He didn’t like that, and he didn’t like the rising stain dyeing her aura, drowning the gold fringes. Darksickness was particularly bad for Mindhealers, but any witch with a Seer’s gift was exquisitely vulnerable to the contamination as well.
“What was it?” A third healer, this one an airwitch whose aura was deep sonorous gold, darted in to grab Jorie’s wrist. Caleb’s feet flickered so he didn’t trip or kick the new arrival; it was a hellish dance heading for the elevator. “What kind, what class?”
“Tiny things, mostly bipedal, probably contagious, little black teeth like a shark’s.” I don’t know exactly what they were, goddammit. Most Watchers developed a fairly extensive knowledge of the taxonomy of Dark and semi-Dark creatures, and knowing the source would help the healers. “At least a half dozen of them underground. Could’ve been a trap.” But nobody knew we were coming that way. Or did they? God damn it. And they were going to want to know why she was underground to begin with. “She’s a Seer.” His witch’s nearness insulated him from the scraping pain of the other Lightbringers, but he felt it in the distance, just waiting to pounce.
“I can see that,” the airwitch said, tartly. “Hold the elevator, Tamara.”
The instant cooperation, the immediate help was pure Lightbringer—why hadn’t God or the gods built the rest of humanity like this? The airwitch half-staggered as her aura flashed, beating back the stain in Jorie’s; she exhaled hard and redoubled her speed, one hand caught in her rose-patterned broomstick skirt to keep her sandaled feet free.
“Ugly stuff,” the healer with cinnamon hair said, and they piled into the elevator’s claustrophobia. A Watcher generally took the stairs—less easy to be caught—but this metal box would get them to the infirmary quicker and that was the overriding factor.
Jorie began to thrash, and Caleb was fully occupied with keeping her from clipping another witch. The healers clustered him, murmuring back and forth, and all he could do was hope he’d brought her here in time.
Deep End
NO WATCHER WENT to the infirmary willingly. If you were hurt bad enough to need it there was little hope anyway; most of the time, a severely injured Watcher just needed time and Power so he was carried to the dormitory and left to the care of his brothers. The razor-edged Power from other tanak was still vastly preferable to the salt-and-acid agony of a Lightbringer’s soft clarity.
Besides, no Watcher was comfortable around a witch in pain. Seeing the damage the world wreaked on them was enough to send a man into black rage, even if he wasn’t a trigger-happy bastard doing his best to fight the good fight.
Jorie’s back arched and she cried out, weakly.
“More Power,” Raina snapped. The healer, her reddish hair pulled messily back with a black scrunchie, snatched up a head-sized chunk of rose quartz as the tanak twisted inside Caleb’s bones. He lingered near the entrance to this semi-private space marked by painted screens, unwilling to step closer.
A tanak wasn’t regular Dark, but it was still an unacceptable risk to draw too near a Darksick witch. Heat-tingles while getting her to safety were one thing, but Darksickness had to be treated by other Lightbringers, and quickly.
Familiar light footsteps warned him before Lorenz Blau appeared in the semi-doorway, tall and spare, his dishwater hair clipped ruthlessly short for once. The Prussian was a bit of a martinet, but he was the closest thing to an elected head the Rogue Street Safehouse’s Watcher contingent had. For one thing, he was utterly disciplined; for another, he was utterly unflappable—and he’d never lost a witch.
“Honor, brother,” Lorenz snapped, and Caleb straightened reflexively. “What do we have?”
“Duty, brother.” You’re not going to like it. “Jorie Camden. Kind of a Seer, she finds things. She’s been working on some . . . irregular stuff.” How much could he say without violating her privacy or his own word?
One of Lorenz’s winged eyebrows rose a few fractions, and he studied Caleb from top to toe. “Oh?”
Yeah, definitely not gonna like it. “I was assigned to her two-three days ago.” How long had it been? He couldn’t think, but he needed to report, giving the most critical information first. “She wanted to go to the zoo today, so we went. Something’s underneath there.” His shoulders were lead bars, and Jorie cried out again.
“The dolls!” Her voice was a lone, forlorn curlew’s call. Material rasped as her peacoat rubbed against the cot; another healer, this one with a short dark pixie cut and wide blue eyes, had her hands closed on his witch’s temples, flooding her with soft, bright energy. “He takes them . . . someone help . . .” The plaintive warning died in her throat, and Caleb’s unease mounted another few notches.
“It’s all right,” Raina soothed, her voice full of soothing, deep green Power. “Jorie, sweetheart, it’s all right, we know, we’re aware.”
If it was a lie, it was a kind one. Still, Caleb’s hands were fists, and he realized Lorenz was watching him very carefully. A Watcher with a wounded witch could go off the deep end with very little provocation.
So Caleb forced his fingers to relax, his shoulders to drop. The humming tension in him didn’t go away, just settled into a deeper thrum as the tanak turned its attention to mending deeper bruises and strains as well as smoothing out messily fused breaks in combat-healed bones.
“It was a hunting pack of something,” Caleb continued, harshly. “The things are about two-three feet tall, they boiled right up out of the drainage water. Might be connected to some kids disappearing.”
“Disappearances?” Lorenz glanced at Jorie again, weighing her condition. If he judged Caleb’s care for his witch was wanting, what then?
“I don’t know.” Caleb quelled the urge to run his hands through his hair or stalk to the bedside and try to rip the stain out of Jorie’s aura by the roots. “Can’t rule out something else, though. She was hit by a Slayer a couple nights ago.”
“Ah. Yes.” Lorenz shook his head slightly. “About that—”
“Lorenz?” A hurrying at one end of the screened passage resolved into a dark-haired airwitch in a dove-grey pantsuit, shorter than even the average woman but possessed of the crisp, competent manner usual in Council liaisons. “Oh, there you are. Is this where they put her?”
“Yes ma’am.” Lorenz glanced at Caleb. “This is Camden’s Watcher, ma’am. Caleb.”
“Oh, good.” The liaison—Sarah Belmario, another Seer who hadn’t left Rogue Street since laying the consecrating stone for the Blue Street safehouse—all but skidded to a stop, and Caleb began to get a very bad feeling. “How bad is it?”
“Don’t know yet, ma’am.” A Council liaison, here? What the hell was going on? He found himself standing to attention, chin level, and the demand to move, to do something about Jorie’s distress was throbbing in his bones like the tanak’s fury. “We were at the zoo, and—”
“Oh, thank the gods. Thank the gods.” Belmario paused just out of range, careful not to let her aura brush either Watcher. There normally shouldn’t be a reason for a Council liaison to be in the infirmary unless she was injured—or unless there was a disaster brewing. “We just got news. It’s her house, you see. There’s some kind of . . . well, we didn’t know if you both were inside.”
“Her house?” he repeated, stupidly. Inside? “Ma’am?” In other words, Help me out here. I’m a stupid Watcher, and I have no clue.
“Fire,” Lorenz said, quietly. He glanced past the screen; his tanak was probably uncomfortable at Jorie’s nearness, not to mention the Council witch’s glow. “The call came over the emergency scanners a half-hour ago; the techwitches flagged it.”
“We left around 0900.” Caleb stiffened as Jorie made another inarticulate, pained noise. Get in there and help her. There was nothing he could do, dammit. “Nothing wrong with the house then.” Or did I overlook something? He probably had; Christ kn
ew he’d fucked everything up from the moment he laid eyes on this beautiful, maddening witch.
“I’ll start arranging things.” The Council liaison’s gaze lingered on Lorenz, who stood at what could only be called attention as well, his hands clasped behind his back. “But if it wasn’t the fire, what happened?”
“Something Dark at the zoo, ma’am.” Lorenz glanced at Caleb.
Time to report, old son. “A hunting pack of something. Half-dozen things I’ve never seen before; she’s Darksick from exposure. I think it’s right where a child disappeared.” He struggled with his conscience, briefly—Jorie wouldn’t want him spreading the news of what she’d apparently been quietly doing for years now, with even her fellow witches none the wiser. “She’s been working with a homicide detective, I think.” His memory, well-trained, supplied the lying bastard’s name. “Neil Harvard. He visited her yesterday afternoon.”
“Missing children?” Belmario’s mouth turned down, and her eyes darkened. Giving a Lightbringer bad news was never pleasant. “I haven’t heard anything, but if there’s something Dark . . .”
“Could just be attracted to the . . . ah, to a charged site, ma’am.” Lorenz was very carefully, very studiously not looking directly at the liaison. Even the highest-ranking Watcher was utterly bound to obedience. “We can send a team to look.” It was the right thing to do, but a Watcher didn’t command. You could suggest, sure.
But it was up to a witch to decide, especially inside a safehouse.
“Yes, I think we’d better.” Belmario folded her arms. Her air of calm self-possession made her seem much taller than she actually was, a trait common in Council witches. “How is she? Is it bad?”
Bad enough. “Don’t know.” Caleb’s shoulder gave one last flare of pain. His coat was dry, but still held rips and gouges from the things’ teeth and their hard little claws. At least Jorie hadn’t been exposed for more than a few moments, but he hadn’t even been able to clean up the psychic sludge of the dead Dark before getting her out and away. The venom would sit there, gathering little bits of ill-feeling, especially since it was so damp. Water was a great psychic conductor. “I got her out in a hurry, brought her straight here.”
“Good. You did well.” She skirted past; Caleb turned into a stone while she moved to avoid hurting him with her glow. It was a witch’s reflexive kindness, a painful reminder of just what a Watcher was guarding. “Tell Lorenz precisely where; he’ll send a team. I’ll get to work on arranging everything else. Raina?”
“If you’re not going to help—oh, it’s you.” The cinnamon-haired healer’s tone gentled abruptly. “She’s over the worst of it, Sare, don’t worry. We’ll get her into a room from here.”
“Bless you, Rain.” Sarah’s hands clasped, their knuckles whitening—she probably felt the urge to help as well, pouring her strength into the distress. “What would we do without you?”
“Oh, you’d all muddle along somehow.” But the healer’s tone carried to no sharpness now. “Send her Watcher in when you’re done with him, please.”
They’ll probably need me to carry her. At least, that was what Caleb hoped the healer meant; if she wanted to give him a dressing-down for allowing Jorie to catch Darksick, he’d stand and take it. Gratefully, even.
He was just beginning to believe his witch was still alive.
“Will do.” The Council liaison stepped back, still careful not to brush her aura against him or Lorenz, who waited for dismissal or further orders. “All right. Anything else, um . . . good gods, I’m so sorry, I’m terrible with names. Carl, is it?”
Another kindness, another unnecessary apology. “Caleb, ma’am.” His chin dropped, a respectful nod. She’s going to be all right, the healer said so. Relief burst inside his chest, almost staggering him into the moveable screen. Lucky, lucky, luckier than I deserve.
Unfortunately, there were even more problems looming. A fire at her house? It had to be bad if it was on the scanners and the safehouse had been alerted. She was going to be devastated when she woke up, and he hadn’t somehow prevented yet another disaster. “She’s my witch,” he said, numbly. “Her light doesn’t hurt me, ma’am.” The traditional understatement of a bonded Watcher bolted out of his mouth, removing himself from Circle Lightfall’s authority and placing him . . . elsewhere.
What happened to going back on patrol, you coward? Self-loathing bit deep; he was just covering his own ass, making sure they couldn’t reassign him.
Jorie needed an effective bastard taking care of her, and so far, he was only the latter half of that term.
“Well, that’s a piece of good news. She’s going to need you when she wakes up.” Belmario rubbed at her temples with delicate fingertips, probably trying to stave off a headache. Her dark braid, hanging over her shoulder, was tied with a grey elastic and threaded with pretty pink ribbons. “I’ll leave the investigation in your hands, Lorenz, and expect a report this afternoon. Oh, and we’ve a few new transfers down at Dispatch getting sorted, if you could—”
“I’m on it, ma’am. Don’t worry.” The head Watcher waited until she hurried away, fixing Caleb with a distant stare.
Here it comes. “Why didn’t you take care of your witch, Watcher?”
But Lorenz merely clapped him on the shoulder after studying him for a few moments. “Good work, Bruder. I’ll let you tend your witch.”
“Thanks.” Caleb’s lips were numb. He kept getting break after break, none of them earned. “Two more things.” Oh, Jorie, forgive me. “The cop, Harvard? He was lying to her about this case; I could smell it. And whoever you send down to the zoo, tell them to be careful. Those things are fast, and it’s knife-work to get rid of them.”
No Good Reason
ONE MOMENT SHE was struggling to scream, to warn everyone; the next, Jorie surfaced in an unfamiliar bed smelling of fabric softener and soft cleanliness. A curious hush like dead air under a bell jar told her where she was, and she lay very still for a few moments, blinking and staring at a white ceiling.
Safehouse. Which was comforting, except for the natural extension of the thought. Something went very wrong.
Her arms were heavy, and her legs hurt. Muscle aches filled her body, like the after-echoes of a bad flu. Her nose was dry; she rubbed at it, finding the particular grit of a bleed lingering along with a coppery taste, like she’d been sucking on a penny.
Ugh. Darksick. I hate that. Mindhealers were the most vulnerable to the Dark, of course, but Seers were right behind them. The more powerful the witch, the more risk of a quasi-allergic reaction to the contamination some species of Dark carried.
At least, that was how they were explaining it. The real mechanism could be different, but for right now the allergy hypothesis held up. A few of the healers said it was more like radiation poisoning, but who could tell? Certainly no witch was going to go strolling into a reactor to do tests.
For one thing, the Watchers would take a very dim view of such a strategy, no matter the benefits to magickal theory. And even the most foolhardy researcher might quail at the notion.
Jorie stirred, pushing at the blankets. The faint grey edge of dawn filled an unfamiliar window across a similarly strange bedroom. A nightlight burned behind a half-open door, gleaming off tile floor—a bathroom, and since this was the Rogue Street safehouse, the kitchen was on the other side of a breakfast counter and hanging cabinets. They’d put her in a studio instead of a dormitory room, which was surprising, but maybe it was closer or they didn’t have one of the pretty, jewel-toned smaller suites available.
A faint stirring was a Watcher near the door, his redblack aura tightly contained. “You’re safe,” the Watcher said, very softly. A tanak’s growl underscored each word despite the attempt at quiet soothing. “You’re in the Rogue Street safehouse, and I’m here.”
Oh, good. Rust . . . no, it’s not him. Sh
e found the name she wanted in her mental storehouse. “Caleb,” she whispered. The relief was sharp, deep, and painful. “Oh, thank the gods.”
“Yes, on both counts.” He stayed near the door; the tanak wouldn’t give her Darksickness, but Watchers believed in better safe than sorry. “How do you feel?”
Like I’ve been run over. “Fine. Better.” She braced herself on her elbows, glancing at the window again. The bulk of the safehouse kept any storm-sound distant and muffled, but rain fingered the glass, soothing tiptaps turning into rivulets. “Not sick anymore.” Which is good.
That was apparently good enough for the Watcher, who stepped away from the door and approached, gliding silently over pale carpeting. “Can I bring you anything?”
I don’t think so. She reached to her right, where a nightstand should be, and found painted wood. “I don’t . . . here, let me get the light.” A little more feeling around gained her a small glass lamp, and she pulled the small chain, rewarded by a barrage of illumination that stung her eyes. “Ouch.”
“Take it easy.” Caleb stopped at the foot of the bed.
The studio was done in yellow and cream, an abstract print hanging on the opposite wall and a yellow-striped couch with a pale ashwood coffee table crouching before it holding a glass vase of fresh daisies. It was always the same in a safehouse—quiet and beautiful, but with the breathlessness reminding you of the protections on every nail, every sheet of drywall, every stud and joist, every coat of paint.
It was exhausting to feel that weight and know it was because the things lurking outside, both human and otherwise, wouldn’t think twice about killing you for the bare fact of your existence.
That was never a pleasant thought, and she had work to do. Jorie propped herself on her hands and examined Caleb. He was clean and dry, his hair a little unruly as if he’d simply finger-combed it, faint circles under his burning eyes. No sign of blood or bruising, which meant he was all right—of course, if a Watcher wasn’t dismembered, he considered himself all right, but Jorie’s standards were a little higher.
Finder (The Watchers Book 6) Page 14