Mindhealer

by lillith saintcrow

  No, Caro thought. They were wiping her face again. Someone hummed a snatch of a chant. Please, no. No more. Don’t give them any reports, just go away!

  Caro sagged and managed to drag in a deep, endless breath. “Ow,” she said, to stop him from speaking. “I don’t want to do that again.”

  “Caro?” It was Fran, stroking her forehead, gently wiping blood away from her cheek.

  She found, to her relief, that she could open her eyes.

  The fluorescents and dark roof of a parking garage met her gaze. Claustrophobia tore briefly at her throat, released. Why did she feel so weak? Five women, all with the bright emerald auras of earth witches, were clustered around her. And leaning over her was Francine, a familiar sharp face topped with a braided coronet of blonde hair streaked with gray. Amber drops hung in Fran’s ears; she looked, as usual, greatly amused. She wore a long purple sweater and a yellow scarf. Dreadful taste, as usual, Fran. Goddess, I am so glad to see you.

  “Well, thank Brigid. You’re alive. I was afraid of the worst.” Fran had her hands on her hips, trying to look disapproving and not managing it through the relief.

  “So was I.” Caro’s eyes hurt. Her fingers were cold. “I’m cold.”

  “Darksick, it looks like. You and your nosebleeds.” Fran leaned down, touched Caro’s forehead. “Are you all right?”

  “I got lost,” she mumbled. “You gave me bad directions.” I sound like a three-year-old.

  “I think I did,” Fran said gravely. “No wonder you’re late. Good thing Merrick stumbled across you.”

  The Watcher? Don’t mention him, Frannie. Please. “You didn’t sic him on me?”

  “Of course not.” Now Fran looked severe. “I’ll overlook that, since you’re so obviously sick. Let’s get you up to a comfortable room. Merrick?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” But he wasn’t done with thinking he had to report. “Ma’am?”

  It was so unheard of for a Watcher to persist like this that all the women stilled. Caro heard footsteps, felt the air disturbance. The other Watchers, having driven off the s’lin, coming back in. This was so messy and public, she’d been out after dark and attacked. All the noises the regional and High Councils had been making lately about sticking her with another Watcher would get louder. She would be lucky to avoid it now.

  It was so absurd she could have laughed.

  Gods, I’m a mess. Her nylons were torn, she was almost sure she’d lost a shoe, and her head ached savagely. The chill had now reached her knees and elbows, concrete cold and hard under her one stockinged foot. The women she leaned against were soft, and one of them smelled wonderfully of jasmine through the thick reek of copper in Caro’s nose.

  “Yes?” Fran sounded guarded. One eyebrow rose as she looked over Caro’s head, at the Watcher.

  “I need to be taken off patrol duty,” he said, from behind Caro’s shoulder. “This is my witch.”

  Oh, fantastic. Caro sagged against the women holding her up. “Perfect,” she muttered. “He’s lost his mind. Just what I need. I’d really like to lie down now. And if someone can get my bags, that would be nice.”

  She would have said more, but the chill swept through her, shaking her like an animal would shake something caught in its teeth. Little shivers raced down her arms and legs.

  “Enough,” the jasmine-scented healer said. “She’s Darksick. Help me.”

  I’m not Darksick, Caro wanted to object, but her teeth were chattering too hard and a wave of weakness poured over through her. Too much excitement, and too close to the Dark. The better-trained and more powerful a Mindhealer was, the more vulnerable to the psychic contagion of the Dark. Yet another price she paid for her gifts. I wouldn’t mind if the nosebleeds weren’t so messy.

  “Here, hold her,” the jasmine-scented healer said. “Follow me. You three, get her luggage.”

  “It’s all right, Caro.” Fran patted her hand. “We’ll get this sorted out. I’m glad you’re here. We need you, it’s getting worse.”

  What’s getting worse? she would have replied, but the darkness closed over her head again. Before it closed completely, though, she felt herself picked up and carried, as if she were a child. The cold worked all the way down to her bones, and she wondered if this time it might freeze her all the way through.

  Four

  Merrick stood just inside the door, hands in his pockets, watching. The healers worked on Caro, murmuring, the glow of their auras scraping at him. This was a pretty room, wide windows kissed with false dawn, blue carpeting, a Cezanne print over the fireplace, curtains drawn back and pale gray almost-dawn smoothing over the small kitchenette . . . and one pale Lightbringer on the bed, her blonde hair spilling over the pillows. Only it wasn’t truly blonde, it was a rich chestnut thickly streaked with pure gold. The nosebleed had stopped, thank the gods. Merrick wasn’t sure how she’d started bleeding and didn’t want to think about it. The sight of her blood made his stomach churn.

  The healers were doing their best, had been doing their best all night. Her aura was stained with Darksickness, and each time the stain retreated, it then returned.

  And Merrick’s hands would tighten inside his pockets, his scars pulsing with pain. He wanted to stalk over to the bed and force Power through her, flood her with enough to make the stain retreat. Or if all else failed, bring her out of shock and Darksickness the old way. If she died . . .

  She’s not going to die. We’re in a bloody safehouse with four healers right here. She’s not going to die.

  He hadn’t failed. She was safe.

  When the stain faded for good, he breathed a little easier. And finally, when the healers left, each of them passing close enough to Merrick for his bones to grind with agony, she was sleeping peacefully, the danger averted. The Council liaison—an air witch with a coronet of gray-threaded hair—stood near the window, watching, obviously reluctant to go just yet. She crossed to the bed, took the Mindhealer’s pulse, and stroked a stray curl back from her face.

  “Poor child,” she said, quietly. “Do you have any idea who you’ve brought in, Watcher?”

  It was a direct question. No way he could get around answering. “No ma’am.” A Mindhealer. Someone said her name but I didn’t catch it. I was too busy carrying suitcases and trying to see what they were doing to her. Caro. She said, Caro. “I found her on Chess Street and—”

  “I’m well aware of that. Drake told me. You’re asking to be pulled from patrol.”

  He drew himself up but still didn’t take his hands out of his pockets, afraid she would see how tight his fists were clenched. “Yes ma’am.”

  “Because?” Her eyebrow arched. She had a strong face, beauty pared down to the bone. They were all pretty, the Lightbringers, but a few of them approached pure loveliness. None of them seemed to consider themselves extraordinary. More often than not, they felt more cursed than blessed by their gifts.

  “Because she’s my witch.” There. That was as simple as he could make it. It doesn’t hurt when she’s near me. And when I touch her I feel like my entire nervous system’s been wired to a car battery in a good way.

  “You’re certain?”

  You think I’d lie about something like this? Of course not. I’m a Watcher. Honor, duty, obedience. I might not have had any honor before, but I’m not a liar now. “Her light doesn’t hurt me, ma’am.” It was the traditional understatement, implying a Watcher had found his witch.

  Amazingly enough, the Council liaison began to laugh. It was more of a helpless chuckle than anything else. “This is Caroline Robbins, the Mindhealer.”

  His jaw threatened to drop. “The Caroline?” The Mindhealer that travels around teaching everyone? The one they’ve called in to take a look at all those cases on the North Side? “Eleanor D’Arcy’s protégé?”

  She managed to swallow her laughter, but her eyes were watering. Her mouth twitched. Merrick dropped his eyes uncertainly. Whatever she was amused over, it had nothing to do with him. Witches sometimes had t
he oddest sense of humor.

  “The very same. Some time ago she made an agreement with the High Council. She would stay at safehouses in lieu of having a Watcher. Another Watcher—one she was quite attached to, the same one that brought her in—was killed by a belrakan. Caro’s never forgotten that.” The Council witch sighed. “So she’s now your responsibility, and you’re no longer under the jurisdiction of Circle Lightfall.”

  Her blue eyes met Merrick’s, a searching, significant glance. He wished he could shake his hair down over his face to hide the burning scars.

  “Yes ma’am.” For all the good it does me. I barely got her loose of that s’lin. I should have done something else, gotten her free before she was Darksick.

  The Council witch folded her arms. “You are no longer under the jurisdiction of Circle Lightfall. We can’t order you back on patrol.”

  Why is she repeating that? “Yes ma’am.”

  She gave him another significant look, then sighed, glancing back down at the sleeping witch on the bed. “She’ll be all right. If she starts to run a fever, or if the Darksickness comes back, do what you can and call for a healer immediately.” She headed for the door, her glow tearing and scraping at him. “And if she wakes up and starts talking, remember she doesn’t mean it. And remember you’re twice her size. Though it won’t feel like it.”

  What does that mean? “Ma’am?”

  She didn’t explain, just waved her fingers at him as she drifted out the door. He thought he heard her laughing out in the hall, uncontrollable giggles that sounded much younger than she looked.

  Mystified, Merrick checked the door and the wards on the walls and windows again. Here, in a safehouse, with him standing guard, his witch was as safe as it was possible to be. But still . . . He looked at her, carefully, stealing little glances out from under his hair, his scars throbbing with the aftermath of the other Lightbringers.

  She lay on her side, curled around the canvas bag one of the healers had brought from the car. Her hair tangled along the pillow, golden streaks glowing in the rainy dawn light. The tanak growled inside him, shifted, and settled back, satisfied.

  Her hands were small, delicate; her wrists finely made and fragile-looking. She’d seemed taller. It was a shock to see how small she was. Short, unpolished nails, a thin classic gold bracelet against her pale skin. Her black sweater and pencil skirt were still damp, her nylons torn and ragged. Someone had found her shoes and laid them neatly by the bed. The healers hadn’t pulled a blanket over her—the room was warm with the bleed-off from Merrick’s aura and heat through the vents. Besides, they had to be able to touch her.

  Merrick worked the down coverlet loose, settled it carefully over her as soon as he’d freed it from beneath her feet. She was thinner than she should be, and the dark circles under her eyes spoke of exhaustion. She had a soft mouth, still tinged with a ghost of lipstick, and her mascara was smudged. A faint shadow of dried blood clung to her cheek. Her eyes, if he remembered right, were dark.

  Of course I remember. It seemed he’d done nothing but replay the moment over and over, feeling the shock—when her eyes met his and the whole world stopped—like a punch to the gut.

  She’d gone to the High Council and gotten them to agree to let her run around without a Watcher. Why? Though Lightbringers were wary of Watchers, there were precious few who didn’t want the protection Circle Lightfall could offer. There were invisible operations going on all the time, protecting Lightbringers from afar until a Circle witch could make contact and gently introduce them to the organization.

  Was that what this witch would require of him? Invisibility? It was no less than he deserved. He’d never for a moment thought he would get the reward most Watchers lived for.

  Surprise, Merrick old man.

  The light was kind to her, sliding lovingly across the planes and curves of her face. The fragile arc of her throat taunted him, her winged collarbones, the delicate shape of her shoulder. The sweater clung to her torso, but he was trying like hell not to look at that.

  Bloody hell. If he stood there much longer he was going to be tempted to touch her again. Just once, to feel that shock of agonized pleasure rocketing through his nervous system again. I don’t deserve this.

  It was why he’d asked for patrol, damn near begged for it. He couldn’t stand to see another Lightbringer hurt. He’d seen too much pain and suffering inflicted on these gentle souls, helpless against a world that was all too brutal and infested with Dark, not to mention the Crusade and the Brotherhood, as well as other organizations who would love to harness the psychic abilities of the Lightbringers for themselves. Or the normals, who would fear and therefore hate the different, the talented, the strange. The Watchers were the best defense against the accidents of Fate and the lunacy of the Crusade, as well as the greed of the Brotherhood . . . but it was too much. He never wanted to see another Lightbringer suffer. And besides, there was no goddamn redemption for him, he knew all too well. Not for him, not for what he’d done.

  So why? Maybe it was a mistake. But no other Mindhealer had been able to get within a few yards without him feeling the agonizing pain of the tanak struggling in allergic reaction to their light. It seemed bloody unlikely.

  Touch her again. Just one more time, just to be sure. Come on, you can do it. Nobody will ever know. She’s out cold.

  He watched her aura spark with golden pinwheels, the distinctive mark of a Mindhealer. When she woke up, what would she think of him?

  Doesn’t matter, the deep voice of his conscience replied. Only thing that matters now is not screwing up. She’s your witch. It’s up to you to keep her alive. End of story.

  Merrick retreated to his spot by the door and took a deep breath. His hands shook, and his scars felt like liquid fire had been pressed into the flesh of his face, the regular low-level grinding pain of a Dark symbiote wedded to his body. If he needed a reminder of what he was, that burning would do just fine. He was a flawed Watcher, hadn’t even come by his knives honestly, and maybe this had all been just a fluke. But he’d committed to this course, and whether or not it was a fluke, he was now responsible for one fragile-looking Mindhealer.

  Should be no problem. How hard can it be to handle one little witch?

  * * * *

  She didn’t wake up until evening, when the darkness thickened against the window and slid into the corners of the room. It was the longest day of Merrick’s life, listening to each deep soft breath, watching her aura for the stain of Darksickness. Each breath was a gift, but the longer she slept, the more worry taunted him.

  Then again, she must have been exhausted. And the nosebleed had stopped.

  A healer came to check on her every two hours, nodding at Merrick. None of them brought a Watcher. Apparently the Mindhealer’s aversion to Watchers was well-known.

  Great.

  When she did stir, rolling over onto her back and making a soft noise that turned into a stretch and a yawn, he pulled himself further back into the shadows near the door. He hadn’t cared what he looked like in years, but he didn’t want her to see the scars. He scowled at the thought, shaking his hair down. He wasn’t here to look pretty. He was cannon fodder. In any case, if this witch didn’t like Watchers, his face wouldn’t matter.

  He made sure his hands were out of his pockets, hanging loose and easy. Wouldn’t do to frighten her. Get things off on the wrong foot, that would.

  “Gods,” she said quietly, stretched again, and propped herself on her elbows, blinking in the rainy dusk filling the room. Her aura sparked, then brightened, little fingers of gold waving gently like sea anemones, testing the air. She was fully-trained, excellent shielding, and likely to be disoriented.

  He shivered as her attention brushed the air inside the room, wrapping around him briefly. The brief contact sent a rill of unexpected pleasure up his spine.

  Then her gaze swung over, rested on him. “What on earth are you still doing here?”

  As a greeting, it wasn’t as ba
d as he’d feared. He cleared his throat. “Merrick,” he reminded her. “Brought you in last night, ma’am. The Council liaison released me from patrol duty.”

  She yawned again, hugely and delicately, like a cat. Blinked. “Hit by a train,” she muttered.

  What? “Beg your pardon?”

  She made it up to sitting, grimacing, and glanced around the room again. Her hair tangled down, random curls falling in her face, she sighed and tucked a few behind her ear. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a train. I’ll be all right, you don’t need to stay. Go on.”

  It was an extraordinary moment. Does she not understand? “You want me to go invisible?” He tried not to feel his heart sink at the thought. It wasn’t unheard of. Plenty of Watchers had done their duty invisibly. He’d done it himself, watching over witches who were unaware of his very existence. But she . . .

  Obedience, Watcher. Stay still.

  She slid from beneath the coverlet, wincing, and contemplated her ragged nylons. “What the hell are you talking about? I covered this with the Council. I don’t need a Watcher, I don’t want a Watcher. Though I’m very grateful to you for saving my life—very grateful. I’ll put you in for a commendation.”

  I don’t want a bloody commendation. “You’re my witch.”

  He shouldn’t have said it, especially not so flatly and with such force the curtains rustled and he heard the wall groan, sharply. But his patience only stretched so far, and this was a Circle Lightfall witch. She should understand, shouldn’t she?

  As soon as he thought it, he was ashamed of himself. It was his job to be patient, and she’d just been dragged through the city with a s’lin trying to open up her car like a soda can and messily devour her, not to mention the koroi. She was justifiably a little upset, and probably disoriented from shock and Darksickness. And he’d been warned she probably wouldn’t react well to a Watcher.

  You are no longer under the jurisdiction of Circle Lightfall. We can’t order you back on patrol.