The Mortal Touch

by Naomi Clark

  And maybe I would have continued never to talk about it, if I didn’t really want to keep Kinley from going after Ridderport’s warlock. And maybe I wouldn’t have wanted that so badly if Kinley didn’t remind me so much of myself and Elijah both, young and lost and fighting to make space for himself in a world that didn’t give a shit about him.

  So I closed my eyes and told him a little.

  Not all of it. Just a little.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I told him about the target. A warlock who called himself the Huntsman. We had no photos, just a name and an address, and a trail of missing children. Normally Elijah and I only dealt with vampires, but six missing kids was impossible to say to, and the money...

  This is it, Georgie. The last one. No more stake-outs, no more living in your damn bus. We can call it quits.

  I told him about the awful fucking house in the woods. How the trees seemed to loom over us, whispering threats as we crept by.

  You think the dryads are watching?

  Don’t make this creepier than it already is, Elijah.

  It could have jumped straight out of a horror movie, that house, and that was before you got inside. A tall, craggy, shadow among the trees, points of white light gleaming from the upper windows the only signs of life. Icy winds rushed through the trees and around the roof, making branches and woodwork creak ominously.

  I feel like we’re being watched.

  We probably are.

  The closer we got to the house, the more I wanted to turn and run. Back through the dark, cruel trees, back toward the bright lights and big noises of the city, back to humanity. My spine crawled and my blood ran cold as the sense of eyes on me intensified. Maybe Elijah was right about the dryads. Maybe the Huntsman had a ward about the place to induce this fear and keep away people like us.

  Maybe that was the why the front door was unlocked and we were able to just stroll right in.

  That’s creepy.

  Really? The open door is what’s creepy? Not the forever-Halloween décor?

  I expected bad décor. Unlocked doors mean this guy’s confident, Elijah.

  Or complacent.

  We whispered. The house was as quiet and still as a tomb, but that feeling of being watched only got worse once we stepped into the hall. Thick beeswax candles in scones along the wall lit our path, guiding us past portraits of severe, hatchet-faced men and women in period clothing. Cobwebs hung from the heavy wooden picture frames. Elijah was right – it was like a parody of a haunted house.

  That didn’t mean it wasn’t unnerving.

  I wasn’t easily scared anymore, but a little fear isn’t a bad thing. It keeps the senses primed and sharp. I patted the Ghost, reassuring myself for the hundredth time that night that it was where it should be. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Elijah echo the movement, patting the leather bag full of powder hanging at his hip. I liked guns and stakes. He liked charms and spells.

  It’s not as bad as that vampire den in Chicago. Remember the shrine of skulls?

  Or the guy with all the taxidermy owls?

  God, I’d only just stopped dreaming about that. Thanks.

  The first floor of the house was clear. Lived in, sure, but no signs of paranormal or occult activity. Nothing to indicate children had been brought here. Since we’d seen lights in the upper windows, we headed up the great, curving staircase. My heartbeat echoed in my ears as I led the way. I was ready for a fight. We didn’t know much about the Huntsman, so my plan was to shoot first and skip the questions. He was kidnapping kids. None of them had been over the age of ten. He didn’t deserve a fighting chance.

  As we ascended, my sharper ears caught a muffled sound above us. Voices. When we reached the landing, I glanced back at Elijah and pointed to the left, sure the sound was coming from that direction. He nodded, patting his leather bag again.

  We didn’t talk again as we slunk down the hall, past one closed door after another. We didn’t need to talk now; we had this routine down pat. I took the lead. I was stronger, faster, and tougher. Elijah had my back with that nasty paralysis powder he carried everywhere. We had no reason to think it was a routine that would fail us.

  The voices were coming from behind the last door. A man and a child, I thought, slow fury building in me. I drew the Ghost and, with one last glance back at Elijah, I kicked open the door.

  I didn’t tell Kinley what I saw in that room. I didn’t tell him about the girl on her knees, the sigils drawn on her bare skin in blood. I didn’t tell him about the bodies hanging from the rafters, or the smell of shit and piss, the strange symbols on the walls and floor. I didn’t tell him about the creature coalescing between the Huntsman and the girl, the creature that was smoke and flesh and shadow and fangs, and none of those things, nothing at all, but terrifyingly real.

  I didn’t tell him that, for the first time in years, I stumbled, caught off-guard by the horror.

  I didn’t tell him that my first shot went wild, slamming into one of the hanging corpses.

  I didn’t tell him that I dropped to the floor when the Huntsman flung a curse at me, and that the curse hit Elijah instead.

  I didn’t tell him about Elijah’s scream and how it turned into a caw. Or how that smoke-demon vanished, and how I had no idea if it escaped or if the summoning spell failed. How I’d never bothered to check.

  Or how I beat the Huntsman to death with the Ghost, how I screamed in his face while he died, how I pulverized his skull and collapsed in tears on his corpse while Elijah flew madly around the room, shrieking like a damned soul.

  I didn’t tell him that the girl died in my arms, maybe of shock, maybe of dark magic.

  I couldn’t tell him any of that. My story simply stopped at the closed door, with Elijah and I ready to take out the Huntsman and retire peacefully to our dream house by the sea. So when Kinley cautiously asked me what happened next, I found myself fumbling for words.

  “I killed him,” I said finally, “but not before he cursed Elijah.”

  One sentence to summarize all that trauma. I never even found out the dead girl’s name. Our employer paid up that same night, and I spent the next week drinking myself into oblivion. When I came out the other side, Elijah was still a bird and I started drinking again.

  “But you did kill him,” Kinley said. “So you could take out this guy, too.”

  I stared at Elijah. He’d stopped fussing over toast and was preening in the middle of the table. Exhaustion and anger swamped me. Re-telling the story, even the abbreviated version, had taken a physical toll. I could be right back there, in that house in the woods, about to kick down that door. I remembered every damn thing. The soft honeyed scent of the beeswax candles. The way the lamps gleamed on the girl’s blood-painted skin. Elijah’s screams.

  It should have been me. The curse had been flung at me, and pure instinct helped me avoid it, without a second’s consideration for my partner, my lover, standing right behind me.

  I tried to say something and found my throat thick, my words sticky. Instead I speared my fingers into my hair and shrugged uselessly.

  Kinley drummed his fingers on the table, clearly trying to mask impatience. “Did you...did ever try to turn him back?”

  “Of course I did,” I snapped. Elijah cawed angrily, and I blinked tears away. “Of course,” I said again, more softly. I petted him, smoothing down those beautiful glossy feathers. “But a curse can only be broken by the warlock who cast it. I fucked up. I fucked up so deeply, Kinley, and I fucked up again by going to Obsidian alone. If I’d had –”

  If I’d had Elijah. I’d never have gone into a target’s den alone when I had Elijah. We’d never have let each other do that.

  “Don’t go after this guy,” I said finally to Kinley. “Let Mr. Cold handle it.”

  “You can’t stop me going,” he said stubbornly.

  I was too tired to argue. “I know that. But I’m asking you nicely. I get it, okay? I get wanting revenge. Needing it. But it doesn’
t fix anything and Beckett is dead either way. Don’t put yourself in danger for him.”

  At first, I thought he’d argue anyway, and we’d just rehash our fight from the other night. I was cautiously pleased when he just sighed explosively and nodded.

  “Can I just stay here then?” he asked. “I don’t want to go back to the boarding house.”

  I nodded. I didn’t want him going anywhere anyway, not if it gave Mr. Cold or his goons another chance to nab him. Weary and melancholy, I rose and went to grab a couple of things from the kitchen cupboard. Now I had a little space and time, I had something to take care of.

  “Where are you going?” Kinley asked me, watching me shove cheap vodka and a box of matches into a tote bag.

  “Down to the beach,” I said, slinging the bag over my shoulder. “I need to clear my head. And burn a body. Promise me you’ll stay here tonight?”

  He shrugged, giving Elijah a tentative pat. Elijah crooned, leaning into the petting. “You saved my ass. I guess I can do what you say this one time.” He gave me a wary, nervous smile.

  I’m sure my own smile was just as nervous. I’d committed us both to something, and I wasn’t sure what it was. But whether I liked it or not, I’d acquired a lodger. We both had a little adjusting to do.

  BY THE TIME I’D DRAGGED the draugr corpse down to the beach, my arms felt like they were going to fall off. I’d always thought I was in pretty good shape, even post-retirement, but the last few days had proved me wrong. I needed to do more than just cycle everywhere...

  ...Well, no, I didn’t, because I was still retired. I wasn’t planning to make a habit out of carrying dead bodies around with me.

  Although all of Ridderport’s coastline was open to the public, some parts of the beach were nicer than others. I’d deliberately picked an ugly part. In the summer, people often stayed out all night, lighting bonfires and barbecues, and drinking and laughing in the soft, shimmery sands until dawn. I wanted to avoid that part of the coast, so I’d come to a patch of stony sand and rough rocks known locally as Temperance Bay, after a ship that had gone down near here sixty years or so ago.

  After checking I was alone, I dumped the body out onto the wet sand. The stench was eye-watering, the draugr looking water-logged and soft, like the skin would burst like over-ripe fruit if I poked it. Grimacing, I poured the vodka all over it and quickly struck a match.

  I sat down on a big boulder nearby, hugging my knees to my chest as I watched the draugr burn. The tide rolled gently in, lapping along the shore, not yet close enough to touch the fire. Dark clouds scudded overhead, hinting at a summer storm, and the waves out in the distance looked rough and white-capped. The darkness was humid, even this close to the water, and a sheen of sweat dried on my bare arms. I felt gross, but oddly at peace as the flames ate away at the draugr.

  Telling Elijah’s story was awful, but now it was told, I’d never have to do it again. I couldn’t call it cathartic, exactly, but there was a sense of relief, that I’d told the story and lived through it, that I was no worse off for the telling. And if I could keep Kinley from going after the warlock at Obsidian until Mr. Cold dealt with him – which would probably be tonight, I guessed – then I could put this whole shitty mess behind me and go back to normal.

  Whatever normal was going to be from now on.

  I contemplated that soberly, lost in the dance of the flames and the rush of the sea. I was only half-aware of a figure stumbling down the beach in my direction, and I absently wrote them off as a drunk looking for a place to piss. The body was burnt enough now that it wouldn’t matter if someone came by, so I tuned them out.

  I didn’t realize it was another draugr until it was almost upon me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The creature’s eerie moans finally penetrated the fog in my head, jerking me from my reverie. I jumped off my rock, casting around for a weapon. I scooped up a smaller chunk of rock, slippery with seaweed and comfortingly heavy in my hand.

  The draugr was close enough to smell now, even over the scent of the ocean and its burning brother. It stopped a few feet away from me, swaying gently back and forth, moaning forlornly. I had a sudden, odd pang of worry that it was mourning the other one.

  Still, I gripped the rock tightly, ready to hurl it if the creature took another step, and began to slowly back away. Not an easy thing to do in damp, stony sand, but I wasn’t taking my eyes off the draugr. Of course, that meant I wasn’t paying attention to what was behind me.

  “It won’t attack,” a male voice said. “It’s just my insurance policy.”

  I stiffened, heart racing. Did I turn to check out the speaker or keep my eye on the sea zombie? Neither seemed like good ideas. But I thought I recognized the voice, and that made me glance over my shoulder, just to see if I was right.

  Firelight flickered over the warlock’s unremarkable face, making it sinister and secretive. He looked the same as he had in Obsidian, the same plain, simple appearance that would let him pass unnoticed anywhere. Now, though, I saw the chain round his throat, burnished bright gold in the glow of the flames. I’d bet it was a charm to make him so forgettable. It was a simple, but clever piece of magic.

  “Hello again,” he said, smiling at me. “You’re a tough woman to keep down.”

  I said nothing, instead changing my position so I could keep the draugr in my peripheral vision and still focus on the warlock. I hefted the rock thoughtfully, wondering how much damage I could do with just one throw, and who I should try to damage.

  “I’m not here to fight,” he said, raising his hands. “I don’t think that benefits either of us.”

  I agreed with that. In a fair fight, I fancied my chances, but it was never a fair fight with a warlock. Even without the draugr, he was still bound to have magical weapons on him if he had any sense.

  “What do you want, then?” I asked.

  “Just to talk. I don’t think we need to be enemies, Georgia.”

  “That’s not the impression I got last time.”

  “Be fair. You broke into my club and poked around in my lab. You started it.” He smiled, genial and forgiving. “But I think we got off on the wrong foot. I think a quick chat will prove we have more in common than it seems.”

  He stepped toward me. I raised the rock pointedly, and he stopped, raising his hands again.

  “I just wanted to introduce myself.”

  “You can do that from over there.”

  “Alright.” He shrugged, but I saw a flicker of annoyance in his eyes that made me more determined to keep him at a distance. “I’m Erik Kaminski. Nice to meet you.”

  “It’s a real thrill,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “I told you –”

  “You waffled away and said nothing,” I corrected. “You didn’t track me down out here with a dead sailor in tow for a friendly chat. You need to start actually talking, Kaminski.”

  He shrugged again. “A deal. I want a deal. I know who you are, what you are. Your story is pretty legendary in the underground community. You kill vampires. I kill vampires. So why should we be enemies?”

  He made it sound frustratingly easy. I chewed my lip, thinking that eight years ago, ten years ago, I would have agreed with him. I disliked myself a little bit for that. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the vivid memory of Kinley in a bloody heap at Mr. Cold’s feet.

  “I’m retired,” I said. “And I don’t like your methods.”

  He scoffed. “Don’t get on your high horse about it. Nobody gets hurt except the fucking blood-suckers.”

  “People ended up in ER because of your house special,” I said. “Did you know that?”

  “They recovered though,” he countered. “No human takes any lasting hurt. And no vampire deserves mercy. You must agree with that, surely?”

  I folded my arms, measuring my answer. There were a lot of accusations you could level at me for my bounty-hunting career, but I’d never been careless with human lives. I wondered how many people h
adn’t recovered while Kaminski was perfecting his vampire-killing cocktail. Because I was willing to bet Ridderport wasn’t the first city he’d done this in.

  “Why do you do it?” I asked him finally. “Money? Revenge? Thrill of the hunt?”

  “Why did you do it? Because they’re inhuman monsters who prey on mortals. They’re a pestilence,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “I have a duty. So do you.”

  “I did it for money,” I said bluntly. “And self-preservation. Vampires aren’t keen on my kind.”

  He smiled faintly. “You should have come to us. We’re keen on your kind. Very keen.”

  There was a weight to us that made me think he didn’t just mean warlocks, but I ignored it. I wasn’t interested in mind games. I had to make a decision on what to do with this guy. And the truth was, he wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d spent years of my life killing vampires because I believed just what he did. His methods were different, but his motives weren’t that far removed.

  But then I thought of Kinley’s grief for Beckett. And I thought of the kids who landed in hospital with blood poisoning. And deeper and older than that, I thought of how much my mother had loved my father. I never understood it, I never fucking would, but she had loved him all the same, passionately and faithfully right up until the day she died.

  I’d gone soft in retirement. The bitter fires that had fueled me years ago were banked. I didn’t want anything to do with vampires, but I didn’t want to kill them either. And even if I had, I would never have used a mortal as a weapon to do it.

  But, I thought, keeping one wary eye on the draugr, maybe I didn’t want to play my hand just yet.

  “What kind of deal did you have in mind?” I asked. “You just want me to stay out of your way while you carry on the mission?”

  “Well, that would help,” he said, “but thanks to you, the vampires are onto me now, aren’t they? So maybe we can do better than you just being passive about the mess you created. You know where to find the master, don’t you?”