My heartbeat stuttered, sped. I closed my eyes, lips parted with wanting, waiting for that moment of electricity, of connection. His lips hovered, only a moment away from mine. Anticipation and desire built, rose, spun together.
He dropped his forehead to mine. “Jesus, Claire.” His voice was rough with desire, and I braced myself for the onslaught.
But then he stepped back.
My eyes flashed open. The loss of his body chilled me; I felt like I’d been doused with ice.
He pulled a hand across his jaw, his breath rough with unsatisfied longing.
“Liam?”
He shook his head, but not quite steadily. “I’m sorry, but this can’t happen. I just can’t afford you. But if things had been different . . .”
I stared at him. “What does that mean?”
The clock struck two. Liam lifted his gaze to the clock, then looked at me. “It’s late. You need sleep, and I need to go. Now.”
And with that, Liam Quinn slipped into the Quarter again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
So much of living after a war was adapting to what remained, figuring out how to build things you were familiar with out of what you had.
There was a brass mail slot in the store’s front door. Since it was so hard to keep in touch without phones or computers, and mail delivery wasn’t exactly efficient in the Zone, I let folks use the slot and a vintage cubby to share messages, trade goods. Customers—and that was the one catch: They had to be customers—could put their names on the cards in the cubby’s metal label holders. It gave them comfort, a way to connect with people in a world that was so different from the one that had come before.
So, the next morning, after a night of what could only loosely be called “sleep,” I picked up the messages and small packages that had been slipped into the slot overnight, and welcomed the handful of Containment agents who’d come by for provisions. Containment fed them, of course, but they’d buy an extra bar of soap or some sugar now and again.
While they perused my inventory, I took the stack of messages to the cubby, began to file them.
One was for me—a note from Gunnar on his own letterpressed stationery, imported from outside the Zone: “Emme is awake and coping. She didn’t see the wraiths before they attacked her, and the attack itself is mostly a blur, so no luck there. Thank you for last night. Love you.”
I was glad to hear that she was safe, but disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to confirm whether we were dealing with the same wraiths. At least not that way.
The day was absolutely beautiful. I’d propped open the front and back doors to let the breeze move through, put a Preservation Hall Jazz Band CD in an old player. Even Containment agents smiled at the music. It reminded all of us, I think, that there was still something beautiful in the world, even if we didn’t see it every day in the Zone.
Unfortunately, jazz wasn’t enough to take my mind off Liam Quinn. Last night had rocked me. To come so close to something I didn’t even know I’d wanted, then to know that I did, only to have it ripped away . . . I wasn’t exactly sure what was going through Liam’s head, or what he couldn’t “afford” about me. But I had a sinking suspicion. I was a Sensitive—a wraith-in-waiting. I would become a wraith if I couldn’t learn to control my magic properly. If I wasn’t vigilant enough, or if I made a mistake, I’d become the same monster that had killed his sister, that he hunted. How could he want me when that was the case?
Logic didn’t work any better than jazz. I was embarrassed, sad, and getting in way over my head emotionally.
I was at the counter obsessing and organizing the month’s receipt copies when Tadji breezed in. Today, she wore jeans and a blousy tank, a worn messenger bag strapped across her body. She looked cool and chic as always.
“It is amazing outside.” She plopped the bag onto the counter. She was a welcome distraction.
“I know, right? It would be a beautiful day for a picnic by the river.”
She grinned, pushed a curl behind her ear. “If we had wine and fruit and cheese?”
“We have MREs and cheese product. If that’s good enough for Containment, it’s good enough for us.”
She snorted.
“How were your interviews?”
“Good,” she said. “One down, two more to go.”
She moved aside so I could take change from a man buying a Times-Picayune.
I thanked him, waited until the customer had waved his way out of the store. “Tell me about it,” I said to Tadji.
“First lady was from a speck of a town halfway to Lafayette. Her son brings her into the city every few weeks to shop for supplies. That’s how I heard about her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Delores Johnson.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “She doesn’t shop here.”
“This isn’t the only store in New Orleans.”
I humphed. “The existence of other shops doesn’t make it right. What did she have to say?”