“Not anymore.” He ran a hand through his hair, biceps flexing with the move. “But it’s a long story, and I didn’t want to get into that with Eleanor. She worries.”
“Ah.” I suspected Eleanor didn’t have anything to worry about where Liam Quinn was concerned, but I kept that to myself.
And when he lowered his arm and that muscle flexed again, I ignored that, too.
? ? ?
The night had been so weird I half expected to find the shop door open, the shelves looted. It wouldn’t be the first time. A few months after the war ended, we had an unusually cold December. It was too cold to plant anything, and there were virtually no shipments into the Zone. One night, someone broke in, ransacked the store for the few MREs that were left. They’d shattered one of the front windows, knocked over antiques, left a general mess in their frustrated search for food. It being the Quarter, half a dozen folks showed up the next morning to get things in order again. And it wasn’t long after that that the convoys began moving supplies through the Zone.
Tonight, the store was intact, locked, and quiet. The tree limb and broken sign were gone, as was any sign of the wraiths I’d fought.
“I’ll let you know about Nix,” Liam said. “I’m going to try to get her here sooner rather than later.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
We looked at each other for a few seconds. I found it suddenly so odd that I hadn’t even known this man existed a few hours ago. A wraith attack, his intervention, a Containment interview, a trip into Devil’s Isle, and everything that had gone on there. We’d gone from strangers to strange allies. And considering how we’d done it, it wasn’t as horrible as it could have been.
“Thank you for your help tonight. But maybe next time you could just knock on the door instead of breaking in?”
One corner of his lip curled. “The door was unlocked.”
“So you say.”
“I do say.” He crossed his arms, his muscles cording with the movement.
I nodded. Silence fell, and it fell awkwardly. I had no idea what to say or do.
“Well,” I said, breaking through the quiet when I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Good night, Liam Quinn.”
He looked at me, blinked those long lashes. “Good night, Claire Connolly.”
One last look, one last sweep of coal over cobalt, and as dawn broke over New Orleans he turned and began the walk back down Royal, back toward the prison at the other end of the street.
It had been an important night. A night that I knew would change everything.
I was no longer on the outside of magic—pretending to be just the same as everyone else. I’d stepped across the line. I wasn’t yet sure how far I’d stepped, but I was certain I’d find out soon enough.
I thought of Liam’s steel-eyed stare, the straight jaw and broad shoulders, the relaxed smile he’d shared only with Eleanor, and wondered what he thought about as he walked through the breaking dawn. I wondered if the night had been important to him, too.
I turned back to the door, unlocked it, and pushed it slowly open. Just in case, I stood quietly in the threshold darkness for a moment, ears straining for Containment agents in wait, or wraiths looking for their next battle.
But the store was wonderfully, gloriously silent.
I locked the door, grabbed the go bag, and trudged up the steps to the second floor, where I tucked it back into the armoire.
I made it to the third floor just as a rectangle of sunlight began to creep across the floor. Today was Sunday, so the store wouldn’t open until noon. Unfortunately, Sundays were also convoy days, so I’d have to sign and unpack boxes earlier than that.
I’d probably end up looking like I hadn’t slept a wink. But since War Night meant most of the people left in New Orleans wouldn’t have slept much, at least I wouldn’t have to explain anything.
The third-floor apartment was a studio, with old oak floors and brick walls, the bathroom in the middle, floor-to-ceiling windows on both ends. The front windows opened to a balcony that faced Royal; the back opened to the courtyard behind the building.
I’d kept the furniture simple: a tufted daybed with tall wooden ends, an armoire, a chest of drawers, an oak table and chairs. I’d put candles and hurricane lamps on the window ledge near my bed, stood a ten-foot-tall antique mirror along one wall in front of an antique rug that had been worn as soft as silk.
In times like these, I was living in luxury.
The apartment was stuffy. Night hadn’t managed to burn off the heat of the day before, but I was too tired to care. I pulled off my clothes, slid into a nightgown, and fell face-first onto the bed.
I was asleep in an instant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My wake-up call came too quickly, and with a slap of sound. The War Night cleanup crew was brushing paper flowers and Drink cups off the streets by ten a.m.
Thankfully, that was two hours later than usual. But they were singing, and not very well, and the sound rumbled through the old windows.