Touched With Sight (14 page)

“Looks like I'll have another band to add to my collection,” he said, giving the witch an appreciative glance. “Allies don't merit bands, I'm afraid. We're supposed to kill 'em anyway, but you're not really worth the cost of a silver bullet, so I'll look the other way if you want to ditch the witch and leave.” His thin lips crooked into a sarcastic smile. “I'm not a bad guy, you know.”

Catherine snarled, letting her lips draw back from her teeth; her incisors already becoming the scooped incisors of the wolf. The urge to Change had been strong this whole time, and she had been suppressing it until now. The Slayer took several large steps backwards. It hadn't been a human sound, and had clearly taken him off-guard. “What the hell—”

She lunged, still in her midway form, and her claws gouged strips of fabric from his jacket and t-shirt. The two of them hit the floor with a heavy thud that echoed in the empty restroom. He had a thick neck, so she'd have to bite pretty hard to kill him. He was squirming so hard that her teeth sank into his exposed shoulder instead—and he tasted—he tasted good. Like meat. Fresh meat.

No!

Of course, she could also go for his stomach, which was currently unprotected, since his hands were wrapped tightly around her muzzle, to keep her from biting his face off. One quick slice across the belly should be enough to spill his guts. Two to be safe.

Catherine seized the reigns of the wolf, yanking her back from the carnage she wished to inflict. And she did wish it, quite badly. Millions of years of evolution had honed the lupine predator's instincts with the same slow, considering forethought as an artist carving away at a large block of marble. Combined with her instinctive hatred of Slayers, it posed as a catalyst to blood-lust. Had she been fully-Changed, stopping would have been even harder, if not impossible.

In her hesitation, he kneed her in the chest—hard—bruising several ribs. She landed against the stall and felt the cheap metal crumple inwards from the impact of her body. Her head knocked back against the door, and white bursts of light exploded in her field of vision.

She spat blood—and it was his, not hers, and part of her was reluctant to let it go.

Mike recovered quickly; his movements hinted at years martial arts training. She found the barrel of the gun aimed loosely in her direction as he composed himself. “Well. Took me by surprise there. Won't happen again,” he added darkly, “You shoulda walked when you had the chance.”

Her clothes were still mostly intact. The claws on her feet had sliced up her sneakers pretty badly, though, and the displacement of her ribs had stretched her shirt and jacket, splitting a few of the seams. With one hand on the stall for support, and the other massaging the back of her head, exploring the damage, Catherine began to rise to her feet. “Don't move,” Mike said. “Or I'll shoot. Get back against the stall. On your knees. Hands above your head.”

Catherine froze, confused by the conflicting orders. Don't move? Get back? How could she possibly comply with both?

“
Now!” the Slayer said, losing patience. “Get down.”

In the corner of her eye, she saw the witch's lips move soundlessly. A spell? Mike's attention was still fixed on her since she was the one who had attacked him—but if he thought the witch was mounting an attack, then he would pull gun on both of them without a second thought.

Distract him, then.

She looked over her shoulder at the stall behind her. It wasn't hard to fake her fear.

“Don't bother running. Not even vampires could outrun these bullets.” Mike corrected his aim. “And that stall is steel, not iron. You put up a good fight—better than the two shape-shifters I got before you, even, although that's not saying much—but it's over. You're finished.”

What the hell was the witch waiting for?

The Slayer's finger hooked lazily around the trigger. “Shame about what you are. You're kinda cute. Cuter than that loudmouthed friend of yours, anyway. I don't suppose you want one last fling before you die?” The smile he gave her was horribly ironic, filled with a sick kind of hope.

Panic began to bubble through her body. Did the witch want her to die after all? Two birds with one stone? “Go to hell,” she said icily.

“That's what they all say.”

The scent of sulfur filled her nostrils. She turned, just in time to see a wavering ball of light and fire shoot past her nose and slam right into Mike's chest. He gasped, clutching at the front of his t-shirt, as if trying to claw right through it. She could see smoke coming out beneath his fingers. The gun clattered to through the floor, sliding beneath the bathroom stall. The sickly odor of burnt flesh and hair wafted through the room and Catherine gagged loudly, covering her mouth with her hand to keep from throwing up.

And then the tremors started, as he lost the muscle control of his body. His arms and legs moved spasmodically, following the path of the current. Then he went still, which was worse; his hands were frozen into useless claws, blood was trickling out of his ears and nose to pool on the floor; and he looked as if he'd been struck by rigor mortis. The cloth where the ball had passed through his flesh was badly singed, and Catherine could see blood, burnt black, through the torched cloth.

“
Why didn't you kill him when you had the chance?”

Because he smells like meat.

She shuddered violently and looked away from the Slayer's liquefied eyes. There was little to separate him from the ground beef that was still on her plate.

Her gorge rose, and she swallowed noisily. “You wouldn't understand.”

The witch eyed her intently. “There are shifters who don't think twice about eating human flesh.”

Like me.
Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. Oh gods.

“
We can't just leave him here.”

“
I'll take care of it.”

“
What am I supposed to tell Sharon?”

“
That you aren't feeling well.”

“
What are you going to do? Put a glamor on them?”

“
I'll take care of it,” he repeated, and each word fell like a stone from his lips. “Go.”

And with a shaky breath, she did.

Finn had disposed of the body, incinerated it, until nothing remained but a pile of ash, which he then flushed down one of the toilets. It didn't bother him. He cared little for humans. It wasn't even murder, really. If anything, he should have been pleased—this proved his hypothesis that the Slayers had already infiltrated the local school system. But he was troubled, nonetheless.

“I've never seen a shape-shifter turn down a free meal.” Her face had been white. She refused to even look at the body. And her palms had been wet with smears of blood where she had let her nails puncture the skin. Finn had never seen anything like it. “She was fighting her instincts.”

“
It was one of the terms of the truce.”

“
She could always hunt in secret,” Finn pointed out. “Plenty of humans wandering unaware.”

“
I doubt it,” said Graymalkin. “There was never any blood under her nails or on her breath.”

Finn was lying on his bed, with Graymalkin curled up against his bare chest for warmth. Her answer gave him pause. He had forgotten that he had sent his familiar to spy on the savage. Now he wondered if the shifter had held his familiar close like this. “Is it like that with all of them?” he wondered, running his fingers through her fur. “Do they truly covet the taste of human flesh?”

“Most of the ones you hunt aren't Glamors,” she said. “They're more beast than human.”

“
That doesn't answer my question.”

“
I'm not a psychic,” was her irate response. “I suppose it varies from shifter to shifter.”

“
In that case, why fight it?” he said. “Why resist who you are, if it means living with temptation?”

“
Like you?”

His familiar shot him a very pointed look. Finn looked at her darkly. “You know what I mean. She wanted to devour him,” he said, letting his voice convey his disgust. “She's a maneater.”

“Perhaps she doesn't want to be.” She glanced at him. “Does this change how you feel?”

“
No.” Finn closed his eyes and leaned back. “I know full well of what their kind is capable of.”

“
You have spilled plenty of blood, yourself,” she pointed out.

“
Yes.” He laughed shortly. “In that regard, I suppose we are well-matched, the shifter and I.”

There was a long silence. “You no longer wish to destroy her.”

“To kill her—no.” His smile was grim. “But what I want may very well do that, in the end.”

Neither of them said anything else for the rest of the night.

Alec St. Claire strode up to the bar. It was in the very heart of the slums, and a notorious hangout for vampires. In spite of the icy weather, he was only wearing jeans and a T-shirt. With a lazy smile, he leaned back against the chair, one leg on the seat, and waited.

It wasn't long before a young, shaken-looking woman came up to take his order. Not particularly surprising, given the environment she worked in, but he was amused all the same.

“
Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, staring down at the silverware.

“
That all depends,” he said softly, giving her a meaningful look. “What's your blood type, babe?”

Her eyes widened and he allowed his lips to part in a grin that revealed his sharp teeth.

She actually ran from his table.

“
You were supposed to keep a low profile,” an annoyed voice said, from behind.

He nodded his head, a show of respect more than agreement, and smiled. Lips closed, this time. “Forgive me, your highness.” Another figure joined him at the table. Robed, as many of the patrons in this establishment were. “It's been a long time. Nearly fourteen years, correct?”

“Something like that.”

“
I assume this is about your message. I must say, I found it quite intriguing.” He tilted his head, in a gesture reminiscent of a bird of prey. “What makes you think I, or any other member of my kind, would join you? After all, you didn't exactly complain when we became flavor of the month.”

“
Nor did you and yours, during the witch trials,” the witch king said. “I think we can both admit that mistakes have been made on both sides.”

Alec closed his eyes. “Such sycophancy. So you want something from me. What is it?”

The robed figure leaned closer. “My operative has been missing for over a week. His close contact has turned up dead. He has two objects of value in his hands. One of them is Slayer artifact.”

Without opening his eyes, he chuckled. “And I'm supposed find them? How original.”

“You advertise as a tracker. The best that there is; that is why I am here.” He gestured briefly, as if demonstrating what a sacrifice on his part that was.

“
I didn't deny it.” He opened his eyes. The irises were the color of rubies in the dim lighting of the bar. “How are you going to make this worth my while?”

“
That would be the other object.” The robed figure leaned closer. “He's also got a shape-shifter.”

Alec sat up slightly; along with the glow of amusement in his eyes was a predatory gleam. “Go on.”

“You simply bring me the boy and the book. I don't care what happens to the girl.”

“
Tempting as that offer is, I'm pretty sure that violates the little treaty you and the shifters made after your war,” he murmured, leaning his elbow on the table. “I'm afraid I must decline.”

“
Things are changing.” The witch king leaned forward. “This shaky time of peace is about to crumble, and when it does, a new era will rise from the rubble. It's quite possible that the blood trade will be regulated once more, for the first time in centuries. Do you follow?”

“
I do.” Alec leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “That's quite a deal.”

“
Better than the paltry scraps the Slayers toss you, I imagine.”

Alec bared his teeth. “You continue to astonish me, your highness.”

“Then you accept.”

“
Perhaps.” He straightened his t-shirt out. “What is she like?”

“
Healthy. Female. Young,” he reeled off the descriptions, as if describing an animal.

Alec rolled his eyes. “What does she
look
like?”

“
That is no concern of mine.” The witch's eyes flashed angrily at the mere idea of finding one of their kind attractive. “I'll leave that distinction to you.”

“
Hmm.”

“
Are we agreed?”

Alec bit into his wrist, and let a few drops of the black blood fall on the table. “I should think so.”

Chapter Eleven

Catherine was getting ready for bed, setting aside her nightshirt and a bottle of unscented body wash for her shower, when she happened to catch a whiff of ozone. She nearly screamed; the only thing that stopped her was the knowledge that her parents and brother were just down the hall. They would hear the sound and immediately come running and that, she thought, as she looked at the witch balanced precariously on the eaves outside her window, would not be good.

She tossed the clothes and gel on her bed and stalked to the window, ripping it open with a loud grating sound. “What are you doing here?”

“
I'm going to the town cemetery.”

“
Why? Did you kill somebody?” she asked, starting to cross her arms and then changing her mind.

He looked perfectly at ease balanced there on the shingles. “I'm looking for something.”

“So it's grave-robbing then? Count me out.” She started to close the window. He reached in and caught her arms. Catherine stared at him stupidly, unable to believe this.

“
You're going to take me there.”

“
No, I'm not! This is—” she fumbled for an appropriate word “—this is insane. You can't just come into my bedroom and order me to escort you around.”

He just looked at her. They both knew he could.

“Why does it have to be me? Can't you look it up like a normal person?”

“
No.”

She felt like crying. “Why?”

“Because, as you so kindly pointed out, you know this town better than me and one of your terms was not being left in the dark.”

Oh…shit. She had said that, hadn't she? “I changed my mind. You can go without me.”

The witch swung into her bedroom window. “You're taking me—willing, or not.”

That sounded so wrong. She grabbed an unopened perfume bottle. “Stay away from me.”

“I don't think you want to force me into using a glamor,” he said quietly.

Her fingers tightened around the perfume bottle, and she cocked her arm back. “I seem to remember another one of my terms being that you don't treat me like a tool.”

“I told you, shifter mine, that I only break the rules when necessary.” His eyes flicked to her hand. “Now put that down and be reasonable.”

Without taking her eyes off him or setting down the bottle she said, “Give me five minutes.”

“Three.”

“
Four.
”

“
Four minutes,” he agreed, swinging back through the window and dropped out of sight. She heard him hit the wet grass below.

Catherine punched her arms through the sleeves of her coat. With a cautious look at the window, she kicked off her sweatpants and pulled on some jeans instead. No matter how many times she swallowed, a hard lump remained in her throat. Why did he want to go to the cemetery? What if he really had killed someone? She didn't want to get involved in murder!

“Three and a half minutes,” his voice said, from somewhere close by.

“
Shit,” she growled, and started hunting for her rain boots. Her head was pounding, her entire body jolting with nerves as she searched the room for her shoes, which she remembered seeing by the door what seemed like hours ago—

“
Time's up,” he said; and she didn't have to turn around to know he was at the window.

“
I can't find my boots.”

“
By the desk.”

Sure enough, there they were. She tugged them on angrily, wishing he would fall off the window to his death. That would certainly give her one less thing to worry about.

He watched her as she jerked the laces taut. “You're not like the other savages.”

“
This again,” she said flatly. “We've been over this before.”

“
You haven't even been blooded, have you?”

Blooding—how did he know about blooding? It was a horrible word to describe an equally horrible rite; the traditionalists used it to refer to the killing of their most challenging game, humans. Most Glamors, like herself, didn't practice; but there were plenty around that did. She shivered, remembering the Slayer, and how very badly she wanted to rend him apart with her teeth.

She could have been blooded this very day.

“
That's a very primitive ritual. Not all shape-shifters are bloodthirsty cannibals.”

Fucking liar.

“Looking at you, I could almost believe it.”

Before she could ask what he meant by that, the witch asked meaningfully, “Were you close to the shifter boy?”

A sound escaped her mouth: the sound of all the air escaping from her lungs at once, leaving Catherine feeling as if she'd been socked in the stomach. As if he'd read her mind that day in front of the school, and seen right through the veneer of irritation; straight through to the core of pain and guilt that lay dormant beneath. Because for several days, she had forgotten all about David.

Don't ever change.

But she had changed—for the worse. David would not like who she was now. What she was.

She swallowed with effort. Too much time had elapsed to continue under the pretense of normalcy and the witch was still waiting for her response. She managed to gasp, “Not that close.”

Ouch. That sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.

“
My condolences,” he murmured.

Catherine whirled on him with the same amount of anger that had precipitated their duel. “Nobody said he was dead!”
Yes, keep telling yourself that.

“
I apologize. I have overstepped my bounds.” He bowed his head, but didn't sound the least bit contrite. Bastard. “Forgive my trespass.”

The dam broke. She could deal with the witch's arrogance and condescension—she put up with it all the time at school. And she could even deal with the endless ring of violence she'd suddenly stepped into. Her instincts took care of that. But she wasn't used to people tiptoeing around her.

Her eyes blurred with tears. She looked away, feeling her cheeks heat up as it always did when she cried. On TV, human women always looked so beautiful and vulnerable when they cried; with Catherine, it was a messy business involving snot and tears and puffy eyes. With a muffled cry, she threw her hands over her face. Everything—David—the witch—the Slayer—it was too much.

“
Are those tears?” he asked. “Are you crying?”

“
Leave me alone.” She felt the warm liquid trickling down her cheeks, hot and sticky, leaking through the cracks in her fingers to spatter her carpet. She couldn't seem to stop them.

“
Why?”

She wasn't sure whether he whether he was asking about the tears, or the order that had followed them. She compromised by staying silent. But she couldn't shut out the guilt. The horrible, horrible guilt. It was her fault David had been there that night. He came because she had asked. And now she couldn't go for help because it would put her family in danger.

His hand brushed against hers, and she thought he was trying to pry her hands away. But he simply left his hand there, pressed against her own. It was very odd. She couldn't find it within herself to push him away, though. She was so…so tired.

“
I'm sure he was aware of the risks.”

It was as if his words had echoed off some secret fear lying innate inside her. Her breath rushed in too quickly, nearly choking her, and she pulled away as if she'd been burned. “Don't talk to me about risks,” she said. Her voice was shaking slightly. “You know nothing about risks.”

“I might surprise you.”

“
You couldn't if you tried.” She stepped back, wiping her face on her sleeves, before lifting her head. “We were forced into hiding because of your kind. We were hunted for sport, the same way you tracked me in that gully.” She walked closer. “Your caste has no idea what tyranny is.”

He rolled up his sleeves. She set her jaw, bracing herself for a blow that didn't come. “Look.”

There were thick whorls of scars around his wrists, pearly white and glittering like veins of a precious metal embedded in quartz. She looked at him. His face was completely emotionless.

“
Th-those are Bleeders' marks,” she choked.

“
Yes.” He rolled down his sleeves and rested an elbow against the wall above her head.

Her heart began to pound. The Bleeders never left their victims alive. It was a liability. Witches held grudges, and hated Slayers. That meant that he'd escaped with his life.

“So somewhere out there is a Slayer with a vial of your blood.”

His teeth showed. It wasn't a smile. “I doubt it's still in a vial.”

Oh Goddess, he was scaring her. She took a step back. He followed.

“
I know you looked at that book. You've seen the recipes. I'm sure you can guess what a drop of my blood could do in the wrong hands.  What it could do to something like you.”

“
One arrow. One bullet. And this would still forever. I've seen it happen. I know.”

The gun. Her hand clapped over her chest, as if taking an oath, and she sank against the wall.

“It's foolish to allow yourself to be ruled by your emotions.”

“
As opposed to having none at all?” she asked. All the fight had gone out of her voice.

It was hard to believe his main element was fire. Fire was supposed to be passionate. Lively.

Warm.

Like David.

David was fire. The witch…the witch was ice. Liquid nitrogen. So cold, that he froze everything he touched. A chaotic, destructive force.

“
Turn them into something useful,” he said, in that same electric voice, “Something deadly.”

“
We're talking about emotions. Not guns.”

He looked at her a moment longer. “You're so transparent,” he said, unexpectedly. “Everything you're thinking…it shows up on your face. Your pain…your anger…”

“Shut up.”

For a moment, he looked as if he were going to say something else. Then he shook his head.

“Let's go.”

Minutes later, she found herself walking to Barton Cemetery, the creepiest place in the entire town, just a little after midnight. The witching hour. When magic pulsed at its strongest and anything could happen. His hand was closed firmly around hers. Anyone walking around would think they were two lovers going for a stroll, but there was nothing affectionate in that gesture. She knew his only motive was keeping her close. “Your ring burns,” she said.

“You'll live,” he replied, callously.

The streetlights around them were dimmed by the fog, lending a surreal, otherworldly quality to the otherwise familiar road. Grit and gravel crunched beneath her boots sometimes making a sloshing sound when she walked through a puddle. Occasionally she heard the crack of ice. It was really cold, especially for California. Her jeans were doing nothing to keep out the misty chill.

Finn kept his eyes straight ahead. The cold didn't seem to bother him at all. Looking at him in his threadbare coat made her shiver even harder, and she pulled her hands inside her sleeves to keep the wind from nipping at her fingers. She thought longingly of her lit bedroom and hot showers.

He looked at her sharply, and muttered something under his breath. Cursing her probably, she thought, until she saw the bright xanthous flash. The air around them seemed to grow warmer, as if they were both inside an invisible pocket of heat. She looked at him curiously. “What did you—?”

“Fire ward,” he said shortly.

She was quite pleasantly toasty now; warm enough that she soon began to sweat inside her thick jacket. She pulled it off, tying the sleeves around her waist, thinking how odd it was to be walking around in twenty degree weather, in nothing more than jeans and a t-shirt. As if it were summer. She felt him looking at her and turned, just in time to see his eyes cut away.

With a frown, she turned her eyes back to the path. Seconds later, she felt that light, familiar pressure return. He was staring again. She was almost glad when they reached the cemetery. Her free hand reached up to grasp the quartz pendant around her neck as she stared at the tall gates. Iron gates. When he tried to spell the lock, the magic burst on contact like a popped bubble, sending the shimmering particles scattering in different directions.

It was almost worth the trip to see that expression of defeat on his inhumanly beautiful face. Not for long, though. He jerked a thumb towards the lock, and said, “You open it.”

The smirk disappeared from her face. Without a word, she marched past him and gave the lock a hard yank. She felt the iron stretch, like a thin cord that was beginning to fray, but the lock held steady. Grimacing, she gave another pull and again, felt the metal yield in her grip. “Ugh,” she gasped. When she looked down at her palms, the links of the chain were marked in red.

“
I've seen an adult male of your species tear through a car door,” the witch observed from behind her. “You can't even open an iron lock?”