{"id":6822,"date":"2016-04-06T19:47:00","date_gmt":"2016-04-07T00:47:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/?page_id=6822"},"modified":"2017-05-10T19:58:26","modified_gmt":"2017-05-11T00:58:26","slug":"the-sight-devils-isle-2-first-chapter","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/?page_id=6822","title":{"rendered":"The Sight (Devil’s Isle 2) – First Chapter"},"content":{"rendered":"

CHAPTER ONE<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"thesight\"<\/a><\/p>\n

New Orleans<\/em>
\n Late November<\/em><\/p>\n

We rode in a truck that had seen a lot of miles\u2014more than two hundred thousand of them, according to the odometer. The windows were open to the heat and humidity and sunshine, all of it powerful even in the early morning. But that was New Orleans for you.<\/p>\n

I piled my red hair into a topknot and futzed until the bun was secure, then leaned my head against the door. Even the hot breeze felt better than none. The truck rocking beneath us, the city nearly silent around us, my eyes drifted closed.
\n\u201cYou gonna fall asleep?\u201d<\/p>\n

I slitted a glance at the man in the driver\u2019s seat. Liam Quinn was tall and lean, built of hard, stacked muscle. His hair was dark and short, and matched the scruff along his jaw. His eyes were a shockingly bright blue, with lashes dark and thick enough to make a fashionista jealous.<\/p>\n

He was undeniably handsome, undeniably sexy, and undeniably off-limits.<\/p>\n

And I was getting loopy from lack of sleep. I could have used a ten-minute power nap. Or a four-hour power nap. But since I still had something to prove, I sat up straight, blinked hard to force my eyes to focus. \u201cNope. Totally awake and eyes on the road and checking my six.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked amused. \u201cYou\u2019re just stringing words together. Bounty hunters don\u2019t sleep on the job.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m a bounty hunter in training,\u201d I pointed out. \u201cAnd I wasn\u2019t sleeping. I was . . . silently debriefing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Liam was the actual bounty hunter, and we\u2019d spent hours searching the Lower Ninth Ward for a wraith, a human infected by magic. We hadn\u2019t found him, which was a bad result for everyone. Containment wouldn\u2019t be happy, and the wraith was still on the loose, still a threat to the public and himself.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou did good tonight. We didn\u2019t get a great result, but you did good.\u201d He paused. \u201cAnd I\u2019m still thinking about that football.\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded. \u201cYeah. I\u2019m still thinking about the baseball cards.\u201d We hadn\u2019t found the wraith in the several abandoned houses we\u2019d searched, but we had found a former bachelor pad with a man cave and plenty of sports memorabilia.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know the owners could come back,\u201d I said, letting my fingers surf in the wind outside the truck. \u201cIt\u2019s unlikely, but it\u2019s possible. It\u2019s just\u2014somebody really loved those cards, and they\u2019re getting moldier by the day.\u201d<\/p>\n

Liam smiled a little. \u201cAnd you want to put them in the shop.\u201d<\/p>\n

The \u201cshop\u201d was Royal Mercantile, my store in the French Quarter. Or what was left of it after the war with the Paranormals.
\nThey\u2019d come through the Veil, the barrier separating their world from ours, and spread destruction and chaos across the south. New Orleans had been ground zero.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor display and for safety,\u201d I said. \u201cNot for sale.\u201d I glanced at him, his muscles taut beneath the short-sleeved shirt, strong hands on the steering wheel. \u201cYou like to sports?\u201d<\/p>\n

He lifted an eyebrow. \u201cDo I like to sports? You sound like a woman who\u2019s never said that word before.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy dad didn\u2019t care about sportsball.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know that\u2019s not a thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do,\u201d I admitted. \u201cBut I like the sound of it.\u201d I looked at him, the long, rangy body with a powerful chest and arms.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d say quarterback\u2014possibly receiver. Maybe pitcher, maybe power forward in sportsball.\u201d It wasn\u2019t difficult to imagine him muscling in for a layup.<\/p>\n

He shook his head, but a corner of his mouth was still quirked in a grin. \u201cI played sportsball in high school. Power forward.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNailed it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about you?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI ran track for a couple of years in high school, until I realized I didn\u2019t really like running.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou do plenty of running now,\u201d he said, turning onto North Claiborne.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s because I\u2019m chased. If there\u2019d been Paranormals and wraiths chasing me in high school, I\u2019d have put more effort into it.\u201d<\/p>\n

When the truck began to slow, I glanced up. The street was clear; we were the only vehicle on the street. \u201cIf we\u2019ve run out of gas, you have to carry me back to the Quarter.\u201d<\/p>\n

Liam just shook his head. \u201cLook,\u201d he said, pointed to the side of the road.<\/p>\n

A billboard in front of an auto repair shop had been covered in eye-searing yellow paint. DEATH TO PARANORMALS had been painted in enormous red letters across it.<\/p>\n

\u201cI came down this street yesterday,\u201d Liam said, squinting into the sun as he leaned over to look through the window, his cologne lingering faintly behind him when he sat up again. \u201cThat wasn\u2019t there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s new,\u201d I said, gesturing to the buckets, brushes, and cans of spray paint that littered the parking lot around the post.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t suppose you sold that stuff. Know who bought it?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head. \u201cThe supplies didn\u2019t come from my shop. The only paint I have is white, and I don\u2019t have any spray paint.\u201d
\n\u201cThe brushes?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head again. Whoever had painted the billboard had used foam rollers to color in the large letters. \u201cOnly bristle brushes. They\u2019re not from Royal Mercantile.\u201d<\/p>\n

The supplies could have come from anywhere\u2014and from anyone with an ax to grind. The war with the Paranormals had started seven years ago and ended a year later, but the billboard proved the animosity hadn\u2019t completely faded.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe should tell Gunnar,\u201d I said, thinking of one of my closest friends, and the second-in-charge at Containment, the division of the Paranormal Combatant Command that managed everything in the former war zone, including Devil\u2019s Isle, the prison where Paranormals were incarcerated\u2014or were supposed to be. There were fugitive Paras who\u2019d managed to evade imprisonment and fugitive humans newly infected by magic who hadn\u2019t yet been rounded up. That\u2019s why bounty hunters like Liam had jobs.<\/p>\n

His gaze still wary, Liam drove on, taking us closer to Devil\u2019s Isle\u2019s towering walls. \u201cTell Malachi and the others, too. They should know someone\u2019s got an attitude problem.\u201d<\/p>\n

Malachi was an angel and a friend, and a member of Delta, a group of humans and Paras dedicated to changing the treatment of Paranormals. Their existence proved that not all Paranormals were enemies, just as the billboard proved that not all humans were allies.<\/p>\n

The tricky part was telling the difference.<\/p>\n

# # #<\/p>\n

It was a Saturday morning in the French Quarter, and there wasn\u2019t a single person in sight. My shop\u2014the first floor of a three-story town house on Royal Street\u2014was one of the lucky buildings that hadn\u2019t been destroyed, although we sold a lot more MREs and bottled water these days than antique sideboards.<\/p>\n

Liam sputtered to a stop in front of the store. Our victory flag\u2014a gold fleurs-de-lis on a field of purple\u2014flapped in the breeze from the second-floor balcony.<\/p>\n

I climbed out of the truck and into heat that was already oppressive at eight in the morning, then leaned down to look through the open window. \u201cYou want to come in for some iced tea?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Liam said without hesitating, and turned off the truck, followed me to the door. I picked up a scrap of paper and a dead leaf from the tiled threshold, unlocked it.<\/p>\n

Anticipating a hot day, I\u2019d left the shop closed up. I\u2019d found a small air conditioner at a swap meet a few weeks before, and I\u2019d managed to get it running. The power had stayed on long enough to cool the air by a few degrees, wring out a little of the humidity.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, that is nice,\u201d Liam said, pausing inside the door with his eyes closed, black lashes dark against his cheeks and his hands on his lean hips.<\/p>\n

Longing, hot and strong as fire, burned through my chest.<\/p>\n

I was a Sensitive, one of the few humans exposed to magic who\u2019d developed magical powers as a result. That meant I was a nearly wraith, an almost wraith, a could-be wraith. Liam was supposed to hunt people like me, to lock them safely away in Devil\u2019s Isle. Instead, he\u2019d introduced me to people convinced I could control my magic, that becoming a wraith wasn\u2019t inevitable.<\/p>\n

But it was always between us, the possibility the magic would overpower me and he\u2019d be forced to take me in. He believed that would be cruel and unfair to me. And despite the chemistry between us, that wasn\u2019t a gap he\u2019d been able to bridge. So I\u2019d worked to ignore the heat, the connection. It took a lot of conscious effort on my part. And even then, I wasn\u2019t very good at it.<\/p>\n

I flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN, forced myself to put space between us, to walk through the front room past bins of duct tape and bags of Camellia red beans and into the small kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, let the air chill my burning cheeks, then pulled out the pitcher of iced tea. I could\u2019ve used a stiffer drink, but that would have to wait.<\/p>\n

I poured two glasses, found Liam standing at the counter\u2019s far end, where I\u2019d spread the shards of a cuckoo clock that had hung in the store. I settled myself on the stool behind the counter, slid his tea over.<\/p>\n

\u201cNew project?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

I looked over the piles I\u2019d already separated into wood and metal fragments, the figures of Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf that had traveled across the clock\u2019s front. \u201cThis is the clock Agent Broussard\u2019s cronies smashed. It was a gift from my father, so I\u2019m going to put it back together.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know how to put together a clock?\u201d he asked, sounding impressed.<\/p>\n

I smiled. \u201cWith enough time and patience, you can figure anything out. I\u2019m ignoring the mechanisms for now\u2014the gears are so small. I\u2019m going to fix the case first.\u201d<\/p>\n

The bell on the door rang as two Containment agents walked in wearing their dark fatigues. I didn\u2019t exhale until they offered small waves, headed for the canned goods. I was still waiting for the shit to hit that particular fan again.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want to help?\u201d I asked Liam, offering a bottle of wood glue.<\/p>\n

He frowned over the pieces. \u201cI\u2019m not sure this is my crafting sweet spot.\u201d<\/p>\n

I snorted, poured glue into a small dish, dabbed a brush in it. \u201cAnd what would be your crafting sweet spot?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cChopping wood,\u201d he said as I daubed glue on the back of a wood sliver. \u201cChanging oil. Fighting marauders.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t have any wood that needs chopping, and I don\u2019t have a car. Marauders are more likely. Glad to know you\u2019re prepared for that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Liam made a sarcastic sound, then glanced up at the wall of clocks still functioning. \u201cI should get back to Devil\u2019s Isle, say good morning to Eleanor.\u201d<\/p>\n

Liam\u2019s grandmother lived in Devil\u2019s Isle, but by her choice. Only a few knew that she could see magic, the result of a blow during the war from a magical weapon.<\/p>\n

The door opened and my other two closest friends walked in. Tadji Dupree waved hello as they walked into the store. She wore dark fatigue pants, a flowy tank, and enormous earrings of gold and silver discs that shone against her dark skin.
\nGunnar Landreau was tall and militarily fit, with dark, wavy hair, pale skin, and a trickster\u2019s smile. He wore dark Containment fatigues, but he was very decidedly on our side. Whatever \u201cside\u201d that was.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou two nearly match today,\u201d I said, gesturing at the fatigues as they came forward. \u201cPulling a Cagney and Lacey thing? Or Abbott and Costello?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid their clothes match?\u201d Liam asked, head cocked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Gunnar said dryly. \u201cThose were the only duos she could think of. Did you know she didn\u2019t have a television growing up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDeprived child,\u201d Liam said, looking back at me thoughtfully. \u201cAlthough that does explain \u2018sportsball.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

Tadji snorted, put her messenger bag on the counter with a thud.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe had a television,\u201d I corrected. \u201cWe just didn\u2019t watch it very often.\u201d I gestured to Tadji\u2019s bag. \u201cWhat do you have in that thing?\u201d<\/p>\n

The Containment agents approached the counter with an armful of water and MREs, so I put down my brush and moved to the metal cashbox and receipt pad to deal with their purchases.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy notes,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m hoping to write up some of my outline today.\u201d Tadji was working on a degree in linguistics. \u201cAnd I\u2019ve heard a rumor there\u2019s a coffeehouse in Trem\u00e9.\u201d<\/p>\n

We all went still, looked at her.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s a coffeehouse in New Orleans?\u201d one of the agents asked, hope in her eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the rumor,\u201d Tadji said. \u201cWoman set up a little caf\u00e9 in her living room, sells muffins and coffee. I\u2019m going to check it out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd report back,\u201d I requested, putting the agents\u2019 purchases into a bag and offering their change. I closed the cashbox again, looked at her. \u201cLike, Folgers, or what?\u201d Coffee was relatively rare in the Zone\u2014a high-priced luxury.<\/p>\n

Tadji\u2019s eyes gleamed. \u201cI don\u2019t know. But I\u2019m going to find out.\u201d<\/p>\n

As the Containment agents left, I looked at Gunnar. \u201cAnd what\u2019s on your agenda?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cKeeping the Zone running smoothly, as per usual.\u201d He glanced at Liam. \u201cYou find that wraith in the Lower Ninth?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe didn\u2019t,\u201d Liam said, and Gunnar looked at me speculatively.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018We\u2019?\u201d he asked. \u201cYou went with him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBounty hunter in training,\u201d I said, offering him a salute. \u201cIt still makes for good cover.\u201d And gave me a chance to be sure that any wraiths taken into Devil\u2019s Isle were treated as well as possible. We owed them that much, at least.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo sign of the wraith,\u201d Liam repeated, \u201cbut we found something else. Giant billboard on Claiborne. \u2018Death to Paranormals\u2019 painted over it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLovely,\u201d Gunnar said. \u201cI\u2019ll have someone take a look.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho has that much free time on their hands?\u201d Tadji asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere are plenty of people out there with delusions about Paranormals,\u201d Gunnar said. \u201cPlenty of people who believe in conspiracies, or who think the government owed them something after the war.\u201d<\/p>\n

In fairness to those people, the government did know about the Veil. But it hadn\u2019t known who\u2019d waited for us on the other side.<\/p>\n

Speaking of angry humans, loud voices began to fill the air with what sounded like chanting.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is that?\u201d I asked, glancing at the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe protestors?\u201d Liam asked with a frown.<\/p>\n

\u201cCould be,\u201d Gunnar said. Liam, Tadji, and I followed him outside, then to the corner and down Conti.<\/p>\n

About a dozen men and women, most in their twenties or thirties, but a few older, a few younger, stretched across Bourbon Street. They all wore nubby, homespun fabric in bulky and shapeless tunics and dresses.<\/p>\n

Their arms were linked together, and they sang as they walked, their voices woven into an eerie, complex harmony. I didn\u2019t recognize the song, but it sounded like a hymn, with lyrics about death and smiting and Calvary. If this had been a different time, they might have been congregants walking to a country church. But I hadn\u2019t seen many churchgoers carrying bright yellow signs with CLEANSE THE ZONE OR DIE TRYING in searing red paint.<\/p>\n

Leading the group was a man with pale skin, dark hair, medium build, and a heavy beard. He was flanked by two women\u2014one pale, one dark, but both with dark eyes that looked across the French Quarter with obvious disdain.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t the first time there\u2019d been protestors in the Quarter; there\u2019d been plenty during and shortly after the war, when it was popular to complain about how the war was being fought, or how it had been won. But the war had ended six years ago, and as a Sensitive, I wasn\u2019t feeling very sympathetic to antimagic arm waving.<\/p>\n

Liam shifted, moving a protective step closer to me while watching the group with narrowed eyes.
\nGunnar\u2019s expression was cold and blank. That was a particular skill of his\u2014that level stare that showed authority and said he wouldn\u2019t take shit from anybody.<\/p>\n

The man in the front glanced in our direction, stopped, and lifted his hands. Like an orchestra following a conductor directing his symphony, the protestors stopped behind him, and silence fell again.<\/p>\n

He walked toward us. He wore an easy smile, but there was something very cold behind his dark, deep-set eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning,\u201d he said, in a voice without a hint of Louisiana in it. \u201cCan we talk to you about the Zone?\u201d<\/p>\n

Gunnar didn\u2019t waste any time. \u201cYou have a permit?\u201d<\/p>\n

The man\u2019s eyes flashed with irritation, but his smile didn\u2019t change. \u201cI don\u2019t subscribe to the notion that citizens of this country require a permit to exercise their First Amendment rights.\u201d<\/p>\n

Gunnar didn\u2019t even blink.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d the man said, \u201cwe also respect human laws. It\u2019s just that we believe those laws should be enforced to their logical conclusion.\u201d The man pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, offered it to Gunnar.<\/p>\n

\u201cAny law in particular?\u201d Gunnar asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Magic Act,\u201d the man said. \u201cAll magic is illegal. And all magic should be removed from our world . . . by any means necessary.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ready to order THE SIGHT? Visit your favorite retailer:<\/strong><\/p>\n

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Note: \u00a0I am an Amazon affiliate and may earn a commission if you buy goods\u00a0at\u00a0Amazon through\u00a0one of my links.<\/em><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

CHAPTER ONE New Orleans Late November We rode in a truck that had seen a lot of miles\u2014more than two hundred thousand of them, according to the odometer. The windows were open to the heat and humidity and sunshine, all of it powerful even in the early morning. But that was New Orleans for you.[…]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":6430,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-6822","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6822","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=6822"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6822\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7507,"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6822\/revisions\/7507"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6430"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.chloeneill.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=6822"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}