Touched With Sight (10 page)

“
Who?”

“
Your friend.”

“
Sharon?”

Her human friend had often expressed some unhappy jealousy over Catherine's build and figure, usually cloaked in self-deprecating humor. Catherine knew she was in better shape than most and modestly attractive by human standards, but her reputation detracted heavily from that. She didn't dwell on it.

Did Sharon?

He's trying to turn you against your friends
, Predator hissed, making Catherine shiver.

Was that it? Was that what he was doing?

With effort, Catherine tore her thoughts away from Sharon. The witch—Finn—glanced down at her, as if surprised to find that she was still standing there. “Shouldn't you be getting to class?”

“
When are you going to tell me what happened to David?”

His face closed off. “Later.”

Catherine grabbed him by the shoulder, roughly. A look of surprise crossed his face—what, that she could touch him without setting off the curse?—before it settled into one she was more familiar with: one of condescension. “Unhand me.”

“
I want a definite time.”

“
Play along,” he said. “Then we'll see.”

“
You don't know anything, do you?” Catherine made herself as tall as she was able. “This is a ruse.”

“
You'll never know, will you?” he said cryptically.

“
That's a raw deal and you know it.”

“
Too bad,” he said lightly. “It's the only one you'll get.”

She swallowed back the insult on her tongue. “Fine,” she said coldly. “But in the future, don't drop bombs without diffusing them first—or they might just blow up in your face.”

The day passed slowly in that fashion.

Finn insisted upon accompanying her to every class, trailing behind like a shadow despite her insistence that nothing eventful was going to take place. He just repeated his earlier argument that they needed to be seen. Together.

She lost count of how many times she was forced to introduce the witch, explaining who he was and why he was there. Her teachers, never pleased with her to begin with, were not happy that she had brought him along on such short notice, and several told her so in front of the class. One even went so far as to threaten to call the principal.

But as introductions wore on, their skeptical frowns disappeared, thawing into bedazzled charm. Catherine was not fooled. She saw the magic around him surging in a suffocating tide. She could smell it. He was using glamors to compel the teachers to like him.

Lunch was worse. Sharon had invited onlookers—or they'd decided to come of their own accord. Everyone had heard about her so-called boyfriend and wanted to get a look at the human foolish enough to date the school's resident Bad Girl.

“God…he looks just as bad as she is…just what we need, another wannabe-bad-ass.”

“
Whoever he is, he must be pretty tough if he managed to tame the wild shrew…”

Who that was, Catherine had no idea. If the Shakespeare reference was any indication, it had to be one of the honors students.
Or maybe even a teacher
, she thought grimly. Adults could be as judgmental as their adolescent counterparts. Maybe even more so.

“
God. I didn't even think she was into men.”

Catherine met the eyes of every single gossip monger and shamelessly glared them into silence. At first, it was out of habit—she was reestablishing dominance—but the petty hatred helped to focus the feverish burning of the loathing she felt for the witch.

She didn't have to do much talking to him, thank gods. Sharon spent most of the time engaging the witch, which was fine. Finn did not appear to be enjoying their conversation; he kept trying to steer it back towards Sterling Rep, but Sharon wasn't having it.
Even better
.

Ashley chimed in periodically, trying to deflect the conversation away from the subject of Sharon and back towards neutral topics. Or even towards Catherine herself. It was sweet, having Sharon's kid sister jump to her defense like that. But Catherine wasn't even remotely interested in the witch and she was pretty sure her body language showed it. She thought—she hoped—that Sharon had picked up on those cues, and that was why she was being so forward.

Ashley gave her a frustrated look that Catherine chose to ignore. She must have seemed like an enabler, or willfully blind. If only she knew. Oh, if only she knew.

Most of the people at the table were there to ask questions about New England, where Finn had said he was from. Questions like did he know such-and-such friend/relative, had he been to such-and-such monument? I hear they have cool paintings there. Questions that made Catherine want to bang her head against the wall. Thankfully, he was able to answer reasonably enough.

More than reasonably. Listening to him describe Boston, Cape Cod, and Essex, she could almost believe that he really had been to those places. And who knew? Maybe he had been. There was no telling where his Council duties had taken him; they wanted to have their fingers in all the pies.

He was trying to lull her into a false sense of confidence with this thin veneer of civility. But she saw right through the façade he had constructed so carefully, to the monster which lay beneath.

Finn turned away from Sharon and their eyes met. Such a dark green, his eyes. They reminded her of the forest, of all the dangers lying dormant behind that verdant cloak of leaves.

He slid a paper at her, and his fingers brushed his arm as he did. Catherine had been scowling at a lingering freshman, warning her away so that she, too, wouldn't become caught in the crossfire of the witch's compulsion glamor, and jumped in surprise at the unwanted contact.

“What's that, Finn?” Sharon asked, making a not-so-playful grab for the white slip. Her grasping hand was fast, but Catherine was faster. She snatched it, and growled, “Piss off, Sharon.”

“
It's nothing,” said the witch, too eloquently to be considered defensive. “You were saying—?”

Their voices trailed off into nothingness as she unrolled the slip. She was very good at tuning things out. Had to be, or she would have gone insane otherwise. It had happened to other shifters, in the past. Just one of the reason so many shape-shifters chose not to integrate into society and become glamors, choosing instead to live out their lives in the wild, as a beast.

The slip of paper was filled with rushed, slanting script. The many flourishes and curls hinted at calligraphy lessons, but couldn't disguise the coldness of the note he had written her. If anything, they exacerbated its effect:
You're going to have to try harder than that.

She glanced at him sidelong, letting her eyes burn yellow for a fleeting moment. A warning.

He chose not to heed it. Instead he looped his arm around her waist, sliding her along the cafeteria bench, until she was sitting close enough to him that her leg was touching his. “Very good,” he murmured, pitching his voice so that it was at the threshold of her hearing and hers alone, stroking her hip purposefully. She stared straight ahead, not looking at him. “Much better.”

She recalled his proposition to her, the other night. His anger when she refused him. Part of this was sexual, yes—she could smell his arousal, but whether it was because of her or because of the power he perceived himself having over her was anyone's guess—but there was more to it.

He had lost face that night, and now he smelled like an animal about to make a bid for dominance. Humans had no word for the
desire
to be aggressive and win, to take on the pack and reassert one's self as leader. Animals did, but it was felt and experienced in emotions and smells. The sharp tang of male hormones, a possessive hand splayed on a thigh.

She grimaced.

That was something humans did not understand. That such conquests were not about lust, or even attraction, but about power and humiliation.

Her one consolation was that it was Friday, and there was a whole weekend for the novelty of the witch to wear off. The attention span of the average high school student was about two minutes—coincidentally, the same amount of time it took to spread a salacious rumor. By Monday, Catherine doubted her peers would even remember the witch's name.

She hoped so, anyway. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could endure. She felt—

Hunted
, Predator said.
Like Prey.

Yes, she thought. That was it. She felt as if she had become Prey.

She's very good at pretending to be human.

There were tells. She twitched a lot, tilting her head towards any sound that startled her, and she maintained eye contact for too long—or too short—an amount of time to fully pass as human. She didn't make a sound when she walked, and carried herself in a half-slouch that made her look as if she were seconds away from pouncing. And then there was the way her arms were corded with veins, betraying the strength that her small body kept closely hidden inside.

She stiffened, and Finn knew that she had felt his gaze and that it was unwelcome.

He didn't really care.

Keeping his hand on her thigh, he turned the conversation back towards Sterling Rep. The more he learned about the organization, the more suspicious he became. Why would a school club  require so much stealth and secrecy? And then there was the fact that they held their meetings after dark—Slayers tended to convene at night, because they had roots in the occult.

And then there was the name itself—Sterling Rep. The weapon of choice for Slayers was
silver
.

Somewhere, a bell sounded, signifying the end of lunch period. The shifter moved to get up, but he tightened his grip on her, indicating that he wanted her to remain seated while her friends left. He was surprised by the heat of her skin, as though she were lit within by a raging fire.

“It's them,” he said, when they were alone. “I'm sure of it.”

The shifter didn't look at him. “Then you don't need me anymore.”

“Au contraire. You are my key to entrance.”

Now she did look at him, and her face was blazing defiance. “What?”

“You have a reputation—troubled child, bound to slip through the cracks after graduation. Just the type, in their eyes, to turn to drugs or prostitution. Imagine how eager they will be to reform you.” She flinched, and he allowed himself a smile. “They'll be falling over themselves.”

“
Those who live in glass houses.”

So she knew a thing or two about him, as well. He let his eyes harden. “I heard the rumors. They are everywhere. People were very quick to warn me away from you. That's not exactly conducive to being a Glamor, is it? You're supposed to deflect attention. Not attract it.”

“They don't know what I am.”

“
Are you so sure?”

She was silent.

“I think some have started to wonder.”

She let out a small gasp as the metal seared her skin, and her face twisted, becoming animal with anguish and pain. “Stop it,” she said. “Get out of my head. You don't
know
me.”

“
You're a freak,” he said bluntly. “Even among your own kind, you will never be accepted.”

She raised her hand to slap him, then apparently thought better of it. She brushed her hair out of her face instead. “So are you.”

“Not quite.”

“
Only because you live a life of lies,” she said. “I don't hide what I am.”

“
Oh no?” Finn tugged her closer. “So it's common knowledge, then, that you—a physically mature shifter—possess no settled form. That you can see and read magic auras. And that sometimes—” he let his voice drop “—you dream things before they really happen.”

Her eyes widened.

She said something. Her voice was so soft, he couldn't quite make it out. But an unpleasant shiver tore through his body all the same. “What did you say?” he demanded.

“
Nothing.” And she jerked away from him, putting herself out of reach. “And now I'm late for class. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Finn shook his head slowly. He could have sworn that she'd said “Shadow Thane.”

Chapter Eight

Catherine sensed he was going to speak before he had even opened his mouth and in that same burst of prescience, knew she was going to dislike whatever it was that he was going to say.

“
Your friends are watching.”

Everyone has been watching. No thanks to you.

She had never had so many eyes on her at once, not even when she had almost been run over by that car on school property. She did not like the attention, or the speculation that came from it. When her behavior was being so thoroughly analyzed, there was no room for mistakes. It was like being in a cage. A cage of unblinking, unwavering eyes. She couldn't break free.

Sharon and Ashley were standing in the parking lot, accompanied by Sharon's boyfriend. The three of them were huddled around a navy blue Toyota—probably Mike's—looking away at the moment, but in a way that suggested that they had been staring intensely mere seconds ago.

Catherine eyed them back warily, her eyes lingering on Mike. There was something about him that smelled slightly … off. Tainted, almost. Like spoiled meat. She couldn't put her finger on
why
, though, as he was fully human. Without a doubt. Maybe it was just that she didn't like him. With a shudder of disgust, she remembered the way he'd leered at her as he'd kissed Sharon.

Without turning her head, she cut her eyes at the witch. He was leaning against the bus sign, watching her friends watch them—they couldn't help themselves, the humans. Unlike her, he appeared to have no problem with being stared at.
Probably reveling in the attention. Bastard.

She pulled her book bag more firmly onto her lap. “Don't encourage them.”

“But isn't that the point?” The witch tilted his head lazily to one side as he regarded her in place of her friends, making Catherine wish she hadn't spoken at all. “You want them to believe us.”

There was a light emphasis placed on the collective pronoun, and she hated him for it. But she would not rise to his paltry bait. She refused to let him make a savage out of her. She would not lose her temper. She dug her fingers into her bag. She would not.

She could feel his eyes on her, though, running down her spine like sandpaper.

“
Your human finds it odd that you act so distantly towards me.”

The smell of pencil shavings filled her nostrils as she inhaled. “You were squeezing me so tightly that they couldn't have pried us apart with a crowbar,” she said icily.

“Yes, and you leaned away from me the entire time.” The expression in his eyes mirrored the dark gleam of cruelty ensconced within his viper's heart. “You could attempt to cooperate, you know.”

Attempt? Attempt? She was making an attempt. She hadn't wanted to get involved, hadn't wanted to endanger her family. He had blackmailed her into this. And this little ruse involved feigning feelings that not only weren't there, but also went against everything she had ever been programmed to feel. How could he assume that she would be able to play this role exactly to his specifications? It was akin to telling the lamb to lie with the lion.

Intimacy had never come easily to her. Even among her family, physical contact was rare. Too easy to be perceived as aggression, if the overtures were wrong. Easier to maintain a respectful distance, and to let one's affection be known through nuturance and protection.

With the brief—all too brief—exception of David, she had never had a boyfriend. He had been the only male she had ever kissed. Grief welled up inside her body, creating an enormous lump in her throat. She felt like a snake struggling to swallow her prey whole—although nothing she had ever swallowed in snake form had ever felt so … insurmountable. Catherine gulped and ducked her head before anyone could see the grief plastered across her face.

“I have a boyfriend.” She glared at the camouflage pattern on her bag. It was blurring rapidly before her eyes.
No tears
, she scolded herself. “It isn't you. Sorry to put a damper on your little ego trip.”

“
You weren't exactly my first choice, either.”

“
Yeah,” she said. “Karen's probably rolling in her grave.”

“
I don't think so,” said the witch. An odd expression flickered over his face. Irritation? Frustration? Anger?—it was a blend of all three, and then some. Predator pricked her ears, scenting blood.

“
She didn't love you,” Catherine said, and the witch's head jerked towards her. She saw the magic around him surge and recoil, as if whacked by a bat. “That's it, isn't it? Why you're being so blasé. Easy to forget about someone if they were never worth remembering in the first place.”

“
The feeling was mutual, and now I suggest you drop the subject.”

Nice to know he had at least some weak points. “It must be nice, being so cold,” she observed nastily.

“You're one to talk, shape-shifter. You fuck the way others fight wars or negotiate business contract. Your species has built an entire social hierarchy around dominance and submission. You and I both know love—” he spat the word “—has nothing to do with it, when you're an animal rutting in the woods.”

“
Typical witch,” Catherine growled. “Condemning those different from you because you fear what's inside yourselves. I bet you jerk off with the shades drawn and your eyes closed.”

She thought he was going to attack her, for a moment, and her arms flexed in wary readiness. She had hit a raw nerve there, but wasn't sure which part of her remark had provoked such a reaction. He fears something, she thought. But he had given no reaction when she had called him a vermin-lover before.

Perhaps…
. She looked at his flaming aura.
Perhaps he's a virgin.

Then she scoffed. What did it matter? There were plenty of virgins who didn't act like psychopaths. She was looking for excuses to explain away the fact that something inside this witch was horribly broken.

There was a pause as he visibly composed himself, and when he spoke, his voice was as jagged as broken glass. “Come here.”

Her heart started to flap like the wings of a bird, mirroring the agitated tingling in her limbs. His aura was fluctuating again—but this time, it was moving towards her, like outstretched fingers curling around a small creature before choking it of life. She scooted down the bench. Was his aura attracted to hers? She had never heard of that happening before.

Is it dangerous?

He expected her to cower, and edging back had already played into those expectations. She gave him a look of disdain that only barely masked her fear and said simply, “No.”

“No?” Ice rifted through the word, shooting it full of cracks. Cracks one could fall through, she thought. If one isn't real fucking careful. “Are you afraid?”

“
Of you?” She bared her teeth in a sardonic smile.

He closed the distance between them in two steps. “Of what I'm going to do to you.”

The air around them grew charged with power, as if the two of them were standing in the middle of a storm cell. Catherine could have sworn, for a moment, that she'd heard the sound of thunder in the distance.
Something is happening
, Predator bristled in agitation. Prey whimpered.

She felt them curl around each other as if for strength, and her unease grew.

But the witch wasn't casting a spell.

She'd be able to see it if he was.

…wouldn't she?

What if it's a different kind of spell? Something new?

Cold fear washed over her. The backs of her knees hit the bench as she shot to her feet.

“
Get away from me,” she said. “You have two seconds. And if you don't—”

“
What?” he said, in that same deathly calm. “What will you do?”

Before she could move—before she could even draw in her next breath to complete the warning taking shape on her tongue, in spite of the ominous tingle of the curse—his lips crashed down violently upon hers. All the restraint he'd possessed up until that moment broke, she felt it as he pulled her closer, until their chests were brushing, and his hand tilted her head upward, correcting the awkward angle to kiss her more deeply, to fuse their lips together in a potent blend of fire, ice—and, yes,
magic
. This was what he'd wanted. He wanted her, and he hated himself for it, but he hated her more, and his hatred scalded her just as potently as venom.

Hatred could be intoxicating, she realized.

The air whipped and crackled around them, as all intelligent thought ceased. Because in that moment she realized two things. The witch didn't just want to fuck her; he wanted to own her, possess her,
control
her. And he was crazy enough to spill blood to get his way.
Oh shit
, she thought shakily.

“
Don't talk,” he said, pausing just long enough to get the words out.

He kissed her, and the magic that had been building up steadily around them exploded, raining down in arcs of silver fire that made her half-remember a prophecy from her dreams.

(One by one, they all will die.)

And fainter still, the death knell of a dragon.

Something had been set into motion.

“
No,” she whispered, but her lips were frozen, and would not move. She remembered her first dream, the one with the witch. Was
he
the creature who stalked her in her dreams? The one who destroyed the world?

The one who destroyed
her
?

Beneath their feet, the ground rumbled. Her hands tightened around the fistfuls of his shirt she couldn't remember grabbing and she released him with a start, trying once more to pull away. He tightened his hold again, mashing her body against his, his fingers skirting beneath the hem of her shirt. Soft, feathery strokes that made her skin tingle—his touch was as gentle as his kiss was rough. His fingers, so cold against the warm roots of her hair. She jerked, hands clenching. Against her fists, his heartbeat was eerily slow. Throughout all this, he remained unmoved.

Catherine was jarred unpleasantly from her thoughts by the feel of his hands on her throat. He was loosening her collar, freeing the small white buttons from their respective holes. It wasn't until she choked on her own spit that she realized she hadn't swallowed or even breathed. She didn't want him anywhere near her neck. Not like this.

“
You're like an animal caught in a trap.”

The witch laughed softly, cruelly, when she struggled, brushing his lips over her jawline as she desperately tried to catch her breath.

“And you know something else?”

She really didn't.

“You aren't getting away.
I know what you are
.”

His lips were level with her ear now.

“I know what you are. You're a crime against nature. I could have had you killed. Had your entire family killed for harboring you. I could kill you know and then disappear; and no one would be the wiser.”

This isn't supposed to happen.

Prey made a sluggish attempt at a protest, but she seemed half-asleep.
Then why didn't you?

The witch met her eyes. “
That
would be cold.”

He ran the pad of his thumb along the underside of her lip, applying the barest hint of pressure. She let her head loll to one side, breathing unevenly, feeling as if she'd been caught in a trance. Her breasts were tingling. Her gut, like a clenched fist, squeezing out drops of liquid heat.

No, no, nonono.

“
But you lit a match and set me on fire,” he said, and while his voice was still calm, hypnotic almost, there was an edge to it now. “And now I don't know what I am. But I do know this: I will own you. And when I'm through, there will be nothing left of you but ash.” She drew in another breath when he kissed her throat, and it hitched into a gasp as she felt the punishing sting of his teeth.

“
What the
fuck
?”

The words were torn from her lips, as his hold on her broke.

He'd used a fucking glamor on her, to bite her in the same place that the males of her kind bit their females when they wanted to mark them as mates—or put them in their place. The message was subtle, but painfully clear: he considered her beneath him—in the crudest way possible.

With a snarl, Catherine shoved him away from her, tearing his shirt. He stumbled, and crashed into the side of the shaded bench. The pain that followed was swift and vengeful, and she thought she might have tasted blood in the back of her mouth, but she was beyond caring. As his hold on her weakened, and then died away, so, too, did her self-restraint.

“You goddamn vermin-lover, how
dare
you.”

The witch said nothing as he climbed to his feet with exaggerated dignity.

Keeping one hand clasped to her throat, she said, “Say something, you bastard.”

He let his eyes drift down to her open shirt collar before letting them climb back towards her livid face. “Are you going to cry?” he asked her quietly. “I hope you do.”