Mindhealer

by lillith saintcrow

  “You were in shock,” he said, his voice husky, uncertain. “I’m sorry.”

  The immediate apology hurt her, actually physically hurt, like someone squeezing her heart in bony fingers. Caro’s throat was dry, but she touched his bare shoulder, her fingers meeting muscle hard as tile under skin with a different texture than her own. Then her arm tensed, and she struggled slowly onto her side, facing him, deliberately sliding her leg up over his hip.

  Let’s see you get out of this, she thought, holding his eyes, her heart skipping beats, as if it was going to throw itself out of her chest and beat in two places at once. She barely managed to get in enough breath to talk. “Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. Her necklace slid against her skin, fell down toward the pillow. “You don’t have to be sorry anymore.”

  The color drained from his face, leaving his scars vivid stripes against his flesh. She could see more, across his shoulder and spilling down his chest, whatever it was had clawed him relentlessly. Marked him. She tucked her heavy right arm under her head and let her fingers roam in a gentle looping pattern across his shoulder, feeling the deltoid muscle under the skin, the edge of his clavicle, touching the vulnerable hollow in his unshaven throat where the pulse beat. He was shaking. It didn’t matter because she was too. Whether it was the aftermath of shock or just the insistent throbbing low in her belly, she couldn’t tell and didn’t care. Now she felt the hard tip of his phallus against the softness of her inner thigh, and she wondered just what she was going to have to do to get him a little more interested in using it.

  “Merrick?” The way he was staring at her made her begin to wonder if he was trying to figure out a polite way to tell her he wasn’t interested. After all, she’d been sharp and rude to him, and insisted she was going to get rid of him, not to mention she’d run him all over the safehouse going from one crisis to the next and—

  He muttered something that definitely wasn’t polite to say in front of a lady, skimming his right hand up her arm and curving it around her nape. Then he pulled her forward gently, his skin scorching hers, and their mouths met again.

  This wasn’t a nice kiss, or a soft one. He kissed her as if he wanted to drown in her, as if he wanted to drink her breath and her in the same inhale. And he obviously didn’t believe in foreplay either, because it was only a short time before Caro locked her ankles together at the small of his back and closed her eyes, feeling muscle flex in his back as he drove his body into hers. Fire crackled between her nerves, and she sank into the pleasure he felt, a feedback loop of her skin on his, tension released, skidding across the surface of a dark snarling reality before crisis took him and his entire body, stiffening, seemed to explode. She held him, comforting, his face buried against her throat, and felt the fringes of the borderland between their minds unravel, binding together.

  The Watchers know all about bonding, but nobody ever tells the witches we’re just as bound.

  He kissed her throat, his stubble rasping against her skin, and murmured her name in a desperate, broken voice. The afternoon light had taken on a different cast—winter sunlight sliding into darkness. Night was falling.

  Merrick’s mouth found hers again, and Caro lost herself in the backlash of his pleasure. It was the absolute antithesis to the grinding pain of having a tanak welded into his body.

  Does he really even like me, or is it just the fact that it feels good?

  “Christ,” he whispered against her mouth, his accent making the word sharper, crisper. “Caroline.”

  “Merrick,” she whispered back. He kissed her cheek, her chin, bracing himself on his elbows.

  “Are you all right?” It was touching, actually, the concern in his voice.

  Caro nodded, her eyes still closed. “Fine.”

  He slid away, off to the side, reluctantly. Took her in his arms. His skin was feverish-warm against hers, a few moments of rearranging ended up with her head on his scarred shoulder, exhaustion weighing her body down. She had to think, had to remember something very important—whatever she’d brought out of the other Watcher and seen in the trembling water of the jade bowl was rising through the layers of shock-draped fuzz in her mind. Now she felt like she could think, like she was finally in a place where she had a few moments to rest and consider everything. Safe.

  She felt safe.

  Caro yawned, settling herself against him. He was warm, and he stroked her hair gently, smoothing down the rebellious mass. He started to speak, once or twice, ended up just shaking his head. She could hear his hair rasping against the pillow.

  Her sense of duty returned. “I have to go talk to Fran,” she said, softly, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, sweat-damp hair tangling against her neck and over his arm. “Once I remember what I brought out. I feel a little strange.”

  “Mh.” It was a companionable sound, showing he heard her. “Just rest, love.”

  There was another question that needed to be answered, first. “—feeling for real?” She finished her sentence through a yawn that threatened to let her tonsils out.

  “What?”

  “I said, how does a Watcher know what he’s feeling is real? How does he know . . .” It was getting more and more difficult to talk. She was tired, a clean sleepiness instead of the dragging gray cloud of shock. Next time I’ll insist on a little foreplay, she thought, and felt a twinge from her buried conscience.

  If there was a next time.

  Merrick seemed to consider this question. Then he sighed. “I have never met a woman I felt more like shaking some sense into.” His fingers wound into her hair, tightening. “We know, Caro. We have to. You’re my witch, and there’s no way you’re getting rid of me. Just go to sleep.” A pause while he untangled his fingers, stroked her temple soothingly. “You’re the only thing in this goddamn world worth fighting for.” This time his tone was private, as if he was talking to himself. “So no more heroics, witch. You hear me?”

  Caro didn’t reply. She was, after all, falling asleep.

  * * * *

  She woke up confused, because the entire safehouse rocked on its foundations. Merrick swore, already moving, untangling himself gently from her and disappearing from the bed’s warm cocoon. Another thumping crash, and Caro pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking against the darkness. Night, again. And something was happening, because—

  A third thump, faraway but still rattling the Cezanne print against the wall. She flinched, feeling the impact against the safehouse shields, the ripple of fear and confusion spreading through the halls. And the sudden intense swirl of readiness and fury that was the Watchers. “What’s going on?”

  Merrick shrugged into his coat. “Don’t know yet. Stay put.” He seemed almost to flicker through space as he strode for the window, eerily silent, the sword hilt poking above his right shoulder and the faint gleam from his eyes barely visible.

  Caro struggled out of the bed, taking the sheet with her. She wrapped it around herself as she started looking for her clothes. She found her sweater on the floor and was casting around for her skirt by the time she heard Merrick make a small sound of annoyance. “Thought I told you to stay there.”

  She found her skirt. “With an attack this big, there’s going to be a lot of frightened witches in the infirmary and the nursery. Better go see what I can do to calm them down. And the last time we heard anything like this, something broke my window. This may not be the safest place to be.” She pulled her skirt up over her hips and ran her fingers back through her tangled hair with a grimace. “Anyway, I don’t like cowering in a bed while something bad—”

  Another shuddering, jolting impact. Caro winced. Merrick suddenly went still, his eyes flaming brilliant green under the darkness of his hair. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “Get your shoes and a coat, Caro. Quickly.”

  “What is it?” she whispered back, frozen in place.

  “Machine gun fire.” Now he sounded like himself, cool and ironic. “Sounds like the north wing, the Watcher dormitories maybe
. They can handle it, but best to be prepared.”

  Caro swallowed dryly. She felt sticky and sore in some very tender places, but her head was clear. She remembered now, without the tolling of shock inside her head. “I’ve got to find Fran.” Her heart suddenly pounded thinly against the wall of her chest. “Merrick?”

  He had gone still, looking out the window. “Get your shoes, love. Please.”

  Mechanically, she moved to obey. A pair of sandals were in the closet by the door to the hall. She slipped them on, suddenly hoping she wouldn’t have to leave the safehouse. These strappy little numbers looked great, but they wouldn’t hold up to the chill outside. I haven’t worn proper shoes or clothes for two days, just jeans and T-shirts. I feel like a slob. “Why my shoes? What’s going on?”

  He shrugged, a fluid catlike movement, and reached up for his sword hilt. “There’s one of those things down in the garden, Caro.” His voice was calm and thoughtful, and she felt a curling, sweet heat low and deep in her belly. It shouldn’t be legal for him to sound that good. I was never one for men with accents, but he could change all that. “It looks like it’s looking for someone. Best to have your shoes just in case.”

  The steel sang free, glinting in the faint glow from the nightlight in the bathroom, and his aura turned hard and hurtful, Power rising as combat-readiness folded around him. “Grab a coat, too, love. Don’t want you catching a chill.”

  A chill? One of those things is down there in the goddamn garden, and he doesn’t want me to catch a chill? She had to strangle the urge to laugh. “What else is down there?”

  She reached up blindly, found a long sweater-coat with a tie belt. My hair. I probably look hideous, why am I worrying about my hair at a time like this? Get a grip, Caro! “Trev,” she heard herself say breathlessly. “We have to find Trev.”

  “He’s got a Watcher.” The sword blade finished a neat half-circle and ended up poised and slanting down, the hilt held loosely and professionally, ready to be brought up, acquire momentum, and slash across anything Dark, banishing with steel. “Stay there, Caro.”

  I don’t want to. She wanted to cross to the window, to see with her own eyes the thing in the garden. Shivers trickled up her back. Merrick took two steps away from the window, utterly silent. His silence became almost a living thing, heavy liquid in the air. Caro heard her own breathing, insistent against that thick hush.

  “It’s down there in the garden?” How utterly typical. I sound scared to death.

  What a coincidence. I am scared to death.

  He nodded, the movement barely visible. “Stay back,” he mouthed, a breath of sound in the vast awful quiet seeming to spread from him in waves. “Don’t worry.”

  Of all the absurdities, that was surely the worst. Caro shivered, and another massive impact shook the safehouse. What are they doing? Who is it? The Crusade? I’ve never heard of them attacking like this, not for decades, not since the twenties and the Dark War.

  The window shattered inward again, sharp glass flying silver-deadly. Caro screamed, a pointless sound, cowering back between the closet and the door to the hall. Merrick moved, engaging the low hulking shape with a fatal whistling sound as steel clove air. Crimson light flamed. He’s drawn his knives, or one knife, at least. Her knees gave and she spilled down to the floor, her back sliding against the wall. Another thudding impact, the wall disintegrating around the window.

  Oh, gods, there’s TWO of them! The stench, sudden and intense, coated the back of her throat and made her eyes prickle. Caro struggled to get to her feet, her head suddenly pounding with pain, iron spikes driven through her temples and her stomach. Sulfur, bitter almonds, and blood—the smell of the Crusade. Cold, wet, rainy air billowed into the room as Merrick half-turned, knife describing a crimson arc, and one of the things let out a shattering wail. Dappled red light from the knifeblade smashed against the walls.

  “Merrick—” It was a stunned whisper. Wet warmth trickled down her upper lip—another nosebleed, dammit. She tried again to make it to her feet, spilled back down to the floor. Carpet rasped against her skirt. It was hard to breathe with that stench painting the air. She coughed weakly and felt icy tingling start in her fingers. One of the creatures let out another shattering howl and thumped onto the floor, lifeless. The other tried to lunge past Merrick. He moved almost too quickly to be seen, the light from his knife glittering off his upraised sword, his feet soundless as he drove it back, feinting, reversing with sweet and natural grace to carve down with the bright length of metal.

  Had she ever thought him vulnerable?

  Please don’t let him be hurt, she prayed, unaware of thinking it. Tried one last time to make it to her feet just as the second Seeker howled, Merrick ripping his blade free and stabbing down with the knife. Crimson light blazed and it howled again, the sound scraping the inside of her head. She slumped against the wall on her knees, her hands clamped uselessly to her ears. Oh, God. Oh gods—

  Merrick backed up, a quick light shuffle. “Caro?”

  Between him and the window, the two sludgy lumps of psychic rot splayed on the floor, soaking into the carpet, scorching as they decayed.

  “Merrick,” she whispered. “Is it—”

  She meant to ask if it was over, stopped as soon as she realized the utter inanity of the question. It would never be over, not as long as she lived.

  “Just be still, love. Everything’s all right.” He sounded completely certain, and Caro felt ridiculously comforted. He wouldn’t lie to her.

  He favored one shoulder, but he didn’t put his sword away. Instead, the knife blurred back into its sheath, the crimson light blinking out. She heard the small definite click of a hammer being drawn back. So he’d taken out a gun. Put away his knife and taken out a gun. Why?

  It meant there was something else out there.

  Caro pushed herself to her feet by the simple expedient of mentally repeating every cussword she knew while shoving herself upright. She swiped at the blood trickling from her nose with the back of her hand. “What is it?” Her choked whisper sounded very loud.

  “Just stay right where you are and be quiet.” He moved back another step, another. Soundless. Then he did a strange thing. He knelt down, crouching. Her pupils dilated and she could see the outline of the gun raised in his left hand, the sword held away from his body and almost parallel to the floor. He looked like he was gathering himself.

  But for what? What’s out there? I’m on the third story, what can—

  Then it happened. A shape filled the hole torn in the wall—no, not filled, but simply appeared, the shape of a human creature in a long dark coat. And Merrick leapt, smashing into it as Caro screamed again, pointlessly, and the door to the hall burst open, other Watchers flooding through as Merrick vanished out the window and the sharp clatter of gunfire followed him down.

  Fourteen

  Falling. Wind in his hair, scars alight with fire, the burrowing shock of agonized pain as his abused body screamed, and the man, whoever he was, hit him again.

  Goddamn, he’s quick.

  Impact. All breath driven from lungs, knocked sprawling, wet earth torn as he rolled, taking care not to hurt himself with his own bloody sword. His opponent was quick, inhumanly fast, with the kind of speed one usually saw only in the Dark. Or in a Watcher.

  Gained his feet, but his opponent was on him, gun skittering away, the tearing pain as steel tore through his body. A knifeblade, slid in between the ribs and twisted with inhuman strength, the tanak roaring in Merrick’s bones.

  He hadn’t wanted Caro to see how hurt he was, blood dripping from the claw marks on his left leg, ribs broken, head bleeding from a stray strike. Nor had he wanted her to come anywhere near the window, not after what he’d seen—the low hulking shapes of two Seekers. The hell-dogs had strained at invisible cords while a figure too tall and graceful to be a Live Knight or zombie and without the white cross blazon of a Bishop followed them with a precise measured step, its aura spreading a black bru
ise on the face of night.

  Cold air. Pain singing along every nerve. Heart clenching in sudden agonized overload, the tanak dragging on all available Power and snapping his ribs back out, messily fusing them together, spiking his bloodstream with adrenaline, and sealing the wound as his opponent, with a final vicious twist, tore the knife free. A momentary burning—you bastard, you have a poisoned blade—and Merrick heard a welcome sound—boots hitting the ground behind him and the psychic roar of enraged Watchers.

  They moved in on the opponent in a loose semicircle, one of them grabbing Merrick’s shoulder and dragging him back, sending a tide of Dark-laced Power down his body. It flushed the last burning remnants of poison out and sealed some of the messier wounds. The sound of steel being drawn from oiled sheaths was a low ominous hissing.

  Night bloomed and breathed around the Watchers as the ends of the semicircle bowed in and joined, becoming a ring around Merrick’s opponent, who stood with his long glittering knives out, his bruised aura surrounded by the crimson-black glows of the Watchers. They pressed forward, and the man who moved like nothing human turned in a slow circle, taking this in. But his knives didn’t lower; instead, they lifted a few fractions, defiant. Merrick, his eyes adapted to the soft shimmer of the lamps set on either side of the stone paths winding through the gardens, saw his face. His lips were moving slightly.

  Crusade. The word jolted him even as recognition did. Gods above, they’ve done it. They’ve created a Watcher.