Touched With Sight (8 page)

In the next room, Lucas stirred.

Catherine sucked in a breath, and the sword whizzed past her to strike the wall behind her. The metal hummed ominously as he dislodged the blade from the plaster, scattering white stuff over her rug like powdered snow.
How am I going to explain this to my parents?

She'd worry about that later. Fight now.

By chopping the stand in two, the witch had done her a favor. She was able to cross them like sais and trap his blade in the dip of the cross where they met. Shorter also meant less spindly; the metal rods felt more comfortable in her hands than the large, ungainly music stand.

She pushed up and out, causing the witch to fall back a few inches. She watched him steady his balance with his blade and her fear increased. She was tiring, wearing down. His sword was almost certainly tipped in silver—the cut he'd inflicted hadn't begun to heal, yet.

He'd already drawn blood once. And if she was already getting tired—

A coppery smell assailed her nose. Blood.
His
blood. She'd caught him on the back of the hand with the ragged edge of the rod. Giddy with relief, she said, “First blood.”

Without taking his eyes off her, he bent his head and licked the wound clean.

Trying to intimidate me?

If he thought a little blood would scare her, he was sorely mistaken.

He came at her from the side again. She was ready for him this time. She whirled around, dodging the various clothes and books in her path with light, quick footwork. The witch lacked her grace. She could hear him, stumbling and cursing in the dark. She would be a mere silhouette to his inferior eyes. Was it cheating, using her night vision to her advantage? He hadn't specified against it, and the ball was already in his court. His weapon and skill were both superior to hers.

Pain seared up her thigh and actually made her stumble and fall.

“Second blood,” he said, breathless with exertion and triumph.

She cursed, trying to get back to her feet. The burning sensation this elicited swiftly changed her mind. How deeply had he cut?

“One more blow,” he told her, heading towards the sound of her breathing in the darkness, “And you're mine.”

Her tank top was plastered to her back with sweat. She tried, and failed, in a second attempt to get to her feet. The floor felt slick with blood.  She managed, with effort, to bring herself to a squat, but before she could complete the spring that would successfully—and painfully—bring her upright, he was on her again, and she lost her balance, and was on her back.

Fuck.

The blade was at her throat, hedging her backwards. Towards the corner.

“You're wounded.”

“
I'll heal,” she spat, moving as fast as her arms would allow.

He laughed, quietly, sure of victory. “Get used to being on your knees. You'll be on them plenty when I have you sent to the Keep.”

She gouged into his shin. “Second blood, asshole.”

He was furious now, but that's what he got for taunting her.

Even an animal caught in a trap could still bite.

She managed to push off from the wall and get to her feet. The pain was awful but it was better than crawling around on the floor like a wounded bird. Panting lightly, she tossed her head, shaking her hair out of her eyes. Sweat was making her palms slippery, as it was his, as well. His attacks were growing less accurate. They were even now. If she could keep holding him off ….

She might just have a chance.

Until the rods in her hands exploded into fire.

And she dropped them.

And then, his blade was at her breast, just over her heart.

She met his eyes across the sword. He seemed to be wreathed in shadows.

“
Beg me.”

“
Go to hell.”

He gouged an X into her skin, just over the neckline of her tank top. “Third blood,” he said, and his eyes gleamed with the same iciness she'd seen before in the gully as she dug her fingers into the skin around the wound. “I stake my claim on you, Catherine Pierce. My will is your will. My death is your death. Your blood is bound to me. The pact that binds us ends with our deaths.”

She called him the filthiest names she could think of. Token slurs, but some more inventively crude than that. The kinds Others used only while very, very drunk. And then there were the handy, all occasion curses one could pick up from any inner-city middle school. Which she had.

The witch had the nerve to laugh.

“You cheated.”

“
So did you, shifter mine,” he said. “You were using your eyes to see in the dark.”

“
I can't help what I am.”

“
She has a point, Phineas.” The voice was childlike, and distinctly female.

Catherine flinched. “Who said that? Who's there?”

“You can hear her?” the witch asked, just as the new voice said, “She can hear me?”

“
Of course I can.” Catherine's eyes scanned the room, restlessly. “Where are you?”

“
Here.”

Behind me!

Catherine whirled around, and her eyes widened—

The voice seemed to be coming from—

“
Oh gods,” she croaked.

—
the kitten.

Chapter Six

The voice had come from the kitten. Catherine could barely contain her horror. She wasn't shocked—in her world, talking animals were not so far a stretch—but this was an ace she hadn't even thought possible. She remembered how the kitten had just appeared on her storm drain one night. It was all too possible that the witch had put her into position knowing she would be found.

But what was she? Not a shape-shifter. Something else. Something not so different.

The kitten looked at the witch, displeasure evident on her face. “I think you owe the girl an explanation.”

The girl.
The word sent little ripples through Catherine as if she had been slapped.
I changed your litter box, you traitor.

“
I owe her nothing.” The witch's eyes hadn't left hers. “Don't interfere.”

“
There's no need to be clandestine. She knows more than you think.”

The witch slid his sword into a scabbard with a hiss. “I wouldn't count on it.”

“Stop talking about me like I'm not here.” Catherine felt so weak, so helpless. It was not a good feeling. She jerked her head towards the cat, feeling a surge of malicious satisfaction when she saw the mottled fur bristle in alarm. “Why can you talk? How do you know
him
?”

The soft brown ears she had stroked so many times curled down in shame.

Catherine found herself wanting to give them a nice, hard yank.

“
She's my familiar,” the witch answered. “Her name is Graymalkin.”

So she had been spying for him!

What had she told him? Everything? Did the witch know, then, about the hours she'd spent weeping when she found out David had been taken? Did he know about the nightmares that made her toss and turn at night, and then wake up drenched in an icy sweat as cold as death? Was he aware of all the times her mother had lectured her for failing to live up to her expectations as a Good Daughter? Did he know how desperately and unconditionally she loved and feared for her brother? Or was that why he'd threatened Lucas first?

She glared up at the witch, the urge to strike him so strong now that it left her hand almost numb with the sheer force of it. The magic inside her body pulsed in warning, and for a moment she thought she might faint. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

“I want you to take me to your school.”

“
Why?” So he could go after her friends next?

“
You're a student there. You can take me to a Sterling Rep meeting.”

He'd fit right in with all the other creeps. “Go by yourself.”

“I've traced Slayer activity this far,” he said. “And the blood magic between us fortifies a bond of loyalty that can only be broken by death. I won't allow you to fuck things up more than you have.”

“
I'm not a tool you can use whenever it's convenient and then shut up in a drawer for later.”

“
That's exactly what you are.” He toyed with something that glinted, metallic, in the moonlight.

She sucked in a breath. “That's my bracelet,” blurted Catherine. She recognized the animal charms. Gods, she'd thought it had been lost—and all this time,
he'd
had it? “Why do you have it?”

He closed his fingers over it. “This old thing? I found it in the hills.”

“It's
mine
. Give it back.”

“
You didn't say the magic word, shifter mine.”

“
Fuck you, that's your magic word. Give me back my fucking—”

The witch spoke softly under his breath. She thought it was a muted curse until she smelled the ozone as it filled the air and his hand began to glow.

“No,” she gasped. He was going to destroy it! “Don't! Please.”

He paused. “Say it again.”

Gods,  he was evil. “Please,” she spat.

He held out his palm with deliberate slowness. “I'm glad we understand each other.”

She grabbed his hand with more force than necessary, and a warning flare of pain licked through her body with an ominous flicker. The blood magic? Catherine didn't care. Touching him filled her with a different sort of revulsion. His fingers were cool, several shades cooler than a normal human's, and far colder than hers—also, waxy. Like a leaf. Like a
corpse
.

“
You're a bastard,” she hissed, as she fastened the bracelet around her wrist, grateful that it gave her an excuse not to look at him.

“
Karen was right,” said the witch in an aside to his familiar. “She is incredibly unregenerate.”

Her patience snapped. She grabbed him by the front of his robes. He caught her hands in his and pulled them away, and she realized her mistake too late when she saw the silver signet ring on his pinky, and felt the slow burn of the metal as it seared her skin. His grip was surprisingly strong, and she found herself reacting instinctively like Prey.

He's come prepared.

“
Why do you hate me so much?” she heard herself ask, pathetically.

“
I hate all shape-shifters. You are no different from the rest of your rabid, lawless race.”

“
This goes beyond hatred,” she said. “This is…this is obsession.” His eyes flickered. A low growl escaped her when she realized he was studying her body. She felt the rake of his eyes as if they were claws. She jerked in his grip, and it tightened. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“
You're beneath my notice and my study.”

Liar. He'd been looking at her as if he'd been scenting a mate.

Catherine drew in another breath, figuring she'd never get another chance to ask. “If you hate me so fucking much, why did you save me from being crushed by that car?”

He stared at her, and she felt a sudden pressure that bordered on pain. He was still holding on to her wrists. They both looked down at the same time, and the witch released her as quickly as if she had touched him with iron. His face distorted with hatred as their eyes met, and for a moment she thought he was going to hit her.

She bristled, and the air cracked and crackled with the static brush of untapped magic.

“
Save you?” he repeated, in low dulcet tones as sharp and piercing as icicles, reaming her with their coldness. “I did no such thing. And you would be foolish to think that I would ever do so.”

“
I smelled magic that day.”

The witch laughed. “Did you stop to think that the witch might have been trying to kill you?”

“They
saved
me.” Catherine was adamant. “I don't know why, but they did.  Twice.”

“
Take care.” She watched, heart in her throat as he walked to her window. Halfway out the frame, he paused and said, “The implications of what you're saying are dangerous.”

“
Dangerous,” she repeated.

“
There are those who would happily send your little guardian angel to the Keep simply for showing affection to a savage. Especially since they shouldn't have been practicing magic in public in the first place. It's a clear infringement of the First Rule. And then there's you—yes, there are special means of dealing with uppity shape-shifters, and I don't think you would want to be sold to the vampires as a blood whore.”

He paused again, regarding her in that piercing, soul-shredding way.

“Or perhaps…you would.”

It was no small wonder their world was in such terrible shape if this was the price paid to kindness. Catherine shook her head, biting back the venomous words that rose to the tip of her tongue. When she turned back, the witch and his familiar were gone. Physically, at least.

Their presence, however, remained impressed upon the forefront of her brain.

Finn was halfway back to the hotel when he realized he had forgotten the book. He swore, fluently, in Witchtongue and English, the words weaving around him a spell of discontent that snapped and flickered, driving Graymalkin back to the very edge of his spastic aura.

“
It's too late to go back now.” Her voice was wary, cautious.

“
Don't you think I know that?”

His familiar's words rang true in more ways than one. He had passed the point of no return. It was too late to go back. Back to a point of sure-footed moral high-ground. Back to a point where he had the upper hand. Back to a point where he knew exactly what he wanted to be.

This was all her fault.

She was strong, that little shifter. Fearless. And far too observant. She had glimpsed a part of his soul with those restless eyes of hers. When she had accused him of being the one who had saved her from that speeding car, his beating heart had faltered—and she had heard it.

She knew. She wasn't sure yet what she knew, but she knew…something.

And being around her is going to cause her to learn more.

But he needed her to get into the school, and infiltrate that insubordinate group of humans.

“
You can no longer pretend to be impartial.”

“
No.” He couldn't. His feelings about the girl were snarled up in the case. Hopelessly. “Damn it.”

“
What are you going to do?” She spoke as though from a reservoir of endless calm.

He gave her a flat look. “Exactly what I came here to do. Seek out that nest of vipers and crush them. Find out who this Shadow Thane is, the one who haunts me in my dreams. And then—” he fished into his pocket for the hotel room key “—I'm going to deal with
her
.”

“I had the strangest dream last night.”

Lucas was chatting to their Mom as she made his lunch for the day. Or rather, he was chatting at her and she was his captive audience, nodding along in all the right places but secretly in a world of her own. This happened a lot, and Catherine had shaken her head at the typical scene as she walked past them on her way to the front door. But at her younger brother's words, she paused in the foyer, listening.

“About?” her mother said absently.

Catherine could hear the scrape of the knife on the bread, with the precision of a metronome. She knew that her mother had another one of her faculty meetings today; they turned her into a tired and stressed-out zombie. Which made sense, since her meetings consisted of a bunch of underpaid overworked professors sequestered in a cramped room, sipping rancid coffee while trying to figure out how to raise falling test scores and manage nonexistent money.

Her lack of engagement was not lost on Lucas. For a thirteen-year-old boy he could be startlingly perceptive. “Am I bothering you?”

“
It's okay,” she said, which was not exactly a 'no.' “I can do this and listen.” There was the sound of a lid being screwed back on. “Tell me about your dream.”

“
It was about Catherine,” Lucas said, causing Catherine's back to straighten. Almost unconsciously, she pressed her ear towards the wall to hear them better. “She was sword-fighting with a witch.”

“
Sword-fighting,” their mother repeated, with a frown.

“
Yeah, it was
awesome
.”

Catherine clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to come out.

Their mother started to make a noncommittal response, but Lucas had already continued, “She was about to hand his ass to him, too, but the broom-banger cheated.”

“
Sounds just like your sister. Picking fights in school. I swear that girl is going to be the early death of me—and don't curse,” she added.

“
Ass isn't a curse word.”

“
I was talking about broom-banger,” Mrs. Pierce said. “But don't say ass, either.”

“
That's so lame. Everyone else says it.”

“
Well, then, everyone else will sound uneducated and you won't.”

Lucas swiftly changed the subject. “Do you think Catherine could beat a witch?”

Mrs. Pierce's response floated out on the wind. “Catherine can do anything she puts her mind to.
Persuading
her is the problem.”

The witch had certainly managed to do just that.

As she approached the bus stop, her head still swirling with those thoughts, she saw him. Waiting. Waiting for her.

The witch.

She almost didn't recognize him. He was wearing faded jeans that looked secondhand, and a tight black shirt with some sort of rebellious slogan typical of the average card-carrying member of American disaffected youth. A far cry from the ethereal terror she remembered from the night before. But while the disguise was convincing, it gave one the sense that every detail was calculated. It was like watching an actor play a grungy teenager on TV; he looked too perfect.

Too clean.