Malachi looked up at them. “Those are beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“You know angels, as you’d call us, prefer high ground.”

I nodded.

“My home was near the top of a mountain. And when darkness fell, it seemed every star in the universe was visible. There aren’t nearly so many stars here.”

I smiled. “Not below sea level, no. But more stars now than before the lights mostly went out.”

He nodded, looked back grimly. “I remember seeing the glow of the city—an orange haze. I didn’t come here—it wasn’t allowed by the Court soldiers who’d conscripted me. But I could see it in the distance.”

“New Orleans was a wonderful place. Complicated. Rich. Sometimes awful. Sometimes wonderful. It’s like that today, too. Just in a different way.”

He watched me speak, nodded. “I can see that. Well,” he said, “it’s late. I should go and let you rest.”

He walked to the window, glanced back. “Good night, Claire.”

And then he was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I opened the store the next day, right on time. We’d gotten almost everything upright and off the floor, but every shelf and table was covered with things that needed fixing, organizing. I could have asked folks to shop somewhere else until everything was clean and tidy again. But that would hide what Containment had done. And there was no more hiding. Not anymore. Not after this. I didn’t have family they could come after. But I had my store, and my friends. They’d already screwed with part of that. I wouldn’t give them a chance to screw with the other.

Broussard might not have liked me very much. And Containment might not have trusted me. But the Quarter liked me a lot—and more, they liked Royal Mercantile. It was an institution. Part of the Quarter, part of New Orleans, part of the Zone. It had helped them through lean and leaner times. And when they discovered Containment had taken its wrath out on this cornerstone of their lives, they were pissed.

They came in slowly, one at a time, then groups of three or five as word spread through the Quarter and uptown. I sold out of batteries, combs, hammers. I doubted anyone needed any of those things. But today they were shopping in solidarity, not in consumption. I even managed to sell two slightly warped walking sticks. Heavily discounted, of course.

Mrs. Proctor brought in a bowl of what she called “mock pie”—a mash of powdered biscuit mix and canned fruit. (She hadn’t bought any butter, but she’d ended up borrowing half a stick from a neighbor.)

I wouldn’t fault the agents who were following the chain of command, who probably thought they were doing the right thing—keeping an eye on a dangerous element. Containment agents still came by the store throughout the day, although none of them had participated in the raid. But they still wore apologetic looks.

It was late afternoon when Liam appeared on my threshold.

He’d skipped shaving again, and the scruff seemed to make his eyes even more brilliantly blue. He also looked tired. Maybe he hadn’t slept any better than I had.

“What happened in here?” he asked, surveying the store.

“You should have seen it before we cleaned it up. And I’m not being sarcastic.”

He walked toward me, looked me over. It was warm out, and Liam smelled like hard work and clean sweat. “You’re all right?”

I looked at him, tried to sound totally nonchalant, which was definitely not how I felt. I was relieved, more than I should have been, to see him standing there. “I’m fine. Your favorite Containment agent came by yesterday with a warrant to search for Magic Act violations. Seems to think I’ve been having secret Sensitive meetings here.”