Touched with Sight (Shadow Thane)

by Nenia Campbell

  “So it's grave-robbing then? Count me out.” She started to close the window. He reached in and caught her arms. Catherine stared at him stupidly, unable to believe this.

  “You're going to take me there.”

  “No, I'm not! This is—” she fumbled for an appropriate word “—this is insane. You can't just come into my bedroom and order me to escort you around.”

  He just looked at her. They both knew he could.

  “Why does it have to be me? Can't you look it up like a normal person?”

  “No.”

  She felt like crying. “Why?”

  “Because, as you so kindly pointed out, you know this town better than me and one of your terms was not being left in the dark.”

  Oh…shit. She had said that, hadn't she? “I changed my mind. You can go without me.”

  The witch swung into her bedroom window. “You're taking me—willing, or not.”

  That sounded so wrong. She grabbed an unopened perfume bottle. “Stay away from me.”

  “I don't think you want to force me into using a glamor,” he said quietly.

  Her fingers tightened around the perfume bottle, and she cocked her arm back. “I seem to remember another one of my terms being that you don't treat me like a tool.”

  “I told you, shifter mine, that I only break the rules when necessary.” His eyes flicked to her hand. “Now put that down and be reasonable.”

  Without taking her eyes off him or setting down the bottle she said, “Give me five minutes.”

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  “Four minutes,” he agreed, swinging back through the window and dropped out of sight. She heard him hit the wet grass below.

  Catherine punched her arms through the sleeves of her coat. With a cautious look at the window, she kicked off her sweatpants and pulled on some jeans instead. No matter how many times she swallowed, a hard lump remained in her throat. Why did he want to go to the cemetery? What if he really had killed someone? She didn't want to get involved in murder!

  “Three and a half minutes,” his voice said, from somewhere close by.

  “Shit,” she growled, and started hunting for her rain boots. Her head was pounding, her entire body jolting with nerves as she searched the room for her shoes, which she remembered seeing by the door what seemed like hours ago—

  “Time's up,” he said; and she didn't have to turn around to know he was at the window.

  “I can't find my boots.”

  “By the desk.”

  Sure enough, there they were. She tugged them on angrily, wishing he would fall off the window to his death. That would certainly give her one less thing to worry about.

  He watched her as she jerked the laces taut. “You're not like the other savages.”

  “This again,” she said flatly. “We've been over this before.”

  “You haven't even been blooded, have you?”

  Blooding—how did he know about blooding? It was a horrible word to describe an equally horrible rite; the traditionalists used it to refer to the killing of their most challenging game, humans. Most Glamors, like herself, didn't practice; but there were plenty around that did. She shivered, remembering the Slayer, and how very badly she wanted to rend him apart with her teeth.

  She could have been blooded this very day.

  “That's a very primitive ritual. Not all shape-shifters are bloodthirsty cannibals.”

  Fucking liar.

  “Looking at you, I could almost believe it.”

  Before she could ask what he meant by that, the witch asked meaningfully, “Were you close to the shifter boy?”

  A sound escaped her mouth: the sound of all the air escaping from her lungs at once, leaving Catherine feeling as if she'd been socked in the stomach. As if he'd read her mind that day in front of the school, and seen right through the veneer of irritation; straight through to the core of pain and guilt that lay dormant beneath. Because for several days, she had forgotten all about David.

  Don't ever change.

  But she had changed—for the worse. David would not like who she was now. What she was.

  She swallowed with effort. Too much time had elapsed to continue under the pretense of normalcy and the witch was still waiting for her response. She managed to gasp, “Not that close.”

  Ouch. That sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.

  “My condolences,” he murmured.

  Catherine whirled on him with the same amount of anger that had precipitated their duel. “Nobody said he was dead!” Yes, keep telling yourself that.

  “I apologize. I have overstepped my bounds.” He bowed his head, but didn't sound the least bit contrite. Bastard. “Forgive my trespass.”

  The dam broke. She could deal with the witch's arrogance and condescension—she put up with it all the time at school. And she could even deal with the endless ring of violence she'd suddenly stepped into. Her instincts took care of that. But she wasn't used to people tiptoeing around her.

  Her eyes blurred with tears. She looked away, feeling her cheeks heat up as it always did when she cried. On TV, human women always looked so beautiful and vulnerable when they cried; with Catherine, it was a messy business involving snot and tears and puffy eyes. With a muffled cry, she threw her hands over her face. Everything—David—the witch—the Slayer—it was too much.

  “Are those tears?” he asked. “Are you crying?”

  “Leave me alone.” She felt the warm liquid trickling down her cheeks, hot and sticky, leaking through the cracks in her fingers to spatter her carpet. She couldn't seem to stop them.

  “Why?”

  She wasn't sure whether he whether he was asking about the tears, or the order that had followed them. She compromised by staying silent. But she couldn't shut out the guilt. The horrible, horrible guilt. It was her fault David had been there that night. He came because she had asked. And now she couldn't go for help because it would put her family in danger.

  His hand brushed against hers, and she thought he was trying to pry her hands away. But he simply left his hand there, pressed against her own. It was very odd. She couldn't find it within herself to push him away, though. She was so…so tired.

  “I'm sure he was aware of the risks.”

  It was as if his words had echoed off some secret fear lying innate inside her. Her breath rushed in too quickly, nearly choking her, and she pulled away as if she'd been burned. “Don't talk to me about risks,” she said. Her voice was shaking slightly. “You know nothing about risks.”

  “I might surprise you.”

  “You couldn't if you tried.” She stepped back, wiping her face on her sleeves, before lifting her head. “We were forced into hiding because of your kind. We were hunted for sport, the same way you tracked me in that gully.” She walked closer. “Your caste has no idea what tyranny is.”

  He rolled up his sleeves. She set her jaw, bracing herself for a blow that didn't come. “Look.”

  There were thick whorls of scars around his wrists, pearly white and glittering like veins of a precious metal embedded in quartz. She looked at him. His face was completely emotionless.

  “Th-those are Bleeders' marks,” she choked.

  “Yes.” He rolled down his sleeves and rested an elbow against the wall above her head.

  Her heart began to pound. The Bleeders never left their victims alive. It was a liability. Witches held grudges, and hated Slayers. That meant that he'd escaped with his life.

  “So somewhere out there is a Slayer with a vial of your blood.”

  His teeth showed. It wasn't a smile. “I doubt it's still in a vial.”

  Oh Goddess, he was scaring her. She took a step back. He followed.

  “I know you looked at that book. You've seen the recipes. I'm sure you can guess what a drop of my blood could do in the wrong hands. What it could do to something like you.”

  “One arrow. One bullet. And this would still forever. I've seen it happen. I know.” />
  The gun. Her hand clapped over her chest, as if taking an oath, and she sank against the wall.

  “It's foolish to allow yourself to be ruled by your emotions.”

  “As opposed to having none at all?” she asked. All the fight had gone out of her voice.

  It was hard to believe his main element was fire. Fire was supposed to be passionate. Lively.

  Warm.

  Like David.

  David was fire. The witch…the witch was ice. Liquid nitrogen. So cold, that he froze everything he touched. A chaotic, destructive force.

  “Turn them into something useful,” he said, in that same electric voice, “Something deadly.”

  “We're talking about emotions. Not guns.”

  He looked at her a moment longer. “You're so transparent,” he said, unexpectedly. “Everything you're thinking…it shows up on your face. Your pain…your anger…”

  “Shut up.”

  For a moment, he looked as if he were going to say something else. Then he shook his head.

  “Let's go.”

  Minutes later, she found herself walking to Barton Cemetery, the creepiest place in the entire town, just a little after midnight. The witching hour. When magic pulsed at its strongest and anything could happen. His hand was closed firmly around hers. Anyone walking around would think they were two lovers going for a stroll, but there was nothing affectionate in that gesture. She knew his only motive was keeping her close. “Your ring burns,” she said.

  “You'll live,” he replied, callously.

  The streetlights around them were dimmed by the fog, lending a surreal, otherworldly quality to the otherwise familiar road. Grit and gravel crunched beneath her boots sometimes making a sloshing sound when she walked through a puddle. Occasionally she heard the crack of ice. It was really cold, especially for California. Her jeans were doing nothing to keep out the misty chill.

  Finn kept his eyes straight ahead. The cold didn't seem to bother him at all. Looking at him in his threadbare coat made her shiver even harder, and she pulled her hands inside her sleeves to keep the wind from nipping at her fingers. She thought longingly of her lit bedroom and hot showers.

  He looked at her sharply, and muttered something under his breath. Cursing her probably, she thought, until she saw the bright xanthous flash. The air around them seemed to grow warmer, as if they were both inside an invisible pocket of heat. She looked at him curiously. “What did you—?”

  “Fire ward,” he said shortly.

  She was quite pleasantly toasty now; warm enough that she soon began to sweat inside her thick jacket. She pulled it off, tying the sleeves around her waist, thinking how odd it was to be walking around in twenty degree weather, in nothing more than jeans and a t-shirt. As if it were summer. She felt him looking at her and turned, just in time to see his eyes cut away.

  With a frown, she turned her eyes back to the path. Seconds later, she felt that light, familiar pressure return. He was staring again. She was almost glad when they reached the cemetery. Her free hand reached up to grasp the quartz pendant around her neck as she stared at the tall gates. Iron gates. When he tried to spell the lock, the magic burst on contact like a popped bubble, sending the shimmering particles scattering in different directions.

  It was almost worth the trip to see that expression of defeat on his inhumanly beautiful face. Not for long, though. He jerked a thumb towards the lock, and said, “You open it.”

  The smirk disappeared from her face. Without a word, she marched past him and gave the lock a hard yank. She felt the iron stretch, like a thin cord that was beginning to fray, but the lock held steady. Grimacing, she gave another pull and again, felt the metal yield in her grip. “Ugh,” she gasped. When she looked down at her palms, the links of the chain were marked in red.

  “I've seen an adult male of your species tear through a car door,” the witch observed from behind her. “You can't even open an iron lock?”

  “That's because they're—males.” Hypocrite. “They're stronger. It's called sexual—” she gave the iron links a hard tug, pretending the links were his neck “—dimorphism.” The chain broke with a loud snap and the lock fell to the grass. She rubbed her stinging palms on her jeans.

  “Is that the only gender difference in your species?”

  “No.” She looked him square in the eyes. “Males are more aggressive. More violent. Less likely to take crap from some mouthy witch who can't even cast a spell on one lousy iron lock.”

  “You're uppity tonight,” he remarked. “Has the blood-lust infected your brain?”

  She bit back a comment about him needing to jump in a lake, afraid that he would retort with another less-than-pure comment about her attitude. Without another word, she walked through the gate. She felt cold. At first she thought it was fear but no, it really was the cold. She could feel the heat from the fire ward seeping away. She pulled her jacket back on and didn't mention it, although she suspected he was laughing at her.

  The graves were quiet, silent, and perfectly still. She could see statues of angels on the larger monuments. The moonlight cast strange shadows on their faces, turning the cherubic smiles into demonic, ill-intentioned sneers. In the back she could see the mausoleums, swathed in fog.

  The witch whistled. Sudden movement. She jumped and the hairs on her neck prickled as she took a cautious step closer. No danger. Just the witch's familiar. Catherine was surprised to see her here; the witch hadn't had her earlier. Had he told her to meet them ahead of time? Catherine looked at her again, more closely. She was holding a struggling sparrow in her jaws.

  “A little small,” the witch remarked, taking the bird, “But it'll do.” He held it in his fist, with the thumb underneath the throat to keep the little sharp beak from pecking. Catherine had never been a sparrow before, but it would have been hard to mistake that frantic, high-pitched cheeping for anything other than a distress call.

  “Do for what?” Catherine asked, staring at the bird. The little black eyes seemed to seek out her own, as if it understood what she was and was begging her to help it. She looked up at him sharply, her anxiety increasing as she saw the wall in his face. “You won't hurt it.”

  He said nothing.

  “You won't,” she repeated.

  “We were originally going with a hawk,” he said. “But Graymalkin thought that might offend you.”

  She was floored by the name and then realized he was referring to his familiar. “Offend me?”

  “It's a sacrifice, shifter mine.” He slipped a sideways glance in her direction. “We're going to summon a shade. They can only speak when fresh blood is spilled before them.”

  “That's horrible,” she choked.

  “Is it?” He met her eyes. “Strange, coming from you.”

  “It shouldn't. I happen to love animals,” she snapped, “And believe me, that little sparrow's death upsets me a lot more than yours would.”

  “Shades are bound to a powerful magic that forces them to always speak the truth when blood is spilled. You might stop your grousing and thank me, shifter mine. You could ask it what happened to that friend of yours. Isn't closure what you've been wanting all this time?”

  David. Her heart knocked against her chest and she looked away, resentful that in a short amount of time he had surmised exactly which buttons to press in order to make her squirm.

  “Shut up, you bastard.”

  “Do you think you're the first to lose a loved one to this war?” he asked. “You aren't.”

  “You have?”

  His eyes, dark and intense, bored into hers. “Yes,” he said shortly, before turning his back on her, rendering her momentarily speechless.

  There was a single shade in the older part of the cemetery, which was a little less-maintained than the foregrounds. Its shadowy form misted through the various crumbling edifices, although it halted as they approached, appearing to study them through the eyeless hood.

  Catherine hung back. There was a foul taste i
n her mouth, like dry cotton.

  “They don't bite.” The word, carried by the breeze, seemed to be coming right next to her ear.

  “They don't need to. They can feed off auras.”

  “Could it be that you're afraid?” The witch produced his silver knife, giving it a little wave in her direction.

  She didn't respond. Yes, yes, she was afraid. There were some forces one didn't mess with.

  “This one is quite weak. Don't cut yourself and it will have no reason to come after you.” He slit the bird's throat, so that blood spilled and steamed on the ground.

  “I accept your offering,” the shade said, falling upon the blood before it could completely soak into the soil. Its voice sounded like the leaves of the willows rasping around them. Catherine took a step back in disgust. The shade looked up from the feast and seemed to sigh longingly, like a human too stuffed with junk food to enjoy a fine meal. “What do you wish to know?”

  Apparently the witch was used to the sight and sound of shades because his face registered no change. “I want to know what is happening among the Otherkind.”

  A furious hissing noise sounded. Catherine realized it was the sound of the shade laughing. “The knowledge must be requested in the form of a question.”

  “Why are so many Others disappearing so quickly?” He paused, drawing in a deep breath, and asked, “Is there going to be another Great War?”

  Another hissing noise rising this time to a deafening crescendo that made her fall to her knees.

  “In trials of ir'n and silver fain

  “The dead will rise and walk again

  “The blesséd few that touch the light

  “Will aid the war against the night.

  “ But one by one they all will die

  “Without a cause to rule them by

  “As Darkness spreads across the land

  “He'll wield the oceans in his hand.

  “Five warriors will oppose his reign

  “And overthrow the Shadow Thane

  “They come from sides both dark and light

  “The realm the mortals call “twilight.”

  “A magus crowned with boughs of fire