“If he dies—”
“You’ll pull me back,” she said, with such complete confidence she almost convinced him. “You pulled me back before; you’ll pull me back this time.” She took a deep breath, looking down, and he saw the flash of fear in her, quickly covered as she reached down, exquisitely gently, to take the bleeding hamburger that had once been a man’s hand.
All the Watchers tensed. “You can’t be serious,” one of them said flatly.
Caro smiled. It was, of course, a stunningly beautiful smile, one that almost rocked Merrick back on his heels. “I’m always serious,” she replied, her aura meshing with her Watcher’s.
He felt the touch, against the bruised and sensitive fringes of his mind, the link roaring to life with an intensity that surprised him. Of course, he’d slept with her, completing the bond between Watcher and witch.
Then Caro leaned forward, her entire weight against Merrick’s hand on her arm, and leapt without her body, throwing herself into the well of the spreading, weeping wound of an aura that was the shattered Crusader on the bed. She flung herself out into psychic space, trusting her Watcher to hold the other end of the line. Something inside Merrick stretched as darkness closed over his eyes, and he dug his heels into the floor, bracing himself to pull her back as soon as possible.
Fifteen
Falling.
Chaos screaming, chaos dreaming, splotches of color, bleeding wounds and rips in the psyche, a smoking wasteland of jagged rocks and deep bloody clefts still weeping. Down she goes, the rope around her waist sure and strong and tight, the sensation of speed causing a faint flutter in her not-stomach—her psyche is still bound by the fiction of a body and thus, a body’s responses. A moment of attention quells the feeling, her descent slows, slowed by will and the rope that rises behind her, a link to the outside world.
The shimmer of consciousness that is Caroline raises her hand. You can hear me, she says quietly, obeying that oldest of magickal dictums: her word makes it so. You can hear me.
Noise, then. A cacophony of agony buffeting her, spun and twisted on her rope, reeling as the walls between her mind and the ragged mass that no longer can be called human stretch almost to breaking. The noise is a howl of wind, the depressurization of a cabin, a citywide riot compressed into a bullet of agony.
She spreads her arms, her consciousness thinning, thinning, soaking like honey through a shell. There is no trace of the Dark left here, but the wounds left behind by its ripped-free passage at the hands of the Watchers have smashed this man apart. Who he had been before was gone, and there is no return. He is irretrievably shattered.
Peace floods from her. Calming, soothing, the light in her shining through, a door in the space of this mind filling with sunlight that bursts upon the smoke-scarred wasteland. The deep caverns seem to melt, turning to hands, open begging hands reaching up. A thin longing, a ghost of an echo, reaches her.
Let me die. Let me die. Moaning. Whispered over and over again, the last prayer of a condemned man. In nomine Patrie . . . Filii . . . Spiritus Sanctus . . .
Let me die. Beg . . . plead . . . die. Shattered memories. She reaches for them, ready to knit them together to give her a clue, some story to tell to patch this blasted shattered thing back together. They slip through her fingers like water. He does not want to remember. And yet, a few of the memories, the important ones, are caught, enough that comprehension colors her a deep aching blue that throbs in the storm-ridden wastes, whistling through the cracked and parched earth.
He wants only to go back into peace. This scorched and agonized animal wishes only to find a dark hole deep enough to hide him until he dies.
Please, she whispers. There is so much to live for.
Her certainty stains the air with gold. A breath of air—sea air, walking on the beach, sand underfoot and the roar of waves in the ears, the cry of gulls. Then a wind from a high mountain, trees bending in their ancient dance and the plashing of a mountain stream filling the air with wet earth, pine, and water. She reaches for more images, more beauty, and it comes—a star-drenched night, the vault of heaven opened. The glitter of sunlight from skyscraper windows on a sunny day, the glow of cities at night, the taste of ice cream, and the touch of sun on the face, the simple joy of driving with the windows down and the radio pulsing. There is more, ever so much more, the memories pouring from her in a tidal wave of color and sense and impression, laced with every possible shade of peace. And behind that, her absolute certainty, will translated to action—life is good. He was still alive, this shattered man. If he was still alive he had a chance to reclaim everything.
Beneath her touch, the wilderness bloomed.
Who are you? she whispers. What’s your name?
Negation pulsing through the growing vines, the greening grass, the flowers opening in the cracked canyons below. Here at Death’s door there is no name, merely the sense of drowning—
—and her outstretched hand. Take my hand, and I’ll pull you back. She sends the thought out, a concentrated message as her healing spreads. Were he to die now, her consciousness would be rudely jerked back and away, the garden shriveling as the impulse that gives it life is torn away. She does not want this. She wants only to heal. I promise you, there’s hope. No matter who you are, no matter what you’ve done, there is hope. I swear it’s true.
Indecision, and suddenly there is a new flood of strength, other presences behind her, adding their light to hers. What was once a single floodlight now becomes a sunrise, light breaking through everywhere, healers adding their strength to hers, mending the body. And yet, the choice is his, offered with an open palm. All the light in the world would not trap him here if he truly wished to leave on Death’s great dark adventure.
No time passes in the space between minds, yet it seems the seconds tick, and tick, and tick while she waits, feeling the grasp of the rope on her waist and the not-wind moving through her hair. Her body is numb, a numbness she accepts patiently. Everything now hinges on this ancient sorcery, the root of human magick.
What’s your name?
For the name is the thing that is named, and naming makes it so. And she feels his decision before it happens and laughs, joy finally spreading through her as the rope tightens and she is yanked back, pain blooming through her like a rose, scattering a shower of fragrant petals down into the garden that has grown in the wasteland under her urging. Rising, rising into the blue, pulled and impelled, breaking into the clear blue sky, through the looking glass, shattering, and slam—
—med back into her own body, collapsing against Merrick, dimly noting the presence of a trio of green witches whose auras flamed as they repaired the damage done to the body. The body that still housed a soul and a mind that would need plenty of work before it was anything near whole, but still . . . he was alive, and he would mend. There were two other Mindhealers too, the plump, motherly Lydia and the tall ebony-skinned woman with long braided hair. They immediately moved in to continue the work Caro had begun, to make the wilderness into a garden, to heal his mind as far as they were capable. Their Watchers moved behind them, keeping physical and mental contact as well.
Merrick pressed his fingers to her forehead, held her up. “Caro? Caro!”
“I’m all right,” she said. “Just a little disoriented. And tired. Merrick?”
He swore, and folded his arms around her. Breathed another curse into her hair. Pulled her away from the bedside, a murmur going through the Watchers as they registered that the Crusader would survive. Obedience held, though. None of them moved. There was no ripple of bloodlust, though there was plenty of anger that scraped against Caro’s sensitized psyche like a wire brush on abraded skin before Merrick’s aura closed hard and defensive over hers. She shuddered, fully thrust back into her body.
“His name’s Brennan.” She sounded strange even to herself. “He didn’t do it because he wanted to.”
“What?” Merrick’s sudden stillness made her very aware that she was exhausted
, that her nose was full of dry blood, and her tangled hair was never going to forgive her. She probably presented a very sorry picture of a witch indeed. “Caro?”
“The Crusade,” she managed. It was suddenly very important that they understand, all of them. “He didn’t want this. They forced the parasite into him, once they found out how to make it incubate in a psychic. Whatever that Dark thing is, it rides them. It’s not like a tanak. It’s more like a kalak, it lives inside.” She shook her head, her forehead pressed against his bloody T-shirt. “I don’t have it all yet. But I know one thing. They held him down and hurt him, like they hurt the others, and forced the thing into him. He doesn’t want to remember that part, he won’t remember it.” Not without a few hundred years of therapy, she thought grimly. Now nausea was returning, as the pattern of his fragmented memories became clearer to her. There are some things even a Mindhealer can’t cure.
“Bloody hell.” Merrick didn’t sound half as angry now. Well, maybe he did, but the essential violence had leached out of him. She heard low-toned questions and replies as the Watchers passed her words around.
The nausea spiked and Caro sagged. “I think I have to throw up now,” she said primly. “Can you help me?”
“Christ.” He half-carried her, her feet dragged uselessly. “You almost stopped my heart. Why do you always find the most bloody dangerous thing to do? Why?”
“Talent, I guess.” A jolt of heat speared into her, spread out to push the numb tingling back from her fingers and toes. Merrick, spending Power recklessly, pouring warmth into her. “I’m all right, Merrick. I don’t think I’m going to go into shock.” It’s a pity. I’d like to have you bring me out. Ugh, no, not really. The end is nice, but I never want to go through that again.
He found an unoccupied bathroom tucked into the side of the infirmary and pushed the door open. Caro found her feet, gently but firmly shoved him outside, and flipped the light on. A few minutes of dry heaving over the pretty porcelain sink and she was feeling much better, the nausea passing like the weakness, sliding away as the Power he’d forced into her soaked in, repairing, giving her strength.
Caro peered at herself in the mirror. Fever-spots in her cheeks, wide dark eyes ringed with fear, and her hair a tangled mess. She’d put on her sweater-coat inside-out. What a vision. The shakes folded away, one wave after another sinking as she clutched the sink. Her knuckles turned white and her fingers creaked, she held on so hard.
I’m alive. I’m alive, he’s alive, he’s my Watcher and I’ve slept with him. And the Crusade now has Seekers and parasite-ridden soldiers that can break a safehouse’s walls. Oh, God. But I know how to reverse the infection. I know how to get those things out. She could feel Merrick waiting patiently outside the door, so quiet she almost forgot how deadly he was. He fought with the precision and fluidity of a tiger, supple and fatal. No motion wasted, no hint of anger or fear, just calm controlled violence. Just like the other Watchers.
She was an idiot to think she could protect any of them. They were just as determined to risk their lives as she was to risk hers. But still, she shook her head and lifted her chin stubbornly. She would figure out a way to keep them a little safer, if she could.
It was enough, for now, that she’d survived the worst the Crusade could throw at them.
Relief unloosed her fingers. She made it blindly to the door and twisted the knob. He caught her arm as she stumbled, steadied her. “Better?”
“Much.” She leaned into him, grateful for his solidity. He loomed over her, his coat creaking slightly, and she saw the shadow of dried blood on his scarred face. He was a little worse for wear too, and her heart lodged in her throat as she saw the rips in his coat and the leg of his jeans, soaked with blood. His T-shirt was in tatters, but he was alive. “God, I’m glad you’re here.”
He’d shaken his hair down over his scarred face. “Going to take my knives, Caro?”
She winced. I threatened him right after he saved my life. God, Caro, how idiotic can you get? “Of course not.”
He looked down, his eyes peculiarly dark. “I openly disobeyed you. In front of half the Watchers in the safehouse.” His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he looked for all the world like a defiant teenage boy caught breaking a curfew. Behind him, the infirmary bustled with activity, but there were no more screams. The air hummed with the soft music of healers and other Lightbringers, Power throbbing and sinking into pain, dispelling it, soothing. Everything was going to be all right. “I also . . . I’ve broken my oath.”
What? Caro blinked at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”
He shrugged, his tattered coat rustling. “I am not going to let you endanger yourself again, Caroline. If I have to tie you up and sit on you to keep you out of trouble, I’ll do it. If you take my knives and the Watchers throw me out, I’ll still do what I have to.”
Her jaw threatened to drop. “What the hell are you on about?”
Another shrug. And then, maddeningly, he shut up. Simply studied her, his scarred face shadowed and unreadable under his shock of dark hair.
Oh, for the love of . . . Screw this. She was tired, hungry, and had the beginnings of a pounding headache from Mindhealing again, with no proper patterning or safeguards. “If I’m too much trouble and you’re looking for a reason to leave me, go ahead,” she snapped. “I’ve got to go find Fran.”
She brushed past him and stalked away, through the now orderly confusion of the infirmary. There were no more wounded coming in, and the healers were discovering they could treat everyone. Caro hoped there were no casualties, raised her chin, and strode on, her heart threatening to crack.
Sixteen
Well, you handled that as badly as it could be handled. Merrick cursed himself as he trailed her, the throbs and rips of pain soaking in through freshly-healed wounds from the swelling of Lightbringer magick in the air. He should have just shut up, not reminded her of his disobedience. He had only meant to make it absolutely clear to her just what he intended to do.
If I’m too much trouble and you’re looking for a reason to leave me, go ahead. Was that what she thought? Well, he’d violated one Watcher oath, maybe she thought he was going to violate all the others too.
Her head was up, her shoulders were taut, and her glorious hair tangled down her back. She walked with long angry strides, barely acknowledging the other witches and Watchers she passed. The halls outside the infirmary were a hive of activity until she took a staircase up to the third floor and started heading for the north wing. The halls abruptly became deserted, her sandals slapping the floor instead of the little clicking sounds she made in heels, and Merrick began to feel nervous for no good reason.
If he was already damned, he might as well try to explain. But what if that explanation irritated her enough to make good on her threat? He knew enough about her stubbornness to suddenly fear that option, and he cursed himself for giving her the idea in the first place.
“Caro?” Goddammit, I should know better than to open my bloody mouth. Why do I never learn? But the pressure in his chest demanded he speak to her, make his plea, as it were.
Beg for mercy. If she could forgive a Crusader, could she forgive him?
“What?” She didn’t sound annoyed, only distracted. She almost turned the wrong way, and he reached out and closed his hand around her shoulder, steering her down the proper hall. “Oh, thanks. Fran should be down in the infirmary, I don’t know why she isn’t. If she’s not in her office . . .”
“Maybe down at Dispatch? There may have been other attacks, Dispatch will know. She might be doing damage control or making a report to the High Council through a safe link-up.” He was vaguely unsettled even as he said it. There should have been Watchers sweeping these halls, two of them should have found and attached themselves to the Council liaison—one for protection and one to give a report to Oliver as soon as possible and run other messages.
Caro rounded another corner, sighted the statue of Brigid, and l
et out something that sounded like a relieved sigh. She didn’t sound relieved when she spoke, though. Instead, she sounded nervous and breathless. “That could be it. I’m probably just jumpy. There’s her office. We’ll check and see.”
He shouldn’t have asked, but the words crowded his throat, all but strangled him. He had to know. “Are you going to take my knives?”
She stopped and rounded on him, eyes blazing, pulling her sweater-coat together and folding her arms over her chest. “Of course not, what gave you such a silly—”
He didn’t let her finish the sentence, simply pushed her aside toward the wall and curled his left hand around a knife hilt, instinctively sliding metal free of the sheath. Then he clapped his free hand over her mouth. “Just a moment, love. Look.” And he tipped his head slightly, indicating the hall.
Her aura flashed with anger, a sudden sheet of comprehension, and her pupils dilated as a wash of purple fear slid through her. He didn’t have time to worry about why he could almost taste each new wave of emotion, because the thing that had alarmed him was a thread of familiar yet out-of-place magick. A throbbing crimson line laid across the door to the Council witch’s office. It was a ward, clumsily done like all Crusader ceremonial magicks, and it smoked with evil intent. Merrick wouldn’t have seen it except for the fact that it was so sloppily and hastily done. It had started to pulse as Caro approached, readying itself.
Bloody fucking utter hell. Fury rose under his breastbone. If the Crusade had managed to slip another one of those parasite-laden soldiers inside and given him a ward created by a Bishop, the Council witch was probably already dead. And the ward probably hadn’t reacted during sweeps because it wasn’t meant to kill Watchers. It was meant to disguise itself and spring on the first Lightbringer who approached it.
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