Eyes to See

by Joseph Nassise

  The artist had caught her in midmotion as she turned in his direction so that her face was in profile. Her gaze was hard, her mouth set in a determined line, her hair damp with sweat. The likeness was incredible, as if she’d been standing in the room posing for the artist when he’d drawn the image.

  She moved closer, raising the light for a better look, and that’s when the picture moved, the face turning fully in her direction, the mouth opening as if to shout.

  Denise jerked back in surprise, almost dropping the light as she brought the pistol up in front of her, ready to defend herself if the need arose.

  Nothing happened, however.

  She held her position until her heart stopped hammering and the urge to blast the creepy thing off the wall passed.

  A glance at the image showed her only what she’d originally seen: her face in profile, caught turning toward the center.

  “Easy, girl. You’re scaring yourself.”

  But when she brought the light closer to the painting a second time the image moved again, repeating the same sequence, and this time, in the depths of her mind, she thought she heard a voice cry out Hunt’s name.

  Her voice.

  Sweet Gaia!

  When she lowered the light, the painting went back to normal, just as it had when she’d stepped away the first time.

  It’s activated by the magick in the crystal.

  Even as the thought came to her, she knew she was right. To test her theory, she raised the light again and watched the face go through its metamorphosis once more.

  The artist had been one of the Gifted, and he’d imbued his art with a touch of his power!

  36

  NOW

  “Yep, that’s you all right,” Dmitri said, staring at the painting in front of him. I’d already seen it through Denise’s sight and agreed with him.

  It was me.

  After finding the paintings, Denise had called Dmitri and asked him to join her as fast as possible, though only after he’d made a stop at her place to pick me up. He apparently had a key, something I didn’t want to give too much thought to, to be honest, and shook me out of my sleep with a simple, “Denise needs us.”

  Now we stood together in the tangle of the construction site, and I listened as the other two discussed just what the pictures meant. The first three didn’t require much interpretation, as they were just simple portraits of the three of us from the shoulders up. We were surrounded by darkness in each image, though that might have simply been the artist’s idea of background.

  The other three, well, those were a bit different.

  The first showed a group of figures rushing toward a small, indistinct structure in the background. Dmitri thought it looked like a small cabin or fishing shack, while Denise and I saw it as a house of some kind, but there was no way to tell who was right as it was shrouded in shadow and therefore hard to identify. The figures were dressed in hooded cloaks and had their backs to the viewer, so there wasn’t much to go on there, either. About all that could be seen clearly was the sword one of the figures carried in its raised right hand. Thanks to the artist’s Gift, the figures would rush forward in silence when you turned your head to look away.

  The second painting had a thick forest filling the foreground and behind it, looming in the distance, a fortresslike structure that could have been a castle or a prison of some kind. Once again, there wasn’t anything in the image to indicate a place or time period that could help us discover something new. Nor was the building in the image detailed enough for us to identify it.

  The third and final painting in the sequence was the one that interested me the most, however. It was an image of a young girl’s face. She’d been caught looking down at the floor, her long hair partially obscuring her face, but what remained was enough for me to recognize Whisper, or, to use her given name, Abigail Matthews. But what really made me sit up and take notice was the discovery that if you looked at the picture long enough, the young girl would lift her head and smile back at you. When she did so, her features changed from being those of Abigail Matthews to those of my long-lost daughter, Elizabeth. The minute you looked away, the painting would return to normal.

  It was clear from the way these six paintings were set off from the rest that they were meant to be viewed as a group and the central theme among them only reinforced that idea. The problem was, we didn’t know what they were supposed to be telling us. Nor had we seen any evidence that the artist was still around, so asking him or her seemed to be out of the question as well.

  While the other two argued over the benefits of waiting until the artist returned, I found a comfortable spot on the ground and tried to think things through.

  We’d managed to put a lot of the puzzle pieces together in the last forty-eight hours, but we were still a few bases short of a home run. We knew the killer was targeting the Gifted and that there seemed to be some kind of specific selection process in place for determining who would be the next victim. We knew that my daughter Elizabeth was somehow involved, as the killings had become more focused, more directed, after she’d been taken. We also knew the killer wanted me to be aware of her involvement, otherwise, why leave the charms from her bracelet for me to find at the last two crime scenes?

  But it was at that point that we began to hit gaps in our knowledge big enough to drive a truck through. Who was next on the killer’s list? One of us, maybe? And what was the purpose behind the killings?

  Even worse, the Magister has said the fetch might be operating on behalf of the master that created it. That meant there might be another player we hadn’t even encountered yet, one that the Magister had warned would have access to an incredible amount of power. We hadn’t even been able to track its pet killer, never mind the mastermind itself.

  Things were not looking up.

  As Denise and Dmitri continued to argue, I turned my head and found Whisper standing a few feet away, watching me intently.

  “Hello, Abigail,” I said gently.

  A horrified look came over her face, and I instantly regretted using her given name, never expecting that it might have painful associations for her. I quickly amended my welcome, calling her by the name I’d bestowed upon her, Whisper, and inviting her to my side.

  She walked toward me, the solemn expression never leaving her face, but instead of stopping she continued past until she stood directly in front of the paintings in question. At that point she turned and extended her hands in my direction.

  Even I could figure out what that meant.

  Heaving myself to my feet, I walked over and knelt down in front of her, putting myself at her level.

  I heard Dmitri call my name, obviously having noticed my strange behavior, but I ignored him, keeping my attention on the ghostly form in front of me.

  “Is there something here you want me to see, Whisper?”

  She nodded, and lifted her hands toward me again.

  I took one in each of my own and I imagined that this time I could feel the strength of her father in those delicate little fingers. Who knows, maybe I did. I closed my eyes and braced myself against the dizziness I knew was coming. I stayed that way until the taste of ashes filled my mouth, the signal I’d come to associate with the transfer of sight from her to me.

  Opening my eyes, I could see my companions standing nearby, watching. Through the veil of the ghostsight they were something to behold, bastions of strength and power wrapped in human form, and I was suddenly glad that they were standing with me in this crazy endeavor. I knew, without even having to think about it, that I never could have done this on my own.

  Whisper hadn’t given me her sight to have me admire my companions, however, so I turned my attention to the images painted on the wall before me.

  The artist had been far more talented than we had given him credit for. Seen through the unique perspective that was Whisper’s ghostsight, the paintings took on entirely different dimensions, coming to life in a way that they simply could not whe
n viewed through the lens of the mortal world.

  The first three showed each of us, Denise, Dmitri, and me, moving through an old, abandoned structure of some kind. The walls were composed of crumbling cement and rebar, with a few flashes of brick seen here and there. There was nothing in the images to help me identify the location, however, so I moved on to the next.

  The clustered group of figures rushing for the fishing shack, as Dmitri called it, clarified themselves into a group of five men and one woman, moving with a definite sense of purpose toward a cabin constructed of split timber and rough-hewn logs. The door of the cabin was open and a man stood waiting for them just inside, his face hidden in the shadows of the door. A powerful sense of rage rolled off him, clashing with the determined sense of justice and responsibility that poured off the approaching group.

  But it was the fifth painting that really captured my attention, for the vague shape behind the trees had now coalesced into a building that I recognized.

  The Castle on the Hill.

  I suddenly knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that that was where we would find our quarry.

  37

  NOW

  The fetch moved through the crumbling hallways with ease despite the darkness that lay over them. It could see nearly as well in complete darkness as it could in the light, something in which it had taken immense pleasure over the years as it had moved through the world on its own. Being able to hunt in the dark had become its own personal challenge, and it had spent the last two centuries honing its skills in a thousand different places around the world.

  That is, until its master had awoken from his long sleep and called it back into service.

  The fetch was still angry about that, and it was for that very reason that it had set its current plan in motion. Centuries of existence on its own had turned the fetch into something more than a dark twin of its creator; it had begun to think and act on its own.

  And it valued its freedom.

  Should the Master’s plans be carried to fruition, the fetch would go back to being a servant and a slave, if it lived at all. That could not be allowed to happen. Of course, defending against it was going to be difficult.

  The fetch was an extension of the Master, and carried a piece of the Master’s very soul within it. Because of this, the Master could control the fetch’s actions, could demand its loyalty and even take control of its physical form from time to time as needed.

  The fetch had spent many years figuring out how to hide its actions from its seemingly all-knowing master, but in the end it had done it. It had found a way.

  And on that day it’d begun its bid for freedom.

  Soon, very soon, it knew, the final victim would be taken and the Master would have the power he needed to bring his long-dead body back to life. When he did that, the fetch’s fate would be sealed, for it would no longer have any physical advantage over the one who had created it. If it was going to act, it would have to be soon.

  But first, he needed to allay any suspicions the Master might be having, and that meant continuing the harvest as had been planned.

  Reaching the immense chamber that had once served as the hospital’s gymnasium, the fetch moved to the center of the room and waited patiently.

  For several long moments nothing happened. Then, in the far corner, deep in the heart of the darkness that lay there, a shape began to coalesce. It took some time, gathering substance from the murk around it, but eventually it resolved itself into an oversized human face, one with eyes of molten glass.

  The face thrust itself in the fetch’s direction and said in a voice like grinding stone, “Why have you disturbed me?”

  The fetch bowed its head in a gesture of humility. “I have brought you another of your enemies, Master.”

  The Master’s face churned and roiled, reshaping itself with every passing moment, but the fetch had long grown used to seeing it and ignored the subtle changes.

  “Come,” the Master said, eagerness dripping from his voice like honey.

  The fetch walked forward and stood directly before the Master. This close the difference in size between the two became obvious; the Master’s face was at least six times the size of the fetch’s own. It hovered there, looming above the fetch. Had he chosen to do so, he could have opened his mouth and swallowed the fetch whole.

  But that was not what the Master wanted.

  Leaning back its head, the fetch opened its mouth wide and convulsed the muscles of its stomach. Like a bird regurgitating food for its young, the fetch coughed up what it had been storing for its Master.

  A thick gray cloud poured forth from the fetch’s mouth, roiling and churning with a life of its own. In its depths images flashed and voices could be heard, the accumulated memories of a lifetime, the sum of the experiences that had made the victim the person he had been in life right up until the horrible moment when the fetch stole his soul away.

  And just as quickly as it appeared, the cloud was sucked into the maw of the hideous creature that had once been human and desired to be so once more.

  With every soul it consumed the Master moved one step closer to its goal.

  The fetch hated him for it.

  But it took comfort in the fact that soon its deliverance would be at hand.

  38

  NOW

  After returning to Murphy’s, the three of us sat around debating our next course of action. Denise was in favor of trying to convince some of the other mystical talent in the city to join us before taking on the fetch, which would take time, time we didn’t have. Dmitri and I favored more direct action—taking the fight to the enemy then and there. The fetch didn’t know we were coming, and our best chance was to do something about it before things changed.

  In the end, Dmitri and I won out, but not before agreeing with Denise that we all needed some food and a bit of rest before trying to beard the fetch in its own lair. As it was already almost noon, Denise suggested we all go home and regroup again later that afternoon. That would give us several hours to get organized and prepare ourselves for what was to come when the sun went down.

  I didn’t argue. I still wasn’t up to full strength after my tussle with the fetch the night before. A hot meal and some relaxation would do me some good.

  I was halfway up the walk to my house before I remembered that the doppelganger had trashed the place. It didn’t look any better now than it did last night. I was too damned tired to deal with it at the moment, though. Instead, I flipped the couch back upright and settled onto it for a short nap.

  The police came for me shortly after three.

  I was in the kitchen, getting something to eat, when the front door of my house shattered under the impact of a breaching ram. Cops in tactical gear swarmed inside.

  “Police! Get on the floor! On the floor now!”

  For the briefest of moments I considered reaching out for Scream and resisting. I was tired and having a squad of armed men charge into my home uninvited put me in a bad mood. The thought of the bloodbath that would result if one of those cops got nervous and pulled the trigger kept me from doing so, though. Especially since the one most likely to wind up dead would be me.

  Lights went on around me, stealing my ability to see and making the odds even worse for my side. Blind and surrounded by armed men, I did as I was told.

  I kept my hands above my head and got down on my knees. Someone shoved me from behind, forcing me to the floor face first and smashing my nose against the linoleum hard enough to make me see stars and draw blood. A knee landed in the center of my back, assuring I wouldn’t try to get back up, while hands grabbed my arms and wrenched them around behind me. My hands were secured together with a zip tie and that was it, I was done.

  There were several shouts of “Clear” from the other parts of my house and some of the tension seemed to drain from the room as they realized I was alone. The knee withdrew from my back and hands grabbed me and pulled me to my feet.

  “What’s your name?�
� a voice asked.

  I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say anything.

  The voice tried again, this time louder. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m blind, asshole, not deaf.”

  The blood dripping from my nose was making me more irritable than usual. Which was pretty damned hard to do.

  The voice ignored my wisecrack. “Note that the suspect refused to give his name but that a visual check confirms him to be Jeremiah Hunt. Mr. Hunt, I have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”

  I went back to keeping my mouth shut.

  “Note that the suspect refused to answer. All right, wrap it up and let’s go.”

  Hands grabbed me on both sides and led me out of my house and down the walk to the street. We reached the squad car and one of the two men escorting me let go to open the rear door. I felt the other man tense, as if he thought I might take that opportunity to make a break for it. I could just hear the newscaster now: “Blind suspect dodges officers, makes amazing escape, film at eleven.”

  Riiiight.

  A hand was placed on my head and I was lowered into the backseat. The door was shut behind me, locking me in.

  “Hell of a mess,” I said to the ghost of the man sitting in the backseat with me. He had needle tracks up and down his bare arms and dried vomit on the front of his t-shirt. He didn’t reply, just sat and stared, like they always do.

  Tired of being treated like a second-class citizen, I put my hand on the ghost next to me and borrowed his sight.

  I was shocked by what I saw.

  It seemed the entire Boston tactical squad had been deployed to take me in! Armed officers surrounded the house and two different assault trucks were pulled up at the curb. Snipers were set up along the roofs of the houses down the street, and I could see several standard Metro police cruisers at either end of the block, keeping back the traffic.