Touched with Sight (Shadow Thane)

by Nenia Campbell

  “Why are you being so secretive?” Sharon demanded. “Were you talking about us?”

  “You're not the center of my universe, Sharon. So sorry to disillusion you.”

  Ordinarily, that would have been enough to make her human friend back off, may even have scored a laugh or two, but being around this male—this slayer, if the witch was to be believed—had changed Sharon, made her insecure and … well, highly unpleasant.

  “You're being really rude, you know.”

  “Get off her back, Sharon,” Ashley said. “If she says it's private, then it's private. You're the one that's being rude. Would you want your love letters being read aloud?”

  Sharon colored and muttered a reluctant apology.

  “Hawaiian barbecue-style onion rings?” The waitress had arrived with the food. Laura signaled for the platter of onion rings. There was a break in the conversation as everyone claimed their meal.

  Catherine took a huge bite of her burger, causing the juice to dribble down her chin. She mopped it away impatiently with a napkin, silently cursing Sharon. Why had she drawn attention to her like that? Couldn't she have suppressed her jealousy until the meal was over? If Mike was a Slayer, he was going to be even more suspicious now—and how dare she drag her little brother into this?

  And where the hell is the witch?

  It looked like he was serious about the bathroom rendezvous. “I'll be right back,” she said tightly.

  The bathroom corridor was empty and both rooms were occupied. The Bird and the Bee's cover of “Maneater” was blasting from the speakers, the retro sound of the synth perfectly complimenting the vintage 1950s look of the diner. Catherine waited, shifting from foot to foot in time to the music, and tried not to look anxious. She felt the tug on her parka before she realized she was being dragged backwards into the lavatory. A hand clamped over her mouth. Thinking it was Mike, the Slayer, she started to flail, swinging her fists. There was a gasp. Then a familiar voice.

  “Cut it out, shifter. It's only me. I was beginning to think you weren't coming.”

  He set her back on the ground; she hadn't realized that he'd lifted her up in the first place.

  “What the hell was I supposed to think?” she snapped, turning around. “You tell me there's a Slayer who wants to kill us both and then someone grabs me like that—” She trailed off, catching her breath. What was it with witches and dragging people into public bathrooms? “What were you thinking?”

  “I didn't want you to scream,” he said shortly, turning from her.

  “You didn't want me to scream, so you grabbed me from behind?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “So he's killed five others? And you can tell that, just from a few marks on his hand?”

  “If he's got the bands, then yes.”

  “Does that mean he's powerful?”

  Finn's expression darkened. “With a gun like that, a Slayer doesn't need skill. The bullets are enchanted—they'll never miss. Even a poor marksman can shoot with impeccable accuracy.”

  Catherine shook her head. “Where do you even get a weapon like that?”

  “He probably purchased it with the bounty he received from killing one of those witches.”

  “Sharon sent me to look for you two.” They both turned around to see Mike leaning against the bathroom door, conveniently blocking the only exit. One hand was hidden inside his jacket. How long had he been standing there? He smiled, as if reading her thoughts. “Food's here.”

  Finn moved forward, as swift and smooth as a shark. “We'll join you shortly.”

  Mike produced a gun. Catherine had known he possessed some kind of weapon, but the sight of the gleaming black barrel still shocked her. It had the same black, smoky aura of the spell book.

  “Not so fast Massachusetts.”

  Finn stopped dead in his tracks. “What do you want?”

  Mike laughed. “You're a good actor, witch—must be killing you, being so close to humans. But I heard you talking about Slayers just now and I saw the way you looked at me when you found out where I worked.” Catherine cursed under her breath. The fool. He'd given them both away.

  “What about you, Kitty-Cat? Are you a witch, too?”

  “She is not,” the witch said fiercely.

  Mike stepped closer, frowning. “We don't get ourselves too many witch-loving humans.”

  Catherine's eyes flicked towards the witch. “I can't imagine why,” she said coldly.

  That made him laugh. “Witty.” He was clearly trying to intimidate her. Maybe it would have worked on an ordinary human—he was frightening—but Catherine was used to being underestimated because of her small stature. Even the witch had been taken off-guard and in his own element, no less.

  “Looks like I'll have another band to add to my collection,” he said, giving the witch an appreciative glance. “Allies don't merit bands, I'm afraid. We're supposed to kill 'em anyway, but you're not really worth the cost of a silver bullet, so I'll look the other way if you want to ditch the witch and leave.” His thin lips crooked into a sarcastic smile. “I'm not a bad guy, you know.”

  Catherine snarled, letting her lips draw back from her teeth; her incisors already becoming the scooped incisors of the wolf. The urge to Change had been strong this whole time, and she had been suppressing it until now. The Slayer took several large steps backwards. It hadn't been a human sound, and had clearly taken him off-guard. “What the hell—”

  She lunged, still in her midway form, and her claws gouged strips of fabric from his jacket and t-shirt. The two of them hit the floor with a heavy thud that echoed in the empty restroom. He had a thick neck, so she'd have to bite pretty hard to kill him. He was squirming so hard that her teeth sank into his exposed shoulder instead—and he tasted—he tasted good. Like meat. Fresh meat.

  No!

  Of course, she could also go for his stomach, which was currently unprotected, since his hands were wrapped tightly around her muzzle, to keep her from biting his face off. One quick slice across the belly should be enough to spill his guts. Two to be safe.

  Catherine seized the reigns of the wolf, yanking her back from the carnage she wished to inflict. And she did wish it, quite badly. Millions of years of evolution had honed the lupine predator's instincts with the same slow, considering forethought as an artist carving away at a large block of marble. Combined with her instinctive hatred of Slayers, it posed as a catalyst to blood-lust. Had she been fully-Changed, stopping would have been even harder, if not impossible.

  In her hesitation, he kneed her in the chest—hard—bruising several ribs. She landed against the stall and felt the cheap metal crumple inwards from the impact of her body. Her head knocked back against the door, and white bursts of light exploded in her field of vision.

  She spat blood—and it was his, not hers, and part of her was reluctant to let it go.

  Mike recovered quickly; his movements hinted at years martial arts training. She found the barrel of the gun aimed loosely in her direction as he composed himself. “Well. Took me by surprise there. Won't happen again,” he added darkly, “You shoulda walked when you had the chance.”

  Her clothes were still mostly intact. The claws on her feet had sliced up her sneakers pretty badly, though, and the displacement of her ribs had stretched her shirt and jacket, splitting a few of the seams. With one hand on the stall for support, and the other massaging the back of her head, exploring the damage, Catherine began to rise to her feet. “Don't move,” Mike said. “Or I'll shoot. Get back against the stall. On your knees. Hands above your head.”

  Catherine froze, confused by the conflicting orders. Don't move? Get back? How could she possibly comply with both?

  “Now!” the Slayer said, losing patience. “Get down.”

  In the corner of her eye, she saw the witch's lips move soundlessly. A spell? Mike's attention was still fixed on her since she was the one who had attacked him—but if he thought the witch was mounting an attack, then he would pull gun on both of them withou
t a second thought.

  Distract him, then.

  She looked over her shoulder at the stall behind her. It wasn't hard to fake her fear.

  “Don't bother running. Not even vampires could outrun these bullets.” Mike corrected his aim. “And that stall is steel, not iron. You put up a good fight—better than the two shape-shifters I got before you, even, although that's not saying much—but it's over. You're finished.”

  What the hell was the witch waiting for?

  The Slayer's finger hooked lazily around the trigger. “Shame about what you are. You're kinda cute. Cuter than that loudmouthed friend of yours, anyway. I don't suppose you want one last fling before you die?” The smile he gave her was horribly ironic, filled with a sick kind of hope.

  Panic began to bubble through her body. Did the witch want her to die after all? Two birds with one stone? “Go to hell,” she said icily.

  “That's what they all say.”

  The scent of sulfur filled her nostrils. She turned, just in time to see a wavering ball of light and fire shoot past her nose and slam right into Mike's chest. He gasped, clutching at the front of his t-shirt, as if trying to claw right through it. She could see smoke coming out beneath his fingers. The gun clattered to through the floor, sliding beneath the bathroom stall. The sickly odor of burnt flesh and hair wafted through the room and Catherine gagged loudly, covering her mouth with her hand to keep from throwing up.

  And then the tremors started, as he lost the muscle control of his body. His arms and legs moved spasmodically, following the path of the current. Then he went still, which was worse; his hands were frozen into useless claws, blood was trickling out of his ears and nose to pool on the floor; and he looked as if he'd been struck by rigor mortis. The cloth where the ball had passed through his flesh was badly singed, and Catherine could see blood, burnt black, through the torched cloth.

  “Why didn't you kill him when you had the chance?”

  Because he smells like meat.

  She shuddered violently and looked away from the Slayer's liquefied eyes. There was little to separate him from the ground beef that was still on her plate.

  Her gorge rose, and she swallowed noisily. “You wouldn't understand.”

  The witch eyed her intently. “There are shifters who don't think twice about eating human flesh.”

  Like me. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. Oh gods.

  “We can't just leave him here.”

  “I'll take care of it.”

  “What am I supposed to tell Sharon?”

  “That you aren't feeling well.”

  “What are you going to do? Put a glamor on them?”

  “I'll take care of it,” he repeated, and each word fell like a stone from his lips. “Go.”

  And with a shaky breath, she did.

  Finn had disposed of the body, incinerated it, until nothing remained but a pile of ash, which he then flushed down one of the toilets. It didn't bother him. He cared little for humans. It wasn't even murder, really. If anything, he should have been pleased—this proved his hypothesis that the Slayers had already infiltrated the local school system. But he was troubled, nonetheless.

  “I've never seen a shape-shifter turn down a free meal.” Her face had been white. She refused to even look at the body. And her palms had been wet with smears of blood where she had let her nails puncture the skin. Finn had never seen anything like it. “She was fighting her instincts.”

  “It was one of the terms of the truce.”

  “She could always hunt in secret,” Finn pointed out. “Plenty of humans wandering unaware.”

  “I doubt it,” said Graymalkin. “There was never any blood under her nails or on her breath.”

  Finn was lying on his bed, with Graymalkin curled up against his bare chest for warmth. Her answer gave him pause. He had forgotten that he had sent his familiar to spy on the savage. Now he wondered if the shifter had held his familiar close like this. “Is it like that with all of them?” he wondered, running his fingers through her fur. “Do they truly covet the taste of human flesh?”

  “Most of the ones you hunt aren't Glamors,” she said. “They're more beast than human.”

  “That doesn't answer my question.”

  “I'm not a psychic,” was her irate response. “I suppose it varies from shifter to shifter.”

  “In that case, why fight it?” he said. “Why resist who you are, if it means living with temptation?”

  “Like you?”

  His familiar shot him a very pointed look. Finn looked at her darkly. “You know what I mean. She wanted to devour him,” he said, letting his voice convey his disgust. “She's a maneater.”

  “Perhaps she doesn't want to be.” She glanced at him. “Does this change how you feel?”

  “No.” Finn closed his eyes and leaned back. “I know full well of what their kind is capable of.”

  “You have spilled plenty of blood, yourself,” she pointed out.

  “Yes.” He laughed shortly. “In that regard, I suppose we are well-matched, the shifter and I.”

  There was a long silence. “You no longer wish to destroy her.”

  “To kill her—no.” His smile was grim. “But what I want may very well do that, in the end.”

  Neither of them said anything else for the rest of the night.

  Alec St. Claire strode up to the bar. It was in the very heart of the slums, and a notorious hangout for vampires. In spite of the icy weather, he was only wearing jeans and a T-shirt. With a lazy smile, he leaned back against the chair, one leg on the seat, and waited.

  It wasn't long before a young, shaken-looking woman came up to take his order. Not particularly surprising, given the environment she worked in, but he was amused all the same.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, staring down at the silverware.

  “That all depends,” he said softly, giving her a meaningful look. “What's your blood type, babe?”

  Her eyes widened and he allowed his lips to part in a grin that revealed his sharp teeth.

  She actually ran from his table.

  “You were supposed to keep a low profile,” an annoyed voice said, from behind.

  He nodded his head, a show of respect more than agreement, and smiled. Lips closed, this time. “Forgive me, your highness.” Another figure joined him at the table. Robed, as many of the patrons in this establishment were. “It's been a long time. Nearly fourteen years, correct?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I assume this is about your message. I must say, I found it quite intriguing.” He tilted his head, in a gesture reminiscent of a bird of prey. “What makes you think I, or any other member of my kind, would join you? After all, you didn't exactly complain when we became flavor of the month.”

  “Nor did you and yours, during the witch trials,” the witch king said. “I think we can both admit that mistakes have been made on both sides.”

  Alec closed his eyes. “Such sycophancy. So you want something from me. What is it?”

  The robed figure leaned closer. “My operative has been missing for over a week. His close contact has turned up dead. He has two objects of value in his hands. One of them is Slayer artifact.”

  Without opening his eyes, he chuckled. “And I'm supposed find them? How original.”

  “You advertise as a tracker. The best that there is; that is why I am here.” He gestured briefly, as if demonstrating what a sacrifice on his part that was.

  “I didn't deny it.” He opened his eyes. The irises were the color of rubies in the dim lighting of the bar. “How are you going to make this worth my while?”

  “That would be the other object.” The robed figure leaned closer. “He's also got a shape-shifter.”

  Alec sat up slightly; along with the glow of amusement in his eyes was a predatory gleam. “Go on.”

  “You simply bring me the boy and the book. I don't care what happens to the girl.”

  “Tempting as that offe
r is, I'm pretty sure that violates the little treaty you and the shifters made after your war,” he murmured, leaning his elbow on the table. “I'm afraid I must decline.”

  “Things are changing.” The witch king leaned forward. “This shaky time of peace is about to crumble, and when it does, a new era will rise from the rubble. It's quite possible that the blood trade will be regulated once more, for the first time in centuries. Do you follow?”

  “I do.” Alec leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “That's quite a deal.”

  “Better than the paltry scraps the Slayers toss you, I imagine.”

  Alec bared his teeth. “You continue to astonish me, your highness.”

  “Then you accept.”

  “Perhaps.” He straightened his t-shirt out. “What is she like?”

  “Healthy. Female. Young,” he reeled off the descriptions, as if describing an animal.

  Alec rolled his eyes. “What does she look like?”

  “That is no concern of mine.” The witch's eyes flashed angrily at the mere idea of finding one of their kind attractive. “I'll leave that distinction to you.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are we agreed?”

  Alec bit into his wrist, and let a few drops of the black blood fall on the table. “I should think so.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Catherine was getting ready for bed, setting aside her nightshirt and a bottle of unscented body wash for her shower, when she happened to catch a whiff of ozone. She nearly screamed; the only thing that stopped her was the knowledge that her parents and brother were just down the hall. They would hear the sound and immediately come running and that, she thought, as she looked at the witch balanced precariously on the eaves outside her window, would not be good.

  She tossed the clothes and gel on her bed and stalked to the window, ripping it open with a loud grating sound. “What are you doing here?”

  “I'm going to the town cemetery.”

  “Why? Did you kill somebody?” she asked, starting to cross her arms and then changing her mind.

  He looked perfectly at ease balanced there on the shingles. “I'm looking for something.”