Mindhealer

“Enough said.” Keenan retreated to the kitchenette. There was the rustle of paper bags and a low baritone—Merrick, asking a question. Keenan laughed, a short sharp sound.

  Caro cracked an eyelid and saw her brother’s face, less than four inches from hers, his hazel eyes sparkling. “Get up,” Trev said. “I’m going to kick your ass for making me worry, Caro. I was scared.”

  She blinked, yawned, and shook him away. “I got some wires crossed, maybe some bad directions, and ended up on the wrong side of a pack of koroi. Then I went to examine a patient and got attacked by something. It’s been a bit busy here.” She blinked again, pushed herself up on her elbows. The tank top was twisted uncomfortably, and her flannel shorts were rucked up too. She wished for her own room and her own bed back in Saint City with a vengeance that suddenly surprised her. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I promised I’d call, and I didn’t.”

  Trev’s hair stuck up in an artful crow’s nest; he wore an Angelcake Devilshake T-shirt and the familiar leather cuff around his right wrist. A small gold hoop glinted in his ear. He had a tiny leather bag on a thong around his neck that pulsed with a soft golden glow—probably Anya Harris’s work, it had the faint tracery of silver that meant a Guardian magick was attached. It was a protection, bolstering Caro’s own work on his shields, and she felt a sudden burst of gratefulness for the Guardians. At least in Saint City she wouldn’t have to worry about the Crusade, because of them.

  Trev studied her closely. “Who’s the hunk?” He tipped his head back to indicate the kitchenette. “He tried to stop me from coming in, typical overprotective Watcher.”

  “Merrick,” she said. “Don’t mess with him, he’s a nice guy.”

  Trev’s eyebrows nested in his artistically-mussed hair. The gold earring winked mischievously.

  “He thinks I’m his witch,” Caro whispered.

  Trev’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. He let out a strangled whoop of laughter and keeled over onto the bed. Caro, never one to let an opportunity pass, curled up to her knees and began to tickle him, unmercifully.

  It took ten minutes to reduce him to giggling tears and begging for mercy. She threw her hair back, dug her fingertips in, and got him right under the ribs until he was gasping and pleading. He tried to get her back, but she trapped his wrist under her knee and considered giving him an Indian rope-burn just for good measure. She decided against it, but kept tickling until his face turned an alarming shade of crimson. Finally, breathless, she let him up and glared at him as he lay curled against the covers, giggling in a squeaky little-boy whisper. She hadn’t heard him laugh like this for months.

  I wish I could remember being so happy. “That will teach you,” she announced, and scrambled off the bed before he could mount a counterattack. “I hope you’ve learned something, young man.”

  Then she bolted to the bathroom and made it just in time, locking the door and listening to him curse. He pounded on the door, but she took her time, brushing her teeth, washing her face, combing her hair, using the toilet. By the time she peeked out, he was in fine fettle.

  “Dammit, Caro!” He barged past her, she grinned and edged out, closing the door. Trev always had to pee after she tickled him.

  Humming to herself, she tucked her hair behind her ears and stalked across the room to the dresser. Jeans, underwear, a red sweater, and a nice thick pair of wool socks—that would do just fine. She scratched on the bathroom door, pushed it open, and proceeded to stick her tongue out at her brother. “Works every time,” she said, loftily.

  “I’m going to get you.”

  Caro struggled out of her tank top, pulled her sweater on, settling the V-neck just right. Then she proceeded to get dressed, ignoring Trev as he ignored her. He flushed, then shouldered her aside to wash his hands.

  “Will you please put the lid down?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Caro. You’re a nag.”

  “I’ll tickle you again.”

  “And I’ll get you back. I might even give you a noogie.”

  “Ungrateful little twerp.”

  “You like him?”

  “Who?”

  “The Watcher, Caro. He’s not bad.”

  He’s scarred. But Caro realized that she barely saw the scars, except to wonder where he’d gotten them. “Thought you were straight,” she said lightly, avoiding the question.

  Besides, it wasn’t Merrick’s scars she thought of when she saw him. It was his voice, calm and crisp, saying You’re safe. That, and the gentleness in his hands.

  That was it. She did feel safe. Seeing him go after the Seeker had given her a healthy respect for just how dangerous Merrick was likely to be. But hand-in-hand with that feeling of safety was an edge of fear. If something happened to him, she would be responsible.

  She didn’t want another Watcher dying because of her.

  “I have an eye for quality.” Trev dried his hands, folded the towel, and smacked her gently on the arm with it. “Come on, Caro. Give it up.”

  I’m blushing. Heat rose to her cheeks, a blast-furnace of embarrassment. Why am I blushing? “What’s to give? He thinks I’m his witch. Apparently I don’t give him the burn when I touch him.”

  “How often have you touched him?” Trev’s hazel eyes all but sparkled.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “It will be a great relief to me,” he intoned pompously, “to know that I can relax, safe in the knowledge that you’re being watched over by such a big, strong—urp!”

  Caro hefted the water glass in her hand. “Go on, Trev. Say it again, I dare you.”

  He had to use the pretty blue hand towel to dry his face off, his gelled hair dripping. “Testy, testy.” But he was grinning. “You haven’t done that since fourth grade.”

  “Eighth,” Caro reminded him. “Didn’t you mention an omelet?”

  “Didn’t you mention koroi and being attacked? What the hell’s going on?”

  The weight of being the responsible one settled again on Caro’s shoulders. “Coffee, and I’ll explain everything. Or maybe you should ask Merrick, since nobody seems inclined to want my opinion.”

  “I want your opinion.” Trev sounded uncharacteristically serious. “I always want your opinion, Sis. Whether I admit it or not.”

  Caro closed her eyes, leaning against the counter. She said nothing. He stepped close and hugged her, his birdlike slenderness more fashionable than hers. His belt dug into her stomach. Everyone was taller than her.

  It’s okay. I more than make up for it in cussedness. As an attempt for humor, it barely worked.

  “Jeez, I’m sorry, sweetie.” Her brother smelled, as usual, like Drakkar Noir and the faint tinge of cigarette smoke and beer from playing in bars. And under that, he still smelled like the same little boy she had taken care of all her remembered life, a smell of salt and heat and youth she suspected would never fade. Trev would be a little boy until he died. He was one of those people who never seemed to get any older, and he’d be irrepressible and buoyant to the end. She breathed him in, her brother, and he ruffled her hair affectionately like he always did.

  “Coffee.” He managed to sound rueful and impatient all at once. “And an omelet. If I know you, you’ve been living on toast and orange juice. And then I’ll bug you for what’s going on. Fran sounded not at all like her usual sunny self.”

  “And well she shouldn’t.” You should have stayed in Saint City, Trev, and I’m going to send you back ASAP. “You shouldn’t have come, Trev.”

  “How could I stay away if I think my sister’s in trouble?” He made a little scoffing sound. “Come on and you can tell me all about it. Ten to one says it’s not as bad as you think.”

  * * * *

  Afternoon sun slanted down as Caro shivered, wrapping her scarf around her neck. She was beginning to get a little bit of cabin fever, and a walk through the central commons was safer, since Trev insisted on going with her. The Crusade, after all, were perfectly prepared to utilize mundane weapons as well as magickal. They had
been known to use grenades, and assault rifles.

  The thought sent a chill down her back.

  Admit it, Caro. You’re worried about your own safety too, and Merrick’s. How long is it going to be before you retreat into the safehouse for good like some of the Seers? You won’t be able to go out and see your patients, and you might as well rot in here.

  The thought that she would be afraid to go outside, even with a Watcher standing guard, taunted her. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her hooded jacket and looked down at her sneakers, carrying her over the flagstones. Here in Altamira, the paths winding through the commons between plots of herbs, ornamental flowers, and shrubbery were stone, not white gravel like in Saint City. She’d been to a safehouse in Florida that had white crushed shell walks; there was one in the Cascades that had glassy obsidian paving. Caro was suddenly grateful for the gardens, for the safety and beauty that closed around her each time she stepped inside a safehouse. She’d seen enough ugliness to last her a lifetime, she was glad she didn’t have to live in it.

  Keenan and Merrick tactfully waited at the edge of the common under an oak tree that stretched its bare branches to the sky. The wide rectangle of green lay inside the four walls of the safehouse, flanked by the two smaller gardens. A familiar pattern of green and quiet, lying under a winter sky beginning to crowd with thick dark rainclouds in the north. The light had begun to take on the weird look of sun coming under clouds while the sky was dark.

  Trev fussed with his corduroy jacket. It was too cold for him to be out with just that on, but she didn’t have the heart to nag him, for once.

  “You’re awful quiet.” He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, his bony freckled face lit by kind light. He looked almost handsome with the raw chill bringing out a blush in his cheeks and turning his freckles to gold. “Whatcha thinkin’, Lincoln?”

  “Nothing very comfortable,” Caro admitted. “These things—they’re showing up just as the Crusade does, and those poor people. I don’t like thinking it’s connected.”

  “Don’t blame you. What does your gut say?” As usual, Trev asked the right question. She often thought he was far more intuitive than his weakly-glowing aura said he should be. Or maybe it was only because he shared that most important of bonds with her, shared parentage and the almost-telepathy that came from depending only on each other in the foster system.

  She dropped her head and looked at the flagstones, fitting together so perfectly. Lavender grew on either side of the path, and the low hedges of rosemary breathed out a pale scent nowhere near its summer robustness. Low stone benches, a willow tree at the west end of the garden—she glanced back over her shoulder instinctively to see the two dark shapes of the Watchers under the oak tree. Merrick was slightly taller, his hands in his pockets and his green eyes glittering through his untidy hair shaken down over his face.

  She should have been ashamed of herself for finding that so comforting. “I think it’s connected.” The wind touched her hair, a gentle, chilly benediction. A few curls had come free and were stubbornly falling in her face again. “If only because Merrick said it smelled the same.”

  “Jeez.” Trev blew out between his teeth, a low, not-quite whistle. “Where do you think he comes from?”

  What? “What? Who?”

  “Merrick. Where’s that accent from?”

  “England, I think. Trev, this is serious. That thing broke through the wards and came into the safehouse. It could have killed someone.”

  “Merrick said it was vulnerable to the knives. Really vulnerable.” Trev looked thoughtful, matching his pace to hers and not fidgeting with impatience as he usually did. “He’s really nice, Caro. I think he’s a good one.”

  She gave him a look that could have peeled paint. Chill, rain-heavy wind teased at her hair, made her shiver. The light was changing, clouds drifting over the sun. “What are you on about? For God’s sake, Trev, I’m talking about people dying, and you’re nattering on about a Watcher.”

  “He’s nice, and he’s obviously very professional. Keenan worked with him in Delhi and in Arizona, says he’s a good Watcher. They say he tracks belrakan.” Trev’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper.

  “Trevor.” Caro’s tone was a warning. Irritation sparked through her aura, and she took a deep breath. Decided to change the subject. “So when are you heading back home?”

  He shrugged. “When this is all over, I guess.”

  Oh, gods, please. Give me patience. “Trev. This isn’t safe for you. I’ll feel better if I know you’re back in Saint City and—”

  “Gee, this sounds familiar. Only I’m used to saying it to you.” Trev’s hazel eyes danced with mischief. He executed a happy little dance step, his gold earring winking in suddenly-liquid sunlight. “I can’t wait to get started on gloating and saying I told you so. Oooh, that’s number one. I told you so. Two.”

  Caro rolled her eyes. “Trevor Dodge Robbins, you little punk, shut up and listen to me.”

  “Caroline Ame—”

  “Don’t you dare.” She longed to grab him and tickle him again, or maybe give him a wet willie. The breeze, turning cold, slanted against her back. Her cheeks felt scraped under the cold wet wind. “Seriously, Trevor. People are dying, and each hour that goes by—”

  Trevor stopped and turned to face her, his pale face uncharacteristically grave. “Vincent would approve,” he said quietly.

  Caro stopped dead. Hearing him say Vince’s name gave her a queer uncomfortable feeling, as if she’d been hit in the stomach and lost all her air.

  He folded his arms. “He would have been the first to tell you that you were being ridiculous about the Watchers. It would have hurt him to think of you without any protection.”

  How strange. I should be angry at him, and probably will be. Once this lump in my throat goes away. “He would understand,” she managed, through a mouth suddenly gone dry. “He always understood.”

  Trevor shook his head. “He would have told you to stop being a ridiculous little prig. He’d be right, too.”

  Her voice was a strangled whisper. “I am not going to discuss this with you.”

  “Someone has to tell you. You’re making a mistake. You’re going to put that Watcher in danger if you don’t start acting like a responsible adult instead of a weepy little tweener, you dig? All the rest of us deal with seeing Watchers get hurt, too. You’re not the only one.” He nodded smartly, his dark gel-spiked hair frozen in place against the wind. “So snap out of it, okay?”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, or call him something a lady should never say. She settled for taking a long, deep breath and nodding. He was only trying to help. “Thank you for caring.” I sound like I’m about to cry. I will not cry. “But I’d really like to talk about something else now. Like when you’re going back to Saint City where it’s relatively safer.”

  Trevor laughed. The sound caroled over the still, quiet gardens; nobody was out on this raw day, not even any of the green witches. The entire safehouse hunched under the rapidly darkening sky, as if expecting trouble.

  Preparing for another attack.

  “I’m not going to leave my big sister out here facing down the Crusade and gods-only-know what. Tough noogies, Caro. I’m staying. And if I have to nag you to get you to treat your Watcher a little better, I will. Heaven knows he can’t do it.”

  That managed to nettle her. She glared at him. “I’ve been nothing but polite!” she flared, and realized it was a lie. She had treated Merrick dreadfully.

  She glanced over her shoulder again, nervously. They were still there, the two broad-shouldered men in dark coats with slim sword hilts sticking up over their right shoulders. The unwilling feeling of comfort returned, so strong she almost shivered again.

  Trev gave an inelegant snort. “Since when?” But there was no rancor in it. “I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t honestly believe it to be true, Sis.”

  Caro nodded, just as she heard the sharp sound of a doo
r slamming shut. Then footsteps, hard and hurried.

  She whirled and saw Fran across the common, wearing a purple sweater and an acid-green knee-length dress. Fran was running, and a few strands of her gray-threaded hair had come loose.

  Caro’s heart sank, splashing into the omelet she’d eaten at Trev’s urging. That’s the problem with being a witch, you always know when the worst is just going to keep getting worse.

  Fran finally skidded to a stop. “Thank the Lady I’ve found you,” she gasped. “Horrible news, Caro. There’s been another attack. And this time it’s a Lightbringer.”

  The clouds slid over the sun, plunging the commons into shadow, and the cold wind touched Caro’s cheek again.

  Ten

  “Gods above.” Caro’s voice was muffled by her fingers, pressed hard against her mouth. She stepped back blindly, instinctively flinching, and collided with Merrick. His hands automatically closed around her shoulders, he sank his feet into the floor and made himself a rock for her. Her hair brushed the back of his hands, a silky caress. She actually leaned back into him, as if her legs wouldn’t hold her up. His scars tingled with her nearness, and he was faintly, nastily glad that he was there to steady her. “Oh, my God.”

  The Lightbringer on the cot was unrecognizable except for her hair, a sheaf of rich glossy chestnut matted with blood. Merrick swallowed, hard. She’d been beaten, badly; the kind of damage that was meant not to kill but to maim and disfigure. Her aura, not as bright as Caro’s but well-disciplined nonetheless, was the deep blue of a water witch, ragged and torn. Whatever had attacked her had done so both physically and psychically.

  Here in the infirmary, the wards resonated thickly with distress. The curtains around this bed were drawn, but every witch, patient or healer in here could feel the waves of pain pulsing out from this little enclosure. Two healers—both nurses in the outside world—spoke in low frantic voices at the station near the door to the main hall, the other healers, doctors and nurses both, went about their business with set faces, often glancing in the direction of this bed.