Tracing through the labyrinth, she reached out, trailed her fingers along the stone and the smooth wooden surfaces of the doors. She had gone into a mind, and something had happened. She was now trapped in the space-between, the shock of disengaging from the other mind knocking her into this space. Dangerous, especially if they tried pouring Power into her. This was not like astral travel, where the silver cord would hold the consciousness to the body. No, this was something different, something only another Mindhealer would understand.
Fuzzy voices twisted through the walls as she passed a low arch twined with ivy. Through it, she caught sight of a clear reflecting pool, lipped with stone, and with a stone bench beside it. Hanging over the pool was a tree watching its own reflection with bloodshot eyes. The leaves were bloodshot too, dripping; the plink of every crimson drop hitting the rippling surface of the pool was loud through the sound of faraway, radio-static voices. Soft voices, whispering voices.
Female voices.
“How long has she—”
“Since the . . . since Nicolette. The Mindhealers say not to touch, not to disturb her.”
“Her poor Watcher. Look at him.”
“Shh, he’ll hear you.”
“He hasn’t moved. Won’t let anyone help him, won’t let anyone—”
“Shh.”
Then she moved, because the pool had begun to bulge and ripple, and she did not want to see what would birth itself from that bleeding reflection.
Walking. Barefoot. Chill stone against her feet. Her fingers were growing numb, and that was a bad sign. She was lost. She could not find her way.
Stop, she whispered to herself. Doubt is useless here. Be quiet, and walk. You’ll find the way soon enough.
But she had nothing to guide her. She had gone into the mind—whose mind? Someone’s. And she had gone without preparation, without setting her landmarks, gone in a terrible hurry. Why? It must have been important. If she could only remember.
She looked down as she walked, at the silver sphere. It pulsed reassuringly. A memory was locked inside, a memory not of her making. She would have to carry it out and scry it in a bowl of water. Or a globe of malachite or granite. Anything less would shatter under the force of recollection. She knew that. How she knew, she could not guess.
Walking. The mist began, rising like the numbness, clouding her vision. Mindhealing was really mostly about seeing, about being able to see what was right in front of you. To obscure oneself, that was death.
Voices, again. Weirdly directionless through the mist.
“She’s fading.” An agonized, gentle voice. “We can’t do anything for fear of hurting her.”
“Let him try.” A young boy’s voice, hoarse as if he had been crying. Why was it so familiar? “For God’s sake, let him try.”
Mist, rising. She should have been afraid, but instead she felt a strange relief. She saw the archway ahead, through the mist. The bleeding tree was there, and if she looked into the pool she would forget all this.
Caro. The world echoed strangely, as if through a weight of air different than anything found on earth. Where are you?
I wish I knew, she thought in reply. I wish I knew.
The mist began to billow. Caroline froze. She felt . . . something.
Her hand lifted, thought becoming action, and the mist retreated. A strange sensation, as if heat was folding around her, a rope wrapped around her middle, drawing her.
I’ll find you. Male. A familiar voice, but older. Who? She couldn’t think, it was too hard. Keeping herself whole and complete in this space took so much attention, so much concentrated effort. Pull.
Pull what? But she knew. She looked down and saw a thick rope around her waist. It was a line, meant to draw her out of the labyrinth. It spiraled along the floor in a pattern like three lines drawn on a face, then soared up beyond the walls of the labyrinth. And for the first time since coming to this place, she saw a flash of blue sky.
It was such a long, long way away. And the archway was getting closer. She heard the plinking of water dripping. Plink, plonk. They grew heavier—thud, thud, thud.
Footfalls? A heartbeat? Who knew?
Caro wrapped her free hand around the rope. It tautened, and another warm wave of strength poured into her.
She cast one longing look at the archway. There was a bench there, looking over the pool, and she could rest.
Rest forever, until her feet grew into the floor and her fingers split into bleeding leaves, until her bloodshot eyes could not look away from whatever spectacle awaited in the water’s depths.
She dug her heels in, tightening her fingers around the rope, and threw herself back, inertia combining with effort and intent, the rope suddenly a stretched-thin, thread-thin, too-thin link. A connection, snapped taut, letting him know she was there, that she heard him, that she wanted out.
Images. A hot, steaming place where water dripped from every leaf, crouching in the mud as the leeches novocained his skin, the crosshairs settling perfectly over the target, not even a human shape, merely the taste of consummation in his mouth as he pulled the trigger—
Don’t look at that. He pulled her away, closing that set of mental doors. Pulled against the rope, his hands slippery with blood, his eyes dry and grainy, his shoulders aching and his legs frozen from kneeling. That’s not good, don’t go there. This way. Here.
And one last convulsive effort, pulling, his eyes rolling back into his head and the hard cold part of him roaring with satisfaction, he had tracked her. He had tracked her, caught her, and brought her up, up, spiraling into the blue, wind whipping her hair, every nerve alive and then . . .
CRASH—
—ing through the glass ceiling and into the land of the living again.
Caro slammed back into her body and screamed, thrashing. Pain smashed through her, the pain of a mind gone too long and forced back into the cloak of the body, confined to a shape that altered slower than the lightning speed of thought. It passed, only a brief second of the agony of being trapped inside her own shell again. Then it was comforting to feel the weight of flesh once more and she sagged, except for her wrist, braceleted in hot iron. She fell back into softness, light striking her eyes hard and harsh.
That’s why newborns scream, she thought with dazed wonder, and squeezed her eyes closed. Heard herself whispering, the shapeless speech of a dreamer. Her body was asleep, safe now that she was back inside it, like a hand inside a glove.
“Caro.” Hoarse. He sounded like hell. That was the first surprise, his usually calm voice so ragged she almost didn’t recognize it.
The second surprise? He wasn’t Trev. She would have thought Trev would be the one to bring her out.
And the last surprise, almost mundane in its depth, was the fact that she needed only the single word to know who it was and feel completely, utterly relieved. Safe.
Merrick?
“You’re safe now,” he whispered, and his fingers eased on her wrist. “Tracked you. Just rest.”
Then a sliding, heavy sound. He’d passed out.
Darkness closed over her, the clean familiar darkness of slumber. Caro fought it as hard as she could, only winning a few seconds before it swallowed her whole.
* * * *
The coffeemaker gurgled as she stared blearily at it. Caro pushed her hair back, tucking vagrant curls behind her ears, and yawned again. She didn’t know how long she’d slept, and she was still tired. Wandering around in the space-between was dangerous and draining. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours, could it? She wouldn’t have lasted much longer in that unphysical realm.
Merrick was asleep on the floor; a human sleep instead of the deep trance the Watchers sometimes used to skip the need for human unconsciousness. He must have been utterly exhausted. She’d covered him with the down quilt from her bed and thought about trying to ease a pillow under his head, but he was too heavy for her to lift and she might wake him. Guilt bit at her—after all, he’d somehow perform
ed the miracle of reaching into the space-between and pulling her out.
How he’d done it was another mystery, one she was going to have to solve soon. Even another Mindhealer wouldn’t risk a touch when she was in the space-between. It was dangerous, so dangerous she was tempted to wake him up and scold him.
But that simply raised another cascade of questions—why did she recognize his voice? Why had she felt so goddamn breathless, when she’d awakened suddenly in the pale pearly light of a rainy winter morning that was still falling through the windows, automatically glancing over to the door as if she would see him there?
And why, oh why, had she felt disturbed when he wasn’t there, and ridiculously relieved when she found him collapsed on the floor by her bed, lying on his coat, his weapons piled neatly aside, so deeply asleep he was barely breathing? Why had she wanted to touch him to make sure he was still alive, and why had she hung over the side of the bed peering at him like an idiot, watching the way the light fell over his scarred face? Asleep, he didn’t look nearly as solemn. But she missed the gleam of his eyes and the slight movements at the corners of his mouth that clued her in to what he was thinking. She even missed that dry, ironic sense of humor he sometimes displayed, when he spoke at all.
Caro frowned at the coffeemaker. As soon as it had squeezed out enough brew for a cup she grabbed the pot, slopping the liquid around in her hurry, and poured it into a handy mug. She wished, with sudden vengeance, for her own red Fiestaware coffee mugs. And since Trev was here, her ferns were probably withering, unless he’d remembered to make them someone else’s problem.
She was so tired of waking up in strange places, always feeling the shock of disorientation, always feeling like a guest and never like she was at home. Her one attempt at owning a home had only lasted two weeks before Vincent—
Caro sighed, jammed the coffeepot back in, and was grateful it was one of the ones that didn’t make you wait until it stopped brewing. She was, like most witches in the western hemisphere, addicted to caffeine. Some tried to make do with tea, but most of them just gave up and started drinking java, at least in the mornings. Rare indeed was the witch who didn’t like a decent cuppa joe. Eastern witches liked tea better, but you could always find good coffee in their safehouses just in case. Like the safehouse in Beijing with its exquisite gardens and the fresh-ground Kona beans, or the one in Paris. Paris was her favorite, for all that she’d made Saint City her home. She’d trained in Paris for two years with Eleanor, and still remembered the thick stone walls of the Rue de Jeanette safehouse, drenched with Power; remembered visiting Notre Dame while Eleanor’s cane tapped the ancient floor and her teacher pointed out ancient pagan ideas frozen in the cathedral’s stone. They had moved back to New York after that, and spent time in Florida, too, examining cases, Eleanor’s softly-accented voice a counterpoint to Caro’s. Eleanor never raised her voice, but her tone could slice through granite when necessary.
Thinking about Eleanor was tinted with sadness. She missed her teacher’s quiet confidence and even temper. Just like she missed Vincent’s calm and ironic patience. I wish both of them were here. Eleanor would have an idea of how to treat the victims and Vincent would have an idea of what to do about Merrick.
Caro let out another sigh, leaning back against the counter as she cupped her hands around her mug. Tired. Headache. My arms hurt. So does my back, come to think of it. But all in all, I’m feeling far better than I should be. Why? I should be almost blind with the headache, and sick to boot. I should feel terrible.
Instead, she felt a little muzzy, and a little sore. Dehydrated, certainly, and very, very hungry. Nothing like she would expect.
As soon as the coffee cooled, she took a cautious sip and grimaced at how strong she’d made it. But, acidic or not, it was the best bet to give her a jolt so she could start in on making sure nobody else was hurt by whatever the Crusade was doing. Circle Lightfall no longer had Eleanor, Caro would have to do her best.
Once she’d some toast made to take the edge of hunger off, she paced through the dining room into the main room, taking care to move quietly. There was a stack of file folders on top of the dresser—Fran’s doing, probably. Caro took another scorching gulp of coffee and glanced over at the bed. Merrick was behind it, hidden from view, and she struggled briefly with the impulse to check on him. He was sleeping, he would be all right.
Are you sure?
Of course she was sure. She wouldn’t be much of a witch if she couldn’t tell the difference between sleep and the space-between. Besides, his aura was strong and disciplined instead of pale and thready, a red-black pulsing that resonated inside the room. He’d set Watcher defenses inside the standard warding in the walls, probably after the room had been invaded. And even now, while he was dead asleep, he was unconsciously checking those defenses, making sure they were intact. She was willing to bet that if anything hit those shields, he would be awake instantly and ready to fight it.
It was comforting having a Watcher around again, she decided, but also frightening. Like every Lightbringer, she didn’t understand why the Watchers did what they did. Well, maybe some of the bonded ones; ever since she was ten years old she’d seen the devotion and care between witch and Watcher. It was part of the reason why she’d never been afraid of them. Kids weren’t stupid, and a child used to learning the rules by inference at each new foster home was usually more than acute enough to see below the screen of falsity adults put up.
Especially a child gifted with the abilities of a Mindhealer. It had taken her exactly ten minutes to decide that Vincent, though scary and armed to the teeth, meant her no harm. Oddly enough, she had trusted him before trusting Eleanor. The Mindhealer had not been very fond of children, though always gentle and supportive of Caro’s talents and fears.
She decided to take a peek at Merrick, just to reassure herself. Padded to the foot of the bed and looked.
He was still asleep under the blanket, his hair pushed back and the scarred side of his face clearly visible. She wondered again where he’d gotten the scars. Watchers didn’t usually scar unless it was a mortal wound, one that could have killed them if they didn’t have the tanak. Even then, the scars tended to fade after a while.
She realized she was biting her lower lip, almost chewing on it. I promised myself I would never endanger another Watcher. He could have been killed; I’ve almost gotten him killed twice now since the koroi. I don’t want anything to happen to him.
And, of course, if she truly was his witch, he was incapable of going back to guard duty over some other poor witch. Or going back out on patrol. He was going to be in danger no matter what she did.
That doesn’t absolve me from trying. What can I do? Every impossible problem has a solution, Eleanor always used to say that. Somehow, some way, I have to get him away from me.
As long as she was a Lightbringer, the Dark was going to be drawn to her. She had people to heal, patients to help, and work to do. The Dark was a danger she would just have to live with, like car accidents or airplane crashes.
He looked so peaceful, even with his tangled hair and scarred face and scuffed boots. He hadn’t even taken his boots off.
Caro’s heart gave a twisting leap behind her ribs. Oh, damn.
Why did he have to be so . . . so British? It was the best word she could come up with. She shook her head, ignoring the tangles in her hair for a little while longer, and shuffled back to the dresser. The neat stack of file folders eyed her balefully. Each one represented a victim.
Let’s just make sure the stack doesn’t get any bigger. Do some reading while you drink your coffee, then get yourself ready for the day. You can scry this afternoon to see what you brought out of that Watcher’s mind. It must have been something very important for you to bring it out that way.
Decisively, Caro scooped up the file folders and carried them to the kitchenette table, laying them next to her plate of toast. She sat down, took another gulp of coffee, and began to read.
&nbs
p; * * * *
Early afternoon came before she finally took a shower. It was heavenly to get into a long, green silk skirt—a gift from Theo back in Saint City—and a black sweater, she was feeling cold and slightly sick from going through the files. The careful recitation of each victim’s statistics and the bloodless collation of information about the attacks and deaths were chilling, to say the least. She’d only made it about halfway through, stopping to breathe deeply each time she felt nauseous. She would go over them again, making notes the second time. Eleanor had taught her to read carefully and thoroughly, and to read everything about a case twice. It was good practice, even if the information made her feel sick. She was guiltily glad there were no pictures; she didn’t think she could have handled the pictures without throwing up.
As it was, she saw Colleen’s broken face, Nicolette’s blood-soaked hair, and Asher Green’s unrecognizably battered body. Impossible not to think of them while she read of other damage, of bones broken and organs failing, of saline and morphine drips to ease the victims’ pain, their psyches crying out in a chorus only a Mindhealer could hear.
The warm water helped, and while she scrubbed she used the deep breathing and mind-clearing Eleanor had taught her. Every Mindhealer needed an organized, clearheaded space in which to work. It was a little eerie, because she felt far too good to have spent very long in the space-between. She should have been blind with backlash. Instead, she was feeling much better. The caffeine and a little bit of breakfast helped, and the shower completed the job.
As soon as she opened the bathroom door, scrubbing at her hair with a towel, she knew Merrick was awake; his attention crackled through the room like static electricity. Her conscience rose. She had to get him new boots, maybe a haircut, and more clothes. She’d shopped for Vincent for years, even dragged him through outlet stores trying to get him to loosen up and wear a blue T-shirt instead of unrelieved black. Once she’d even tried to convince him to get his ear pierced, that had been one hell of an event.
For the first time, the memory didn’t send a bolt of pain through her. Instead, it was a sweet ache, remembering how kind he had been. She glanced around the room, feeling the slow static of a Watcher’s conscious attention brush the walls and come to rest on her.
Mindhealer Page 15
