Just as that thought flashed through his head the Slayer heaved up, his face lengthening in a scowling-silent scream. The bastard’s skin turned rubbery gray, energy and flesh warping as the thing inside struggled to ride its human vessel and fight off an angry Watcher working in concert with a tanak.
When it came down to parasite versus symbiote, the one that had the cooperation of its host had an edge.
Caleb bore down on the knife, its traceries of crimson runefire sparking and searing the Slayer’s flesh. The rest of him made a complicated nonphysical maneuver and caught the straining snakelike parasite in the Slayer’s body, ripping the creature free of its moorings.
The man finally made a sound—a choked scream muffled by Caleb’s hand clapped over his mouth. Thought you’d engage in a little recreational murder, did you? Not on my watch, and not on my witch. Flesh slipped under his palm, the deathscream caught and turned into a meaningless gurgle.
Another screech was the parasite’s thin psychic shriek, lost in the noise as a more physical voice let out a soft, half-muffled cry. Caleb glanced up, marking the new player on the scene.
It wasn’t a player, or even a danger. Jorie, her hair curling wildly over her shoulders, stood on the other end of the kitchen, her hand to her mouth and her dark eyes huge. Light from the hallway surrounded her like a mantle.
But more than that, she glowed. A Lightbringer, a lamp in darkness, small and fragile and in terrible danger.
“Stay still!” he barked, and a lunging effort tore the parasite into inimical air, sweeping it out the broken door and into cold nighttime rain. It screamed again as it died, falling water slashing through its torn body.
The Slayer writhed. He wouldn’t last long, the double shock of physical injury and psychic trauma sending him to whatever hell waited for his kind. The Crusade, still intent on killing psychic women as they had been ever since the Malleus Maleficarium was published, now had some Protestants to add to the fight. It was a real wonder of interfaith cooperation, jealous fanatics addicted to murder, finding out they could overlook both heterodoxy and thou shalt not kill.
The Dark had an excuse. The Crusade didn’t, and these Dominion fuckers even less.
Jorie drew in a sharp breath. She was pale as milk, bright fever-spots on her cheeks. Her aura flashed once, gold over green, and Caleb saw in his next quick glance that she was now hugging herself, hands cupping elbows and arms squeezing. She looked very small, standing in the door to the kitchen, and very vulnerable.
The Slayer breathed, a torturous rasping sound. He was going into cardiac arrest, and not a moment too soon, as far as Caleb was concerned.
“Keep him alive,” his witch said, in the vast rainy almost-silence covering the world. “I’ll call in.” She shifted her weight, as if to step over to the phone.
“Stay.” Caleb’s left hand flashed up, pointing at her. “Stay right where you are, witch!”
Her chin lifted a fraction; her dark eyes flashed. “Don’t give me orders. Defib him, he’s going into arrest and the Mindhealers want them alive.” Jorie took two steps, and the tanak let out a growl that rattled the entire kitchen. He’d torn the door almost off its hinges, desperate to slow the Slayer down.
The thought of what this man might have done to her threatened to spill Caleb into a rage. Not the cool anger of a Watcher under fire—no, this was a blind, incandescent fury he was all-too-familiar with, part of what had landed him in this whole screwed-up career to begin with.
The violence he had to control, or it would control him. If it was in the driver’s seat, she might be at risk.
Jorie stopped dead, eyeing him cautiously. The Slayer—no, not a Slayer anymore but an ordinary man, and one quickly bleeding to death on her tiled kitchen floor—convulsed again.
She swallowed visibly, his witch, and stepped over to the phone, scooping it up in trembling fingers. Caleb cursed himself. Why couldn’t he have thought to hit the man differently, and not drive him right into her house? The Slayer, confident his Seeker had drawn away her guardian, had been just about to assault the shielding. And if he’d broken through, hunting the witch through her quiet, hand-decorated home, the night would end with a dead woman and Caleb’s failure after all.
He won’t live long. The distortion-laced fume of violence retreated inside of Caleb’s skull as he took a deep breath, ignoring the painful twitching of hairline fractures in his ribs, messily healed by the tanak to keep him up and fighting. Later, the creature would settle in and perform the deeper healing, and when it was done even an X-ray wouldn’t find the break. It would vanish completely. The only good Slayer is a dead Slayer, like the only good Crusade Bishop is a dead one. He would have killed you, witch. You should be thanking me.
But then he’d be disobeying a direct order from a witch, his witch, never mind that it was in a combat situation.
“It’s Jorie,” she said into the phone, the words trembling with brittle calm. “Jorie Camden. I’ve got a Slayer in my kitchen; my Watcher’s trying to keep him alive for the Mindhealers. Despite his own inclination, I might add. We need a transport team and cleanup out here, please.”
Go figure. She’s looking at a man who wanted to kill her and another bloody chunk of man armed to the teeth and growling like a tanak, and she’s still saying please. Lightbringers. Caleb reached for control and found it, harsh bloody copper against his palate. The Slayer-no-more choked on his own blood and went into full-blown cardiac arrest, his body struggling to deal with trauma and his mind probably a smoking ruin from the torture needed to break a psychic’s resistance.
I should kill him now. But Caleb heard her again, speaking very clearly and enunciating into the phone.
“Yes. My Watcher fought off a Slayer and gods-alone-know-what else tonight, and I’d really appreciate it if you could get someone out here before he gets killed trying to do what I ask. There might be other Dark attracted to the noise.”
Caleb winced, Power gathering in his palms as the tanak flooded him with pain turned into energy. A shock jolted through his right palm, hammering at the dumb heartmeat of the Slayer-no-more, forcing it to beat again.
How was he going to let the man die now?
Ugly Words
SLEEP WAS AN utter impossibility. Jorie pulled her knees up and hugged them, her skirt sliding against the couch’s indigo linen. The transport team had come and gone, grim-faced Watchers taking the Slayer, unconscious and stabilized for the moment. The Mindhealers would be glad to reclaim another one, healing the damage the Dominion had inflicted on an unwilling victim.
At least, the Mindhealers said they were unwilling. That was good enough for Jorie, and even if the Watchers visibly didn’t believe it, at least they obeyed.
She suspected the outcome might have been different if she hadn’t given Caleb a direct order, or if she’d been new to Circle Lightfall and ready to do whatever a Watcher said was necessary.
They knew best most of the time, certainly. But there were other times, and this was one of them.
Two Watchers were repairing her back door. Another team was spreading out through her neighborhood, looking for any further sign of the Crusade or the new danger—the Dominion.
Jorie shuddered. What is it with these guys and the snappy names? Such ugly words, too. Crusade. Dominion. Why don’t they just call it murder and get it over with?
The answer was depressingly clear. Because then they’d have to live with themselves, wouldn’t they.
Caleb stood by the hall to the kitchen, his eyes half-closed and blood painting his face. He’d refused any cleanup until the house was clear, standing guard over her in the living room while the rain intensified.
It was a helluva first day, even for a Watcher. He’d kept the Slayer alive, defibrillating him over and over, tending to the man’s physical wounds with a flood of razor-edged Power
. It was hardly the gentlest way—a Watcher wasn’t really properly equipped to heal. For that, you wanted a witch.
But he wouldn’t let Jorie near the man, and she knew enough not to protest. Besides, her healing—while likely much gentler—wasn’t anything to shake a stick at. All her talents were borderline useless, unless you counted the visual arts or tracking down murderers. She sighed, rolling her head from side to side, easing some of the tension. Caleb shifted his weight, leaning forward. His lips twitched as if he wanted to speak.
Jorie’s mouth drew itself down at the corners. “Go ahead and say it.” She sounded tired even to herself.
He shook his head, lips pursing and blood drying in his hair, sticking together in damp strings. He needed a trim and a change of clothes; he was entirely rain-soaked and air-dried. His coat was torn and tattered, long claw-rips in the tough leather, and his fingertips touched a knife hilt.
It was, for a Watcher, the equivalent of a nervous flinch.
“Oh, come on.” She hugged her knees tighter. “Please talk to me. I need a friendly voice right now.”
The walls shimmered briefly as another layer of warding folded over her house. The Watchers were taking no chances.
Caleb shifted, tilting his head slightly, listening. “Not sure how friendly I feel, witch.” He leaned back against the wall. “Sorry about that.”
Two whole sentences. I’m amazed. Jorie shivered. Thank the gods. It’s over. I’m all right. The only thing worse than huddling in your house and knowing the Dark was after you was hearing your kitchen door break open and the noise of a fight.
Caleb was halfway across the room in an eyeblink. Halted, his coat rustling as it brushed his calves. “You okay?”
“Just fine. It’s . . . well, it’s always unpleasant, this sort of thing. I’m glad you’re here.” Her smile felt unnatural, a twisted grimace.
Soft sounds came from the kitchen as the door shut—murmured voices, each with a harsh undertone of tanak. Jorie almost flinched again. They’d finished fixing her door, it sounded like. Thank the gods nothing else was broken. One of her Watchers had almost demolished her entire living room once, a long time ago during a Thains incursion; the Crusade and the Dark weren’t the only dangers.
What was his name? Oh yeah, Oliver. He was transferred to the Blue Street safehouse, I think. Watchers moved around a lot. The battle in her living room had been a short, vicious, utterly terrible few minutes, and the rocking chair had never been the same despite his careful, painstaking attention.
At least Oliver had been free of despair at the end of six months. By then, he’d even unbent enough to smile once or twice. It had been a goddamn miracle.
Caleb turned on his heel and stalked into the hall. More low, tanak-harsh murmurs, then the back door opened again and the breathless static of Watchers vanished, moving out into the night. They would join the others checking her neighborhood and go about the other business they had tonight on patrol. The redblack funnel of her own Watcher paused in the kitchen, probably checking the repair job on the door as he tested the wards on her house, curtains of energy humming a deep low note responding to his awareness.
He hadn’t even washed the blood off his face yet.
Jorie put her forehead on her skirt-clad knees. It was never easy; each attack rattled her. The worst thing was the reminder that she wasn’t safe even in her own home, where people generally took security for granted. Everywhere was perilous, up to and including the breathless bell-jar warding of a safehouse, with protections on every nail, every sheet of drywall, every joist and every tile.
Her heart thudded and her temples ached. The tugging in her belly was worse, the urge to Find rising like a deep, unscratched itch.
A bolt of heat thudded into her solar plexus, spreading to flush her arms and legs with warmth. She looked up, blinking, to see Caleb standing next to the couch, his hand a bare inch above her shoulder, his blue eyes back to half-lidded and his mouth a straight line.
He looked like hell. The bruise puffing up the side of his face was ugly, swelling even as the tanak pulled on Power to heal it.
“Don’t go into shock, now.” He dropped his hand to his side, his shoulders slumping. It wasn’t likely that he was tired; he was probably trying to appear smaller to avoid looming over her. They all did that, and it was oddly endearing even though it rarely worked. “You want that glass of wine?”
I’d settle for a tranquilizer gun and a desert island. Do you think there’s Dark on a desert island? “I suppose so. Are you all right?”
His shrug was a marvel of ambivalent fluidity. “I’ve had worse. Just glad I stopped him before he got to you.” The dull rage flitting across his face was gone almost before she noticed it, and Jorie’s breath caught. It was the closest to real expression she’d seen on him, an easing of tight restraint. His eyes turned to wintry glitters, and his face paled before he brought himself back under control. The bruise glared, its borders fringing as tissue repaired itself.
She unfolded herself as the rain intensified again, drumming the roof with tiny fingers, her skirt tangling briefly around her knees. “Thank you.” It was a pale set of words to pay him back, but all she had. “You’re a good Watcher.”
“Just doing my job.” He backed up as she rose, two swift steps that took him effectively out of her personal space.
It was a Watcher’s usual reaction. If my aura doesn’t hurt him, why is he acting like that? “I can’t figure you out, you know.” She smoothed her sweater down, pushed her hair back, and finally felt ready to meet his eyes.
“Nothing much to it. I’m real shallow.” The words were delivered with sharp sarcasm, not quite a first from a Watcher in her experience but not usual, either.
“Oh, I doubt that.” I need something a bit stronger than Cabernet. She headed for the kitchen, wishing she’d been able to take her shoes off. Her entire midriff hurt, the headache scrape-burrowing inwards. The proximity of Dark was particularly bad for anyone with a touch of Seer’s talent.
The kitchen was pristine, the door still humming with invisible force, broken glass re-melded and the wood eased seamlessly back together. The cabinet above the fridge was hard to reach; she had to drag a wooden stool over and clamber up.
The bottle of bourbon was right there, with its reassuring amber glow.
Just one drink, that’s all. Something to settle my nerves and blunt the urge to Find.
She hopped off the stool, landing with a jolt. Her left ankle burned, her entire leg remembering the sudden drag of pain. Of course the injury would start acting up now. “Your first day just keeps getting better.” She banged another cupboard door open and stared at her glasses, wondering which one was big enough to accommodate her mood.
When she chose a tumbler and pushed the cupboard shut, she almost flinched for the umpteenth time that evening. Caleb was there, leaning against the fridge with his eyes half-lidded. He was still all bloody, and his expression was indecipherable under the mask of drying, crackling crimson.
“I’d better get some ice.” She was very proud that her voice didn’t tremble. “Unless I want to drink a lot faster than I should. I know Watchers don’t drink, but I’d feel impolite if I didn’t offer you a slug.”
One brief shrug was all she got in return, his shoulder lifting and dropping like a cat’s. But he moved away from the fridge and brushed past her to wash his hands. The sound of water splashing in the sink melded with the rain sweeping the roof, running down her kitchen window.
It was probably a miserable night out on patrol, even with turnaside charms sunk into their long leather coats. Maybe the Watchers taking care of her kitchen were happy to have a few minutes out of the weather. She had long ago learned not to offer them tea or a snack—they wouldn’t accept, patrol was an unforgiving task—but she still longed to.
Jorie d
ecided to skip the damn ice, poured a healthy dollop of bourbon, and belted it standing at the counter. It burned all the way down, exploded in her stomach, and finished by dredging a cough out of the bottom of her throat.
Blinking furiously, she stared at the bottle, and poured herself another large splash. Just to take the edge off. Just so I can sleep.
She downed the second jolt, coughed again as the fumes ignited in her head. Let’s hope it works quickly, shall we?
“I thought you said you wanted ice.” Caleb didn’t sound disapproving, but he didn’t sound comfortable, either. “That’s some serious liquor.”
Her eyes watered. Jorie curled her fingers around the bottle’s neck, offered it to him. “Take a shot if you want to, you deserve it. Thank you.”
He accepted the bottle, gingerly, as if it might bite him.
“After all,” Jorie continued, “you didn’t want to keep him alive. I appreciate it.”
Caleb studied her for a few moments, thoughts moving behind shuttered blue eyes. Then, deliberately, he lifted the bottle and took a mouthful, tossing it far back with an ease that spoke of long practice even though Watchers ostensibly didn’t drink. He set it down on the counter with a click. “Good stuff.”
A compliment, even. My, aren’t we getting cozy. Jorie tried for a smile, found one that didn’t feel too much like a grimace. “Cheap liquor gives worse hangovers.”
“Sounds like the voice of experience.” He rubbed gingerly at his bruised cheek, dried blood cracking under callused fingertips. “I should get cleaned up.” He stopped, closing his mouth tightly, and Jorie heard the unasked question.
It never changed, their politeness. With your permission, witch? If you’re all right, witch? If you’re not going to fall down in a dead faint in the next few minutes?
Finder (The Watchers Book 6) Page 7
