Touched with Sight (Shadow Thane)

by Nenia Campbell

  “Will rise like Phoenix from his pyre

  “A beast of shadows touched with sight

  “Will Claim a Dark One as her knight

  “The next, a prophet doomed to fail,

  “Will find her powers to avail

  “The final: one mere mortal man

  “Who bears the mark upon his hand.

  “The circle closes round these few

  “Made sacred by the bonds they hew

  “But if one fails then so shall all

  “Bring death to those of Evenfall.”

  A riddle. That poor bird had been sacrificed for a stupid riddle. And yet…beast of shadows, Shadow Thane—hadn't she heard those exact words before, whispered in her dreams?

  “What about David?” Catherine asked. “What happened to David? David Tran? The shifter?”

  The shade shook its head and pointed at her.

  “No,” the witch said coldly.

  “What?” Catherine looked from him to the witch; puzzled, anxious, and afraid.

  “It demands your blood as the price.”

  “That's all?” She held out her hand. “Give me the knife. I'll do it.”

  “They thrive off blood. Especially blood with magic in it. Whose side do you think it's on?”

  “It knows what happened to David. You said so! Give. Me. The knife!”

  The witch held it out of reach. “Or so it says. It might very well say anything for blood.”

  “You just told me they never lie,” Catherine pointed out. “So who's lying? You—or it?”

  He hesitated. Only for a few seconds, but long enough for her to grow fangs and bite her wrist. “No!” he said, grabbing for her. Too slowly. “Don't—”

  She let the blood fall, meeting his eyes as the the scarlet cascade soaked the icy ground.

  “You foolish savage.” The words were laced with contempt and dread. “You've no idea what kind of a bargain you've just entered.”

  Catherine turned to the shade and asked urgently, “Is David still alive?”

  “One week before his blood was spilled; and one week hence his heart has stilled.”

  “No!” she said. Impossible. They couldn't have killed him. “No, he can't be dead.” But there was no denying the truth. The Slayers didn't take survivors, and Shades didn't lie.

  “Catherine!”

  The shade lunged forward, far more tangible than before, and the hissing rose to the volume of a raging wind swirling with snowdrifts in a place so cold the ground never had time to completely thaw. It permeated the deepest, darkest caverns of her heart, filling her with a primal fear that overrode the innate terrors of every animal. She was paralyzed.

  It knocked her against the icy ground and her head cracked against one of the tombstones, causing bursts of light to go off in her eyes like sparklers. Her vision cleared and then she screamed. The shade loomed over her, lowering its hooded face to her wrist. Her eyes widened and she scrambled backwards, cradling her wounded hand to her chest.

  The thing seemed to be grinning, although she couldn't say how she knew that it was. “Your friend was right, shiftling.” She scrambled backwards with her good hand and felt the icy chill of a tombstone through her jacket. “What you gave was merely an advance. It's time to pay in full.”

  “Stay away from her.”

  Over the tombstone, the witch was standing with one hand on the granite, a menacing expression distorting his delicate features, turning them inhuman; lethal. An orb of fire hovered inches above his palm, not quite touching his skin. The light it radiated was so bright that the shadows of the tombs around them were thrown into relief. From the depths of the hood, she could see eyes; red and menacing, with a cat-like pupil that shifted and pulsed.

  Catherine was breathing hard, pressed up against the grave. Every breath sent a frozen cloud rising towards the starry sky. The stone was as cold as a block of ice and she found herself thinking that she could easily die here tonight and that this wasn't at all what she had expected.

  “How unexpected,” the shade said, cracking a laugh like a splitting tree branch. The sound made Catherine flinch. “What a disgusting display of weakness.”

  The witch had gone unexpectedly pale.

  “Yes,” came the knowing response. “You know, don't you? What once was had, forever lost; thy fate is destined, thy love star-crossed. Start digging, boy. You'll be in the grave soon enough.”

  Hissing with laughter, the shade closed the distance it had put between them. Someone screamed in a blood-curling, girlish voice—and with a start, Catherine realized that someone was her. The witch released the ball in his hand which splatted into the shade's chest. It was pushed several feet backwards, before disappearing in a black wisp too thick to be smoke or vapor.

  Catherine got to her feet, cold, wet, and streaked with mud. “G-goddess,” she stammered.

  “You never enter into a blood contract with a shade,” the witch said, in an icy voice that was far more terrifying than yelling, “They'll drain you of blood and magic until you're a dried-out husk!”

  She took a step backwards. “You could have warned me.”

  “I did.” His words could have frozen entire oceans.

  “That was a taunt, not a warning.”

  He grabbed her by the upper arms. “Listen to me,” there was a tight, controlled nature to his voice that reminded her of a rubber band about to snap.

  “Yes?”

  “If I ever have to do something like that again …”

  “Yes?”

  “I won't.” And he released her, roughly enough that she was pushed back.

  …But you already have, she nearly said.

  She threw a final look over her shoulder as they left the cemetery and the inscription caught her eye. Peace to thy shade and endless rest. Someone had blacked out the final word in what looked like sharpie. That simple act of desecration suddenly seemed symbolic.

  Things were awakening, and not just in the graveyard. In the world. In her.

  And she was left standing on the grave for a few seconds, stunned and oblivious to the chill or the heavy silence now that the wind had stopped blowing as her brain did a furious recap of the last five minutes. Oh, the anger and contempt had been the same but they had been shot through with another emotion that rose to the surface to burst like bubbles of fire, coloring his speech with an intensity he usually lacked. For the first time since she had met him, the witch had called her Catherine.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Are you and Finn still coming?”

  The call came at 5 P.M. on Wednesday, just an hour before the Sterling Rep meeting. Sharon had called to ask the exact same question twice before. Last night, in tears, after relaying that she hadn't heard from Mike since Saturday—after he had sneaked after the restaurant without paying the bill.

  Catherine, swallowing her guilt, expressed her sympathy and hoped that her friend wouldn't hear the strain in her voice. This seemed doubtful, though. People rarely ventured outside the realm of their own hurts. They believed their own suffering was obvious to all, but might as well have been wearing blinders for all that they noticed anyone else's.

  Sharon was no exception.

  And then she'd called again earlier that afternoon.

  “My answer hasn't changed,” Catherine told her, as nicely as she could. The specter of Mike's charred corpse still haunted her thoughts, but now they were jockeying for place alongside her anxiety for tonight.

  “I can't believe Mike would just take off like that, without saying anything,” Sharon was saying. “The dick-for-brains isn't even picking up his phone. How could he do something like that to me?”

  “Because he's an asshole,” Catherine said, a little too forcefully. Who are you trying to convince?

  But he was a Slayer—and if the witch was to be believed, the tattooed bands he'd worn around his finger meant that he had murdered five already.

  She could have easily found herself among them.

  �
��Are you sure you didn't see him?” Sharon pressed. “He really didn't come after you, like he'd said?”

  “No.”

  Sharon sighed, her breath causing a burst of static on the line that made Catherine flinch.

  “What are you wearing?” she asked at length.

  Catherine glanced at the outfit she had laid out on her bed—white T-shirt with lace trim, brown hoodie, and acid-wash jeans. Simple and understated. She didn't want to attract notice if she could help it.

  “Isn't that a little plain?” Sharon said predictably.

  “It's a youth group,” Catherine reminded her. “Not a club. We're not going to be fucking dancing.”

  “Oh my God!” Sharon sounded like the thought had never occurred to her. It probably hadn't—neither of them were the type to join youth groups. “You don't think I'm going to be too dressed up, do you?”

  Probably.

  She let Sharon rattle off her outfit item by item, and Catherine talked her out of the mini-skirt/halter arrangement she had been so hard-set on.

  “But what about the sweater?” she persisted. “Do you think it's okay to show a little midriff at least?”

  Catherine closed her eyes. “I doubt they'll notice.”

  Sharon gave an offended snort. “They'd better!”

  She spoke too loudly, masking her hurt and insecurity in bravado. Catherine would have hung up ordinarily, but guilt kept her on the line even though she couldn't recall a single part of their conversation once Sharon finally let her hang up the phone. The thoughts jostling for space in Catherine's skull were as dark and hazy as black magic, and just as ominous.

  At fifteen 'til, when her parents would have no chance of reconsidering, she said, “I'm going out with Sharon and Ashley.”

  Her parents were both in the dining room, playing a board game with Lucas. It was one of the few evenings when their schedules had no overlap, though her father still looked tired from work.

  Her mother looked up from the board, her expression positively delighted. “That's wonderful!” She adored Catherine's human friends; they were the pinnacle of human normality, everything a glamor could aspire to, even if she didn't completely agree with some of Sharon's wilder activities. “Where to?”

  “Um. A club. A school club,” she tacked on quickly. “Not the dancing kind.”

  Lucas looked up. She avoided his eyes.

  Don't say anything, she urged him silently. Don't.

  “Have fun, sweetheart,” her dad said absently. He placed one of the brightly colored plastic pieces on the board. “Don't stay out too late.”

  “Can I take the car?”

  “Sure.”

  Well, that was a first.

  If they knew where you were really going, there's no way they would let you take the car.

  For a moment, she wished she could stay home with her parents and Lucas, drinking hot chocolate from a mug as she played a game of cardboard and plastic with set rules and minor consequences.

  But if she didn't, she might not have a family to come back to. The Slayers were ravaging her town, family by family, and the witch was the only one who could help her stop them.

  Catherine got in the car and drove.

  The witch was waiting at the bus stop. The car's headlights made him look like a ghost. Catherine rolled down the window, not unlocking the door. Not yet. “If I do this, I'll never hear from you again, right? You won't harass me or my family, won't blackmail me later…” won't sneak into my bedroom and watch me sleep like a depraved fucking sex criminal.

  “I give my word,” he said quietly, “when this is over, you will not hear from me again.”

  He said that so strangely, there was room for a loophole in there somewhere. She'd dwell on it later. For now, she popped the lock. “Get in.”

  The witch sneered. “How kind.”

  Fuck you, she thought tiredly.

  During the school day, the parking lot was a gladiatorial free-for-all, replete with honking horns, petty insults, and numerous traffic violations. At night, it could have been deserted. The scattered parked cars reminded Catherine of grave markers.

  Once she parked the car—close, in case they had to make a quick getaway—she found room 801 with little trouble. The social science building was a small structure on the edge of the school, built near the chain-link fence. There were several students already inside—two boys and one girl, none of whom she recognized. The adviser was not yet present.

  Mr. Bordello.

  “We're early,” the witch observed.

  Catherine ignored him, studying the room. The walls were a pale blue and the grainy carpet was a darker shade of the same color. The floor directly in front of the white board was elevated, like a podium. She could detect the unmistakable scent of new plastic and lemon carpet cleaner. New building?

  “This is Sterling Rep, right?” she said aloud.

  One of the boys turned around, studying Catherine with cool blue eyes. “Yeah, you're in the right room.” He was almost painfully attractive, and so was his friend: well-built and fearsome. A sleek, black panther and a tawny lion. “I'm Alex, this is Ryan.”

  Alex was the one in charge. She could see that right away from his casual slouch and the way his arm draped possessively over the back of the chair.

  Ryan was clearly a beta jockeying for a higher position. He would be unpredictable; therefore he was the one to watch.

  “Nice to meet you.” She sat down, under the watchful eye of the witch, trying not to fidget. She could sense Alex's boredom and didn't want to do anything that would pique his curiosity. Not just because he was a Slayer, although that was part of the reason, but because she sensed something else beneath the boredom. A keen, underlying alertness that made her wary. Predation. She could feel it all around her. It made the animals inside her body very, very nervous.

  That was when she saw them—a group of shadows in the corner that weren't being cast by any object in the room. As she watched, they flickered like black flame before morphing into more humanoid shapes. Shades. She gulped as memories from the night before filled her mind.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  He smiled crookedly. His teeth were perfectly even. “You look lost.”

  Catherine's eyes flicked to the far wall involuntarily. She forced herself to return the boy's intent look before he decided to see what was enthralling her. She knew he couldn't see the shades but didn't want to draw undue attention to herself. She was already nervous. During her cursory inspection of the room, she realized for the first time, that there were no windows.

  No escape! cried Prey. Trapped! Trapped! There's no escape! Prey's panic was infectious; she could feel it bubbling through her veins, filling her with terror.

  “She's shy,” the witch said, answering for her. She had fallen silent.

  Had he seen the shades?

  “So, what? Are you two, like, a couple?”

  “Yes,” Finn said, eying him critically.

  “Do you know where you're going for college?” This time Ryan's words were aimed at Finn. “Sterling Rep looks great on transcripts. Especially for private universities.”

  Because that's the only place they could have selective admission without suspicion, Catherine thought, clenching her hands below the desk. She was aware of Ryan watching them silently. Saying nothing, only watching. She wished that she could read minds.

  Killer eyes, Prey whispered. Thinking about eating us.

  “That's why I'm looking into it,” Finn said, setting the books on the table so that the titles were face-up. “Though I am personally leaning towards a private college.” He looked perfectly composed, betraying none of the unease she felt so strongly.

  Ryan, sat up straighter, as if the witch had uttered a secret code. “Do you know what you're going to specialize in?”

  Around them, time seemed to thicken to the consistency of tree sap. Whatever Finn said would shift the balance. She could only hope he said the right thing. As if sensing this
, his aura seemed to grow larger, more powerful. Showing who's alpha, Predator said knowingly.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, measuring them with his eyes, as green and endless as a hedge maze. “You might say Criminal Justice and Foreign Relations. I rather like Foreign Relations especially. But I have a lot of hands-on experience in both fields, and I wouldn't mind working for the National Security Council one day.” He smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Or any other governmental job.”

  Catherine stiffened in her chair. Both boys had gone absolutely still when he said 'council.' The alpha male had just proven himself to be an alpha moron. She felt Predator stir in agreement, watchful and wary as she took in the mess the witch had made. Foolish, she observed, in her smooth, seductive growl. Mistakes like these are how alpha loses to beta.

  “What an interesting career choice.” Ryan's smile had frozen in place, where it remained until Alex elbowed him in the ribs and hissed, “Ryan.”

  She stared at the witch with wide eyes, willing him to see. He looked back with empty eyes.

  “Are you thinking about becoming members?” Alex asked them, sounding a good deal friendlier. It was fake, totally fake. The friendliness was taxing him heavily. She could see it in the tightness of his jaw, and the way his teeth clenched in that vise-like smile. He was aching to attack them. If they had been alone, in a dark alley, he probably would have.

  The witch glanced at her. Still all pleasantness, he said, “No, I don't think so.”

  Something closed off in both their faces. Alex opened his mouth to speak as the door creaked open. Grateful for the interruption, Catherine swung around in her seat hoping that Sharon and Ashley had arrived to save them. Instead, she found a seemingly innocuous man walking through the doorway, coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other.

  He was quite attractive. Not in the ethereal beauty of a witch or the streamlined brawn of a shifter, but the simple wholesome way of humans. Dark hair. Gray eyes. Buff in a way that suggested more than simple workouts at the gym—and he walked like a predator.

  It clicked on in her mind like a switch. Mr. Bordello.

  He smiled over at their group, his eyes lingering familiarly on their two inquisitors. “Oh, don't mind me,” he said, setting his briefcase down on the desk. “I'm early. You kids carry on.”