Finder (The Watchers #6) - Lilith Saintcrow Page 0,1

of fuel for those. “I’m awake.” She couldn’t even convince herself, and stared at the door and the familiar redblack swirl of disciplined, hurtful power, drawn close and contained.

“Do you need paper?” Rust’s eyes were dark, but they glimmered with the peculiar intensity of a Watcher’s gaze. Often the tanak crouching in their bones bleached the irises and gave them a piercing stare.

The vision swirled at the edge of her consciousness, finally receding. A drawing pad and set of pencils were on her nightstand; she could have reached over and touched them. Sketching sometimes brought everything into clearer focus, but her fingers weren’t itching with need. “N-no.” Her teeth chopped the word in half, and he took another cautious step into the room despite her glow. “It’s the s-same thing. I c-can’t get a location. Damn it.” She shivered, pulled at the blankets. Thank goodness she’d just about trained him out of tucking her in, just in time for the end of his rotation. “Tea, I suppose. With lemon. Please.”

Most Watchers were uncomfortable with please or thank you, preferring direct orders instead. But still, Jorie couldn’t help it. The least you could do for a man who wanted to put his body between you and the Dark was a little common politeness.

Rust nodded, his hair flopping a bit over his forehead. He needed a trim. “If you need me, call.”

And how many times had she heard that from a Watcher? “I will.” Jorie pulled her knees up under the blankets, hugged them.

The tanak showed briefly, crimson-black swelling in his aura as Rust turned. The edge of his long dark leather coat swung, and she let out a soft sigh as his shadow fled the door. The fever portion of terror drained away; the chill remained, soaking through her skin.

The shields on her house resonated as Rust checked them. It was comforting to feel a Watcher’s attention to the wards, even as breathing night pressed against her walls. The house groaned and creaked, ticking the way every building of a certain age did after dark. Each noise was familiar, expected, but still scraped her raw nerves.

By the time he brought chamomile tea up in the big sunflower-yellow mug, her breathing and pulse had both evened out. She took the tea gratefully, careful not to brush his skin with hers; he retreated as soon as she had her fingers firmly around the cup.

The light hurt them, and direct contact made it worse.

“Better?” Rust sounded concerned.

It was hard on Watchers when the witch they were detailed to guard woke up screaming seven nights out of ten. Rust was, however, a little less grim than some of the others she’d had.

He smiled at least once a week and occasionally even laughed. She could count that an unqualified success, considering that he was with her to be treated for despair.

“Much better.” She sipped, scorching her tongue and grimacing. Served her right. “Thank you.”

“Do you want the light on?” Now he hovered, uncertainly. He was a big man, wide-shouldered, and had a shambling efficiency rare among Watchers. Most of them were quick and supple, but Rust always seemed a little gawky. It was endearing, especially when you knew how lethal he was.

Just last week there had been a kalak in the vicinity, its attention scraping like a serrated blade under an apple’s peel as it hunted for a nice, tasty, defenseless snack. Often, they didn’t want to tangle with Watchers.

But sometimes, they got hungry enough.

Jorie shivered. Don’t think about that, or you’ll never get back to sleep. “No, it’s all right.” She blew across the tea to cool it. Any witch could drain off a few excess therms; it was a simple conversion—but it was best to let most things handle themselves naturally. “I’m sorry. I know we’re due at the safehouse early tomorrow.”

He shrugged, a half-seen movement in dim light from the hall. Leather creaked slightly, and small gleams—knife hilts, the guns low on his hips, the sword hilt—were a reminder she never needed of the danger she’d been born into. “They’re getting worse, aren’t they.” It wasn’t a question.

It was the end of his six months’ worth of guard duty. Tomorrow he would rest at the safehouse for a night before going on patrol or being sent to hover over some other Lightfall witch. By this time tomorrow there would be a new Watcher in her spare bedroom, and Jorie would be cooking for and looking after another man. She’d been hoping