Skin Deep (21 page)

My body ached, my heart felt hard and cold, a heavy rock had replaced the beating thing that once lived there.

I reached out and touched Clancy's face, not sure if I should. Her skin was icy beneath my fingers. The front of her clothes were ripped to shreds and pieces of her blood-soaked clothing clung to the open wounds. Even the hoodie she wore was bloodied. My hoodie, the one I’d last seen hanging on a
hook in her office. She must have grabbed it because of the rain.

My Panther raged, hurting me physically as it craved release. A sudden fullness in my fingers
...my claws began to push at the tips, begging release. All around me words and whispers melded together in an agonizing hum.

I didn't want to see her this way. Didn't want to see those long gouges striding her abdomen and upper thighs. Didn't want to accept those wounds as real. My Panther clawed me, a female craving vengeance. I recognized those wounds. They were inflicted by a large, strong feline. A deadly feline.

Hands held me. Someone spoke to comfort me. I shook them off. Who would do such a thing? A rogue Skinwalker? What in Ailuros's name was going on?

Someone was killing my people, and now it seemed one of my people had just killed my innocent friend.

There was more to this than I could assimilate and I welcomed the sound of the sirens as they drew closer. Sirens meant Logan was coming. Coming to help me.

But too late for Clancy.

***

When Logan knocked on my door I was tempted to not answer. I didn't want company. Didn't want to see anyone. But I opened it anyway.

Logan's eyes were liquid with sympathy and empathy, and a touch of grief. He'd run through what had been found on Clancy's body. "I thought you should know."

Slivers of metal.

My mind reeled - even the coffee I swallowed had none of its usual comfort. The horrific wounds on Clancy's body were made, not by the claws of a Panther, but by claws fashioned out of metal. But for what damned reason? I rolled the facts around my head and only reached one conclusion.

We had the same coloring, similar height, similar preference in clothing. Clancy's murder was the work of the sadist, of a killer who still stalked the Walkers of the city. Perhaps they'd mistaken Clancy for me. The killer wouldn't know I'd been dismissed. Since I'd discovered their wretched leavings, they'd tried their best to kill me. I'd been smart and strong and evaded them so far. Probably got Clancy killed with my tenacity.

Logan hovered.

I hated hoverers.

Now I knew why he'd been treating me like a piece of cut glass. Why his watchful eyes flitted over me time and again. Swallowing tears that squeezed my throat with silent cruel fingers, I stared out the huge windows at the scenery of darkened buildings, my arms twisted close around me.

Logan shifted behind me. The air at my back warmed as he wrapped his arms around me, holding me so close, drawing away the chill from my veins. My need was instinctive as I sighed and turned, seeking the comfort of his embrace. He held me so close I no longer felt adrift on the sea of my grief.

Logan's comfort strengthened the temptation to give in, but though tears singed my eyes I blinked them away. I had no time to break down into a bawling mess. Metal slivers meant I knew one person who could give me some answers.

I pushed him gently away, offering him a small smile. "Thanks. I think I needed that," I said, my voice soft and gritty.

"Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?" Logan asked. Though I'd moved away his hand had remained at the back of my neck. Now he shifted his palm to cup my cheek, the tender move drawing tears to my eyes again.

I cleared my throat and shook my head again. "I'm fine. I should be going anyway. I've some errands to run."

"Okay." Logan relented. "But you'd better ring me if you need anything, okay?"

"Yes, sir." I answered, giving him a two fingered salute.

Not only had I lost Clancy, my usual side-kick was also AWOL. I'd heard nothing from him since we’d shaken up the Fox-Walker. I knew where he was though. Somewhere out on the streets, looking for Lily. Until today, I hadn't accepted the depth of his love for the girl. Lily had made her dislike of me painfully clear. But, so busy was I in my own personal mayhem, I'd never taken the time to find out why. Too late now.

The city slept. Ignorant of my loss and my guilt. Taking a shattered breath as silently as possible, I channeled a Zen calm. Or tried to.

Clancy was gone. Ripped to pieces and left on my doorstep. A freaking message? Or a fatal mistake. Well, the bastard would pay. He had no idea who he was dealing with. My gaze drifted to my backpack by the door and the reassuring jut of my bow on one side. I planned to keep my weapons close. Insurance. Just in case.

But this time I need the help of someone living, not an inanimate weapon.

***

As soon as Logan left, I locked up and headed for Tara's. I pulled up my jacket sleeve, jogging the three blocks to Tara's shop, worried because I hadn't been able to get her on the phone, and because my desperation was becoming a fearful, tangible thing.

Everywhere I turned I was losing the people I cared for, and I couldn't help but feel the lead weight of fear line my gut.

I dug my hand into my pocket and brought out the tiny plastic packet to lay it carefully on the table. I refrained from dropping it into her palm, preferring not to ask for trouble.

She pulled the bag toward her. The metal slivers glinted as they moved within the plastic. It took only a few seconds more for Tara to recognize them.

"Where did you find this?" The words were harsh, a low growl.

She hadn't yet touched the metal, but her eyes glowed at the sight of it. I didn't fully understand the way a Metal-Singer worked but I knew Tara long enough to know she recognized any metal she had honed.

When she dropped the metal shards into her palm, her shoulders tightened, her whole body one tense muscle. Cold dread seeped into me. More than recognition simmered in her dark eyes as she looked up at me. Horror filled them too. Followed by a film of tears.

Metal-Singers not only honed metal, but were so attuned to the substance they could read the memories contained within them. A sense strengthened when the metal was one which they themselves had honed.

Tara's knew this metal intimately.

Tears streaked her grubby cheeks as she choked on the words, "I never meant for that to happen."

Her words hit me, hammered at me so hard I gasped for breath.

"What are you saying?" But I knew the answer. The weapon that killed Clancy had been created by Tara's hands. I backed away until the edge of a table dug into my hips, all the while keeping my eyes trained on Tara.

Her pale face was paler still, the blue veins in her temple throbbed. I could smell her grief.

"They...what they did to her...." Tara hid her eyes in her hands although I suspected the action did nothing to relieve her agony.

"What do you see?"

"It's...disjointed." Her words came in small pants, as if she were jogging and holding a conversation at the same time. "The memories are jumbled."

She slid to the dust laden floor and propped her elbows on her knees. Her head tilted back against an old washing machine. The walls of the room were lined with old, broken down machinery which Tara used to salvage metal for her weapons. She was good at the outdated concept of recycling.

In her fingers, the shards of metal glowed, absorbing Tara's energy into itself in exchange for its own memories.

She struggled with the visions those pieces of metal brought her. I wanted to comfort my friend. I wanted to scream at her, but in spite of my grief-driven rage I gritted my teeth. I had so few friends left, what good would it do to be angry at Tara. I'd lose one more friend.

So I stayed where I was and waited.

At last the steel slivers lost their glow, and she sighed. A heavy, sad sound which made me want to sob.

Tara got to her feet, and waited for me at the door leading inside the house.

"Come. We both need a drink."

***

What Tara needed was a good dose of vodka. Walkers were immune to alcohol, even Moonshine had the same effect as a glass of water. Tara, on the other hand, was a lush. She'd get drunk on the fumes from a glass. But she needed more than a glass of water to calm her frazzled nerves, so I set about making a pot of coffee. She sat, silent while I puttered around. It looked like she needed comforting more than anything, but she wouldn't allow anyone to see her weak and fragile.

We sat at the kitchen table, steaming pot between us on brown Formica pretending to be oak. It was dark outside and a lonely bulb cast dim light onto the table, sending grotesque shadows across the dulled surface. Tara stared into her now empty cup, smudges of blue underlining her haunted eyes. I clamped my teeth shut on the dozens of questions which wanted out. This was difficult for her in ways I wouldn't be able to understand.

We were both experiencing different angles of this particular grief, and I wasn't about to question the validity of her personal conflict. Although, for a selfish moment I wondered how she would be going through anything worse than my loss of a beloved friend and mentor. I let the thought go, though, and waited for Tara to speak.

Tides rose and fell, suns died, while I waited, but only minutes passed. We had to start somewhere, couldn't sit here all night waiting for the other to talk. Just breathing hurt. Especially when I remembered Clancy would never take a breath again.

"What was it?"

Tara looked at me, confusion darkening her eyes.

"I mean what kind of weapon did the splinters come from?" I kept the harshness out of my voice, speaking soft and slow.

"A set of steel claws, skeletal in construction. Each claw was made to slip onto a finger, and function like the real thing."

"Was it someone you knew? The person who commissioned it?" I had to force myself to pace my inquiry, to curb the rush of fervent questions I needed answers to.

"A Walker by the name of Brand came in a few days ago, explained how he wanted to give his friend a gift. He said his friend had lost his claws
in an accident." The words were barely audible, I had to strain to catch them.

"What kind of accident would do that?" I asked, more to myself than in expectation of an answer.

"I wondered, but I didn't ask. I had no reason to suspect anything. Besides, I don't ask my customers intrusive questions." She stared at the empty cup and I automatically refilled it.

Silence claimed the room again, a heavy and oppressive thing, entwined with guilt, grief and self-recrimination.

She met my eyes; hers were glassy windows to an inner turmoil I could understand. "I thought I was doing something good, but it looks like all I did was put a weapon in the hands of evil."

"So he seemed legit?" I steered clear of further morbid thoughts, sticking to the facts.

"Yeah, he seemed...concerned for his friend. Pretty good act. He had me convinced." A scowl of self-disgust.

"You can't blame yourself. You weren't to know." I found I actually believed those words. Found it comforted me as well. I was relieved. I didn't blame her or hate her. We were both caught up in something I had yet to understand.

"He gave me a sketch of what he wanted. Any metal and I would’ve picked something up. But it was a piece of paper."

"Do you still have the sketch?"

"Yeah, I'll get it for you-"

"Leave it for now, relax a bit, tell me
...what would be the reason for the splinters to break off?" I was curious about those tiny pieces. Shiny little clues left behind, crumbs for us to follow.

"Well, I'd made the claws for ornamental reasons, not as a weapon so I didn't finish the edges as I would have for a blade meant for combat." So simple.

"It was still sharp enough..." I refrained from completing the sentence. Now my skin iced over, hair stood on end.

I placed the packet on the polished wood on the table. It lay between us like an island. Somewhere where danger waited in silent glee, and one step onto it brought with it a mortal price. Tara stared at the glinting metal shards, as if they were alive and would jump out at her any second. She met my eyes, as if hoping I would change my mind, and knowing at the same time I wouldn't, and neither would she.

"Could you? Please? Just to see if you can sense anything else. Get a better idea of who was involved."

Tara's head moved, one jerky nod, as if she couldn't complete the full movement. She grasped the packet with shaky fingers, and tipped the contents onto her palm for the second time this evening.

Outside, the streetlights shone and cars chugged by. A bird cried a twilight farewell. Nobody knew how grief bound two girls together at this table. Two strands of mourning, vengeance and guilt entwined into one dark skein.

So far removed from school rooms and homework and summer holidays. My thoughts flicked to Anjelo and his absent self,
to Lily and her anger toward me. To the hot young agent who haunted my steps and my thoughts. Would he long to be home, shooting hoops with his dad, rather than doing serious work for his supposedly non-existent agency? What was wrong here that we traded our youth for deadly misadventure?