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My magic was earth-based. My rounds worked because they healed, and the life of it was incompatible withdraugr. It was also why the dead woke after my magic flashed out. It was why they regrew their flesh and followed me like puppies needing a home. Somehow, I was born of magic and death, but my magic was life giving.
No one asked a lot of questions, though, so I kept that tidbit to myself. I was what I was, and I trusted that I was working to make the world a better place. It let me sleep well most nights.
Today, Jesse stayed at my side as we watched them tote the tarp-wrappeddraugrinto their wagon. There was one other there, but it was rare to see more than a couple of them sent off to the incinerator. Once they were bagged, tagged, and delivered, the Con Crew would toss them in the re-purposed cremation facility, and then once a day, all the ashes would be mixed with sacred soil and scattered in a field designated for that purpose.
The paranoia about the regenerative skills of their sort led to a lot of safeguards.
And I understood it. The wrong sort of bullets did little damage, but figuring out the right way to injure them required a captivedraugr—or someone foolish enough to test new rounds on the street.
“Gary,” I called out, carefully avoiding going too far into the sunlight. It didn’t injure me. I just disliked the headaches that it left behind. I beckoned him over.
Then, stealthily, I held out a few of my newest high caliber rounds. “Just keep these in your back-up gun in case one of them isn’t all the way dead.”
Gary looked at me, scowled. “My paycheck doesn’t come close to covering those.”
“Then it’s your gift for not asking a lot of questions,” I said casually. After so many pick-ups lately, I’d seen Gary more than most of my friends that month. “And . . . if there are any roguedraugrthat you hear about, I’d like a call.”
He looked at me in what I supposed was meant to be a fatherly way. I hadn’t had that experience from my actual father, who was more interested in discussing my abnormalities and breeding me with a few of his kind to see what we could “add” to my theoretical offspring.
“Try to stay alive,” Gary murmured, but he took the proffered rounds in his hand.
It was as close to agreeing to my terms as I could hope. “You, too,” I said. “I wouldn’t like it if you died.”
The police in New Orleans were peculiar. It took a special sort of person to want to work here. We had a higher population of dead things than anywhere else in the nation. I couldn’t fathom what drove most men and women to come here seeking work. I was here because there were no other options, but many of the police officers chose it. They got signing bonuses, and the pay was incredible, but it was a gamble. The mortality rate was high. Every time I saw them, it was always a chance it would be the last time.
Gary and his newest partner left, and I hoped they’d still be living next time I called for a pick-up. They might not consider my job the same as theirs if they knew about it, but I felt like we were connected.
Jesse closed the door and locked it. The store wouldn’t open for another hour or so. Most everyone in the city started their work day not long after the sunrise. Come dusk, the sidewalk might as well be rolled up and tucked away.
“I’m going to grab a mop, and—”
“I’m out.” I flashed him a grin and kissed his cheek. Then I went upstairs to grab one of my books, my bag, and a pair of the special-order dark glasses I had stashed here. Getting home before I had to face the midday sun would decrease my odds of another migraine. It was go now or stay until afternoon.
When I came downstairs, Jesse had a mop and bucket in hand. There was no ooze from the death. His floor was fine, but I understood the impulse. Cleaning up after a murder seemed reasonable.
“You could stay and watch me clean,” Jesse said in that light voice he adopted more and more with me. It made me feel like I suspected a feral cat would, intrigued but not exactly eager to chance it.
“Nope. I’m going over a few job things. The last dead guy was injected. His son thinks it was what killed him.”
Jesse stuffed the mop into the bucket and watched me. “I don’t like how Eli looks at you, but if something’s weird out there . . . well, weirder than normal, I’m glad you’re taking him with you.”
“Eli’s not bad,” I pointed out.
“He wants to get my little sister naked. It’s my sibling right to want to punch him.” Jesse grinned.
“Little sister?”
“Two months, Gen. My birthday is a full two months before yours. It counts.”
“Whatever.” I grabbed the vodka and took another drink. “Thanks for breakfast, Jesse.”
Then I slipped my glasses on and headed out the door. Tomorrow, I would get back my phone and start to see what I had to do and where I was going next.
Today, though, I was going to visit my mother. I wasn’t going to tell Jesse in case he decided to tag along, but I needed maternal insight on what was wrong with my magic. If anyone in the world had theories about my fucked-up biology, it would be Mama Lauren.
Chapter Fourteen
I walkedto the bus depot and boarded one of the three buses headed across Lake Pontchartrain over to what we now called the “Outs.” The driver, a man with plenty of tattoos and a few wrinkles, had a shotgun jutting out the left window. It was mounted in what appeared to be a homemade rig that would give steadiness and wide range to shoot anything on the left of the bus. Soldered to the driver’s chair on the right was a holster. Stepping onto the bus meant the pistol was eye-level to each passenger. The driver’s hand rested on the butt of the gun. If anything unwelcome entered the bus door, he could stop it—or at least stall it. I suppose it depended on what was loaded in the chambers of the revolver.
