“We can’t allow that.” Oliver straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. His eyes focused on the floor, but his jaw was set. The air around the seated Watchers swirled with tension and heat, each of them straight-backed and ready.
Fran’s voice came like a breath of cool wind, a thread of lily-smell that soothed Caro’s nerves. “Allow, Oliver?”
“Under the regs, we can bar a potential danger from the safehouse. What if one of these victims lets loose something Dark to roam inside the wards?” Oliver shook his leonine head. “The infirmary is near the nursery and the children’s wing. No.”
Caro’s hands tightened as she leaned on the table. The whiteboard behind her chattered slightly against the wall, the dry-erase markers clicking in the gutter along its bottom. “We are talking about innocent people here,” she said, wishing her teeth didn’t want to grit together quite so badly. “I need to examine them, and I need them safe. If the Crusade is involved they might kill the incubators.”
“The children are innocent,” Oliver returned. “The Lightbringers in the infirmary, too. The Watchers cannot agree to this.”
“Fourteen victims, nine dead now.” Fran’s voice almost broke under the sadness of it. The other Mindhealers nodded, their auras turning dark and golden, spangled with grief.
“We need to discuss this.” Lydia sighed. “There aren’t enough of us.”
“How many of the dead held one of these Dark creatures?” Joanie asked.
“We don’t know.” This from a slim teenaged Mindhealer, a collection of thin chiming gold bracelets falling down her arm as she brushed her dark hair back. “We weren’t there when the others died.”
“And Danica’s death didn’t release anything Dark.” An ebony-skinned Mindhealer, her hair in several tiny braids tipped with red glass beads, folded her arms, leaning back in her chair. Her large dark eyes were eloquently sad.
“We wouldn’t know,” Lydia pointed out. “Her Watcher’s heart stopped too; they were a bonded pair. Something Dark could have come out and been gone by the time we found them. It smelled awful in there, we thought it was just the victim.”
“I don’t like this,” Joanie said darkly. “We don’t know enough.”
Caro dropped into the chair behind the table, exhaustion closing over her. “We have to stop this.” Her voice sliced through the rising murmurs. “If I can’t examine the victims, I don’t know how I’m supposed to come up with a workable theory or figure out how to repair the damage.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “Normally, in cases involving a Dark parasite, the victim doesn’t survive. Especially when the damage to the physical body is so intense.”
“And they were physically beaten.” The teenage Mindhealer shuddered. “Worked over pretty good. We could be looking at some type of human agency here, even if it isn’t Crusade. There are others—the Thains, the Brotherhood.”
This sparked a flurry of discussion. “So there’s something hunting in the city?”
“Or someone.”
“What about the Crusade?”
“How are we going to treat this?”
“The victims die, sooner or later; normals wouldn’t see something Dark birthing itself.”
“But someone must have felt something, seen something, heard something!”
“Gods above—”
“Ladies, gentlemen.” Fran raised her hands for silence. Caro slumped in her chair. Merrick moved closer, his aura fringing hers, something she was too tired to work up any energy to be irritated about. “I suggest we get Caro the files as soon as possible and start researching. Someone has to have seen this type of Dark before. We’ll call some of the other safehouses and ask them to ransack their libraries. And I’ll have the tech witches start going through every bit of intel we can pull from the Crusade.”
“What about guarding the victims?” Caro felt her chin lifting stubbornly, heard the sharpness in her voice, hated it.
Oliver said nothing, stared at the floor. Caro’s heart sank. She’d known, of course . . . but still.
“The Watchers are spread too thin here as it is,” Fran said heavily. “Lightbringers are their priority. I’m sorry, Caro.”
She sagged further against the chair’s back as the meeting broke up. Merrick was completely still beside her. A few of the Mindhealers looked as if they wanted to talk to her, but she closed her eyes and rested her hands on the table until silence rang through the room, telling her she was alone with the Watcher.
He waited quietly. Caro was surprised to find tears rising to her eyes again. “I know she’s just doing her job,” she whispered. “But gods, those poor people. Why would anyone do something like this?”
Merrick seemed to give the question his full attention. “Don’t know.” His accent clipped the words short. He sounded so calm, so precise; she envied him that calmness. “Lots of reasons. Greed, hate, just plain meanness. Happens a lot, love.”
“But why?” Her voice broke. Great, Caro. Show everyone what a blasted coward you are.
“You’re Lightbringer. You won’t understand. You’re not made that way.”
“Oh, and you are?” Nobody understands these things, do they?
He was silent for a full sixty seconds. Then, “I’m a Watcher. I have to understand.” His aura tightened at the edges of hers, and she felt his attention sweeping the room and the hall beyond, even though they were in a safehouse. Did he ever relax?
No, Watchers never relaxed. Unceasing vigilance was trained into them. It made her tired to even think about. And Caro had to figure out some kind of solution to get him away from her. If the Crusade was involved with this, it was likely to get messy and dangerous. There was nothing the Crusade liked better than killing a Lightbringer, unless it was killing a Watcher. Fran was no help, the Council had washed its hands of the whole problem, and probably breathed a sigh of relief too.
She dropped her head forward into her hands, bracing her elbows on the table. This meeting room was quiet, small, and windowless. Not many Lightbringers would like it in here. Caro’s own claustrophobia rose briefly, tore at her throat, retreated a little. “Gods, I’m tired.”
“You should rest.” A hesitant pause, then he touched her shoulder, his fingers hot through the silk of her shirt. “They’ll bring you the files.”
“Meanwhile, whoever’s out there beating up people and infecting them with Dark parasites is still running around.” Her fingers were hot and slick with tears. “I should have been here weeks ago.”
“You’re here now.” His hand closed around her shoulder. “You should rest, love.”
“Why are you calling me that?” Exhaustion made the words sharper than she intended.
“It’s a habit. Sorry.”
Well, now I feel like a bitch. It’s not his fault. Probably just some weird British custom, like eating fried fish. “No, I’m just wondering. It’s okay. You probably need something to eat, don’t you?” Great, Caro. Feed the Watcher before you let him risk his life hanging around you.
Did he pause? “I won’t say no.”
And that, Caro thought as she wiped her eyes, is exactly the problem.
* * * *
The dream was always the same, as she tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed. Again and again, it returned.
Caroline, humming, put her hands in the soapy water and lifted the bowl again. “I don’t know. You think it’d work?”
“Theoretically.” Vincent leaned against the kitchen counter, his close-cropped blond hair sticking to his skull. He had dark circles under his eyes that never seemed to go away, and the long black leather coat only made him seem paler. Say something to him, Caro shrieked at her dreaming, oblivious self. He’s falling into a Watcher’s despair, you idiot, say something kind!
Dream-Caro sighed. “I wish I could test it for sure without the risk of getting killed.”
“You could try it on me. I’m Dark.” His voice betrayed no shading of bitterness, but his mouth pulled down at the
corners slightly.
“Stuff that works on pure Dark might not work on you,” she pointed out, lifting the bowl and rinsing it. The blue ceramic was slick and warm under her fingers. “You’re a Watcher, not a Slider or a Seeker.”
“True.” Now a brief smile. Vincent was by far the most expressive Watcher she’d ever had. They usually changed every six months—the “rotation,” so each Watcher had a chance to find his witch. Caro had grown accustomed to silent, grim men. But Vincent was the Watcher who had brought her into Circle Lightfall, who had noticed a foster child with the sparkling aura of a Mindhealer, reported it, and been sent to collect her and Trev with Eleanor D’Arcy. And since then, he had been on the periphery of her life, always having time for a scabby-kneed, needy foster child frightened of her gifts and desperate for any sort of approval.
Eleanor helped, of course. She understood Caro’s fears, trained her to overcome them and use her talents effectively. But Vincent was the closest thing to a father figure Caro ever had, and she cherished his quiet unconditional acceptance. “But you never know. I might be able to gauge the effect on the Dark from what it feels like.”
“It’s a Lightbringer magick.” Caro shook her head. Her hair had been shorter then. “It’ll probably hurt you.”
“In the name of science.” Vince’s tone was light. The kitchen, painted a sunny yellow, was suddenly full of the hot static of his attention.
Caro tensed. “What is it?” Her heart began to beat thinly, rapidly. She didn’t feel anything outside the carefully laid wards on her new house, but her head began to hurt. A sure sign of something bad about to happen. “Vincent?”
“I’ll check it out.” His dark eyes glittered, and one hand strayed toward a gun. It must be bad if he’s reaching for a gun around me, she thought. He was normally so careful not to frighten her.
Run! she yelled at her dream-self. Get out of there! Get him out of there! Get away! It’s coming!
But he crossed to the back door, the wards on the house sparking and fizzing under his sudden attention. He was adding last minute bolstering to them, which meant he probably had an idea of what was outside Caro’s first house—bought with money earned from her job as a social worker, and helped along by Circle Lightfall’s generous assistance with the mortgage. There were still boxes in the hall and the bedrooms. She had only been here for two weeks.
“Vincent?” Her fingers clenched on the bowl. She stood there stupidly, dripping dishwater on the kitchen floor, the air suddenly thick and close with the nonphysical stench of evil. Wet warmth trickled down from her nose, a thin awful sensation. Nosebleed. The Dark. “What?”
“Get into your bedroom,” he said over his shoulder. “I mean it, Caro. The shields there should—”
Then it hit the house, and the bowl leapt from her hand and shattered on the floor.
BANG.
Her room was dark. Caro, bracing herself on her elbows, blinked and swallowed the sour taste of fear as she gulped back her waking scream. The nightlight’s glowing edge around the bathroom door did nothing to help. She pulled the hem of the cotton tank top down. It had twisted and rode up under her breasts. Her flannel shorts were twisted too, she must have been tossing for a while.
She always did when she dreamed of Vincent’s death.
Something’s wrong. What is it?
The Mindhealers were all accounted for, at least, warned of the danger. The files hadn’t arrived, but Fran had more than enough to keep her busy late into the evening. Caro had unpacked, made lunch and dinner for herself and Merrick, and fallen wearily into bed at about seven. It was, though she hated to admit it, good to be able to exhaust herself into sleeping. Last night had been a nightmare of insomnia and prowling the suite of pretty rooms.
Caro gained her feet, the bed creaking. The room was utterly silent, but a slight breath told her Merrick was right by the door. She’d almost gotten used to having a Watcher again, he was so quiet. He hadn’t spoken much, just silently taken care of things that needed doing—including barring her door when she wanted some peace. He’d even denied entry to a few healers when Caro told him she didn’t want to be disturbed. For a Mindhealer used to being barged in on at a moment’s notice, the sudden ability to have solitude was overwhelming.
And Merrick’s docile, silent obedience was a little creepy, even for a witch used to Watchers.
He hadn’t mentioned the Crusade again. Neither had she. The sudden détente was welcome on her part, at least. She had the distinct idea that he could get devastatingly ironic under that proper British façade.
She caught a flash of green—his eyes. Caro stopped, tilting her head. Her cheeks felt naked without her long golden earrings brushing them.
There it is again. She swallowed dryly, heard her throat click.
The receptive surface of her mind rippled, the disturbance now more pronounced.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered. “Merrick?”
She caught a faint flash of movement. He’d nodded. Dammit, I wish he’d talk, I can’t see in the dark like he can.
She made it to the dresser, pulled out a pair of jeans and some underwear by touch—learning how to unpack so she could find everything even in the dark was a skill she had down cold by now—and hurried to the bathroom. Inside, the light stung her eyes as she changed into the jeans and grabbed a ponytail holder.
When she emerged, pulling her hair back, Merrick had turned the lights on but still stood near the door. He didn’t say a word, but one eyebrow arched eloquently. Maybe he had to use body language since he didn’t want to talk. He was laconic even for a Watcher.
“If something happens, I want to be dressed,” she snapped. She jerked a red cardigan from the pile of neatly folded clothes on the dresser and shrugged it on over her tank top. She felt sandy and crusty, like she usually did waking in the middle of the night. But her heart pounded in her throat and wrists, and her mouth tasted coppery. “I don’t like to be—”
She didn’t get any further. The safehouse shields shuddered under a stunning impact. Caro cried out and flinched. Merrick tilted his head, listening intently.
There was a breath of silence, then the whole house vibrated with Watcher magick waking up. Caro could feel the sudden change—from a sleeping, dreaming safehouse to one under attack. She shook her head, tears starting in her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “Gods, please, no.” Not again. I hate this.
“It’s all right.” Merrick finally spoke. “I don’t think it broke the shields. They’ll send out a team to clear whatever it is.”
Almost nothing could break a safehouse’s defenses. The biggest danger in any attack was the confusion and fear it caused inside the walls, not any actual Dark getting inside. The safehouses hadn’t been broken since the early 1800s, the time of Molly Grenwine and her Watcher, Harrison. That was why they were called safehouses, nothing Dark could get through the layers of warding applied with painstaking care to every brick, every wall, every nail, every window, every pane of glass or sheet of drywall.
But still, her mouth was dry and the feeling of impending disaster was undeniable.
“No.” Premonition trembled under the surface of Caro’s thoughts. “Something’s really, really wrong. It’s about to happen.”
Another jolting impact, the shields shivering. The floor groaned. Caro swayed, and he was suddenly right next to her, his arm over her shoulders. He was warm, his heat sinking into her skin. “What are they doing?” she whispered.
“Doesn’t matter. This is a safehouse.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when something huge hit the shields over her window. She screamed, a thin sound, as the glass groaned and Merrick moved, pushing her behind him. His aura flushed crimson-black, hard and hurtful; the warding laid in the walls tearing and shredding under the pressure of the attack.
There, pressed against the glass, was a heaving snout made of darkness. Two red eyes glowed as it scrabbled for entrance, claws slipping off the sheet of Power th
at was the defenses gathering, turning hard and slippery as volcanic glass. The teeth were black smoke, frozen and hard, clashing and champing.
No. Please, gods, no.
It slid away, scrabbling. Merrick’s back turned hard as iron under the heavy leather coat. He jammed the knife back in its sheath and half-turned, his arm snaking over her shoulders.
“Come on.” He pulled her along. Caro stumbled on numb legs, he set her on her feet again. Dragged her out the door as another impact made the walls quiver. The sweet tinkling crash of broken glass echoed as he slammed the door and snapped a single word, laying a quick warding on it to slow the thing down. Her feet barely brushed the ground as he set off down the hall, his boots oddly silent. The walls blurred. He pushed her into the corner at the end of the hall before she could protest. Turning his back to her, the knives slid out of their sheaths as he faced the direction danger would come from—her room.
“Merrick.” Her voice cracked. “That was a Seeker. A Seeker.”
“Maybe,” he said quietly. If he was trying to soothe her, it didn’t help. Panic beat inside her chest. “Just stay as still as you can.”
“They can kill.” She heard her own sobbing breathlessness. Danger pounded in her head, the proximity of the Dark driving glass needles into her temples. Come on, Caro! Get a spine! Get him out of here, that’s a Seeker, it could kill him! “You have to go. We have to go right now.” She found herself staring at the middle of his back, the sword bisecting it in a neat diagonal line, the shimmer of glamour to hide his weapons from normals weak and useless while inside the safehouse. “Merrick?”
“Relax, Caro. I’ve done this before.” He sounded so utterly calm she almost believed she might be dreaming. Of course she was dreaming. The Dark couldn’t break into the safehouse. It was impossible.
A heavy thud, a low snarl from the room. A Seeker. But they couldn’t crack into a safehouse. Was it a created Seeker? That would mean the Crusade.