Merrick swallowed hard. They had cleaned her up as much as they could. Two healers hovered at the bedside, one in pale-blue scrubs and the no-nonsense manner of a professional nurse, the other holding a willow wand with a quartz crystal set in the tip, humming with Power.
The first healer checked the battered Lightbringer’s pulse and blood pressure again, then closed her eyes and concentrated, scanning the body lying on the bed. She looked definitely nauseated. The second murmured to herself and touched the quartz gently to the battered body’s forehead, sending a pulse of earth-flavored Power down through the wounded aura. An IV pole stood next to the bed, and an abalone shell full of sea salt sat on a small table on the other side.
“Who is it?” Caro asked so gently Merrick almost didn’t recognize her voice. His entire body leapt at the sound.
Christ, if she ever talked to me that way I’d . . . what? Probably die and go straight to heaven. His scars gave a burst of tearing liquid pain as the wounded witch’s aura pulsed. Caro’s presence soothed the scoring across his nerves, but didn’t erase it.
“It’s Nicolette Jansen.” The Council witch was equally hushed. “Her Watcher is—well, he’s not expected to live. He must have put up quite a fight.” She hugged herself, and Merrick thought she must be unaware of doing so. Her eyes were the wide, haunted hollows of a frightened child.
“Were they a bonded pair?”
“No. He was on guard duty.”
Poor bugger, Merrick thought. If he survived, the agony of losing a Lightbringer—of failure—would torture him.
“Where was she attacked?”
“The last place she was seen was at Seventh and Iroquois. She was on a shopping trip yesterday.”
The location showed up on Merrick’s mental map, terrain considered tactically out of old habit. Seventh and Iroquois, that’s the north edge of downtown. Whatever this is, it’s spreading from the north.
“Files, Fran. Get me those files on all the victims and a map of the locations. Where’s the Watcher?” Caro’s voice was gentle but inflexible. Yet her shoulders shook under Merrick’s gentle hands. She was trembling. He stroked with his thumbs, gently, soothing her. Sent a thin trickle of Power through her aura, a wire of heat that would keep her from shock. His aura fringed hers, thickening reflexively against the danger breathing through the air.
She shouldn’t have to deal with this. No Lightbringer should. The woman on the bed had a face so puffed and bruised it was a wonder anyone had been able to identify her. Her ragged breathing was painful to hear. Merrick felt the familiar sick rage rise in him. Why? Why would the gods make them so gifted, so gentle, and then allow them to suffer like this?
Gods are all very well, but it’s up to a Watcher to make sure.
“The Watcher’s in their dormitory. The off-duty Watchers are trying to help him.” The Council witch swallowed audibly.
Merrick blinked. He felt the subliminal click as the walls inside his head—between him and the hard, cold animal who had shared his thoughts since childhood—slid down. The smell roiled around him then, a thick reek of sulfur and that other smell . . . What was it? Dry and terrible, whatever it was, a stench mixed with blood and offal.
It’s the same bloody thing, and it’s attacking Lightbringers now. Gods help us all. Panic wormed under his breastbone, was shoved down with training. His witch needed him right now, even if she thought she didn’t.
The feel of her soft slenderness leaning against him was another distraction, one he couldn’t shelve and would have to just live through. Caro took a deep breath, her shoulders rising slightly under his hands. He felt the shiver that went through her, a high-voltage shock against his own nerves. Her hair still smelled like the cold, fresh wind outside. “Trev, my bag. Can you get it for me?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” The beaky-nosed boy didn’t argue.
It was a good thing. Merrick had almost grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him away from Caro’s bed earlier. Set too high, that’s me, wound too tight. Almost hurt a Lightbringer. Keenan followed the boy out at a dead run, his booted feet soundlessly echoing the boy’s pounding sneakers.
“I wonder if she was attacked during the day, or during the night?” Caro’s voice was soft, thoughtful. She stepped away from Merrick’s hands. “Frannie, I need those files. Please?”
The Council witch nodded. Her cheeks were cheese-pale and her graying hair tumbled in disarray. From the look on her face, she was probably blaming herself. Enough guilt to go round, why do they always think they have to take it? He shook that thought away, tried to tear his gaze from the bloody mat of chestnut hair on the crisp white pillow. She was probably missing teeth, and it looked like her cheekbone had been shattered. That kind of force, that kind of calculated damage, made his gorge rise briefly and pointlessly, made the tanak snarl inside his bones, a spike of pain not eased by his witch’s presence.
Caro slid out of her coat and scarf, handed both to Merrick without looking. He cherished the inattention, it meant she was beginning to take his presence for granted. He laid them carefully over a forgotten chair right inside the curtain that closed this space off from the rest of the infirmary.
“Okay. You two, wait outside. Merrick, keep your eyes open. If one of those things starts to come out, I’ll try to keep her alive while you take care of it. All right?”
What?
Fran squeaked, and Caro threw her an indecipherable glance. “The files, Frannie! Go. You don’t want to see this.”
What the hell did you just say? Merrick found his voice. “Caro, it smells the same as—”
It was his turn to get a look that threatened to stop his heart. She blew a long sandy curl out of her face and her eyebrows pulled together. “I know, Merrick! Get another Watcher down here if you’re worried about being unable to kill it. She can’t hold on much longer.” Caro took Fran’s shoulders, gently pushed her outside the enclosure. “Go.”
Wonder of wonders, the woman went.
Merrick slowly drew a knife, steel whispering out of the sheath, with a silent apology to the gods he might be offending. This was a holy place, a place of healing. Not a place for a Watcher with naked steel. The runes chased into the knifeblade twisted uneasily, thin crimson lines of flame.
The healer in the blue scrubs stared at him, her brown eyes wide. “You’re not serious?” Her voice was a low, pleasant Southern drawl that dragged pain through his nerves. He wished, suddenly and totally, for the narcotic jolt of pleasure from his witch’s skin. Discarded the wish, it would serve no purpose.
Who’s not serious? Does she mean me, or Caro?
“Go outside so I can tend to this patient properly.” Merrick’s witch stepped up to the bedside, reached down, and threaded her fingers gently through the mangled hand lying on the tan cotton bedspread. Then she did a strange thing—she leaned over, her face inches from the ruin on the pillow, and inhaled deeply.
Merrick’s stomach cramped briefly with nausea; he discarded it. The thought of his witch so close to that foul smell made the back of his neck prickle. He moved, trying to calculate the best angle to defend her.
Her lips pursed, and she blew out over the battered face.
Merrick almost gasped. The two healers did gasp. A heavy pungent scent filled the air. He sniffed cautiously and identified it. White copal, as if she was burning incense. It was a nose-stinging scent, but a cleansing one, almost antiseptic. Power threaded through the air, a simple Lightbringer charm meant to purify the space she was working in.
Caro closed her eyes. Her body seemed to sag, barely able to hold up its own weight. “Nicolette,” she breathed, and that strange purifying scent cut through the thick reek of sulfur, slicing it out of the air. “Just hang on, sweetheart. I’m coming.”
And then . . . she left.
Merrick cursed to himself. Caro, Caro, be careful. Be careful, love. Don’t do anything rash.
He might as well ask the sun not to shine. She sagged even further, her aura surging wit
h golden pinwheels. The two healers stood frozen in place. It was unheard of for a Mindhealer to attempt this without proper purification and fail-safes. Walking in someone else’s mind could go so very wrong if you didn’t use the time-honored methods. In other areas of magick, experimentation was allowed and encouraged; in Mindhealing, experimentation was almost frowned upon unless it was under rigidly controlled circumstances. There was just too much that could go wrong. A Mindhealer could be trapped in another’s psyche, or her heart could go into arrest because of the shock of dislocation if she exited a mind too quickly. Worst of all, the madness or damage in the patient could communicate itself to the healer, driving her mad or leaving her damaged as well. It was a delicate, finicky branch of magick, like the Seers.
The two healers stared. “Have you ever—” the one in blue scrubs asked.
“No,” the other replied, in a shocked whisper. “What if . . .” But she let the question lie unfinished, dying in the air.
Get out, he wanted to say. Didn’t you hear her? Get the hell out of here like she told you. If one of those things . . .
If one of those things came out, he had to kill it before it could reach her. There was no room for error. The fact that there were other witches—and Lightbringer children—who would be helpless against another one of those things was secondary. All Merrick cared about was the Mindhealer, her face absent and drained of personality as her consciousness walked through the wounded Lightbringer’s mind.
Caro’s slumped body stiffened, swaying. Merrick tensed, muscle by muscle, becoming a coiled spring. Just my luck. I find my witch and she’s determined to take suicidal chances. Lovely. It’s my job to take those chances, Caro, not yours.
He had only a split second of warning. The shock hit him in the chest, right where he’d felt the insistent tugging call that led him to his witch. A heavy squeezing pain, similar to a cardiac arrest, tore against his nerves like the tanak but without the brutal burning of the Dark symbiote. With the pain came comprehension—this was the pain of a Watcher whose witch was dying, going elsewhere, leaving.
CARO!
The knife’s black blade woke in a blaze of thin crimson, the glow from spidery runes chased into its surface dappling the curtains around the bed, cloth rippling uneasily. Merrick pitched forward, his hand blurring out just as the nauseating stench boiled over, his heart squeezing and his breath suddenly torn out of his chest. Caro went to her knees, hard, slid bonelessly to the floor. He had no time to worry about that because the battered body on the bed convulsed, bones cracking as it contorted into an arching hoop, and the thing boiled free in a noisome stream, psychic fibers becoming physical, blood splashing out in a fine mist as capillaries burst. It screeched, its hairless head lowering; Merrick moved without thought, blurring between the creature and Caro.
The two healers screamed, their voices rising in an odd harmony that might have been funny if it hadn’t been so deadly- terrifying.
Impact. He felt ribs shatter as the thing took compact weight and smashed into him. The knife blurred forward as his hand closed on its suddenly substantial neck, fingers squeezing against black smoke, his simultaneous psychic grasp sinking, slipping—and catching. Held.
The knife made a sound like an ax sinking into wood, and the thing howled, a falsetto screech that spiraled out of the audible and into the psychic. The healers screamed again, their voices less harmonic and more raggedly breathless. Merrick’s head hit the floor with stunning force, the curtain ripped off its pole and descending in a swathe of bleached fabric, whispering against the sudden current of bloodlust in the air.
He twisted the knife with both mind and hand, agony grinding in his chest. Caro. Christ don’t tell me she’s hurt, please, oh gods please—
Then, miracle of miracles, he heard her voice. Shaky and hoarse, but indisputably hers. “Help him. Help him! And you, get over here and anchor her! Move, dammit!”
She could give a battlefield general shouting lessons, he thought hazily, the pain ebbing out of his chest. She was alive. Alive.
Then why does it still hurt?
“Merrick?” A well-camouflaged note of panic in her beautiful voice. Sounded like her nose was full, because she pronounced it Merrig. “Merrick, are you all right?”
The thing slumped atop him, psychic sludge, its claws dissolving inside the bloody rips and rents in Merrick’s skin. He had three broken ribs, and he was sure he’d done something to his leg. His skull rang with pain, and the monstrous, dry smell of the thing threatened to invade his nose and turn his stomach inside out.
“Just . . . fine,” he rasped. She’s alive. Relief burst inside him.
“Pull her back! Pull her back!” Caro’s voice broke. “Everyone! Everything you have, now!”
A great swelling orchestra note of Lightbringer magick struck the air just as the ripped curtain was pushed aside and a hand closed around Merrick’s, dragging him to his feet. The tanak roared with pain, converting it to Power along with the psychic fuel of the Dark thing’s death. His ribs twitched and crackled, the breaks messily fused together. A spike of blackness twisted in his right leg, high on the inside of the thigh. A claw had caught him, could have opened the femoral artery there.
His breath came harsh and ragged. Still alive. Did I ever think I wanted to die? I don’t. Not now.
First things first. The Watcher who pulled him up—Oliver himself, his eyes blazing blue—was spared only a single nod of thanks before Merrick looked over his shoulder, his eyes searching the sudden crowd of Lightbringers, whose collective presence rubbed vinegar salt into his wounds. They clustered around the bed, soft faces and bright eyes, their glow swirling and becoming brighter as more of them dropped into a trance and directed their energies toward saving one of their own.
Oliver was flanked by Keenan and Ellis. Other Watchers arrived. Someone set to work clearing the sludge of the Seeker-thing from the air. Merrick shook like a cat, ridding himself of its stench. Thankfully, once the wall between him and the tracker inside him slammed up he could no longer smell the sulfur reek.
“Goddammit,” Oliver rumbled, staring down at the writhing sludge on the floor. Venomous red-black Power crackled, cleansing the air. “What the hell is going on?”
Merrick shrugged. With this many Watchers, the thing didn’t stand a chance; its reek vanished, replaced by the smoky fragrance of Watcher magick. He tried to peer through the gathered Lightbringers, looking for Caro. “One of those things was in a Lightbringer. Caro’s trying to save her.”
Oliver tipped his head back, his jaw working as his hair brushed the sword hilt protruding over his shoulder. Merrick understood. How were the Watchers supposed to protect witches if they kept taking suicidal chances and behaving illogically? He dragged a breath in, two, suddenly very glad he could breathe. The world took on new color and weight, from the torn curtain to the clothes the Lightbringers wore, light melding and flowing around them. He saw Caro’s brother, his eyes closed and his beaky face alight, his aura soaking into the glow around him, offering his limited strength without reserve.
Merrick was almost beginning to believe he was alive. His lungs worked. The tanak twisted painfully inside his marrow. His heart was still beating, and the awful dragging agony drained out of his chest. He was alive, Caro was alive, the thing hadn’t killed anyone else. He’d done his job.
It wasn’t as comforting as he expected it to be.
The soft, bright Power in the air slid away like the tide along a sandy beach. “No,” someone whispered. “Oh, no.”
One by one, the Lightbringers took on individual shapes again, instead of the massive glow of a spell. They held each other, arms over shoulders, some turning their faces away. There was a soft confusion and Caro appeared, stalking through them. Her face was deadly white, her eyes flashing, and the only thing worse than the anger crackling through her aura was the devouring sorrow laid underneath, tinting the golden pinwheels of her aura a deep purple.
Her eyes flicked over Me
rrick. He pulled himself up straighter, wishing he wasn’t covered in blood. There was a creaking sound as the tanak started working on his ribs, smoothing out the messy fusions it had done as an emergency measure. Merrick flinched slightly, his scars turning into dry whips of flame across his face and down his shoulder.
“She’s dead.” Her tone was flat, and terribly, terribly sad. “Where’s the Watcher?”
What Watcher? I’m right here. “Caro?” His voice had gone hoarse. Fire drilled through his ribs, his leg straightened. Blood trickled wet and warm until the symbiote closed the rips in his skin.
She stepped close to him, reached out, and closed her fingers around his wrist again. “I’m sorry.” She sounded more than sorry. She sounded, in fact, as if her heart was broken. “How badly are you hurt? Are you all right?”
Oh, Christ. The thought was tinged with deep-red desperation. Pleasure rolled up his arm, spread through his chest, and smashed at his control, leaving him with only the thinnest margin. He felt more than saw the other Watchers drop their eyes, felt more than heard the murmur that went through them. And he barely felt that because his entire world narrowed to one thing—the witch who stood in front of him, deathly pale, a smear of bright blood trickling down from her nose. Her eyes were bloodshot too, and her aura held the sparkling luminescence of pain. But the curve of her cheekbone cried out for his fingers to touch it, the gold-streaked curls falling in her face begged for him to brush them back, and the rest of her—Well, what he wanted to do didn’t bear thinking about.
He swallowed, roughly. Invoked control. Duty. Honor. Obedience. But even those watchwords, drilled into him with harsh exactitude, had a hard time getting through the shell of velvet-covered, iron-spiked desire that slammed through him, spun around his skin, and jolted home again. His scars throbbed, his bones ached sweetly, and he had the irresistible urge to slide his hand around her nape and pull her close, feel her soft slenderness fitted against him. He wanted her, dammit, and she wasn’t making it any easier by being so completely, infuriatingly stubborn—or so absolutely vulnerable it made his heart ache, a pain he had never felt before, a pain her touch soothed and made worse at the same time.