The Sight

  I pulled up the hem of his shirt, revealing flat abs, strong chest, broad shoulders. He lifted his arms, let me pull the shirt over his head.

  While he watched with avaricious eyes, I let my fingers trip and skim over hard and chiseled muscle, honed from sweat and effort. Every inch was strong and taut, every muscle firm, and he shivered under the slip of my fingers.

  I let my eyes skim to his impossibly gorgeous face. Piercingly blue eyes, generous mouth, the dark slashes of eyebrows. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life.”

  Those eyebrows popped up. “That’s quite a compliment, Claire Connolly. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Liam Quinn.”

  I didn’t have even a moment to wonder what would come next. He climbed above me, roped arms balanced on either side of my head, and stared down at me reverently. “You are the most beautiful and haunting creature I have ever seen in my life. And in New Orleans, that’s saying something.”

  I grinned at him. “Your accent gets stronger when you’re flattering me.”

  He leaned down, lips to my ear. “Tu es belle.”

  I understood the gist of that well enough.

  “And it’s my turn,” he said, and skimmed his strong hands along my ribs, sliding up the thin cotton tank as we moved.

  A hand across the flat of my stomach, then my breasts. I closed my eyes and arched into his hands.

  “Nearly delicate,” he said, his hands on my breasts, soothing and stroking and inciting at the same time, and then his mouth. I arched against him, moved my body against his. My heart wanted to revel in each touch, but my body wanted him to hurry.

  He pulled the tank over my head and lowered his body to mine, then kissed me. Softly, at first, then demanding, teeth and tongue challenging me to take, to give, to meet him breath for breath. I slid my hands into his hair, thick and dark, and tugged him closer until his body aligned with mine, his arousal impressive between us.

  “Jesus, Claire,” he said, burying his face in my neck. “I feel like a teenager.”

  I smiled. “Good. Because I’ve been feeling that way for a while now.”

  He pressed soft kisses to my neck, my collarbone, then down to my breasts again, where his long fingers, equally gentle and strong, teased and incited.

  I opened my eyes to stare into his, found him staring back at me as his lips and fingers moved across my chest. “Ma chère,” he said, and moved down my body, slipping away shorts and panties until I lay on the bed, bare to him.

  “Ma chère,” he said again, and kissed each inch of my legs in turn, until he’d worked his way to the center of my body, until his mouth found me and drove me relentlessly to that first, shimmering crest.

  “Liam,” I said, tangling my fingers in his hair. I sat up to capture his mouth, busied fingers at his belt, then the buttons of his jeans.

  Buttons. So many buttons.

  “Never wear these again,” I teased against his mouth, and almost cringed at the suggestion there’d be more days, more nights like these, when I’d promised him tonight was enough. But his eyes stayed closed, his lips open and nearly panting when I found him, stroked.

  His chest heaved as I found my rhythm and his dark eyebrows knitted together with passionate intensity. Until his eyes flashed open, stared back at me, and he kissed me fiercely, teased my tongue with his. “I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

  “Then don’t wait.”

  He stripped off the denim, then his boxer briefs—his naked form an image that I knew would sear itself into my mind—and levered his body over mine again. His hand cupped my face, and I pressed my lips to his palm, kissed the pounding pulse in his wrist. Liam watched my eyes, my mouth, as he moved into me, filled me, and began to rock our bodies together.

  “Claire,” he said quietly, lifting my hips to drive farther, teeth nipping as he moved. I rolled my hips against him and he groaned, said my name again.

  “That’s my girl,” he said against my mouth, and quickened his rhythm, pleasure building like a hot star in my core as I did the same, balancing movement for movement, each thrust with a swivel of my hips.

  Liam shifted away, then shifted me, realigning our bodies so he curled behind me, surrounded me, and moved inside me again, our legs entwined, his hand between mine, stroking with each beat.

  I stretched against him, arching to bring our bodies together, waiting while the star warmed, expanded, exploded, taking us both over the edge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was still dark when I woke to birds chirping merrily in the courtyard below. I expected Liam to be gone when I woke, for the sheets to be cool, and the third floor to carry only the faint smell of his cologne.

  But I woke in his arms. The room had warmed in the night, and the air had gotten stickier, exacerbated by the fact that our arms and legs were tangled together.

  I wasn’t sure what was happening, or if some tide had turned. If he’d reached peace with our situation—with the possibilities that stretched in front of us—or if we were just ignoring them.

  I was fine with that, I thought, closing my eyes and nestling closer. His arms came around me, hand stroking my back. I was fine with not planning, not thinking, not talking about it. I was fine with just being, with the possibility that this was only for today.

  That was still half a lie. And I could live with that, too.

  —

  I woke again when sunlight streamed into the room. I slipped out of bed, leaving Liam tangled in the sheets, an arm thrown over his head, his lashes dark crescents against his skin.

  I made it downstairs before anyone else was up, found Gunnar at the table, already sipping coffee, a folder in front of him.

  I searched his face. Gunnar was a brave man, a strong man, and an honorable man. He wasn’t the type to be afraid; he was the type to act. But right now there was fear in his eyes. And that was terrifying.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  He glanced up at me. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

  “Because you have a folder. Nothing good happens when a Containment folder comes into this store. And because you look exhausted and worried.” I pulled out the chair beside him.

  “It’s been several weeks since I’ve had a facial.”

  “It’s been always since you’ve had a facial.” I reached out, took his hand. “Tell me.”

  “Good morning,” Gavin said, walking out of the kitchen with a hunk of last night’s corn bread.

  “Is everyone here?” Gunnar asked. “I might as well give the news to everyone at once.”

  “Tadji and Burke are in the back.” The stairs creaked, and Liam walked into the room, pulling on a snug Royal Mercantile T-shirt.

  I wanted to close my eyes and pump my fist with victory. Assuming it was a victory. Wasn’t it a victory? It meant something. It was a signal, or a sign. Or he just needed a clean T-shirt . . .

  But it didn’t matter, I reminded myself. I had no claim on him; that was the deal we’d made last night. And, more important, one of my best friends was sitting at my table looking completely worn down and tense. This wasn’t the time to worry about relationships.

  Gunnar, on the other hand, seemed grateful for the visual distraction. “Damn,” he whispered. “He fills out that shirt very nicely.”

  “He looks better out of it,” I murmured, and Gavin snorted.

  “That’s my girl,” Gunnar said.

  Liam walked toward us, expression solemn. “What’s happened?”

  Burke and Tadji pushed back the curtain and joined us. Tadji’s eyes widened for a moment at Liam’s T-shirt, slid to me. I just shrugged. I’d made my choice, and I’d live with it.

  “What’s up?” Burke asked, moving to the table.

  “We questioned the Reveillon members you found last night. They are cowardly asshol
es, and sang like canaries. After some creative interrogation techniques,” he added, and flipped open the folder. “And we learned who he is.”

  Inside the folder was a photograph of an average-looking guy with pale skin and dark hair. It was undeniably Ezekiel—the heavy brow, heavy jaw, full nose. There was nothing evil in his eyes. Nothing I could see that indicated he’d gone bad—or would.

  “His name’s Chip Alexander Thompson,” Gunnar said.

  “Called that one,” I said.

  “He’s from Oregon. His parents own a logging company.”

  “His parents have money?” Liam asked, turning the photograph to give him a better view.

  Gunnar nodded. “Plenty of it. He went to USC. Graduated with a degree in cultural anthropology, got a wild hair about saving the Zone. We think he came in with his sister. She was declared missing by their parents a year after they left.”

  I frowned. “Did they file a missing person report on him?”

  “Just her.”

  “So they knew he was alive. Maybe they wondered if he’d had something to do with it.”

  “War on Paranormals is a pretty big leap from wanting to just save the Zone,” I said. “What the hell happened in the meantime? What militarized him? Was it the sister?”

  “Best we can trace, he came into Louisiana about a month before the war ended. Told people he’d had a vision ’bout how the Zone could be revived. About how the soil could be remediated, and people could live here again. He went to Camp Couturie, told people about his plan. At first, his plan was positive and proactive, and then he got frustrated. Started talking about conspiracies.”

  “And there are probably a lot of people in Camp Couturie who buy into that,” Burke said.

  Gunnar nodded. “People get sick and tired of being sick and tired, and they look for answers, whatever the source. He told people wraiths existed because Containment wanted them to, that Containment’s plan was to develop warriors—soldiers who could battle the Paras if the wall fell again.”

  I sniffed. “If that was true, surely we’d have gotten some on-the-job training.”

  “No shit,” Burke said.

  “There’s something off about him. Something not quite right emotionally. He’s really moody—was moody that night in the camp. Unstable. And we already know he’s violent.” I glanced at them. “It’s not hard for me to believe he had something to do with her death.”

  “Me, either,” Gunnar said. “He’s sadistic, and he’s decided most everyone in the Zone—except for his core group—is his enemy. I asked them about Eden, about the tent in Camp Couturie.”

  “What did they say?” Liam asked.

  “A man lived there; his name was Louis. He played guitar, blues mostly, and was pretty renowned around the camp for it. Apparently, Ezekiel demanded he stop or donate his talent to the cause. Louis refused.” Gunnar’s eyes went hard as obsidian. “One night, Ezekiel’s men dragged him out of his tent, took him to the fountain, and shot him.”

  I swallowed hard. “It was his tent.”

  Gunnar nodded. “Ezekiel’s violent, will kill anyone in his way. And that’s where we are today.” He paused, as if preparing himself.

  “Reveillon is preparing an attack,” he said. “They’re going to try to take out Devil’s Isle—Containment and Paranormals—in one, broad-based assault.”

  Silence fell like a mist across the room.

  “When?” Liam asked.

  “Within the next forty-eight hours.”

  We just stared at him.

  “You’re sure that information’s reliable?” Burke asked.

  “The members Claire and Liam captured last night and the fugitives from Devil’s Isle confirm. The bombing at the gate was supposed to be the first wave of an ongoing attack. He’d hoped for enough damage that the rest of his people could just walk in—but his reinforcements didn’t show. We’ve been keeping them busy at the borders and on the main roads, which is some consolation.”

  “Did you find a leak in PCC?” Liam asked.

  Gunnar’s smile was grim. “We did. He’s awaiting arraignment for treason. Unfortunately, while he’s no longer in a position to give out information, Ezekiel’s apparently tired of waiting and ready to move. They also said he’s been acting more erratically over the last few days.”

  That was a lot of specific information given by people who wouldn’t be forthcoming.

  “Creative interrogation techniques?” I asked.

  Gunnar’s face was completely neutral. “In the interest of public safety.”

  Considering what they’d done, I wasn’t going to argue with that.

  “How many people does he have?” Liam asked.

  “The military can’t fly over the Zone—it’s too dangerous if the grid fails. But based on satellite images, we think about two thousand people.”

  “Mais,” Liam said.

  Gunnar smiled. “I’ve always loved that word, mais. It says so much in so few syllables.”

  “Mais,” Liam and Gavin said together.

  “So, are the army, the marines, whatever, sending in troops?” Tadji asked.

  “They’ve been trying to send in troops since the bombing,” Gunnar said. “PCC is pushing again for troops from Jackson, Birmingham. But we don’t know if they’ll get here in time. I think we have to assume they won’t.”

  That explained why it didn’t look like Gunnar had slept.

  Tadji sat down heavily. “Ezekiel’s bringing war, and no one will come to fight it?”

  “Containment’s still here,” Gunnar said roughly, and I guessed he’d said that today more times than he’d cared to. Then he held up a hand, rubbed the other across his face. “Sorry, sorry. Long night.”

  “You’re still tracking them with satellite?” Gavin asked.

  “As we can. And we’re still running scouts through town,” he said, propping an elbow on the table and running a hand through his hair. “But that hasn’t been successful so far. They’re operating like nomads, moving from place to place. We don’t have the manpower to track them.”

  “So what do we do?” Tadji asked. “We can’t just sit around here, waiting for someone to show up to kill us. Waiting for his army.”

  “You can evacuate,” Gunnar said, three heavy words that people in the Zone had heard time and time again, at least until they’d closed the borders to keep violence and magic from spreading.

  “And your more realistic option?” I asked. “Because you know people won’t leave. The ones who are here already decided not to go.”

  “We can use the rest of you in Devil’s Isle. Not to protect the prison,” Gunnar said, holding up a hand to anticipate the likely argument. “To protect the Paranormals. It’s by far the best place we’ve got to keep them safe.”

  “Have you asked them if they want to stay?” Liam asked.

  Gunnar’s face went tight. “They are prisoners of war. Regardless of what they want, there is nowhere else we can take them and come close to guaranteeing their safety.” He didn’t sound happy about that.

  He looked at me. “We’re going to offer a town hall meeting to talk about what’s happening, explain the process. Maybe answer some questions,” he added grudgingly.

  “Good,” I said. “That’s really good.”

  “Reveillon will be gunning for them,” he continued. “Our plan is to move them to the center of the Marigny. That creates a perimeter Reveillon will have to cross to get to them—in addition to the walls of Devil’s Isle itself. Containment and whatever branches show up to fight will stay within that perimeter, keep them back until they can be defeated or contained.” He looked at us. “We could use volunteers to assist in the process of moving them—getting them into the temporary shelters we’re setting up now. And when Reveillon comes, helping protect them.

  “We know that’s
not your job,” he added. “It’s Containment’s. But Reveillon knows what it’s doing. It’s been building a network for years, working to spread us out to create the perfect opportunity to decimate the remaining Paranormals. If the military caravans can’t get through, it’s all hands on deck.”

  I looked around, checking the faces of my friends, then looked back at Gunnar. “I think I speak for everyone when I say that we’ll do what we can, but we won’t fight for Devil’s Isle. We won’t fight to save a bad system. We’ll fight for the Paras who were brought into this world against their will, for the Sensitives who weren’t given a chance to survive. We’ll fight for them.”

  Liam nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Agreed,” Burke said, and looked at Tadji.

  “Agreed,” she said.

  “Agreed,” said Gavin.

  Gunnar looked at me for a long moment. “Understood,” he said, and offered his hand.

  As we shook, I wasn’t sure if I was making a deal with Gunnar or with Containment. And considering the circumstances, it probably didn’t matter much.

  “There’s one more thing,” Gunnar said. “If they march through, they might try to take the store.”

  Tadji crossed her arms. “Over my dead body will they step one foot in my store.”

  I didn’t mean to grin, but I couldn’t help it after the “my store” comment.

  “It’s going to sustain damage,” Gunnar said. “That’s inevitable, especially since Ezekiel knows who Liam, Claire, and Eleanor are. There’s a hurricane moving toward the city, and it’s not going to let walls stand in the way of destruction and chaos.”

  Tadji looked at me. “We wanted to rally the community. I say we rally them, just like I planned. We’ll take down the sheets and open the doors. Use this place as a community checkpoint. I know it’s dangerous,” she added. “But it’s better than locking up and leaving it alone for Reveillon to come knocking.”

  “That’s good,” Gunnar said. “I can probably spare an agent, someone who can help with the public.”

  I held up a finger. “Not Broussard.”

  That was where I’d put my damn foot down.