Touched with Sight (Shadow Thane)

by Nenia Campbell

  Her eyes widened.

  She said something. Her voice was so soft, he couldn't quite make it out. But an unpleasant shiver tore through his body all the same. “What did you say?” he demanded.

  “Nothing.” And she jerked away from him, putting herself out of reach. “And now I'm late for class. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

  Finn shook his head slowly. He could have sworn that she'd said “Shadow Thane.”

  Chapter Eight

  Catherine sensed he was going to speak before he had even opened his mouth and in that same burst of prescience, knew she was going to dislike whatever it was that he was going to say.

  “Your friends are watching.”

  Everyone has been watching. No thanks to you.

  She had never had so many eyes on her at once, not even when she had almost been run over by that car on school property. She did not like the attention, or the speculation that came from it. When her behavior was being so thoroughly analyzed, there was no room for mistakes. It was like being in a cage. A cage of unblinking, unwavering eyes. She couldn't break free.

  Sharon and Ashley were standing in the parking lot, accompanied by Sharon's boyfriend. The three of them were huddled around a navy blue Toyota—probably Mike's—looking away at the moment, but in a way that suggested that they had been staring intensely mere seconds ago.

  Catherine eyed them back warily, her eyes lingering on Mike. There was something about him that smelled slightly … off. Tainted, almost. Like spoiled meat. She couldn't put her finger on why, though, as he was fully human. Without a doubt. Maybe it was just that she didn't like him. With a shudder of disgust, she remembered the way he'd leered at her as he'd kissed Sharon.

  Without turning her head, she cut her eyes at the witch. He was leaning against the bus sign, watching her friends watch them—they couldn't help themselves, the humans. Unlike her, he appeared to have no problem with being stared at. Probably reveling in the attention. Bastard.

  She pulled her book bag more firmly onto her lap. “Don't encourage them.”

  “But isn't that the point?” The witch tilted his head lazily to one side as he regarded her in place of her friends, making Catherine wish she hadn't spoken at all. “You want them to believe us.”

  There was a light emphasis placed on the collective pronoun, and she hated him for it. But she would not rise to his paltry bait. She refused to let him make a savage out of her. She would not lose her temper. She dug her fingers into her bag. She would not.

  She could feel his eyes on her, though, running down her spine like sandpaper.

  “Your human finds it odd that you act so distantly towards me.”

  The smell of pencil shavings filled her nostrils as she inhaled. “You were squeezing me so tightly that they couldn't have pried us apart with a crowbar,” she said icily.

  “Yes, and you leaned away from me the entire time.” The expression in his eyes mirrored the dark gleam of cruelty ensconced within his viper's heart. “You could attempt to cooperate, you know.”

  Attempt? Attempt? She was making an attempt. She hadn't wanted to get involved, hadn't wanted to endanger her family. He had blackmailed her into this. And this little ruse involved feigning feelings that not only weren't there, but also went against everything she had ever been programmed to feel. How could he assume that she would be able to play this role exactly to his specifications? It was akin to telling the lamb to lie with the lion.

  Intimacy had never come easily to her. Even among her family, physical contact was rare. Too easy to be perceived as aggression, if the overtures were wrong. Easier to maintain a respectful distance, and to let one's affection be known through nuturance and protection.

  With the brief—all too brief—exception of David, she had never had a boyfriend. He had been the only male she had ever kissed. Grief welled up inside her body, creating an enormous lump in her throat. She felt like a snake struggling to swallow her prey whole—although nothing she had ever swallowed in snake form had ever felt so … insurmountable. Catherine gulped and ducked her head before anyone could see the grief plastered across her face.

  “I have a boyfriend.” She glared at the camouflage pattern on her bag. It was blurring rapidly before her eyes. No tears, she scolded herself. “It isn't you. Sorry to put a damper on your little ego trip.”

  “You weren't exactly my first choice, either.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Karen's probably rolling in her grave.”

  “I don't think so,” said the witch. An odd expression flickered over his face. Irritation? Frustration? Anger?—it was a blend of all three, and then some. Predator pricked her ears, scenting blood.

  “She didn't love you,” Catherine said, and the witch's head jerked towards her. She saw the magic around him surge and recoil, as if whacked by a bat. “That's it, isn't it? Why you're being so blasé. Easy to forget about someone if they were never worth remembering in the first place.”

  “The feeling was mutual, and now I suggest you drop the subject.”

  Nice to know he had at least some weak points. “It must be nice, being so cold,” she observed nastily.

  “You're one to talk, shape-shifter. You fuck the way others fight wars or negotiate business contract. Your species has built an entire social hierarchy around dominance and submission. You and I both know love—” he spat the word “—has nothing to do with it, when you're an animal rutting in the woods.”

  “Typical witch,” Catherine growled. “Condemning those different from you because you fear what's inside yourselves. I bet you jerk off with the shades drawn and your eyes closed.”

  She thought he was going to attack her, for a moment, and her arms flexed in wary readiness. She had hit a raw nerve there, but wasn't sure which part of her remark had provoked such a reaction. He fears something, she thought. But he had given no reaction when she had called him a vermin-lover before.

  Perhaps…. She looked at his flaming aura. Perhaps he's a virgin.

  Then she scoffed. What did it matter? There were plenty of virgins who didn't act like psychopaths. She was looking for excuses to explain away the fact that something inside this witch was horribly broken.

  There was a pause as he visibly composed himself, and when he spoke, his voice was as jagged as broken glass. “Come here.”

  Her heart started to flap like the wings of a bird, mirroring the agitated tingling in her limbs. His aura was fluctuating again—but this time, it was moving towards her, like outstretched fingers curling around a small creature before choking it of life. She scooted down the bench. Was his aura attracted to hers? She had never heard of that happening before.

  Is it dangerous?

  He expected her to cower, and edging back had already played into those expectations. She gave him a look of disdain that only barely masked her fear and said simply, “No.”

  “No?” Ice rifted through the word, shooting it full of cracks. Cracks one could fall through, she thought. If one isn't real fucking careful. “Are you afraid?”

  “Of you?” She bared her teeth in a sardonic smile.

  He closed the distance between them in two steps. “Of what I'm going to do to you.”

  The air around them grew charged with power, as if the two of them were standing in the middle of a storm cell. Catherine could have sworn, for a moment, that she'd heard the sound of thunder in the distance. Something is happening, Predator bristled in agitation. Prey whimpered.

  She felt them curl around each other as if for strength, and her unease grew.

  But the witch wasn't casting a spell.

  She'd be able to see it if he was.

  …wouldn't she?

  What if it's a different kind of spell? Something new?

  Cold fear washed over her. The backs of her knees hit the bench as she shot to her feet.

  “Get away from me,” she said. “You have two seconds. And if you don't—”

  “What?” he said, in that same deathly calm. “What will you do
?”

  Before she could move—before she could even draw in her next breath to complete the warning taking shape on her tongue, in spite of the ominous tingle of the curse—his lips crashed down violently upon hers. All the restraint he'd possessed up until that moment broke, she felt it as he pulled her closer, until their chests were brushing, and his hand tilted her head upward, correcting the awkward angle to kiss her more deeply, to fuse their lips together in a potent blend of fire, ice—and, yes, magic. This was what he'd wanted. He wanted her, and he hated himself for it, but he hated her more, and his hatred scalded her just as potently as venom.

  Hatred could be intoxicating, she realized.

  The air whipped and crackled around them, as all intelligent thought ceased. Because in that moment she realized two things. The witch didn't just want to fuck her; he wanted to own her, possess her, control her. And he was crazy enough to spill blood to get his way. Oh shit, she thought shakily.

  “Don't talk,” he said, pausing just long enough to get the words out.

  He kissed her, and the magic that had been building up steadily around them exploded, raining down in arcs of silver fire that made her half-remember a prophecy from her dreams.

  (One by one, they all will die.)

  And fainter still, the death knell of a dragon.

  Something had been set into motion.

  “No,” she whispered, but her lips were frozen, and would not move. She remembered her first dream, the one with the witch. Was he the creature who stalked her in her dreams? The one who destroyed the world?

  The one who destroyed her?

  Beneath their feet, the ground rumbled. Her hands tightened around the fistfuls of his shirt she couldn't remember grabbing and she released him with a start, trying once more to pull away. He tightened his hold again, mashing her body against his, his fingers skirting beneath the hem of her shirt. Soft, feathery strokes that made her skin tingle—his touch was as gentle as his kiss was rough. His fingers, so cold against the warm roots of her hair. She jerked, hands clenching. Against her fists, his heartbeat was eerily slow. Throughout all this, he remained unmoved.

  Catherine was jarred unpleasantly from her thoughts by the feel of his hands on her throat. He was loosening her collar, freeing the small white buttons from their respective holes. It wasn't until she choked on her own spit that she realized she hadn't swallowed or even breathed. She didn't want him anywhere near her neck. Not like this.

  “You're like an animal caught in a trap.”

  The witch laughed softly, cruelly, when she struggled, brushing his lips over her jawline as she desperately tried to catch her breath.

  “And you know something else?”

  She really didn't.

  “You aren't getting away. I know what you are.”

  His lips were level with her ear now.

  “I know what you are. You're a crime against nature. I could have had you killed. Had your entire family killed for harboring you. I could kill you know and then disappear; and no one would be the wiser.”

  This isn't supposed to happen.

  Prey made a sluggish attempt at a protest, but she seemed half-asleep. Then why didn't you?

  The witch met her eyes. “That would be cold.”

  He ran the pad of his thumb along the underside of her lip, applying the barest hint of pressure. She let her head loll to one side, breathing unevenly, feeling as if she'd been caught in a trance. Her breasts were tingling. Her gut, like a clenched fist, squeezing out drops of liquid heat.

  No, no, nonono.

  “But you lit a match and set me on fire,” he said, and while his voice was still calm, hypnotic almost, there was an edge to it now. “And now I don't know what I am. But I do know this: I will own you. And when I'm through, there will be nothing left of you but ash.” She drew in another breath when he kissed her throat, and it hitched into a gasp as she felt the punishing sting of his teeth.

  “What the fuck?”

  The words were torn from her lips, as his hold on her broke.

  He'd used a fucking glamor on her, to bite her in the same place that the males of her kind bit their females when they wanted to mark them as mates—or put them in their place. The message was subtle, but painfully clear: he considered her beneath him—in the crudest way possible.

  With a snarl, Catherine shoved him away from her, tearing his shirt. He stumbled, and crashed into the side of the shaded bench. The pain that followed was swift and vengeful, and she thought she might have tasted blood in the back of her mouth, but she was beyond caring. As his hold on her weakened, and then died away, so, too, did her self-restraint.

  “You goddamn vermin-lover, how dare you.”

  The witch said nothing as he climbed to his feet with exaggerated dignity.

  Keeping one hand clasped to her throat, she said, “Say something, you bastard.”

  He let his eyes drift down to her open shirt collar before letting them climb back towards her livid face. “Are you going to cry?” he asked her quietly. “I hope you do.”

  Catherine held her shirt closed since her hands were shaking too hard to fasten the buttons.

  “No.”

  “Pity,” the witch said, glancing away from her. She saw his eyes flick towards the sky.

  He saw it too.

  “Don't ever do that again.”

  He glanced her way. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “It's not a threat, witch. It's a promise. Don't ever touch me again or I will come after you.”

  For the first time since she had fought him on the embankment, his face showed a flicker of uncertainty. He was quick to laugh it off, though. “And what will you do, Catherine Pierce? You lay a finger on me, and you receive twice the damage. Already, your last little stunt has drawn blood.”

  “I don't need to hurt you.” She took a step closer, and he backed up. “I don't even need to touch you, to do what I have in mind.” What thoughts were going on behind those shadowy green eyes? His expression was fierce as he glared back down at her, but for a moment—

  She could swear that he almost looked afraid.

  A geas was a contract with the goddess of Fate. Sometimes one was born indentured, other times it was bestowed upon one as a curse. Because if one did not fulfill the terms of one's geas, one died. It was old magic, the magic of the gods, spoken in the tongues of those who controlled the dragons—and it was supposed to be extinct. And yet, when Finn felt the earth move beneath his feet, and saw the fire falling from the sky, he realized that everything he knew about his world had changed. The old magic was not dead; it had been asleep this whole time, and had just blinked open its eyes, as it stirred and looked upon the world once more.

  Kissing that creature had been a grave mistake. Anyone could have seen him. He, more than anyone, knew that the Council had eyes everywhere. But she had been posturing in front of her friends and the only way to put a shape-shifter in her place was to publicly subjugate her. Social dominance. But now—now she was as skittish as ever, and his familiar was shooting him a look. Now, he began to wonder if this uncomfortable position he found himself in had been fated.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he said.

  Graymalkin began pointedly grooming her tail.

  “You feel sorry for her, don't you? Little traitor. But then, beasts will hunt in packs.”

  She was silent for a while. “You can no longer claim to be impartial after what happened.”

  “A lapse in judgment,” he said. “It will not happen again.”

  But the heat of her body—the wiry strength in her limbs—the way she seemed to glow with light that only he could see … these things attracted even as they repelled, forcing him to recall the legends from his childhood about the half-shifter, half-witch hybrids and their chimeric forms, propensity for latent magic ability, and taste for human flesh.

  It could easily happen again.

  But did he want to put out that light, or kindle it into a blazing infern
o? Neither. Both. Hell.

  “She is too powerful,” he said. “For a shifter.” And a woman. There was something distasteful about a female who was capable of overpowering the males around her.

  But Graymalkin heard the thought, and hissed. “Shelve your Freudian inadequacies. Something has happened. Something has changed. You set something in motion with your actions.”

  “It was a kiss,” he said. “Nothing earth-shattering. Not even a particularly good one.”

  Liar, that traitorous part of him whispered. You enjoyed that far too much.

  She had no idea what she was, or what she could do. She was far more powerful than an ordinary shifter. She could be a deadly weapon in the wrong hands. An assassin. A spy. A mercenary.

  This was why such unions were banned. Black beasts tipped the scales. No one was entirely sure what they were capable of, and few were brave enough to find out.

  Graymalkin's yellow eyes winked in the darkness. “I think you should talk to Cassandra.”

  Finn bristled. The less he thought about his mother's bastard sire, the better. “That charlatan and reader of tea leaves and palms? I think not. There is no need for consultation.”

  “We'll see.”

  “I know where the Slayers are meeting now. It's almost over. Then things will return to normal.”

  “I don't think so.”

  It was unusual, to have Graymalkin speak back to him. Usually they were able to reach some consensus with minimal effort. She must truly be vexed. Over the shifter? His rage grew.

  “Why are you defending her?”

  Graymalkin responded with another non-answer. “She is driving you to darkness.”

  “What nonsense are you spouting now?”

  But his familiar wouldn't elaborate. All she said was, “Be careful, Phineas.”

  The witch was not at her bus stop the following Monday but Catherine was not fooled. She sensed lingering traces of his scent around her house that morning, which was irritating—and frightening. She didn't like the thought of him lurking around her bedroom window, and he hadn't mentioned stalking as part of their bargain. It was creepy. He was creepy.