“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” she murmured, swirling hot, fragrant liquid in her mug. “I just wish it was a bit easier on them.”
I wish I could fix a location on these dreams, too. Is it the strain finally showing, or am I picking up something terrible? I wish I knew.
That was the trouble with Jorie’s brand of Seer’s talent. She could Find just about anything—provided, of course, she knew it was lost—but the flashes that came unbidden were all gruesome. Most of them were what the Seers called “slippage,” high-resolution surround-sound pictures of things that merely had a high probability of occurring. Slippage didn’t usually tell you how to prevent anything; it just let you anticipate the worst and hold your breath. Seeing was difficult and risky, made even more so by the fact that the future wasn’t absolutely certain.
There’s always a bit of wiggle room, Dorinda’s voice said inside Jorie’s head, a comforting memory from long-ago basic training after the Circle had found her in college. We like the wiggle room. A practiced Seer can even very gently, very delicately, tip things into happening. Here Dori had always paused.
Of course, she would add meditatively, the tipping holds its own hazards. One must take care not to bring into being the very thing one wishes to prevent. If it wasn’t so, we’d all be a lot richer.
Not that there was ever any real trouble with money, being a Lightfall witch. She didn’t have to work, much less cede a portion of her earnings to the communal pot, but no witch she’d ever came across liked holding back. The Circle took care of its own; it was the whole reason women with extraordinary talents had banded together against the Church’s homicidal fury in the first place.
And when an organization had been around since the 1500s, it learned a thing or two about investments.
It was a night of uncomfortable thoughts. Jorie grimaced into her tea, sighed, and finished the last hot swallow. Soothing warmth spread through her, and she felt the house wards quiver again as Rust circled outside, prowling the neighborhood.
Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be hard.
Jorie set the mug on her nightstand and pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them again. She should sleep. She wanted, needed to sleep.
It looked like it was going to be another greet-the-dawn kind of night.
Truly Relaxed
CALEB WAS LATE to the waiting room, his pulse thundering along a little faster than it should. It’d taken longer than he’d thought possible to get through the basic medical examination in the infirmary; the Lightbringer walking ahead of him—a blue-eyed waterwitch, her shifting aura full of the deep calm marking her as a healer—had given him more than one long measuring look as he hurried to answer her questions and get the hell out of there and onto his next job.
The infirmary was bad, not just because of the softness of the air and the light swirling through, taunting the hungry thing that lived inside his bones. The tanak granted speed, strength, healing, and a certain amount of basic combat sorcery, but it was still semi-Dark—and allergic to the glow from certain strong psychics. It hurt, and the more wounded Lightbringers gathered around, the worse it got. Even the waterwitch’s glow, as she paused just inside the waiting room door and murmured something to the Watcher on the other side, scraped against his skin like hot salt in a bleeding wound.
Not only that, but each Lightbringer in pain was a failure. It meant Caleb had personally fucked up once more and allowed something fragile and innocent to be violated. Or at least, that’s how it felt.
That was the worst part.
Caleb kept moving in the waterwitch’s wake, looking down at the hardwood floor. Should be out on patrol. Useless in here. The thought beat just under the surface of his conscious mind, not daring to truly surface.
You didn’t second-guess orders when you were a Watcher. You just kept your head down and fought like hell. Really, that was the way he liked it.
They weren’t sending him back out on patrol, and he hadn’t been called to the fishbowl where the techwitches handed out special assignments. So it was guard duty, at least for a while. He almost wondered what they’d stick him with—not an invisible assignment, playing guardian angel to an oblivious Lightbringer until primary contact could be made. He would have been sent to Requisitions for that.
A Lightfall witch, then, a woman who already knew of the Circle’s existence and protocols. Or maybe a soft boring stint as a guard inside the safehouse itself? Christ, he hoped not. Maybe this was a mistake and they’d figure it out, send him back on patrol again.
He could hope. Hope was even cheap at first, before you found out the world would stamp on it as soon as possible.
“Caleb?” The waterwitch repeated his name and he snapped to attention, his coat rustling as he drew himself up. He loomed over her even though she was taller than the average woman. He couldn’t help it.
Big dumb bruiser of a Watcher. Pull yourself together. “Yes ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
“No worries.” The waterwitch had merry sky-blue eyes, lit with a stream of almost-audible mirth. Her dark hair was pulled back in braids threaded with robin’s-egg ribbons, and fine lines radiated from those laughing eyes. “Here’s Rust, your predecessor. I’m going to have a word with your new witch, and you’ll be on your way.”
So it was a Lightfall witch. The satisfaction of guessing was outweighed by the sudden piercing cramp behind his breastbone. “Yes ma’am.” He dropped his gaze to his boot toes and felt the acid-burn pain along his nerves soften as she vanished inside the waiting room. It was replaced by the pressure-front feeling of another Watcher stepping out into the hall, a gawky man with reddish hair and wide-spaced light-green eyes, a light spatter of freckles over his nose. He, at least, was familiar. “Hey, Rust. Honor.”
“Duty, Caleb. Good to see you.” Rust had his hands in his pockets and the file of vitals under his arm, but that was no indication. A Watcher never truly relaxed; any of his fellow grunts could snap to and cause utter havoc inside half a breath. “Nice to know she’s going into safe hands.”
It was a compliment, one Caleb outwardly accepted with a shrug and inwardly with a cringe. “Hard to live up to you, old man.” The answer was too flip by far, and he silently cursed himself as soon as it left his mouth.
Rust studied him for a moment, thoughts moving behind his eyes. The tanak burned out through the gaze after a while, and when it did you could tell when a Watcher was seasoned enough to pull his own weight.
He couldn’t figure out if it was a relief to be following another professional, or just another impossible standard to live up to.
“Her name’s Jorie Camden.” Rust visibly decided to stick to the usual briefing. Sometimes Watchers got a little nervous beginning a six-month rotation, and the best thing was to ignore any ragging. “She’s a greenwitch, and a Seer, got that goldy tinge. She has nightmares and sometimes waking visions; they’re getting more intense. I’ve made my report, hope they marked it in the file.” Said file was handed over, folded manila containing a cargo of information. “The main thing is to reassure her when she wakes up, let her know where she is, that she’s safe. And to watch out for shock, but you know that.”
“Seers,” Caleb agreed, tucking the file under his arm. The hollow of his left shoulder itched, the tattoo shifting under the skin as the tanak moved. Seers and Mindhealers were prone to shock, half out of their bodies all the time, wandering around distracted and needing constant supervision. It was a wonder any of them survived without Watchers.
More of them are surviving. Let it rest, Caleb. He quelled a restless movement; if he got twitchy here, Rust might think it was a comment on him.
“If she has waking visions, you have to orient her as soon as she comes out, or she gets upset.” Rust thought for a moment, searching for anything else his fellow grunt might need to know. “Other than that, let
me see . . . she takes public transportation sometimes. Says it’s good for her art.”
Christ. But it was good to know that sort of thing. “Is she flighty?” It was the most important question, murmured conspiratorially even if Watchers were alone during an informal briefing. Caleb opened the file, scanning the first few pages. No pictures, but he didn’t have to ID her. She was a Lightfall witch, not an oblivious, terribly vulnerable flyer, and didn’t need an invisible Watcher.
“Nope.” Rust scratched at his cheek with blunt, calloused fingertips, dropped his hand. “She stays right where you put her during a fight. I never had such an easy witch.”
Now that was good news. Some Lightbringers wandered away during a battle or attack, blind with fear or trying ineffectually to help. It was almost as bad as being assigned to the nursery.
Kids were hell to Watch.
Caleb’s trained memory swallowed the file’s contents whole. Jorie Camden, lives out on Briggs Street. Brown and black . . . she’s just a little thing, isn’t she? Huh, likes peppermint tea. Freelance graphic artist? She’s done well for herself. That’s interesting. Plan of the house . . . two bedrooms, tactical nightmare like most residences. Neighborhood’s low risk for Dark. He handed the file back, consigning the lump of information to the back of his head, in the little useful mental drawer he could shut whenever he needed to. The stats of other witches were buried back there too, ready to be dusted off should the occasion require it. At least this witch wasn’t likely to give him much trouble. He could always mull over the information tonight as soon as he made a circuit of her house and street.
The further away you could keep the predators, the better. Lightbringers were teachers, healers; their glow wasn’t just psychic ability—and as far as Watchers were concerned, they shouldn’t have to see the violence necessary to keep the predators at bay.
They had enough to deal with, always trying to save the world.
Rust straightened, and Caleb’s nerves gave an agonized leap. The waterwitch stood in the door of the waiting room. “Everything all right?” she asked, softly, and there was that expression again on her soft, pretty face as she glanced at Caleb.
A familiar, weighing, measuring look. His heart plummeted, splashed around in his guts, and probably wouldn’t come out for a while. Was he going to be found wanting again?
Story of my life. Always a day late and a dollar short. Caleb tried to look like he was copacetic—nothing to see, move along, he was fine, just fine.
“Everything’s great.” Rust offered the file, carefully avoiding her skin. The jolt of a Lightbringer’s touch was some of the worst pain around, reminding each Watcher of what they were guarding—that strange, soft thing most of them had given up as hopeless baggage and only too late realized they needed.
Wanted, maybe. Were addicted to? Perhaps.
Watchers replaced it with other qualities, a whole rosary. Duty. Honor. Obedience. All absolute, and all necessary. The trainers said the clarity, the pure light in witches reacted against the Dark-bred tanak symbiote and caused the pain. Caleb begged to differ, if only in his own mind during long hours of standing guard or running patrol.
It was the innocence that hurt, he thought. Or more precisely, the memory of innocence lost, thrown away, discarded.
Born without, in some cases. Like his.
“Very well.” The waterwitch’s smile was kind, of course. She probably couldn’t be mean even if she wanted to; Lightbringers seemed to be born with a double or triple dose of conscience and empathy. “She’s waiting, Caleb. Good luck. Rust, you’re free to go up to the dormitories. Did you need to . . .?”
Perfect tact, giving the other Watcher a chance to say anything he wished to the witch he’d just spent half a year guarding.
“No, ma’am.” Rust’s hands dove for his coat pockets again, and he ducked his chin, as if wishing he could shake his hair down to hide his expression. “Thank you.”
Some Watchers were like that at the end of a guard stint; make the cut quick and clean. Still, Rust’s hair was freshly trimmed, his black shirt was new, and his jeans weren’t threadbare. He also wasn’t too skinny, worked down to sinew. Whoever this witch was, she took care of her Watcher.
Guilt sent a sharp stab through Caleb’s chest. He should be out on patrol instead of being cosseted by a sweet, anxious witch.
“Well, I’ll be on my way then. Gods watch over you both.” The waterwitch brushed past as they made short noises of assent. Rust followed in her wake, with only a single indecipherable look over his leather-clad shoulder.
No use putting it off. Caleb set his shoulders, rolled them once to ease creeping tension, and slunk through the door to meet his new witch.
A Serious One
THE WAITING ROOM was full of rare late-autumn sunlight falling through long ground-floor windows; outside, the gardens of the protected inner square of the safehouse were full of falling leaves and beds carefully mulched for winter. Caleb’s new witch was on her knees in one of the comfortable linen-upholstered chairs, resting her elbows on a low windowsill. The sun brought out blue highlights in black hair, a glory of glowing curls barely corralled by two half-braids. She looked over her shoulder as she sensed his arrival—a Watcher, a tornado of redblack destructive energy just waiting to be unleashed.
He was a blot on the face of creation, but she was a slim woman in a long dark skirt and a black long-sleeve scoop-neck top, her gaze swinging up to meet his. Those eyes were a surprise too, so dark even his acute eyesight couldn’t tell iris from pupil. She had high cheekbones, and though she was a little on the pale side, he could tell she would tan well in summer—if they ever had summer this far north.
The new witch hopped off the chair and approached him with ballerina grace. She wore some kind of soft shoes, adding to the impression of a dancer. She was, as Rust said, a greenwitch, but her aura shaded into gold at the edges, controlled and contained. Well-trained, too, because the Circle had been pushing boundaries and researching their gifts for as long as it existed, and as she came to a halt a respectable six feet away, her earrings swung, glittering in the backwash of sunlight.
“Hi.” Even her voice was dark, slightly husky, low for a woman’s. Like warm, smoky caramel, and its pleasant brush against his skin was the first wrongness. “I’m Jorie. It’s nice to meet you.”
Oh, I doubt that, witch. I’ve never met a Lightbringer who likes being reminded of why they need us. “Caleb.” Name, rank, serial number. Why was he uneasy? He’d done this a thousand times before. “Attached to the Rogue Street Safehouse, Altamira. Reporting for duty, ma’am.”
A smile touched her face. Frozen, he watched it bloom. Her dark eyes lit up, and he was suddenly very aware that he was taller, heavier, and carrying a weight of knives, guns, and two swords, their hilts rising over each shoulder. Not to mention guilt, the constant companion of any Watcher.
He was aware of something else, too. She smelled good, green and warm with an edge of spice. He hadn’t thought about food in a long time, living off the charge of bloodshed and violence released from killing Dark predators out on patrol.
But she smelled . . . almost edible.
The very edge of her aura was close to him, but the expected drag of sharp rusted metal against every nerve didn’t come. He stared at her nose while his brain froze, trying to figure out this new wrinkle.
“Please.” She didn’t sound angry. “None of the ma’am stuff. I know it’s regulation, but if you just call me Jorie, we’ll both be happier. Is there anything you need from Requisitions before we go? I’ve got a project due in a few days, and I really have to get back to work. It’ll be tomorrow before we can go shopping for you.”
What the hell? He couldn’t stop staring. It worked through his head that she’d asked him a question, and he searched for an acceptable answer covered by his training. One occurr
ed to him, and he said it without further ado. “No ma’am.”
That made her sweet, forgiving smile falter just a fraction. Silence ticked between them, and the wards in the walls—Watcher wards, laid with exquisite care over every board and nail, closing every loophole to protect this glowing peace—thrummed. This was a safehouse, and there wasn’t any danger, but he was still falling down on the job by just standing and gaping. He shook himself back into alertness, each nerve-string pulled tight.
“You’re a serious one.” But she said even that kindly, as if it was to be expected and she was going to overlook the failure. “I suppose I was due for a serious one. Well, come on. We’ve got a bus to catch.”
Uphill, Necessary
I SHOULD HAVE told her no. Jorie shifted her weight as the bus rounded a corner, almost bumping into the Watcher, who of course didn’t move at all. Melinda’s blue eyes had been sharp with concern, and Jorie could see why. This new Watcher was gaunt and tense, staring at everything around him with the peculiar fierce intensity Seers and Mindhealers were trained to recognize.
It came from seeing too much blood, death, and violent ugliness, and it happened with alarming regularity. They called it Watcher’s despair, and almost every guard Jorie had since Circle Lightfall found her was initially suffering it. She’d been mildly surprised to find Rust was a mild case, but it looked like the vacation was over.
You’re one of the best we have for treating despair, Jorie, Melinda’d said, with that particular worried line between her eyebrows. Will you consider taking on another case for us? Everyone is stretched thin.
Well, one of the best was hardly the truth—she was middling at most—but what could Jorie do but say yes? It was little enough to repay how the Circle closed warm and safe around her, and even less when you thought of what these men had seen to make them so grim.
Finder (The Watchers Book 6) Page 2
