Touched

by A. J. Aalto

  An unrealistic view, I know, but that's what death was to me before Buffalo. Sure, I'd seen bodies, I'd been to funerals, including Vi's, but death couldn't touch me. Not really. I couldn't die. I believed, right down to my very core, that Harry would simply not allow it. If he couldn't protect me from it, he'd at least turn me (I refused to accept that he couldn't, or wouldn't). I'd be at his side for eternity, that was the only thing that made sense. With Harry, I was invincible.

  The next thing I knew, death's face had changed radically. It had only taken a heartbeat for death to storm down an alleyway—a rogue revenant, a bullet, a stinking pile of sludge—to plummet into my flesh in excess of seven hundred feet per second. A shocking violation, the slap of an unwanted wake-up call.

  I had withdrawn after that, the only defense I could muster, coiled up to lick my wounds. We'd retreated to the only place I could think of, Carrie's quiet remote cabin. But nothing could fix that I'd seen the other face of death. Death wasn't my graceful companion, and death wasn't on my side. Death was everywhere, and I could no longer pretend it wasn't going to get me, one way or another.

  And now, as the sun sank into the dark acres of wild forest west of the cabin, death might be waiting in the yard for me. I stood on the porch, feeling the reassuring weight of Harry's hunger behind me in the warm cabin. It was dim enough that he could join me outside without exhausting himself with shadow manipulation, but I thought I'd better face this alone.

  If Danika Sherlock had been in my cabin to steal my gloves, surely someone would have noticed. When I'm asleep, Harry's awake, and his eyesight and earshot are far better than mine. She's not the Invisible Woman. As far as I knew, she wasn't even a practicing witch. So if she didn't take my gloves, who did? And why?

  Taking the gloves was an indication of a desire to make me suffer. I wore them to protect myself from the constant input of images, scenes, thoughts, feelings, link-ups and hook-ups with every single residual signature around me. Harry had centuries of practice filtering these things out. I had only ten years and was fairly inept at blocking. Without the gloves, I'd be walking around with my hands in the air like a fresh-scrubbed surgeon, unable to use them for fear of going bonkers. Taking my gloves stunk of something Danika Sherlock would do. Except, would she step down from stabbing me to an act of petty theft? Why not just shoot me?

  But here I was, rooted to my porch, staring at the empty front yard while the sun disappeared, again assuming it was all Danika's doing. I had to stop that, because Batten was right, there could be someone else behind everything. If I focused on her, I might miss something.

  I marched out to the front gate while I still had a bit of twilight remaining. Shade was dappling the corners of the property, where large black pines cloistered the yard, blocking any view of the neighbor on the east side. CSI had taken the entire mailbox, wood stand and all, and it had left a crater in the icy ground like gums after an extracted tooth, earth wounded and torn. I avoided the taped area, stalking the front line of the property, abandoning the jar's metal lid behind me. From my pocket I withdrew the sachet and began sprinkling its contents as I went. Each time I reached a place where the English Ivy parted to expose a bare spot on the wood, I tucked an eye of newt.

  I pulled out from my pocket a handful of abrus precatorius, a psychedelic legume. The raw seeds containing one of the deadliest toxins known to the plant world. When I cast them outward in a line they made bright red spots in the snow, some landing with their black dots staring up at me like lethal watchers. I'd never needed the black-watch spell, but I'd secretly memorized it long ago, hoping it would never be used. Keeping most of the ingredients hadn't been a chore, except for the eyes.

  I intoned softly, “Abrus a chapelet, black-watch for me,” and went another foot. “Hedera helix, blessed bindwood/ bind my spell to this line,/ fall to earth and rise again,/ flow to me and all that's mine.” I rooted in the jar for another newt eyeball and placed it in a nest of ivy leaves.

  “All-seeing eye of the crone and sage, blessed be the sacrifice of your creatures. All-seeing eye, black-watch for me,” I breathed, misting the cold night air. I felt something crawl along the nape of my neck. A warning. I whipped around to look at the empty yard.

  The wind had picked up. Something oogy thrummed along my spine like slippery squid tentacles. The black-watch spell in its infancy was beginning to warn me of detrimental influences nearby but I could see nothing except the fair bulk of Ajax the debt vulture sleeping in a nearby tree. It was a subtle change, but the sound of the breeze lifting through the woods nearby was like an injured cow moaning in a barn. I clutched the jar a little tighter to my chest, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  Apotropaism, the need to protect from evil, was more my speed than actual confrontation. I still believed that my actions in the Motor Inn had been the better of two choices. I could have killed Sherlock. Most people would say that killing her would have given me the only sure shot at surviving in the long run. But the fate of my soul was as important to me as it was to Harry, who guarded it with his constant reminders to “keep true” on the right hand path. Killing Danika would have screwed my karma. I might be impulsive but my intentions are usually good. I resisted out of fear, but did the capital-R Right thing in the end. I could rely on that. Did it make me predictable? Highly likely. Too predictable? I hoped not. Again, I scanned the empty yard. There were no footprints that hadn't been obliterated by the rising wind, including my own. It was like I'd levitated to the spot by the mailbox.

  I took a small mirrored disk out of my other pocket and turned my back on the yard to place the disc where the fence cornered. Again, my skin crawled; I hunched against it and continued. The wood of the fence had aged to the point of crumbling. Long nails browned with old rust hung ineffectually in wide gaps, dangled where they had relinquished their hold. The joints no longer connected properly. It didn't matter. The fence's physical strength wasn't going to thrust evil out.

  Was Danika out here, watching me? I saw nothing over my shoulder when I stole a furtive glance. I saw only swelling, deepening shadows; any one of them could mask her presence. I would never inherit Harry's perfect night vision. Much of a revenant's Talent was not transferable to his human DaySitter: the ability to sense the undead or smell blood at a fair distance, night vision, immortality, audiomancy. If only, I thought with a lopsided smile, and then took it back. I bungled enough shit without adding to my repertoire of ridiculousness a major power like the ability to sway someone's mind.

  I wriggled the mirrored disc in until it was wedged good and tight into the joint.

  “Oh silvered glass confound my enemy/ magic mirror black-watch for me./ Return, return, return thrice fold/ Each reflection, for me to behold.”

  This should prevent her or anyone from psychically spying on me by mystical methods, if that's what she was doing, if she was even capable of that. It would also report to me if a force was flitting around unseen, by reflecting it into my home mirrors. It was the Wiccan version of security cameras for unnatural forces.

  I used the bolline to clip several evergreen vines from the English ivy and set the jar of newt eyes aside so I could braid the vines together. On one strand, I used Liquid Paper corrector to coat white for peace. Another, I used my Revlon “All Fired Up” nail polish to coat red for vigor. It should have been blood, but I'd had enough of that lately, and it was the intention that mattered. The third vine, I left its natural woody brown for strength. I wound the braid into the ivy at the corner of the fence, effectively hiding one mirrored disk there. I flicked Harry's monogrammed lighter and held it aloft so I could better watch the way the wind was playing on the dense, dark green foliage clinging stubbornly to the fence.

  “Hail fair moon in the wake of night/guard me and mine in dark and light/The laws of magic I abide/sacred elements by my side.” I ran a bare hand along the old wood of the fence, honored its aged crevices and cracks, its abiding strength returning with the sacred infusion. “Ye who guard
the Watchtower, return/Your ancient lessons shall I learn/Welcome here, your splendor and might/Let your charm light up the night.”

  Power flared brilliant orange in the dark like dragon's breath and raced in a blazing hot ripple along the entire length of the ivy-coated fence. A stray spark zinged out and bounced off the jar lid, attracted by the metal. The heat created by the union melted the snow and the lid sank out of sight.

  “Just you and me tonight, Lady Mine,” I breathed. “I hope you remember I'm your most humble servant.” Then I smirked. “Ok, maybe humble isn't the right word. But devotion I got in spades.”

  I reached down to pick up the jar of newt eyes and a sharp cramp doubled me over in the gut. I let out a pained squawk and went to my knees in the hard pack snow. Whistling air in and out through pursed lips, I had to wait until the pain settled before I could begin to straighten. The front door opened, spilling hospitable light onto the porch, Harry silhouetted in its bright warm aura. His concern carried over the space between us.

  “Do you require assistance, beloved?”

  “Coming,” I gasped. “I'm fine. Just a stitch.” I touched the newt jar with a bare finger, just a brush, and it cracked loudly. A large chunk of its glass body toppled forward, spilling the remaining imperfect eye remains into the snow along with the sharp stink of preservatives and alcohol.

  Eeeeuuuuww. I scooped it up, shuddering at the slimy consistency of it, as the broken filament slipped between my fingers. I wiped it into my jeans pocket with the other one, thinking again about a refund for shoddy merchandise.

  As I turned to return to the house, my eyes fell on the Buick, which sagged to one side in a funny way. I cocked my head and studied it, giving it a wide berth, moving to the nose to see better. Both tires on the driver's side had been slashed deeply; thick rubber lay like a dead seal flayed in the snow.

  “Curses and cuntfungus!” I hurried with dread to the black vinyl cover thrown over Harry's Kawasaki near the front porch, knowing before I lifted it what I'd see. Both wheels were torn to the rims. I scanned the yard; the feeling of being watched intensified, like cockroaches crawling under my collar, until scurrying inside to my Cold Company was the only thing that made sense.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I found Harry lingering at the kitchen sink, plunging his hands into the hot soapy water, using a dirty spoon as a pretext for warming his arms up to the elbow. “Agent Chapel rang round on the telephone, my fawn,” he started.

  “Harry, our tires are slashed.”

  His head came up. “The Buick?”

  “Now, don't freak out…”

  “My bike?” he roared, shaking the water from his hands. I put my hands on his chest; it quivered under my touch, and his fists vibrated at his sides.

  “Nothing we can do about it at this time of night, Harry, so just chill. I'll get it fixed tomorrow.”

  “We are trapped here alone, then?” he clarified. I didn't like the way he said it, and a shiver tripped up my spine. I waited for the horror movie lightening and thunder, but it didn't come: the night was still and empty.

  “Just stuck for a night.” I tried to smile. “Batten and Chapel will be back soon.”

  Some dark thought slithered through the ash grey of his eyes like a fat black leach grabbing hold. His fangs were fully extended now, and I marveled, not for the first time, how clandestinely he could go from just-Harry to lethal preternatural force with little outward hint.

  “Did you lock the door properly?” he asked.

  I'd double-checked it, so I nodded. When I was sure he wasn't going to bolt, I dropped my hands. “What were you saying about Chapel?”

  “Agent Chapel reports that the Davis family is reluctant to have you at the funeral at St. George Anglican in Ten Springs.”

  Slighted, I huffed. “Fine. I didn't want to see those poopyheads anyway.”

  “The very sentiment uttered by Sultan Mehmet II before he fled Prince Tepes and Wallachia,” Harry said.

  “No doubt.”

  “Fear not, my snubbed sugarplum, your industrious agents have instead secured for you an invitation to the funeral home to pay respects before the service. Agent Batten suggests we arrive in style.” Harry returned his arms to the warm haven of the sink, closing his eyes with pleasure. “Deputy Dunnachie and Sheriff Hood will watch the mourners in the church afterward on our behalf.”

  “I don't wanna go at all,” I said, glad at least that I didn't have to bring Harry anywhere near a church. The last time we'd come within a block of a house of worship, smoke had started rising from his hair and he smelt like charred road-kill for days.

  Dropping the broken jar pieces and singed lid in the recycling bin in the mudroom, I washed my hands thoroughly, grabbed a Ziploc bag from a kitchen drawer and stuffed it in my clean pocket. Standing shoulder to shoulder with him at the sink, I sighed. “You know, the funeral home is going to be awful, too. Maybe you better stay here. The family's priest will probably be there. You can't go near a man of God, he'll give you hives.”

  “Your agents believe it is for the best that you make an official appearance, and I will not have you so exposed without my protection.”

  He was right, I knew, but I didn't like putting him at risk. “I need cookies,” I sighed. “Pretty sure I've never needed a cookie this badly.”

  “Without biscuits, there is no happiness in my pet's life.”

  “Truer words were never spoken.”

  “I thought you wanted a shower, Dr. Pepper and a sitcom to go with your supper of pizza?”

  “I want all those things. But first I need a sugar boost. You know, to get the energy to pig out.”

  “Hmm, yes.” He kissed my forehead, a rare occurrence and one that made my lips twitch up. “Pigging out requires great fortitude.”

  “Batten's a crapweasel for using me like this.”

  He hung his head. “Please do not make me defend him.”

  I blinked in disbelief. “How can you?”

  “I trust you are not honestly surprised by his actions.”

  “He wants to finish this, I get that. I'm just surprised that you're on his side. Chapel was pissed. Do you think the case is Chapel's main concern, or does he actually have my best interests in mind?”

  I glanced up at him, feeling Harry's hesitation, the flinching in his arms, a reflexive drawing-away. Doubt. Guilt. An answer to an unspoken question came to me as glass fresh-splintering clear across a mirror, so obvious, so indisputable that I should have seen it at once. It seemed unreal but once it occurred to me, it was the only thing that made sense. When I considered Chapel's guilt: the blushing, the way he was sometimes missing his necktie (which I would no doubt find downstairs in Harry's basement bed chamber if I cared to go hunting for it), Chapel's confusion and disappointment about Harry's delivery from Shield, it all made sense now. Gary Chapel wanted to feed Harry. Had he already? Was Chapel the source of Harry's warmth? Of all people, Gary?!

  Of course it was Gary. Chapel had done what he promised. He'd stood in for me as Harry's daytime protection, but in truth he'd become DaySitter in every sense of the word as it applied to Harry's well-being, except for the Bond. He was there when we needed him, but he'd gone ahead and fed my companion from his own veins. I hadn't asked him to and I'd never have approved if anyone had asked me. Maybe that's why they hadn't. Could it have been Gary's agenda all along? Above and beyond the call of duty, indeed. I wondered if either of them would admit it.

  And now Harry could scarcely wait for Gary Chapel to come home to us, pulling away from me when I mentioned Chapel's motivations. Why, when I was standing right here in his arms? Was Chapel a more ideal protector? A better partner? Was I no longer Harry's priority? Had I been usurped? Or was I just being paranoid?

  I felt a flush of irritation and pulled away, rummaging for Oreos in the pantry. When I couldn't find them on their usual shelf between the Cheez Doodles and the peanut butter, my right eyelid started to twitch. I had to press on it to make it stop.


  “Where…” I heard my voice drop to deadly quiet. “Are my Double-fucking-Stuf Oreos?”

  “I believe they were set on the kitchen table earlier.”

  “Those are my cookies to give, not yours. Mine.”

  “If I have trespassed against you in some way, I do sincerely apologize,” he said calmly.

  “It's strange how you're wrong about that, when you think you're always right about stuff.”

  “That is a head-scratcher,” Harry agreed. “How can we reconcile this seeming incongruity?”

  “Who exactly ate them? As if I need to ask.”

  Harry's chair creaked as he sat back, unrolling his sleeves and refastening his cufflinks. “I am many things, darling: I am your instrument of reckoning; my reach, your retribution; the sound of my voice, your enemy's death knell; the reach of my hand, his final ruin. ‘Ere I tread, his doom shall follow.” He flashed a brilliant smile, teasing. “I am not, however, the monitor of this home's cookie intake, my spirited little sparrow. No man living or dead could manage such a task.”

  I started running more hot water in the sink, turning my back on him. “It was Chapel, wasn't it? He took my cookies.”

  Harry was quiet for a long beat; when he answered his voice held a cautious lilt. “It's possible?”

  “Well, how dare he?” I threw the sponge into the water. “He comes swaggering right up into my personal space, my personal space, where he wasn't invited…”

  “Was he not?”

  “I didn't ask him to come here and shove pictures of headless corpses in my face then damn well move in with me! Then he opens his fat yap and swipes my goodies?” I rinsed the teapot carefully and set it in the drainer so I wouldn't chuck it through the window over the sink.

  “Judging by your fury, I'm surprised he walked away from this act alive,” Harry said with a wary trace of sarcasm.

  “What choice do I have? I can't blink my eyes and turn him into a smoldering ruin.”