The Sight (7 page)

“Example two,” he said, and released the other pinecone.

My hand fell like he'd dumped a concrete block onto it, and I had to catch myself before I stumbled forward. I had to use both hands to pull the pinecone up again. It looked like a pinecone, but it weighed at least twenty pounds.

I thought of the box I kept in the store's second floor, which held the magic I cast off to keep my levels in balance. It had become heavier over the past few weeks from the accumulated weight of that magic.

I looked up at Malachi. “It's heavier—because you put magic in it.”

“Good,” he said. “You can drop it now.”

I considered hefting it onto his toes but let it fall to the side, where it hit the earth with a thud, no bounce, no roll. I cocked my head at him, put my hands on my hips, and gave him an up-and-down appraisal. “Okay. I get that. But what about you?”

“That is the advantage of having innate magic—it complements our anatomy. I wasn't making myself heavier—my mass stayed the same—but I used the magic to forge a bond between myself and the earth.”

“Which made you harder to lift.”

Malachi nodded. “You have to be prepared for the unexpected.”

“If I can prepare myself, that means I can adjust to it? Like, by gathering more magic?” Although I wasn't certain I could do that without passing out.

“No,” he said. “That's the point, and a lesson it took humans a very long time to learn. There is no fighting it. There is no combating it. Is cold iron any more deadly than steel?”

It had taken us long to realize the myth was mostly correct; our use of cold iron had been a turning point in the war.

“No,” I said. “As metals go, it's softer.”

He walked forward. “Correct. But it interrupts magic. That is its particular quality.”

“So I have to figure out what something is in relation to magic, and use my magic accordingly.”

“Just as you did at Memorial when you locked the box that held the Veil's encryption keys. You identified its particular magical qualities, and you worked the locks accordingly.”

I opened my mouth to brag, but he beat me to smugness.

“You still split the earth,” he pointed out.

Damn it.

“Do you know why that happened?”

“I assumed it was magic from the Veil snapping back into place—when the energy of its movement was forced out.”

He looked vaguely impressed. “Good. How could you have done better?”

A cricket literally chirped in the silence that followed. I tried to
pick up the leash I thought he'd been leading me on. “Maybe I could have, given more time and experience, gauged how it was likely to react and adjusted my magic accordingly?”

Malachi smiled broadly. “Good.”

“I was a little rushed at the time.”

“You were. And likely afraid and angry. Next time, use that.”

I blinked. “How?”

“I can't be inside your head, Claire. That's the lesson you must learn.” And with that, he walked forward, picked up my jacket, which he'd laid carefully at the foot of the oak tree, handed it to me.

I guessed the lesson was over. “You're going to tell me all that, and not tell me what to do with it?”

Malachi looked down at me. “If you want to learn to wield the magic, you must
learn
to wield the magic.”

“Wax on, wax off,” I muttered, and watched him disappear into the trees.

B
y the time I made it back to the store, the lights were on. Since I hadn't turned them on before I left, I assumed Gunnar had used his key. Sure enough, he was pacing back and forth in front of the counter when I opened the door. Since it was nearly opening time, I flipped the
OPEN
sign on the door and walked inside, the bell ringing my arrival.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked, boots polished and fatigues perfectly pressed.

“Practice with our aerial friend.”

“Practice—oh.” Gunnar closed his eyes for a second. “I may have panicked when you weren't upstairs.”

I walked into the kitchen, pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, which was still running, thank goodness. “And you didn't assume I spent the night with a gorgeous and witty man?”

“Since the only man you have eyes for—gorgeous, witty, or otherwise—has issues, no. I didn't.”

I took a seat on the stool and uncapped the water, took a drink. “I can't really argue with that. How are things at Devil's Isle?”

“It was a late night,” he said, which was confirmed by the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “But we're making progress, if that's what
you want to call it.” He pulled a piece of paper from a folder, slapped it onto the counter.

“What's that?”

“They have a manifesto. Assholes,” he muttered, walking behind me toward the kitchen. I was going to start charging my friends for using it like their own personal store.

I scanned the paper. The letters were tiny and neat, marked by faint marks probably made by an old-fashioned typewriter. The language was old-fashioned and sounded biblical, except there weren't any actual mentions of religion other than the references to Eden. There were, however, a lot of implicit threats.

“‘Only through blood will our land be redeemed,'” I read aloud. “‘Only in blood will our land be revived.' That's pretty telling.”

“Yeah. In my opinion, the letter is a bunch of self-important, masturbatory nonsense. We've got profilers looking it over for an official analysis. I can already tell you what they'll say—that the author is egotistical, narcissistic, possibly paranoid, and generally an asshole, as I predicted.”

“You think Ezekiel wrote it,” I concluded.

“He didn't sign it, but it's got ‘cult leader' written all over it.”

“There's nothing specific about next steps,” I said. “I mean, generally they want to destroy Containment and anyone who's ever done anything in support of Containment, but they don't go into specifics. Do you think they have more explosives?”

“If they could get access to the components once, they can probably do it again.”

After that conclusion, I nearly jumped when the bells on the front door jangled.

Liam and Tadji came in, chatting amiably. Royal Mercantile was becoming the meeting space for our group of humans-in-the-know.

Today, Tadji wore leggings and a thin, dark poncho over combat boots. She looked ready for battle, even if I hoped the retail battle was the only one she'd wage. Liam wore his uniform—fitted jeans that pooled over boots, and a snug gray Henley with the top buttons unfastened, the fit showing his body with cruel definition. He hadn't shaved this morning, and the dark stubble across his cheeks only made his eyes glow bluer.

“What are you two doing here?” Gunnar asked.

“And good morning to you, too,” Tadji said, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling off her messenger bag. “I'm here to continue my efforts to bring this store into the twenty-first century.”

“And you?” Gunnar asked, glancing at Liam. “What's your excuse?”

“Well, there's the outstanding bounty for the wraith, or we could discuss the bounties Containment just issued for Reveillon members.” He looked at me. “You want in?”

“Maybe,” I said, thinking about the store, the fact that I'd basically dumped it on Tadji yesterday.

“Claire has a full schedule,” Gunnar said. “She had magic practice this morning.”

Tadji and Liam both looked at me.

“And how did it go?” she asked. Liam didn't speak, but his gaze was steady and intense.

“Fine,” I said, giving Gunnar a look. I felt like I was being set up. And since his gaze was on Liam, it wasn't hard to guess the plan. He was trying to bait Liam, or make him jealous I'd spent time alone with Malachi. Which was a waste of everyone's time.

“We went to Algiers Point, which was very pretty. We saw two deer. The river was rough. Magic is difficult.”

They waited for more.

I shrugged, leveled a stare at Gunnar. “Nothing more to tell.”

Liam looked at Gunnar. “What's happening with Reveillon?”

“They have a manifesto,” I said, and slid the paper to Liam with a fingertip.

“There are still five Reveillon members unaccounted for,” Gunnar said while Liam scanned it. “They scattered in the chaos. Right now we believe it's most likely they're in Devil's Isle. We've got extra patrols on the streets looking for them, and we've asked the block captains to spread the word among the Paras.” He looked at Liam. “I made sure your grandmother was told.”

“Appreciate it,” Liam said. “What's Containment's strategy outside the prison?”

“Stop them,” Gunnar said simply. “The Joint Ops unit—half PCC and half FBI—had our first briefing last night. We'll be coordinating to identify, locate, and stop Reveillon.”

“You're talking about a manhunt,” Tadji said.

Gunnar nodded. “As soon as we reported the bombing, PCC dispatched troops from Pensacola. One of the convoys was ambushed on the road. All but two were killed.”

We went silent.

“Damn,” Tadji said, sadness punctuating the air.

“Yeah,” Gunnar said. “Ezekiel couldn't have known where the troops would come from.”

“Which means, if that attack and the Devil's Isle bombing are related,” Liam said, “he's got people spread out across the borders, or at the Zone's entry points, at least.”

Gunnar nodded. “Joint Ops considers Reveillon a hostile militia.”

Tadji frowned. “Wait, you think he's got an organization that's spread across the Zone?”

“It doesn't necessarily have to be big if it's agile, mobile,” Liam said.

“But it's not hard to recruit people who are already pissed off,” Gunnar said. “If we arrested everyone who said nasty things about Paranormals, most of the U.S. population would be in chains.”

“I've heard from people in the Zone who are still angry,” Tadji confirmed. “Not paint-a-billboard angry, but angry.”

I found that kind of baffling. “Seven years later? I'm not saying you can't feel what you feel, but holding on to that anger, obsessing about it—I don't get it. It seems like such a waste of energy. Of limited time.”

“Some people don't have a store,” Tadji said gently. “They lost loved ones like you but don't have livelihoods. They live hand to mouth, and they stay here because they don't think they have anywhere else to go. That leads to bitterness, to anger.”

“And like-minded individuals find other like-minded individuals,” Gunnar said. “Or that's Joint Ops' working theory. Either way, he managed to orchestrate the bombing of a federal facility without anybody catching on.”

“Operational security,” Liam said. “His people are smart enough not to talk.”

“Yeah,” Gunnar said. “PCC will be sending more convoys in—but in smaller, elite units that are prepared for guerrilla-style warfare. Still, the Zone is a very big place. There's a chance they'll do more harm before it's all over. That they'll kill again before it's all over.”

Silence fell again as we all faced the possibility of war. This time by our own people.

“They'd have to have resources,” Liam said. “Money, contacts for the explosives.”

“And enough expertise to know what to buy, how to build them,” Gunnar agreed.

“I've seen a lot of the Zone,” Tadji put in, arms stretched and palms on the counter like a general considering strategy. “There's no money in it, or not much, anyway.”

“We had money,” Gunnar said. The Landreaus had an enormous
house in the Garden District, had been an important part of the city's society class. “We put most of it into restoring the house, putting in generators, keeping it up. Keeping it as a memorial to the money we used to have,” he added dryly. “But I take your point.”

Liam crossed his arms, which made the muscles shift and flex. “So, outside funding?”

“Or members who stockpiled resources. There are still weapons from the war to be found across the Zone.”

“Could the members be ex-military?” Tadji asked, frowning. “There were stories during the war about disgruntled soldiers with a ‘kill all the Paranormals' attitude. Maybe they were recruited.”

“Could be,” Gunnar said. “Or maybe Ezekiel—or whatever the hell his real name is, 'cause I'd put money on it not being Ezekiel—”

“Tad,” I suggested. “Or Chip. He could be a Chip.”

“You had it with Tad,” Liam said, leaning against the counter, eyes shining with humor. “I knew a Tad in high school. Total douche.”

“Tad the cult leader,” Gunnar said. “We'll see if it holds. Anyway, maybe Ezekiel brought his own cash.”

“From outside the Zone,” I said. “He didn't have an accent.”

Gunnar blinked. “You're right. I didn't catch that.” He penned a note on his small, ubiquitous notebook.

“We talked to Moses about his theory that magic has ruined the world,” Liam said.

“What did he say?”

“Basically, that it was bullshit. Magic leaked through the Veil when it was opened, and magic weapons saturated the soil in some areas. The ongoing effect of Paras is miniscule compared to that. Whatever effects magic has had won't be fixed by killing Paras. But they might be fixed by more magic.”

“And that won't happen until Congress is willing to enlist Paras to help,” Gunnar said. “That's not going to happen any time soon,
since it would require admitting the difference between Consularis and Court Paranormals, among other things.”

The door opened again. A few agents came in, including Burke. He stepped beside Tadji, nearly dwarfing her slender frame with his broad shoulders. Tall, with dark skin and dark eyes, and a generous mouth that always seemed to be smiling, he directed that smile at Tadji. “Tadji.”

“Burke.”

There was heat to be sure. I needed to grab some time with Tadji and quiz her on the rest of it. Nosiness was an honored New Orleans tradition.

“Hey, Burke,” Gunnar said while Burke's gaze danced busily around the store.

“Looks different in here. I like it.”

“Thank you,” Tadji said with a smile. “Claire's still getting used to it.”

“Change can be difficult,” Burke said.

“What's the good word?” Liam asked.

Burke cast a glance around, making sure the other agents were out of earshot. “Our friends have a new house and would like to discuss and coordinate.”

“Our friends” meant Delta. They'd been infiltrated and betrayed by a Paranormal who wanted to reopen the Veil, so a new HQ had become a necessity. That Para, Nix, had also betrayed Liam's younger brother, Gavin. He'd left New Orleans right after on some secret mission.

Burke held up a set of keys. “Who wants to go for a ride?”

Liam nodded. “I'm in,” he said, and looked at me. “You?”

I glanced at Tadji. “Can you merchandise while we commune?”

“Maybe,” she said with narrowed eyes. “If I get full details on the practice.”

“Nothing to tell,” I assured them. And I pinched her arm on my way to the door.

—

Burke had a jeep, a spare, military model with no doors and no top. The day had become hot and sticky, so the breeze was glorious. I braided my hair on the way out of the Quarter to keep it from flying around, and stretched out on the bench seat in the back after Liam called shotgun.

We took St. Charles, which was divided in half by the neutral ground where streetcars once ran. We drove through the Garden District, where the houses of the wealthy were stacked like boxes along the street. Most had been abandoned. A few, like Gunnar's parents' house, had been brought back from the brink of destruction. His large family still lived there, biding their time until . . . Well, I wasn't really sure what they were waiting for. Maybe, like Reveillon, they were waiting for something different, something they hoped was inevitable.

“Look,” Burke said, slowing down.

A sign formerly identifying someone's business—smaller than the billboard we'd seen on Claiborne—now read
DEATH TO PARANORMALS
.

“Spreading the hate,” Burke said.

“Like a virus,” I agreed. But there was no mention of Reveillon, Ezekiel, or anything else on the sign. “How do you think they're actually recruiting?”

“Word of mouth,” Burke said. “You help someone chop some wood, you both talk about how pissed you are that you're trying to eke out a living on bad soil. Junk man comes through, selling junk, picking up junk, and you talk to him. He's heard about a meeting of like-minded individuals in the next parish, and you decide to go.”

Liam glanced at him, eyebrows lifted. “That's pretty specific.”

Burke nodded. “One of our caravan drivers heard some talk out near Natchez. We put Containment on it, but we didn't find the meeting.”

“Maybe they're mobile like the junk man,” I said. We didn't see junk men often in the city. It was more common for someone to bring something in to the store to sell—from heirloom silver to busted-up electronics—for a few dollars or Devil's Isle tokens. “Reveillon, or at least those outside the city, stay nomadic so they don't attract too much attention.”