So the Council witch had been trying to warn him and let him know his duty was to stay with the Mindhealer, no matter how upset she was. He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. I used to be quicker on the uptake. Am I slipping?
The Mindhealer stared at him, her eyes wide. She’d probably never been interrupted by a Watcher before. Obedience, dammit. How many times do I have to tell myself, obedience? I swore.
But he hadn’t sworn to lend himself to idiocy, and her wandering around without any protection was idiocy of the highest order. She could have died last night if he hadn’t run across her. Whether it was luck, precognition, or the gods taking a hand, who knew? But the thought of what could have happened chilled him right down to the bottom of his guts.
My witch. And I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to her.
“What?” She didn’t sound angry, thank the gods, only baffled.
Merrick took a deep breath. “You don’t hurt me. Ma’am.”
She was speechless for a full thirty seconds, staring at him. Her aura hardened, closing her off from the outside world. He could catch no whisper of what she was thinking, but her face was blank, pale, and she bit at her top lip, a movement that made her chin jut slightly, made her look younger. How old was she? She seemed to swing between old and young alarmingly quickly. He wondered if it was a Mindhealer trait.
Now that she was awake, he could see how her serious, puzzled expression made her only solemnly pretty instead of heartbreakingly beautiful. And her clear golden glow, pinwheels rising in concentric patterns, swirled more slowly as she stared, puzzling over this. Dark eyes, tangled hair, the curves of her cheekbones, the shape of her mouth as she worried at her top lip with her teeth—
Oh, gods help me. I’m in deep water.
It didn’t help that her aura made the Dark grumble and subside inside his bones. The tanak sometimes gave a Watcher what relief it could from the constant wrenching pain of the body bearing a creature that was basically a helpful parasite. The mind-resting trance a Watcher could use in lieu of sleep was deep and dark enough to provide a little haven. But to be awake, and thinking, and not feeling the low-level grinding that became so much a part of daily life—that was damn near priceless. He would do just about anything to stay near this witch and feel that relief.
She made it to her feet, her skirt making a low sliding noise as she pushed herself free of the bed. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”
Chalk one up for him, she didn’t sound angry. What she did sound was sad, and that made his chest tighten.
“Ma’am?” He said it carefully. How would I know what you think I’m telling you? I’m just a stupid Watcher.
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me. My name’s Caro, not ma’am, and I’m not fooled by that sleepy little façade of yours.” Her tone sharpened. Merrick winced. She swayed slightly, as if her balance was unsteady, then stalked across the blue carpet, her feet shuffling in their ruined nylons. And the Watcher, used to facing down horror in all its Dark faces, actually considered retreating from this one tangle-haired, slim-shouldered witch.
She ended up right in front of him, hands on hips, dark eyes searching his face. “Well?”
Well, what? He was beginning to feel decidedly out of his depth. Caution was probably the best route. “Ma’am?”
Her hand shot out, and Merrick almost flinched. But her fingers only closed around his wrist, her soft skin against his, and the jolt of sensation nailed him in place. Velvet fire rolled up his arm from the touch, taking a short break in his shoulder, before spilling down through his chest and making him extremely aware that he was standing right next to a woman who smelled like green tea and spice. It was a scent he had never come across before, and he drew it in, all the way down to the bottom of his lungs, his eyes half-closing. The pleasure spiked, driving through his nervous system like a collection of hammers, each one tipped with barbed honey. Every muscle in his body tensed against the onslaught.
She dropped his wrist and backed away, her hand coming up to her mouth. She stumbled, he stepped forward to catch her, and she flinched. That stopped him, acutely aware that he was taller, and quite probably menacing. They faced each other in the dim room, Merrick perfectly able to see thanks to Dark-enhanced sight. He suspected she couldn’t see much of him. Only a large shape in a leather coat, eyes glittering under the messy dark hair. He winced at the thought of what he must look like, to her. “Don’t be afraid.” He pitched his voice low. He couldn’t sound comforting, but he’d try.
For her sake.
“It’s true,” she whispered. “It’s really . . . it doesn’t hurt you.”
What, does she think I’d lie? “It doesn’t. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head and drew herself up, visibly steeling herself. “I think you should turn on the light. I’m going to unpack, and we’re going to have a little talk. Then I’m going to go find Fran—Oh.” She cast a quick look over her shoulder. “It’s night. Did I sleep all day?”
“You were exhausted.” She has such a pretty voice. It made even the American accent soft and reasonable instead of nasal and pretentious.
That seemed to earn him a little breathing room. “All right. Turn the light on. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
He reached over, his fingers suddenly numb. What would happen when she saw the scars?
Light flooded the room. She blinked owlishly, and his heart turned over inside his chest. Then it fell, because she was staring at him. Her eyes were huge, still smudged with exhaustion, and she was utterly, impossibly beautiful. Just his luck to end up with a witch who was at the “lovely” end of the spectrum. Now she’s going to ask me where I got the scars, and I’m going to have to tell her, and I—
She swallowed visibly. “Hi. I’m Caro. Thank you for saving my life.”
What? “Merrick,” he heard himself respond. “No thanks necessary, ma—um, Caro. It’s my job.”
Something flared behind her eyes, her aura going sharp and lemon-yellow. “Merrick? The Tracker?”
He winced at the nickname. It was a reminder he didn’t need. “They call me that. Sometimes.”
“I suppose I can’t tell you to go away.” She folded her arms across her chest defensively, and he saw that her eyes were actually a very dark blue. Indigo, under her dark eyelashes and dark arched eyebrows.
No, you can’t. Even if you told me to I’d just Watch you from a distance, little witch. The words rose inside him, were strangled. He contented himself with shaking his head, looking out from under the mussed mess of his hair. If he kept it shaken down, she wouldn’t see the scars as much.
Oddly enough, that seemed to spark her anger. “You listen to me, Watcher. I don’t want another man dead because of me. As soon as I can schedule a knock-down-drag-out with the Council, I’ll have you put back in rotation. You can go commit suicide in front of some other poor witch.”
That did it. He didn’t precisely glare at her, but his gaze did meet hers. He shook his hair back from his face. “The Council has no jurisdiction over me. You’re my witch, I’m not going anywhere.” He realized what he was saying just in time. “Look, I’m a Watcher because I’m very good at surviving. You think I can’t do my job?”
Her eyes flashed, and he cursed himself for opening his mouth. But instead of taking him to task for disobedience, she simply examined him from head to foot, an appraisal he was half-ashamed to meet. He’d thought he’d stopped caring what he looked like, but now he was acutely aware that his hair was messy and hanging in his face, his scars were plainly visible, and he had barely bothered to rid his coat of the water and dirt from last night. He’d been pulling double shifts for a long time and cleaning up piecemeal when he came in. His T-shirt was threadbare and his jeans worn, his boots scarred. The only thing well-maintained about him was his weapons.
She sighed, closing her eyes as if searching for patience. “I should have known,” she muttered. “All right, fine. Okay.” Then she sna
pped her eyes open and met him with a level glare. “I suppose I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”
He’d never heard a Lightbringer speak so harshly. But it wasn’t the harshness of rage. Instead, her eyes were glimmering with unshed tears. Fascinated, he stared as they brimmed over, one crystal drop tracking down her cheek. If she’s so angry, why is she crying? “Of course not, ma’am. I’m just doing my job.”
She whirled away, her aura sparkling. “I’ve got to get cleaned up, and I’d better feed both of us at some point. I suppose they’ve stocked the room?”
Right, then. I am not dealing with this the right way. I don’t know if there is a right way to deal with this. She sounds furious, but she’s crying. His chest twisted oddly. “Of course.”
“Then feel free to get yourself a snack in the meantime. Can you cook?” She hefted a duffel bag, selected a suitcase, and started dragging them toward the other door, the one that hid a sparkling blue and white bathroom.
“No.” Not if you want to get any joy from eating, that is. “Ma’am? Caro? I—” He was about to ask if he could carry the suitcase for her.
“Not until after I’ve had a shower,” she said over her shoulder. The catch in her voice told him she was, indeed, crying. Why? Was she really that upset at finding herself confronted with an ugly, scarred, clumsy Watcher? “Then I’ll sort everything out. I’ll visit Fran and we’ll see what happens.”
She lugged the suitcase into the bathroom, slammed the door, and turned the water in the sink on. It was a small sound, and one that wouldn’t keep her sobs from ears as sharp as a Watcher’s.
Merrick stared at the closed door, and managed to drag his jaw up from the floor after a full minute of puzzlement. He had the distinct feeling he’d just done very badly in the conversation, which wasn’t exactly surprising but was worse than he’d imagined.
Where had he gone wrong?
Five
It’s not fair. Caro’s heels—another pair of black Cubans, since the pair she’d worn last night were still damp—cracked against the hardwood floor as she navigated the safehouse, her wet hair tightly braided and the Watcher a silent drifting presence at her back. It’s absolutely, completely not fair, and I’m not going to stand for it. They can’t make me.
Most safehouses were built along the same general plan, a full city block taken up with apartments on four or five levels, around the main commons and two flanking gardens. This one wasn’t any different, which meant Caro didn’t get lost as she navigated across to the third floor north wing, where the Council liaison would have her office and living quarters. Fran, as the person responsible for coordinating visiting teachers and healers in Altamira—or at least, this safehouse in Altamira—would be somewhere around here.
It couldn’t be put off any longer. She stopped in the middle of the hall and turned halfway, stealing a glance at the Watcher from under her eyelashes.
He was a tall man, of course, wide-shouldered and very graceful. He moved like a cat, all fluidity; his coat sometimes even forgot to make the slight creaking sound leather always made when you moved inside it. The smell of leather—always comforting, for a girl mostly raised in Circle Lightfall—had filled the room she’d awakened in, as well as the ghost of a faint citrusy scent. It was a peculiarly male aroma, and since Watchers didn’t believe in cologne she supposed it was natural.
He had green eyes, burning with the peculiar intensity of a man who had been a Watcher for a while, and a messy shock of hair much longer than usual, which he kept shaking down into his face. He probably did it to hide the scars.
He would have been almost pretty, in a masculine way, if not for the ridged tissue; three stripes slanting down the left side of his face as if a big cat had clawed him. One bisected his eyebrow and caught below the socket on his cheekbone, he was lucky he hadn’t lost the eye. From one side, he would look like an angel; from the other, the scars marred him. He was quiet even for a Watcher, barely offering a word when she asked him a direct question, and he seemed . . . well, sad.
She’d seen that sadness before. It was called “Watcher’s despair,” a type of fierce sorrow that could kill. There was only so much blood, death, and destruction a Watcher could handle, and the despair, if left untreated, was dangerous. This man had the dark circles under his eyes and the gaunt, almost feral intensity Watchers acquired before they started taking progressively more suicidal chances, courting death with the same intensity they used to protect Lightbringers.
And her skin didn’t hurt him. She didn’t hurt him.
It wasn’t fair. The last thing she needed was to be responsible for another Watcher.
He stopped, his hands stuffed as deep in his pockets as they could go, his eyes flicking over the corridor in controlled arcs. He seemed unable to look at her. Well, no wonder. She’d treated him awfully. She hadn’t meant to, but waking up in a strange room always unsettled her. It was the bad part of traveling, a holdover from when she was small and at the mercy of the foster care system. A new place meant new rules, and new dangers; even now, decades later and safe in Circle Lightfall, she felt the same breathless anxiety.
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, when he showed no desire to speak. “I’m a little disarranged. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
He shrugged, a supple feline movement. “It’s all right. Last night was probably very stressful for you. The office is down on the left, past the statue of Brigid.”
Definitely British or Australian, the accent, and he was deliberately trying to speak softly. It just barely worked—the tanak would give his voice a harsh growl no matter what he said. But he was making the effort, and Caro supposed the least she could do was meet him halfway.
“Thank you.” It was as courteous as she could be, and she set off again, her heels making sharp little frustrated sounds.
Francine Edwardton’s office was, as usual, jammed full of books, dusty, and comfortable. And even at this late hour, she had visitors. The tall, blonde, statuesque air witch already had three other women waiting to talk to her. A fourth, a water witch, crossed her arms defensively as her Watcher, a thin intense-looking man with scarred knuckles, curled his hand around her shoulder to steady her. It was obvious they were a bonded pair; the witch leaned back into him, relying on his strength.
Caro’s throat went dry. She suppressed a squirming little worm of guilt at what she was about to do.
“I can’t tell any more than that, but I thought you should know.” The water witch sounded miserable. Her aura was tinted purple with fear and tension.
Caro took her place on the padded bench along one wall, breathing deeply. The other three witches didn’t eye her curiously, for which she was grateful. She’d seen only two Watchers waiting out in the hall. A tech witch, her aura glittering and metallic, examined her painted blue nails while balancing a laptop across her knees, her black hair threaded with crimson lacquer beads. Tech witches. Just like magpies.
“Thank you for telling me,” Francine said, impeccably. She leaned her elbows on her cluttered desk, her entire attention on the water witch. “I’ll make a report, and we’ll ask the Seers to be very cautious. You’re not the only one who’s felt this, Corinna. Far from. Why don’t you go ask Hildy to give you some valerian?”
The water witch nodded. “I’m glad I’m not the only one. But—I don’t know, can’t anything be done?”
The other two were a green witch and an air witch, respectively, both in jeans and T-shirts. The air witch stroked a wooden flute, wearing a dreamy expression, as if she was composing music inside her head. The green witch, garden dirt under her fingernails, shifted as she watched the water witch, her clear green aura stretching soothingly toward the other woman’s. Green witches, always trying to heal.
Well, I’m always trying to heal the mind. They get the bodies. I wonder which is the easier task.
“Everything that can be done, is being done.” The corners of Francine’s eyes crinkled as she smiled
. Gray threaded through her hair at her temples, and she was sporting a new hairstyle—a thick braided coronet. My only real vanity, she’d noted laughingly several times, is my hair. Well, that and my copy of Aurelius in Greek.
Caro found herself wanting to smile. Francine was a rabid booklover even among Lightbringers, always heading off to auctions and poring through catalogs and Internet searches for rare texts. The library here was promising to become one of the best among Circle Lightfall houses, all due to Fran.
Merrick had taken his place out in the hall with the Watchers without demur. Caro was sneakingly glad he wasn’t going to be in the room. She was sure he wouldn’t like what she was about to do. She shifted restlessly on the bench, wishing she could put this off.
Corinna left, and the tech witch rattled off a few requests, holding her laptop to her chest like a schoolgirl. She wanted the Council to look into some new kind of computer witchery, Francine made a note or two, asked the girl to spell it, and then promised it would be brought up at the next regional meeting.
“The Hollywood image of witches could use a makeover,” Frannie had once lamented to Caro. “I hardly have time for spells and meditation anymore. We’re all drowning in paperwork.”
To which Caro replied, “You know we’re out of the Dark Ages when we start choking on bureaucracy.”
It was hard for Caro to remember the Crusade was still such a danger, since they were barred from Santiago City by the Guardians. Of course, even in Saint City they sent in human assassins, but those were no match for the Watchers—at least, most of the time. It was the Brotherhood that was the real problem now, sending in teams of mercenaries to make trouble while they tried to figure out how to slip past the vigilance of the Watchers on patrol and kidnap a few Lightbringers and other psychics to brainwash and sell to the highest bidder as talented slaves. And there were other shadowy organizations, legal and otherwise, that for one reason or another would love to get their hands on a Lightbringer or two.
Mindhealer Page 5
