Touched with Sight (Shadow Thane)

by Nenia Campbell

  There was an edge in her voice as she studied Catherine in a way she really didn't care for.

  “Or haven't you noticed that you've been followed this whole time?”

  Catherine flinched, in spite of herself.

  “No? And to think you're supposed to be these revered hunters…”

  “Fuck. You.”

  Karen eyed her for a moment. “You didn't happen to pay a visit to the sociology building on your way back from breaking into the biology lab, did you, Catherine Pierce?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I'm not quite sure,” Karen said, unexpectedly. “That's why I'm asking you.”

  “Well, we didn't go near it,” Catherine snapped.

  “We,” Karen repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Interesting. A second ago it was 'I.'”

  “I meant 'I,'” Catherine said. “I didn't go near it. Now let me go.”

  The mist disappeared with an audible hiss, and two strands of silver fell to the floor like snakes. Catherine dropped to her knees, gasping a little, and her book bag fell beside her with a thud that echoed dully as its contents spilled out on the filthy washroom floor.

  “What do you witches want from me?” she said, looking up. “Blood? I don't fucking appreciate being stalked and attacked.”

  Karen didn't seem to hear. Her face had gone the color of pale marble.

  The book—

  It had slipped out of her bag and opened up, as if by magic, to the page saved with the leather mark. The black, hazy aura swung as wildly as a broken compass. The tendrils reached out towards Karen like grasping fingers. She took a step backwards.

  “So,” she said, slightly breathlessly, “This is it.”

  Without taking her eyes from the pages, Karen walked towards the book. Catherine watched her pick it up with a protest in her throat, but Karen handled it gently, almost lovingly, as if it were a baby. But there was a fear in her eyes—fear, and something more hunted.

  “Is it real?” she heard herself asking.

  “Yes. Very real.” Karen closed the book and set it down. “They're looking for it.”

  The way Karen said 'they're' made Catherine's hair stand on end. She thought of the flickering shadows in the biology classroom, melting in and out of the shadows like the blobs of wax inside a lava lamp.

  “No,” Karen said, correctly interpreting Catherine's expression. “They're the symptom, not the cause.”

  “Slayers,” Catherine hissed.

  “So you can learn,” said Karen.

  Catherine tensed but decided to ignore the barb. “What would Slayers want with a spell book? They don't have magic.”

  A laugh tinkled from Karen's throat. “That's not entirely true. They do have magic. Magic that they stole—from us.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “From our blood. They call it ichor, from Greek mythology. The blood of the gods—” another laugh “—then again, to them I suppose we are. Gods, I mean.”

  Arrogant witch. “Why do the Slayers want it?”

  “Because that's a Slayer's spell book you've got. A very old one. It's been lost for years.”

  “Then I'll destroy it.” Catherine let herself shift over—just enough to sharpen her nails and brighten her eyes. “And tear it to ribbons.”

  “No.” Karen lurched towards her unsteadily, her eyes gleaming with raw panic. “If you do that, you'll release the black magic that binds it and kill us both.”

  Catherine looked down at the book, at the pulsing aura. Karen might be lying. Maybe she and her witch friend wanted the book for their own purposes. Catherine sneaked another look at her face. As she watched, Karen's eyes narrowed and she saw a wall come up beneath her features as though she realized that she'd let herself lose face in front of a lowly shape-shifter. Maybe not.

  “The book cannot be destroyed. Not by any member of the Otherkind. You can't see the aura, but it's—”

  “Surrounded by black mist?” Catherine interjected.

  Karen stared at her for what seemed like a very long time. “Where did you get it?”

  “The Public Library.”

  She should have known this. The male witch had asked her the exact same question.

  Unless they aren't in cahoots, after all.

  Catherine shook her head. Witches were as dishonest as they were tempermental. It didn't surprise her in the least to find out that they lied even to each other. “But that's not the point. Where did the book come from? It's like appeared like it appeared out of nowhere.”

  Karen laughed again. It was a beautiful laugh; and completely mirthless. “Of course. It wanted to be found. When something becomes that powerful, it develops a consciousness of its own, replete with ulterior motives. These can sometimes be benign, but if the shades are involved—” she didn't finish. She didn't have to. “The Chase boy must be involved with the Slayers. It senses their influence—their magic—on him. It never would have chosen him otherwise.”

  Catherine's eyes widened. “The Slayers are in the school.”

  “Yes.”

  The door opened and Mrs. Finley, one of the math teachers, walked in. She eyed the two girls curiously. “Karen,” she said, acknowledging the witch. Of course. She would know Karen, fucking teacher's pet. Then Mrs. Finley saw Catherine and her expression darkened, turning suspicious. Oh, she knew who Catherine was, too. “What are you girls doing in here?”

  “Catherine was having an asthma attack in biology, Mrs. Finley,” Karen chirped. “We were examining flower pollen under the microscope.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Finley's expression twisted a little, her jaw going slack. She straightened her blouse out absently. “Is that all?”

  Catherine stared at the teacher in astonishment. Then her eyes flicked to Karen. She was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “I was asked to escort her to the lavatory. Do you need to see my hall pass?” The magic around her pulsed, rising with the inflection of her voice.

  Mrs. Finley blinked. “No, no—that won't be necessary. School is out, anyway.”

  She looked at Catherine.

  “Shouldn't she be in the nurse's office?”

  “She has her inhaler. We'll be fine now, Mrs. Finley. You can go.”

  Catherine's throat felt blocked as she watched the math teacher simply walk back outside as if she had forgotten her reason for coming into the bathrooms in the first place.

  Karen gave her a knowing glance. “You should listen to David. It would be a very good idea not to use your…abilities for a while. Especially not in school. You do have somewhat of a reputation.”

  “Is that a threat, witch?”

  “What are you going to do if it is?” Karen said pleasantly. “I hear you can't even kill.”

  “You—”

  “Tell me, is it out of some sort of perverted sense of honor, or are you just a coward?”

  Catherine froze, her scathing retort withering like dust in her mouth. “You know nothing.” She took a step forward. “You don't fucking know—”

  “Careful,” Karen said lightly, shoving past her. Catherine grit her teeth so hard that they ached. “Wouldn't want a teacher to see you bullying the valedictorian.”

  Catherine halted unwillingly, folding her arms tightly across her chest to keep from attacking the witch. “Fuck you,” she said again, with less conviction this time.

  “You know what I think, Catherine Pierce?” Karen leaned closer, bending to reach Catherine's ear. “I think you're a coward—and so does he. Don't fuck with me, or I'll let him have you.”

  With a final, mocking smile, Karen skipped out the door, leaving the bathroom silent save for the quiet gurgle of the old pipes.

  Catherine felt as if she'd been socked in the gut.

  What was she supposed to do? Play into their stereotype like a good little savage? Seduce and fuck and kill humans? Tear animals limb from limb and revel in the bloodshed?

  Yes, Predator whispered, that's exactly what we're supposed to do. Catherine felt the edges of Predator r
ub against her conscious mind, like a furry caress.

  She shuddered. The thought of taking human life left her feeling physically ill. It was the barrier with which she defined her human self, the one thing that kept her from being a beast. Humanity. Compassion.

  What if an enemy threatened your pride? You'd let the enemy kill your loved ones?

  No, she'd try to threaten them. To scare them away. Hurt them a little if necessary.

  But not kill them.

  Not if she could help it.

  If you don't kill the enemy, they might come back, Predator scoffed. Better to finish cleanly the first time.

  Catherine slammed her fist against the wall, hard, causing little cracks to rift out from the area of impact. There was now a hole in the wall with the approximate diameter of a tennis ball. She stared at it unseeingly. I did that. I did that with my fist. With my own hands.

  She bit her lip as she stared at the crumbling plaster flaking from the shattered tile.

  (Don't fuck with me, or I'll let him have you.)

  Then she swept out of the girls' room.

  Violence again. It seemed as if she were caught in an endless cycle of it. Causing, and receiving. Over and over. Would it only end with death? If so, whose?

  Karen was right, in a sense. She was afraid. She was afraid that if she succumbed to the killing she'd never be able to stop. Catherine was afraid that she'd turn into just another mindless bestial drone who only lived for the hunt. The potential for it was in her blood. That was frightening.

  Did that make her a coward?

  Murph the janitor was mopping up the floor outside the restrooms. He was an old human man who'd been through Vietnam and back, and thought character was something that had to be beaten into you with a paddle. “Catherine Pierce,” he said gruffly. “Just what are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just having a snack. Babies, you know. Drowning bushels of kittens always makes me starved.” She nodded towards the bathroom. “Might want to give that a minute.”

  “Don't be smart, Pierce.”

  “I'll be sure to impart that knowledge to my teachers, sir. They seem to believe otherwise.”

  “Little wisenheimer.”

  She heard him grumbling under his breath as he walked into the bathroom with the mop and bucket, shaking his head. She started to creep away, but when she heard his outraged cry she quickened her pace to an all-out run.

  “Pierce! Pierce, you hooligan! Get back here! Defacing school property! Oh, I got you this time!”

  “I didn't do it!” she shouted, as she cut down the hallway that led to the front of the school.

  “Of course you did it! It's always you, isn't it? And don't think I don't see you bullying the other students, eh! Like that girl that just came out of here. Whatshername. 'Course I don't know how you manage, being the wee slip of a girl you are—”

  She was almost to the double doors.

  “—why, back in my day, girls were into sewing and dressmaking. Dancing. Nice ladylike activities that don't hurt nobody. But you—you go skulking around putting holes into plaster!”

  Catherine opened the doors and stepped out into freedom. The janitor, being an elderly man in his late sixties, had given up the chase at the end of the hall. She could see him standing there, shaking his mop and brandishing it threateningly as she stepped onto the bus.

  “It isn't always me,” she muttered, ignoring the look the driver gave her. “Not always.”

  But, as usual, nobody heard.

  “I met with your shifter today.”

  Finn dug his fingers into the phone. He had been expecting her call—she couldn't avoid him forever, he and his family were too powerful and she would not want to risk showing disrespect—but he had never believed she would dare undermine him in this manner.

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “You're hardly impartial, Phineas,” she said. “Considering your obsession with the creature, I thought a second opinion necessary. But you were right; she does have the book. It has chosen.” Karen paused. “But as much as it kills me to admit it, I don't think she is a practitioner.”

  “Take care what you say to me,” he said coldly. “Do not mistake dedication for obsession.”

  Karen made a derisive sound. “You're a vermin-lover, Phineas. Let's not mince words.”

  “I could have you condemned for saying such things.”

  “But you wouldn't, would you? No. You wouldn't want to risk an investigation. Not the heir to the throne.” He could imagine the simpering smile, laced with contempt. “Because you know I speak the truth.”

  Finn clenched his teeth. “What do you want from me, Karen?”

  “I want you to stop sniffing around her like a dog in heat. You're not the only one who's going to be humiliated if this gets out. How do you think this will make me look? And my family?” Her voice hitched. “Karen Shields, daughter of Lincoln Shields, losing her betrothed to an—an animal.”

  His aura surged and blazed around him in silvery flames. “She's part of my investigation.”

  “I think you've done more than enough 'investigating.' Don't you? Whatever she may be guilty of, black magic is not part of it. Although her aura is strange, isn't it? Like a beacon. It draws the shades even as it repels.” Karen paused. Finn held his breath, but the other witch pursued a different tack. “She is not completely repulsive—by their standards, at least. I will give you that.”

  The current of magic around him ebbed with his comprehension. “I don't see what—”

  “Get her out of your system.” Karen enunciated each word carefully, so there was no way he could miss her meaning. “I don't care how, so long as you cease this pathetic sneaking around. Then go through with the engagement with me, as planned. Let the Council laud the match. As soon as the attention dies down, and we create an heir, you can take her as a mistress. We have enough on her that she would have no choice—it'll be that, or be sent to the Keep.”

  Finn sucked in a breath. His pride was injured by the thought of the shifter having to choose between him and death. Many shape-shifters would rather kill themselves than be taken prisoner.

  But what was Karen saying? That she approved of this liaison? Or was at least willing to tolerate it? Impossible. She was as disgusted by their kind as any other. He shook his head. Too much time had passed. “You are trying to trick me into revealing something.”

  “Do you think you are the only one with secrets?” Karen scoffed. “Ours was an engagement of convenience. There was never any real attraction between us. I am willing to make concessions.”

  In spite of himself, he felt a bolt of resentment that she hadn't enjoyed what he considered his best efforts in the bedroom. She had not exactly been his first choice either. And then the real meaning behind her words hit him, and he understood at last why she could afford to be so gracious. It took Finn a moment to compose himself enough to get the words out. The realization filled him with a different kind of fury.

  “There is another.”

  “Yes.” She sounded amused, as if she'd expected him to figure this out before.

  “Who is he?”

  “She,” Karen said, with light emphasis, “is no one you know.”

  “But she is a witch,” Finn said, running through the female witches of his acquaintance. Trying to picture them entwined with the woman who would be his wife, but not his lover.

  He couldn't do it.

  Karen's laughter broke through his thoughts.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, softly. “Whatever else I may be, a vermin-lover I am not.”

  The Trans lived a block away from Catherine and her family in a house just as old. Victorian, Catherine thought. She'd had to get off the bus two stops earlier. Even though they lived in the same neighborhood the Trans' house was much nicer. It had a wide driveway with a private vineyard on the left-hand side. On the right was an expanse of well-watered lawn maintained by the help of gardeners, and a white-painted gazeb
o she'd been insanely jealous of as a child.

  “Hello, Mrs. Tran,” she muttered, focusing all her attention on the wadded up papers she was pulling out of her book bag so she wouldn't have to look at the house, “I have David's homework. And if you ever want to see it again, you'll pay me the two million dollars I asked for.”

  Somehow, she didn't think smart-ass comments were going to win the Trans' hearts.

  Maybe she was fucked, either way. At least I can put a brave face on it, she thought resignedly.

  Catherine walked up to the front door. Nothing had really changed. The roses were still there, alive and kicking even after three winters' worth of frost. In front of them was the ugly troop of lawn gnomes—except, here, Catherine couldn't help but notice the conspicuous absence of the purple-hatted gnome her mother had given them as a Christmas gift many years ago.

  Curiously, that gave her the courage she needed. She drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and rang the doorbell. Quickly, before she lost the nerve. She could hear a child shouting inside—probably David's younger brother, Samuel, who would be close to six now—followed by the rattling of a chain. The papers crinkled loudly as Catherine's grip on them tightened. The door opened a crack and a clipped, female voice said, “Who is it?”

  “It's…it's Catherine. Catherine Pierce. I'm in David's Biology class. I…um…have his homework.”

  Mrs. Tran had always been beautiful, more like a fairytale princess than a mother. She looked young, too, far younger than Catherine's mother did, and guarded her age jealously. Once when David had asked her which animal of the Zodiac she was, Mrs. Tran had told him she was born in the year of the Crane.

  David had once told Catherine—a long time ago—that her settled form was a lynx. She didn't find this the least bit surprising (once she had looked up what a lynx was); the woman exuded self-assurance, feline grace, and perfect entitlement. And she could be just as crafty.

  As the door swung open, Catherine saw only a battered husk of the woman she remembered from her childhood. Mrs. Tran's long, black hair wasn't brushed, and looked as if it hadn't been for quite some time, and had a greasy, matted look. And her eyes—the same strange, glittery onyx as David's—they were so red and pinched, like she'd been crying.