Mindhealer

“Not anymore, it’s closed up. I think I hit the radiator on the way down. It’s not bad.” Merrick closed his eyes, thinking. Watchers took classes and refresher courses in Dark anatomy and classification. They also shared information informally. There was precious little Dark someone didn’t know about. But he had never heard of this.

  Footsteps approaching. The glamour hardened again, and he pulled her aside into the shadows behind the pews. Her earrings flashed in the mellow gloom.

  She appeared not to notice he was all but dragging her around, reaching up as if to touch him. He flinched, and her hand stopped in midair. “But you’re bleeding. Let me see.”

  “It’s not bad.” It’s already closed up, Caro. The footsteps passed. He eased his hand away from the knife hilt, hoping she hadn’t noticed. “We should go back to the safehouse, make a report.”

  “The other victims.” She swiped the blood away from her face, balled the handkerchief in her fist. “Joanie and the other Mindhealers, we have to warn them . . . warn Fran—. . .”

  “Here.” He dug into another pocket and retrieved his cell phone. “Use this.”

  “My, you’re useful. I can’t carry a cell, my aura drains the batteries. One more thing to love about being a Mindhealer.” She gulped, her eyes suddenly huge and luminous in the chapel’s dimness. She was not as casual as she wanted him to believe. How many people bought that sharp tough exterior of hers? “Are you sure it’s dead?”

  “I’m sure.” He tried to sound reassuring. “It couldn’t stand the sunlight. It’s dead, Caro.”

  “It could have hurt you.” She didn’t look reassured at all. She looked, in fact, frightened half to death, high hectic color standing in her cheeks. The long gold earrings shivered against her cheeks. He was suddenly intensely jealous of any piece of jewelry allowed to touch her skin.

  Settle down, old man. “I’m a Watcher.” Didn’t she understand? He was good at surviving, any Watcher was. He’d just found her, and he wasn’t getting himself killed now. A week ago he might have considered it, but not now. “Call in if you want, I’ll check the hall. We’d better get out of here.”

  For a moment he cursed himself—giving a witch orders, was he mad? But she took the phone in her free hand and stared at it, as if trying to remember what to do with such a contraption. He felt his heart actually twist, a painful sensation tinged with fear. It had been so close. “Hit redial. Dispatch will know where everyone is.”

  He slid away from her, not because he wanted to let her go, but because his hands were literally shaking with the urge to touch her again. Just to prove she was alive and unhurt. When he thought of what could have happened—

  Not to my witch. Never to my witch.

  But he knew, didn’t he, what could happen. He’d seen it—Lightbringers in pain, their gentleness horribly abused, screaming as another piece of Dark tried to claw or bite or rend them. He had asked for patrol, damn near begged for it, because he didn’t think he could stand to see another Lightbringer in pain. And her, this beautiful witch with her foolish bravery and sharp tongue, was an accident waiting to happen. No, not just an accident. A disaster waiting to happen.

  “H-hello?” Her voice shook. “Francine Edwardton, I need to talk to Francine. Now. It’s Caroline Robbins, and I need to talk to Fran right this second.” Her tone firmed, became natural. “No, I’m all right, my Watcher’s right here. Get Fran on the phone now!” There was a definite snap to her voice now.

  My Watcher’s right here. He closed his eyes, resting his hand against the chapel door. His awareness swept the hall outside, circled the pews and the altar again, and came to rest on her. She sniffed heavily. The nosebleed had stopped. The slashes of fire that were his Dark-made scars pulsed unevenly, jagged bits of broken pain.

  What will I have to do to keep her safe? She wants to get rid of me, and I’m not sure I can obey her if she wants me to go invisible. Duty, honor, obedience. She wants the Council to order me away, the Council wants me to stay on her, and if I don’t Watch her closely she’s likely to get into trouble.

  It was, in short, a situation that could only end badly.

  “Frannie? It’s Caro. Look, get word to the other Mindhealers. Don’t treat any of the victims! There’s something in them, something Dark, triggered by a third-level touch. Get hold of them however you can and tell them not to treat! Clear?”

  She must have heard an affirmative, because her tone softened. “It’s bad, Fran. However bad you think it is, it’s worse. Do whatever you have to, pull the Mindhealers in so I can talk to them. We’re lucky we haven’t lost more. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”

  Another pause, then a short sharp sound. “No, I want to visit a few more victims. Whatever this thing is, it has to be stopped.”

  Merrick’s heart splashed down into his guts. What the hell?

  Caro laughed, but the sound wasn’t happy. “Of course I’m serious, Frannie. I’m the most qualified to deal with this, and I’ll deal with it. Pull everyone in and I’ll talk to them as soon as I can.”

  She turned the phone off and sighed. “Damn.”

  “Caro?” It wasn’t what he wanted to say. Please tell me I didn’t hear what I think I just heard. He turned to find her looking at him. Had she been watching his back? The thought sent a rill of something too cold and satisfied to be excitement up his spine.

  “Merrick.” She flipped the phone closed. “Where are the other victims?”

  He felt his jaw clench. “Those things are dangerous. We should go back to the safehouse.”

  Her chin lifted, and his heart began to hammer. Why? They weren’t under attack. “You can go back, if you want. Those things certainly are dangerous, and I don’t want you hurt. It could have taken your head off.”

  For a moment he simply stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. The thought—I could just pick her up and sling her over my shoulder, I could drag her back to the safehouse kicking and screaming—was tempting. Very tempting. Obedience rose under his skin, the harsh training every Watcher received. The only time a Watcher is allowed to disobey a witch is when her safety is in danger.

  Well, she’s certainly in danger now. No Watcher would blame me.

  He sighed. A Watcher might not blame him, but Caro certainly would. He decided to try another tack. “I’m trained for this, Caro. This is my job. You think I can’t do my job?”

  She looked very fragile, her eyes shadowed, hugging herself tightly. She held the phone in her white-knuckled right hand. “I lost a Watcher once,” she said tonelessly, staring at the floor. “Vincent. He was a good man.”

  So that’s the problem. He folded his arms over his chest, hearing leather creak and small bits of gear shift inside his coat. “Don’t worry, I’m not hampered by any decency. I am very, very good at surviving.”

  Tears glittered in her eyes again. She said nothing.

  “I don’t know where the other victims are,” he finally said. His conscience pricked him, hard. “I could get a list from Dispatch.”

  Footsteps in the hall again. Merrick listened. They were slowing. He moved closer to her, instinct prickling under his skin.

  “Why are you doing this?” The misery in her voice was palpable, and scored him all the way down to the bone. “I won’t be the cause of another man’s death.”

  I’ve already survived more than you can imagine, love. Instinct blurred under his skin, and he stepped close, the glamour closing hard and hot around both of them. She drew in a breath as if to argue, and as the chapel doors opened he clapped his hand over her mouth. Something was wrong—again. He felt it like a discordant note on a pipe organ. The footsteps were lighter than they should be, and purposeful. Merrick smelled cordite and the faint imperceptible odor of bloodlust.

  Heat tingled in his palm from the touch of her mouth. Her skin was soft, her lips softer. Creeping velvet fire tingled in Merrick’s fingertips. Don’t think about that.

  The man edged into the chapel, a gun held low at his side. His
eyes flicked nervously over the interior, and he crossed himself as he walked between the pews. Average height, brown hair clipped close to his skull—and to a Watcher’s senses, the faint bloody glow of old, tainted ceremonial magick through his aura shouted what this new visitor was.

  What’s a Crusade Master doing here during the day? It wasn’t like a live Crusade soldier to show up during the day and without any backup. They went out in pairs—mostly to discourage independent thought, the Watchers said.

  Caro’s eyes widened, irises ringed with white like a frightened animal’s. She shook her head, reaching up to grab Merrick’s wrist. A bolt of velvet fire slid up his arm, spilled through him. He was suddenly very aware of her pressed against him, his breathing wanting to shorten, his entire body tightening at the feel of her, so close, so soft, and so utterly defenseless without him. He had never felt this deeply instinctively protective of a woman before, despite all his years of being a Watcher.

  His free hand drifted to a knife hilt. He could kill the man quietly. One less fanatic to carry out the war against Lightbringers; one less murderous religionist to control the zombie Knights and Seekers that were the worst weapons of the Crusade’s ancient hatred.

  Caro blinked. A tear slid down her cheek, touched his hand. He kept the glamour tight, thankful the Crusade didn’t train the Masters to detect Watcher glamours. They were, by and large, not psychic enough. No, a Master used the Seekers to find Lightbringers, because the hell-dogs created with ceremonial magick could see the glow of their souls in the landscape of Power. And the Seekers and zombie knights would hunt down Lightbringers like animals, kill them just as they had for hundreds of years.

  Except for the one thing that stood between a Lightbringer and danger.

  A Watcher.

  His arm tensed as he half-turned, keeping the man in sight. Caro’s fingers tightened too, soft against his wrist. Spiked pleasure roiled under his skin, worked in to curl around his bones. And, amazingly enough, it began to have an effect below the belt. Christ, what a time to get a hard-on. Keep your mind on your work, Merrick old man. Come on now. Get her out of here.

  Thhe Crusade Master spoke, pausing in front of the cross. “Christ is our glory, the earth our dominion,” he whispered. “God smiles upon our work.”

  Fury boiled through Merrick. This man had probably killed Lightbringers before, had probably helped orchestrate the last safehouse attack, and would strangle Caro with his own hands if he could. It would take so little to whip the knife free, send it rocketing through the air, and hear the satisfying thunk as it hit home.

  Caro shook her head. She hung onto his arm with all her fragile strength, her eyes wide and soft with tears, the trembling spilling through her infecting him. Control clamped down. He was a breath away from either killing the Crusade Master or pulling Caro even closer and maybe, just maybe, doing something a Watcher shouldn’t do.

  The Master swept the chapel, the gun held ready. Merrick kept still, his body between the danger and his witch. What was a Crusade Master doing here? And during the day? They usually hid in their boltholes whispering rosaries during the day, coming out at night to hunt unprotected Lightbringers. His hand tightened around the knife hilt, his knuckles turning white.

  No, Caro mouthed against his hand. He had no trouble understanding the faint movements against his cupped palm. Please. No, Merrick.

  The Master quartered the chapel, crossed himself again, and Merrick almost shook with the urge to kill. The only thing that stopped him was Caro’s lips, soft against his callused palm, shaping the word no.

  Honor. Duty. Obedience. He should kill the man. He should. It would make the world a safer place. It would make Caro safer.

  She shook her head again, her skin sending shocks of soft hammering pleasure up his arm. The wall was temptingly close, he could push her back against its solidity and press himself against her. That opened up new and interesting vistas of contemplation he had no luxury for. Control. Control, Merrick.

  The Master slowly paced away. The chapel doors closed behind him, softly, reverently.

  Merrick waited, heard the footsteps retreat down the hall. Was he expecting to find her here? Did he see us come in? No, I had her glamoured. What was he doing here? If I didn’t have this witch to look after, I could follow him and have a little chat. That would be good, very good . . . but she’s here. She needs to be protected.

  His hand fell reluctantly away from her mouth. “Crusade,” he whispered, feeling sweat begin to dry on his neck. Caro was dangerous to his self-control, he had never been tempted to force a woman before. What the hell was wrong with him? “The bloody Crusade. Now will you listen to reason?”

  “You were going to kill him,” she whispered back.

  “It was a Crusade Master. If he’d seen you, I would have killed him.” It was hard to make his voice less harsh, hard to keep it pitched low. He could almost feel the subliminal click as combat-readiness settled over him again. Ready for anything. I still might kill him, if I could be sure you wouldn’t get into trouble while I did. “We should go back to the safehouse.”

  He was prepared for an argument. But, surprisingly, Caro simply held up the cell phone. “Thank the gods this didn’t ring,” she managed, a little shakily. It actually physically hurt to hear the tremor in her voice. A witch this beautiful, this dedicated, shouldn’t have to sound so frightened. “I think I’ve had enough for today. You can call a cab, or we can take the bus.”

  “Cab.” His voice was husky. See how well I obey you, witch. You have no idea what I almost did. “Safer for you.”

  “All right.” She dropped her eyes, her shoulders slumping. “All right. You win.”

  Seven

  Caro leaned forward, bracing her hands on the table. Her eyes swept the room.

  Six Mindhealers. That was all. And Fran, for once in a matching sweater and dress, both lemony yellow that did wonders for her pale complexion. Six. A bare half-dozen healers capable of walking in shattered minds and restoring peace to the tortured. Only six for how many thousands of people in this city? The familiar feeling of being with others like herself, the touch of other gentle minds, was only barely calming enough to soothe her frayed nerves. Merrick’s presence, steady and comforting in its own way, nevertheless reminded her of the horribly-shrieking, vile-smelling thing that had burst out of poor Colleen.

  Her hair fell in her eyes, escaping the chignon. She’d barely had a chance to wash her face; her stomach twisted with hunger. Her earrings tapped her cheeks comfortingly as her head moved, and she tried to breathe deeply, forcing down the shaking that threatened to make her hands into trembling claws.

  The Watchers were clustered in the back of the meeting room, on the benches—except for Merrick, who stood slightly behind Caro to her right. He had already given a succinct description of the Dark he’d seen, and now it was Caro’s turn.

  “It was a third-level touch that triggered it,” she said, slowly. “I had just soaked through the first few layers and slid in, meaning to make contact just below alpha level, see what the damage was. It was smoked, absolutely laid waste in there, as if something had torn out the personality by the roots. It was a good thing I’d used a blessed-water filter, or I’d have been eaten alive.” She shivered, remembering the sheer speed at which the trap had snapped shut, layer after layer of the psyche exploding as the Dark rocketed up through it, aiming for the shimmer that was Caro’s externalized consciousness. “I don’t know quite how I triggered it. But it smelled, and I wasn’t able to elude it. I tried to save Colleen.” Gods, how I tried, but she was already gone.

  Her head still echoed with the last scream of the tortured woman’s mind as the Dark burst through her. If I hadn’t tried a third-level touch, would she still be alive?

  “You were able to do a third-level touch through a filter?” Joanie’s wide blue eyes were full of uncomfortable awe. Caro felt her throat threaten to close. “But that’s—”

  “Eleanor taught me. It’s r
isky, but I wanted to make contact without having to go through the upper waking maze. If I hadn’t had the filter we could have two witches dead of a stopped heart.” Caro shook her head. “That’s not important. The important thing is the thing inside was inert and feeding on the victim, like a parasite. And then when it came out, it tore free too quickly and died when it hit sunlight.”

  “Gods.” Lydia, a plump round motherly Mindhealer, folded her hands. Her gold rings flashed, like her aura. Not as brightly as Caro’s—which means she won’t be as big a snack for the Dark, Caro thought. “They’re incubators. Why didn’t we think of that?”

  “It gets worse.” Caro took a deep breath. “The Crusade might somehow be involved. There was a Crusade Master there, in the chapel. Merrick kept me hidden, but I must have left traces in the room even a halfwit zombie knight would be able to See.” I didn’t have much of a chance to clean up after myself. The Crusade Masters aren’t psychic, but if he brings back a Seeker after nightfall he might be able to trace me. And, oh gods, if he had some kind of tracking talisman he might have followed us to the chapel and opened fire. Which means I could have gotten Merrick hurt. How could I be so stupid?

  Silence greeted her words. Fran’s jaw dropped.

  One of the Watchers—Oliver, the Watcher delegate to the regional Council—gained his feet in a single galvanic movement, so quickly his blond mane ruffled. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.” His voice turned flinty, blue eyes hard and level. “Why didn’t Merrick speak of this?”

  “I asked him not to,” Caro said smoothly. “If he said anything about it, you would want to question him before I had a chance to talk, and we might lose track of the main thing here—that innocent people are being attacked and hosting some kind of Dark. We don’t know that the Crusade is necessarily responsible or involved. I want files for all the victims we know of, and I want them brought to the infirmary where we can figure out what they’re infested with and how to treat it.”

  “No.” Not only Oliver but Merrick said it, and the air became hot and still. The assembled Watchers—eight of them, one for each Mindhealer, Merrick, and Oliver—tensed, the air going hot and still.