall, the plaster cool beneath my fingertips, reaching for Liam, the effort just as fruitless as if I’d been in the room.

  “She used magic the first time I saw her. Not very well, but there you go.” There was faint amusement in his voice. “She’d come back here to grab her go bag—she actually had a go bag packed—so she could get out before Containment found her. It wrecked her, the fear that she might be locked up in a prison for reasons she can’t control.”

  “It wrecked her, or it wrecked you?”

  Silence fell.

  “I’d be the one to take her in, Gavin. I couldn’t let her go in with anyone else, which means I’d have to be the one to put her into the nightmare. To make sure her worst fear comes true. I can’t be with her one minute and take her in the next.”

  “She knows how to judge risk, Liam, how to handle herself. Look around you, for Christ’s sake. So, is the problem that you don’t think Claire could handle it? Or you don’t think you can?”

  “You don’t get it.”

  Gavin laughed heartily, but there was no joy in the sound. “I get being interested in someone you can’t have,” he said, probably thinking of Nix. “I’ve been there. It’s brutal. But that’s not what this is. I love you, big brother. And I hear where you’re coming from. I hear it, and I can see it in your eyes and in hers.” Another pause. “Claire’s a strong woman with good friends. And among them, Malachi.”

  Liam growled.

  “Growl all you want,” Gavin drawled. “But he’s helping her. And he likes her enough to keep helping her. He won’t let the magic take her. Hell, he might take her himself. He likes the look of her; you can tell that.”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t think he was right about Malachi, but he certainly didn’t have any sentimentality about it.

  There was shifting of wood and fabric. One of them was standing up. I grimaced, turned to the side so they wouldn’t see me if they walked near the stairs.

  “So you think about that,” Gavin said. “You think about whether you’re being the honorable one, or whether you’re just protecting yourself. And you think about who’s protecting her.”

  “Can I be the one that tells you to fuck off?”

  Gavin sighed. “Why do all our conversations have to end like that?”

  “Because you enjoy getting under my skin.”

  “I do. I really, really do. And I’m really, really good at it.” More shifting. “I’m going to head outside, see what you did to my truck.”

  “It’s my truck,” Liam said.

  “It used to be my truck, and I’m curious to know what those shit-heel xenophobes did to it. If Claire magically produces bacon and cinnamon rolls, let me know, because I am all in for that, and that protein bar I just ate was mostly raisins and condensed sawdust.”

  “At least you got raisins.”

  There were steps across the store’s creaking floor, and then the front door opened and closed. I didn’t know if I felt better or worse having heard them talk. Knowing that Liam wrestled with the situation made me want to talk to him, comfort him. But that wasn’t going to change anything, which just irritated me further.

  Well, whatever I felt, I was going to have to feel it in the store proper. I couldn’t stand on the stairs for the rest of the day.

  Might as well get it over with, I thought, and trotted down the stairs. It was already warm in the store, so I pulled my hair into a knot while I walked. It gave me something to do with my hands, and I decided it made me look nonchalant.

  Liam looked up. “Good morning. You appear to be in one piece.”

  He sat at the table in a fitted long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up, the Times-Picayune newssheet on the table in front of him beside a glass of iced tea and protein bar wrapper. There was more dark stubble across his jaw. He’d gone from more handsome to more dangerous.

  “You appear not to have destroyed my store in the night,” I said, trying to keep the mood light. And then I nabbed half of his protein bar.

  “Hey, that was my breakfast.”

  I chewed. It definitely could have used raisins. “Hey, it was from my kitchen.”

  “Payment for guarding your store. And your ass.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I thought I heard voices in here.”

  “That was Gavin. He’s outside looking at the truck.”

  “Is he doing any better today?”

  “As well as he ever does. How’s your ankle?”

  “Much better,” I said. My face was still a little sore, but my wrists looked much better. I’d taken off the bandages, and the salve had done a pretty good job.

  Liam had covered the cut on his forehead with a bandage, and looked whole otherwise. Good. One less thing to think about.

  “Any word about Camp Couturie?” I asked. “Whether they found Ezekiel?”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Liam said, flicking the paper. “And this is literally last week’s news.”

  I said a silent prayer for Gunnar’s safety, then walked into the kitchen, poured the rest of the tea into a glass. “New rule!” I called out. “The person who finishes off the tea has to make the next pitcher.”

  He looked amused when I walked back into the room, and glanced at my glass. “I’d say that’s you.”

  “Malachi left a message. He wants to meet at noon.”

  “I’ll pencil him in,” Liam said, and flipped the newssheet over.

  “Did you want to look for Reveillon today?”

  He looked up at me. “Are you up for that?”

  “I’d rather be doing that than sitting here, waiting for something to happen.”

  His expression darkened. “It’s going to happe
n regardless—at least until Containment breaks them.”

  “Or breaks Ezekiel. He’s the head of the monster,” I said. “Cut it off. Disable it.”

  “Or he’s the head of the hydra,” Liam said. “Cut it off, and another springs up.”

  “That is not a pleasant thought.”

  “No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

  The bell rang. Mrs. Proctor came in, her arm in Gavin’s, her tiny figure tucked into a polished plum-colored suit with matching square-toed pumps. A small hat with a spill of plum-colored lace was perched on the side of her silver hair, and complemented her dark skin. Gavin towered over her by nearly two feet.

  Tadji walked in behind them, her hair a cloud of ringlets today. She’d paired a camouflage vest and tank with jeans and lace-up military-style boots. Where Mrs. Proctor dressed for prewar church Sundays every day of the week, Tadji was the model of the postwar cool girl. And they both looked perfect despite what was probably wilting heat outside.

  “Prince Edward in a can,” Gavin said, patting Mrs. Proctor’s hand. “That’s a good one, Mrs. Proctor.”

  “Mrs. Proctor,” I said with a smile. “What can we get for you today?”

  She gave Liam the side eye. “Oh, a little of this and a little of that.”

  “I believe she mentioned baking soda,” Gavin said, gently extricating himself. It required some moves. She was a spry little thing, was Mrs. Proctor.

  “I’ll just get it myself,” she said, and walked across the store in her plum skirt and jacket and matching shoes and handbag.

  “She is turned out today,” Tadji said.

  “She’s a flirt, is what she is,” Gavin whispered. “She grabbed my ass on the way over here.”

  “It’s a nice ass,” Tadji said.

  “Well aware. I work for it, and I’m proud of it. But that’s not the point. In addition to the fact that she’s practically a hundred—”

  “Ninety-eight,” Tadji and I said together.

  “Well, she may be a young vixen, but she’s still not my type.”

  Since she kept peeking around the corner to look at him, that wasn’t a concern of hers.