Finder

By Lilith Saintcrow

He's not the only one watching her. . .

For years Jorie Camden has been quietly helping her police friends pursue cold cases, and she's paid the price over and over again, her talent for Finding stretched to the limit. Now something different is stalking the streets, taking children--something old, and foul, and Dark. The cops won't admit there's a problem, so what can a Lightbringer do but solve the mystery on her own?

Caleb is a Watcher of Circle Lightfall, and his mission is simple: protect the witch he's assigned to--the witch who just happens to be able to touch him without causing agonizing pain. It's his one shot at redemption, and it'll take every weapon he has, plus his willingness to play dirty. Even if his witch seems to be chasing something no one can see.

Yet something Dark is indeed in their city. And now that it's aware of pursuit, it has plans for Jorie and her talent--plans not even Caleb might be able to stop. . .

"Darkly compelling, fascinatingly unique. Lilith Saintcrow offers a breathtaking, fantastic ride." --NYT bestselling author Gena Showalter

"The story will keep you on the edge of your seat. . ." --KD Did It Edits on The Demon’s Librarian

"This mind-blowing series remains a must-read for all urban fantasy lovers." --bittenbybooks.com on Dante Valentine

About the author: Lilith Saintcrow lives in Vancouver, Washington, with her children, dogs, cat, a library for wayward texts, and assorted other strays.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Aug 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781610261463

Lilith Saintcrow

Lili Saintcrow lives in Vancouver, Washington, with a library for wayward texts.

Book preview

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Praise for Lilith Saintcrow

Darkly compelling, fascinatingly unique. Lilith Saintcrow offers a breathtaking, fantastic ride.

—NYT bestselling author Gena Showalter

"In the Watchers series, Saintcrow writes stories that are almost always nonstop action from beginning to end. Her women are kick-ass strong, her men ruggedly handsome and dedicated to the women they serve. It isn’t a bad combination at all."

—CJReading

"I read Dark Watcher with growing delight. As chapter followed chapter, I never quite knew what was around the corner."

—Ebook Reviews

…a one-of-a-kind author.

—Romantic Times magazine on To Hell and Back

The story will keep you on the edge of your seat . . .

—KD Did It Edits on The Demon’s Librarian

Of Dante Valentine . . .

Dark fantasy has a new heroine . . .

—SFX magazine

Saintcrow snares readers with an amazing alternate reality that is gritty, hip and dangerously mesmerizing.

—Romantic Times magazine

She’s a brave, charismatic protagonist with a smart mouth and a suicidal streak. What’s not to love?

—Publishers Weekly

This mind-blowing series remains a must-read for all urban fantasy lovers.

—bittenbybooks.com

Books by Lilith Saintcrow

The Watchers

Dark Watcher

Storm Watcher

Fire Watcher

Cloud Watcher

Mindhealer

Finder

The Society Series

The Society

Hunter-Healer

Other

The Demon’s Librarian

Finder

by

Lilith Saintcrow

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ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

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ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-146-3

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-990-2

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2020 by Lilith Saintcrow

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Male figure (manipulated) © Mast3r | Dreamstime.com

:Efgt:01:

Dedication

To Kassandra Appel and Brenda Chin, with thanks.

Let Me Help You

A SHARP FILTHY blade sliding under flesh, crimson blood-ribbons streaming. Muffled sounds made it through the tiny victim’s gag; the man gasped heavily, breathing damp black contagion as dim light faded at outside edges, a camera shutter closing.

The scene turned fuzzy with mental static; still, the dreaming woman’s trained consciousness remained steady. All Finding was a matter of two things—first, know­ing the object was lost; and second, perceiving the difference between its location and hers. To Find a thing, she had to know how its place was unlike her own faraway, breathing body. Whatever was lost in this place cried out, a tongueless imperative rustling like wings.

Where? Show me where you are, give me a clue. A dream-state wasn’t the best for Finding. It was too imprecise, the borders of slumber’s country running like oil on water, no solidity to push against, no thread to follow.

The scene re-formed, a different angle and dappled light against a high, crumbling ceiling. Wet concrete, dripping water, a deep rushing sound. The reek of copper and sharp pungent chlorine drew choking-close. A mattress lay in a forgotten corner, forlorn and violated, its striped cotton surface blotted with crawling darkness the dreamer did not dare gaze too deeply into. It pulsed, and its waves of sick satisfaction spilled along the floor like ground fog.

There was no window, no distinguishing marks, no sense of direction or draw like a lodestone against the dreamer’s bones. There was only the smell, the wet dripping, the mattress.

And the dolls.

Two long shelves held tiny forms both brown and white, slim and round, their glass eyes silent-screaming with terrible knowledge. Their clothes were clumsily sewn with large stitches, scraps of once-bright cloth bearing rusty dry stains.

The dolls drew the dreamer in, mute mouths sewn tight with black thread. Each had a tuft of clotted hair, and each tuft pulsed like an umbilicus, snaky weeds reaching like soft choking fingers. Those tangles would wrap around the dreamer, dragging living breath and beating heart down into fabric bellies and stitched-shut mouths.

Where? She pleaded, mutely, trying to find the path, the thread, the source. Show me where, so I can help you. Let me help you.

There was no answer, just the deadly swaying. She had alerted some dozing evil presence, she realized, and the dream took on a different flavor, a familiar tang.

Nightmare.

BOOM.

A blast of sharpsick white light smashed through the cavern. The dreamer fled like a blue-winged bird, heart pounding as feathers exploded, seeking escape. Each time it was the same, the dolls regarding her with passive pleading, vibrating inside their sackcloth skins, and the nuclear explosion of bright hatred behind her.

She burst into the night sky, winging hard, oily terror thick in her mouth. Behind her there was a cheated howl—the prowling beast who made the dolls, his sticky, cloying reek spreading. Feathers shed in her haste melted as soon as they dropped, leaving nothing behind. Each flight was the same, streaking through dreaming skies, as the thing behind her scream-snarled its lust for death.

Her death.

Greet the Dawn, Night

JORIE CAMDEN sat straight up, gasping, heart pounding, greasy night sweat coating her skin. Her pulse was a hummingbird’s wings, fluttering, and her hair stuck in damp strings to her forehead.

Jorie, Rust said softly from the door, not stepping into the room because her aura flared with gold at the edges, its brilliant core pulsing. The light would hurt a Watcher, salt rubbed into an open wound; the tanak was, after all, a Dark creature, and violently allergic to a witch’s glow. You’re safe. You’re at home.

Mouths, she managed, teeth chattering with cold though her skin was flush with fever. "Mouths and eyes both closed. They’re so little, the little dolls." Her voice was a dreamer’s hopeless slur heard from another room, and she returned to full consciousness with a jolt.

You’re at home. Rust repeated the same words every Watcher used in the middle of her nightmares, chapter and verse, re-orienting a frightened Lightbringer. Every six months, there was a new, big-shoul­dered man in her spare bedroom, driving her car, roaming her neigh­borhood at night looking for invisible or quasi-visible predators. You’re safe. It’s all right.

Safe. What a word. Gods . . . Jorie exhaled hard; her entire body shivered, throwing aside the cold of whatever place she visited to bring back dream-glimpses of the utterly lost. Or, who knew, it could even be a simple nightmare; the gods knew she had no shortage 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 Rust wouldn’t notice the sudden increase in her visions; it was one more wor­ry for a man who had plenty.

Now he would probably report it in debriefing, and Sarah would be concerned. The other Seers would be, too.

They’ll ask me if I want to move into the safehouse, and I’m going to have to say no. Then there will be that silence, the one that says I’m hurting their feelings and being stubborn. Though of course, they’ll be too polite to say anything.

There really wasn’t an answer that wouldn’t take them over old territory, so she decided to change the subject. I’m going to miss you. The heat was welcome, and her shudders eased. The peppermint in the tea helped too. You’re a good Watcher.

Of course, he didn’t press. No Watcher would. Thank you. He stood by the door, shoulders slumped, the long coat blurring his outline. The sword hilt rising over his left shoulder—he was one of those rarities, a left-handed Watcher—shifted slightly as he leaned against the wall. I’ll miss your cooking, if they put me on patrol again.

It was an attempt at humor, and she welcomed it. When he’d arrived, gaunt from the strain of the death, destruction, and mayhem Watchers were forced to face on a near-daily basis, he’d been almost nonverbal. It didn’t help that he’d signed up for it, that he’d been willing. No man entered Circle Lightfall’s combat arm unless he outright begged for the job.

But even willingness didn’t help when you saw what the Dark was capable of. Some creatures were just hungry, but others . . . well, they liked causing pain.

It made everything taste better.

She suppressed a shudder. Maybe she could get some more sleep tonight, if she stopped brooding. Her shoulders relaxed, her heart easing into a steadier rhythm. It’s good to have an appreciative audience. She took another sip, found the tea had cooled enough to only scald her halfway instead of instantly. Small mercies. We’ll trim your hair to­morrow too, before we go.

He nodded. Thanks, Jorie. Quietly, softly, as if he wasn’t the one carrying the guns and knives. Living with a Watcher was like being in a warm safe blanket—except when violence erupted or the Dark came too close. I’m going to check the neighborhood. Unless you need me.

I wish I didn’t need a Watcher. But I’m glad you’re here. No, I’m all right. Thanks for the tea.

No problem. I’ll be back in a bit. He straightened. The rectangle of glow in the bedroom door waned as he slid through, and she felt him on the stairs, his aura tightly controlled and contained as he tested the wards on the house yet again. Each Watcher got a little nervous near the end of a six-month stint, checking and rechecking her neighborhood for signs of Dark contamination that could rear up and cause problems for the next fellow on guard duty.

And, not so incidentally, treating her like spun glass, bolstering the protections on her little house, and just generally acting jumpy. Statisti­cally, it was the most dangerous time for a witch under guard; any change in routine was hazardous. Six-month shifts were just long enough for the Watchers to get comfortable, long enough to treat all but the most stubborn cases of despair—and short enough that a number of Watchers got a chance to meet and possibly bond with a witch.

I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, she murmured, swirling hot, fra­grant liquid in her mug. I just wish it was a bit easier on them.

I wish I could fix a location on these dreams, too. Is it the strain finally showing, or am I picking up something terrible? I wish I knew.

That was the trouble with Jorie’s brand of Seer’s talent. She could Find just about anything—provided, of course, she knew it was lost—but the flashes that came unbidden were all gruesome. Most of them were what the Seers called slippage, high-resolution surround-sound pictures of things that merely had a high probability of occurring. Slippage didn’t usually tell you how to prevent anything; it just let you anticipate the worst and hold your breath. Seeing was difficult and risky, made even more so by the fact that the future wasn’t absolutely certain.

There’s always a bit of wiggle room, Dorinda’s voice said inside Jorie’s head, a comforting memory from long-ago basic training after the Circle had found her in college. We like the wiggle room. A practiced Seer can even very gently, very delicately, tip things into happening. Here Dori had always paused.

Of course, she would add meditatively, the tipping holds its own hazards. One must take care not to bring into being the very thing one wishes to prevent. If it wasn’t so, we’d all be a lot richer.

Not that there was ever any real trouble with money, being a Lightfall witch. She didn’t have to work, much less cede a portion of her earnings to the communal pot, but no witch she’d ever came across liked holding back. The Circle took care of its own; it was the whole reason women with extraordinary talents had banded together against the Church’s homicidal fury in the first place.

And when an organization had been around since the 1500s, it learned a thing or two about investments.

It was a night of uncomfortable thoughts. Jorie grimaced into her tea, sighed, and finished the last hot swallow. Soothing warmth spread through her, and she felt the house wards quiver again as Rust circled outside, prowling the neighborhood.

Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be hard.

Jorie set the mug on her nightstand and pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them again. She should sleep. She wanted, needed to sleep.

It looked like it was going to be another greet-the-dawn kind of night.

Truly Relaxed

CALEB WAS LATE to the waiting room, his pulse thundering along a little faster than it should. It’d taken longer than he’d thought possible to get through the basic medical examination in the infirmary; the Light­bringer walking ahead of him—a blue-eyed waterwitch, her shifting aura full of the deep calm marking her as a healer—had given him more than one long measuring look as he hurried to answer her questions and get the hell out of there and onto his next job.

The infirmary was bad, not just because of the softness of the air and the light swirling through, taunting the hungry thing that lived inside his bones. The tanak granted speed, strength, healing, and a certain amount of basic combat sorcery, but it was still semi-Dark—and allergic to the glow from certain strong psychics. It hurt, and the more wounded Lightbringers gathered around, the worse it got. Even the waterwitch’s glow, as she paused just inside the waiting room door and murmured something to the Watcher on the other side, scraped against his skin like hot salt in a bleeding wound.

Not only that, but each Lightbringer in pain was a failure. It meant Caleb had personally fucked up once more and allowed something fragile and innocent to be violated. Or at least, that’s how it felt.

That was the worst part.

Caleb kept moving in the waterwitch’s wake, looking down at the hardwood floor. Should be out on patrol. Useless in here. The thought beat just under the surface of his conscious mind, not daring to truly surface.

You didn’t second-guess orders when you were a Watcher. You just kept your head down and fought like hell. Really, that was the way he liked it.

They weren’t sending him back out on patrol, and he hadn’t been called to the fishbowl where the techwitches handed out special assign­ments. So it was guard duty, at least for a while. He almost wondered what they’d stick him with—not an invisible assignment, playing guard­ian angel to an oblivious Lightbringer until primary contact could be made. He would have been sent to Requisitions for that.

A Lightfall witch, then, a woman who already knew of the Circle’s existence and protocols. Or maybe a soft boring stint as a guard inside the safehouse itself? Christ, he hoped not. Maybe this was a mistake and they’d figure it out, send him back on patrol again.

He could hope. Hope was even cheap at first, before you found out the world would stamp on it as soon as possible.

Caleb? The waterwitch repeated his name and he snapped to attention, his coat rustling as he drew himself up. He loomed over her even though she was taller than the average woman. He couldn’t help it.

Big dumb bruiser of a Watcher. Pull yourself together. Yes ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.

No worries. The waterwitch had merry sky-blue eyes, lit with a stream of almost-audible mirth. Her dark hair was pulled back in braids threaded with robin’s-egg ribbons, and fine lines radiated from those laughing eyes. Here’s Rust, your predecessor. I’m going to have a word with your new witch, and you’ll be on your way.

So it was a Lightfall witch. The satisfaction of guessing was out­weighed by the sudden piercing cramp behind his breastbone. Yes ma’am. He dropped his gaze to his boot toes and felt the acid-burn pain along his nerves soften as she vanished inside the waiting room. It was replaced by the pressure-front feeling of another Watcher stepping out into the hall, a gawky man with reddish hair and wide-spaced light-green eyes, a light spatter of freckles over his nose. He, at least, was familiar. Hey, Rust. Honor.

Duty, Caleb. Good to see you. Rust had his hands in his pockets and the file of vitals under his arm, but that was no indication. A Watcher never truly relaxed; any of his fellow grunts could snap to and cause utter havoc inside half a breath. Nice to know she’s going into safe hands.

It was a compliment, one Caleb outwardly accepted with a shrug and inwardly with a cringe. Hard to live up to you, old man. The an­swer was too flip by far, and he silently cursed himself as soon as it left his mouth.

Rust studied him for a moment, thoughts moving behind his eyes. The tanak burned out through the gaze after a while, and when it did you could tell when a Watcher was seasoned enough to pull his own weight.

He couldn’t figure out if it was a relief to be following another professional, or just another impossible standard to live up to.

Her name’s Jorie Camden. Rust visibly decided to stick to the usual briefing. Sometimes Watchers got a little nervous beginning a six-month rotation, and the best thing was to ignore any ragging. She’s a greenwitch, and a Seer, got that goldy tinge. She has nightmares and sometimes waking visions; they’re getting more intense. I’ve made my report, hope they marked it in the file. Said file was handed over, folded manila containing a cargo of information. The main thing is to reassure her when she wakes up, let her know where she is, that she’s safe. And to watch out for shock, but you know that.

Seers, Caleb agreed, tucking the file under his arm. The hollow of his left shoulder itched, the tattoo shifting under the skin as the tanak moved. Seers and Mindhealers were prone to shock, half out of their bodies all the time, wandering around distracted and needing constant supervision. It was a wonder any of them survived without Watchers.

More of them are surviving. Let it rest, Caleb. He quelled a restless movement; if he got twitchy here, Rust might think it was a comment on him.

If she has waking visions, you have to orient her as soon as she comes out, or she gets upset. Rust thought for a moment, searching for anything else his fellow grunt might need to know. Other than that, let me see . . . she takes public transportation sometimes. Says it’s good for her art.

Christ. But it was good to know that sort of thing. Is she flighty? It was the most important question, murmured conspiratorially even if Watchers were alone during an informal briefing. Caleb opened the file, scanning the first few pages. No pictures, but he didn’t have to ID her. She was a Lightfall witch, not an oblivious, terribly vulnerable flyer, and didn’t need an invisible Watcher.

Nope. Rust scratched at his cheek with blunt, calloused finger­tips, dropped his hand. She stays right where you put her during a fight. I never had such an easy witch.

Now that was good news. Some Lightbringers wandered away during a battle or attack, blind with fear or trying ineffectually to help. It was almost as bad as being assigned to the nursery.

Kids were hell to Watch.

Caleb’s trained memory swallowed the file’s contents whole. Jorie Camden, lives out on Briggs Street. Brown and black . . . she’s just a little thing, isn’t she? Huh, likes peppermint tea. Freelance graphic artist? She’s done well for herself. That’s interesting. Plan of the house . . . two bedrooms, tactical nightmare like most residences. Neighborhood’s low risk for Dark. He handed the file back, consigning the lump of information to the back of his head, in the little useful mental drawer he could shut whenever he needed to. The stats of other witches were buried back there too, ready to be dusted off should the occasion require it. At least this witch wasn’t likely to give him much trouble. He could always mull over the information