A Touch Too Much

by Theresa Glover

  “Good.” For the first time since we started, she sounded happy. “Now, on to boxing.”

  I shook my head and stepped back, leaning over, breathing hard. Sweat dripped on the blue mats. “No,” I panted. “I’m done.”

  She checked her watch. “Shorter than usual.”

  “I haven’t slept well in days.” I dropped to the mat, leaning back to look up at her.

  “Then shower and head back to the hotel. Get some sleep.” She crossed the mat and opened a small refrigerator, pulling out a water bottle. “I’ve got extra clothes you can borrow.”

  I nodded, wondering if I’d make it through a shower before sleep ninja’d me. The mat felt ridiculously comfortable, a sure sign I would sink into dreamless sleep as soon as I crawled into bed. I could only hope “dreamless” included “without nightmares.”

  “Do you feel better, at least?” She offered me the water, which I immediately uncapped.

  I nodded, taking a long swig of water that ended in a cough. “Yes, thank you.”

  Sister Betty sat beside me on the mat and crossed her arms. “You did well, but you’ve got to watch those twists. Have you been practicing?”

  “Not as much as you want me to, but I don’t do much of this kind of fighting,” I re-capped the bottle. “It’s more the pew-pew kind of fighting.”

  She laughed at my finger guns and shook her head as I lay back on the mat. “Not an excuse for neglecting the basics. Practice your forms. You never know when—”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  I rolled my head on the mat. Sideways, Cooper looked taller and a little less like an accountant. It didn’t fix the way his suit didn’t quite fit, or his vaguely confused expression, but an improvement was an improvement.

  “Welcome to the gym, Agent Hardin,” Sister Betty said, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

  “Cooper, please.” He gestured to the mat. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Feel free.”

  I scooted myself around to see him but didn’t get up. “What’s up, Cooper?”

  He sank to the mat more gracefully than I expected. “You look…comfortable.”

  Knowing I looked like I’d stepped out of a fully-clothed shower and probably reeked, I grinned. “Thanks.” My tired muscles relished the post-exertion release. If I closed my eyes, I might even drift off to sleep right here in the middle of the floor.

  “Glad to see you’re staying in shape,” he said, “because we’re not done yet.”

  I sighed and sat up. “Obviously, but we don’t know what the hell to do once I find the nightmare. Or how to deal with the Compact.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he said. “But first, we need to discuss the victims.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my Docs, trying to summon the energy to lean over and pick them up. Beside the antique-looking nightstand, they looked huge and heavy. Cumbersome. Inelegant. They looked the way my heart felt.

  Tears pricked my eyes.

  “Cooper’s sending a car to take us—what’s wrong?” Marty asked.

  I sniffed and dashed a hand across my face. “Nothing, just zoned out, I guess. Thinking about what Cooper said last night.” That not only did the nightmare’s touch manifest a human’s worst fears, it stole a piece of their soul, and necrotized whatever remained. Anyone touched by a nightmare touched would die, even if not immediately. Each victim would lose themselves until their living spark extinguished and their body stopped functioning.

  And I still hadn’t managed to locate or stop it.

  I rubbed my face. One night of uninterrupted sleep hadn’t made much of a difference. Reality felt like a bad dream.

  If I couldn’t stop people from being touched, from dying from what Cooper called “soul ablation” after being touched, what was the point of me doing the job? Why not step aside for someone who could actually protect others?

  Even with Marty watching, I couldn’t reach for my battle-scarred boots. History made them heavy. I hadn’t owned them long, but they’d been through a lot, and not just the monkey brain stains. Most of the scratches had been buffed into ghostly color variations in the leather. I knew each one came from, from the first scratches across the top when I kicked a monster with spikes growing out of its legs, to the abrasions on the toes where I climbed an ancient Roman column for better line of sight. Cleanings handled the blood, but even so, history made them impossible to touch.

  “No, there’s something wrong.” He sat beside me, leaning down to try to look into my eyes. “What’s up?”

  I managed to conjure a mask of a smile, an all-too-familiar sensation. “Nah, I’m just tired. Didn’t sleep well.” The lie came out too easily, but I still felt the need to prop it up to make sure he believed it. “Before that, too many nights not sleeping. Trying to figure this out.” I shook my head, not sure what else to say. Under the tired, where I should have felt something, there was nothing. Not dread, or fear, or anticipation. Only a void and bone-deep weariness.

  He stared for longer than comfortable before asking, “You sure?”

  Lying without words felt less difficult, so I nodded.

  Marty took my hand and squeezed it. “If you’re not, I’m here. We can talk.”

  My throat closed, and tears threatened, but I squeezed his hand in return, jerking up the corners of my mouth a little farther. “It’s not serious. Once we catch the nightmare and handle this Compact thing, I’ll sleep for a week and be back to normal.”

  The skeptical quirk of his eyebrows said volumes though he said nothing.

  “I promise.” Guilt reverberated within me. I doubted sleep could do anything to fill the yawning blackness, though I might escape it for a while.

  Replies crossed Marty’s face in tiny flashes of expression until I looked away. Mustering every iota of energy I had, I leaned down and picked up my boots. “What did Cooper say about Riley’s status?”

  “Stable, but catatonic. Unresponsive to stimuli.” Marty stood, watching me. “The hospital downgraded them from good to fair about a half hour ago.”

  “I thought you said Riley was stable?”

  Marty shrugged. “They are, but I suppose it has to do with the catatonia.”

  “When did it start?”

  “Not sure. Someone found Riley sitting on a bench last night outside Café du Monde. Called 911 when they didn’t respond. They’ve been in the hospital since.” He checked his phone. “Cooper’s vehicle’s here. You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” I slid off the bed, picked up my Glock off the nightstand, and tucked it into my belly band holster. Hospital rules or not, something told me New Orleans and I would just never get along unless I carried some kind of weapon.

  Our second trip to Tulane Medical Center should have been less distressing since my team wasn’t being treated for battle-sustained wounds. Seeing Riley in bed, sprouting a hydra of wires and tubes, made it equally difficult.

  Madame Sabine, dressed in her old, colorless clothes, sat in the chair beside the bed. An expression of peace stripped years from her face. She hummed some tuneless melody I couldn’t recognize, her eyes closed, head back.

  I nodded in her direction and Sister Betty whispered, “She’s evaluating Riley.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. When I reported Riley’s experience and condition, the Order referred me to her.” She shrugged, and her gaze drifted back to the old woman. “There are things I’ve learned to accept on faith.”

  Typically, Sister Betty’s Order, the Holy Order of the Sisters of Saint Brendan, passed along hunting jobs, or information about threats, or provided arcane monster research, but recently, things had changed. The last job with the Black Dog hadn’t come through the normal chain of command and lacked the typical exit clause. Though the message bore the Order’s familiar stamp, it closed with Vatican staff signatures instead of the Reverend Mother’s arthritic scrawl. And now, the Order referred Sister Betty to a fortune tel
ler for a consult on a soul in jeopardy?

  Not knowing what to make of it, I nodded and reaffirmed my intent to talk to have a long, detailed discussion about the Order with Sister Betty later. “Has she said anything about Riley, yet?”

  “To say something about the patient, I would have to finish, which I could do if you would stop yammering,” the old woman muttered, one eye open a sliver. “Both of you, sit and be quiet, or leave.”

  Sister Betty and I sat in the hard plastic chairs in the corner.

  Madame Sabine, satisfied, closed her eye and resumed her humming.

  I closed my eyes to listen. That indistinct sound drained away tension. My muscles relaxed, and I floated. On the edge of perception, a bad dream built on a sound, the sound that haunted my entire life—a sick, wet crunch and never-ending, echoing scream. The last sound my sister, Shannon, would ever make.

  “Cee?”

  I jerked upright again. “Yeah?”

  “You fell asleep.” Sister Betty patted my hand. “Were you dreaming?”

  “I don’t think so. Not really.” Another effortless lie. I rubbed my eyes to avoid meeting hers. “What did I miss?”

  “Not much. Madame Sabine’s waiting.”

  The old woman leaned forward in the chair. “Hunter, are you wearing the amulet?”

  With a nod, I pulled the amulet out of my shirt, light catching the glass. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She sat back in the chair. “You’ll need it soon.”

  “What does it do, Madame Sabine?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I only sense it will be important and you must have it when the time’s right.”

  “But how will—”

  “You will know,” she said. “We’re here to talk about your friend.”

  Sister Betty crossed the room to sit on the edge of Riley’s bed. Even when she took their hand, Riley didn’t move, didn’t react. I hoped it meant peace, and their sleep remained undisturbed until I could free them.

  I had to find a way.

  “How do we heal them?” I asked.

  Madame Sabine blinked. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Wait, what?” I said, rising and joining Sister Betty at Riley’s side. “I thought the Order recommended you because you could help reverse this.”

  “No, cherie,” she said softly. “I cannot reverse this. There’s nothing we can do but make them comfortable until the end.”

  “Are you saying they’re going to die?”

  “We all die,” she said.

  “Caitlin,” Sister Betty said.

  “What can we do to stop it?” I asked, gesturing at Riley and ignoring Sister Betty. “To save them?”

  “Nothing.” She stared at the young person in the hospital bed, her wrinkled lips downturned and sad. “The touch of nightmares outside of normal sleep disturbs the natural order. Sleep bridges the realms and protects against the touch of nightmares. When our worlds mix in such an unnatural way, they cross into our realm where the veil is thin.”

  “Because the power draws their attention?” I demanded. “What is the purpose of them crossing over and touching humans?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, stroking Riley’s cheek with tender compassion. “Even I only know what I know.”

  “And because the veil is thin and a nightmare crossed over, Riley’s going to die.”

  “So it seems,” she said. “Awake, we lack protection. The touch of nightmares is too much and consumes our divine spark. Without it, we die.”

  Biting back the urge to rail against fairness, I stared down at Riley’s face, marred by a few minor blemishes, but otherwise perfect and relaxed in sleep. A stark contrast to the way they trembled while they talked about the fear of locusts spurred by traumatizing bad dreams from childhood after vacation Bible school. They had stared up at Sister Betty with the innocent eyes of a terrified child and had only truly relaxed once Father Callahan sat and put his arm around them. I’d stopped the locusts, but it hadn’t been enough. The nightmare could still be out there, could do this to someone else, and all because I hadn’t acted fast enough. “How do I stop the nightmare?”

  Madame Sabine looked up at me.

  “Knock, knock.” Father Callahan opened the door slowly. “How are things in here?”

  “Someone else is dying on my watch,” I said. “Seems to be the new trend.”

  “Now, Caitlin, you can’t—”

  “It’s the truth, but I won’t let it happen again.” Not when it meant another name on my list. I directed my next question at Madame Sabine. “How do I stop it?”

  “There’s no simple answer,” Father Callahan said.

  “He’s right.” Cooper stepped into the room, followed by Marty. “There are things in play we don’t understand—”

  “But it’s not an excuse for not acting.”

  “She’s right,” Sister Betty said. “The threat isn’t only with regard to the manifestations of fears or the physical harm that befalls those touched, but also to the affected’s spiritual well-being. We have to act, Daniel.”

  I blinked and tried to remember when I’d last heard Sister Betty address Father Callahan by his first name. If I’d heard it, I couldn’t pin it to an exact event.

  Father Callahan pressed his lips together and nodded. “Yes, I know. I didn’t advocate doing nothing, and neither did Cooper, only a common sense approach.” He continued in a hurry as I opened my mouth. “This has happened before.”

  12

  “What?” Sister Betty, Marty and I all asked the same question at the same time.

  Father Callahan held up his hands in a placating gesture, but Cooper spoke first. “Before DEMON became an agency in the federal government, it existed as a fringe group. I won’t go into all the details, mostly because they aren’t relevant,” Cooper said, “but we observed similar incidents and reported them to the Church years ago.”

  “How many years ago?” Sister Betty’s shoulders stiffened.

  “That’s not—”

  “Two hundred and four.” Father Callahan leaned against the wall.

  “That was classified.” Cooper glared at the taller man.

  “They deserve to know.” Father Callahan gestured for Cooper to continue.

  “DEMON’s existed since,” Marty’s eyes twitched as he calculated, “1814?”

  “Longer, in some capacity,” Cooper said. “But the point is, we’ve seen this touch-induced soul ablation before, and it’s not impossible to reverse.”

  “Then we can save Riley.”

  “Yes, Caitlin, but it won’t be easy.”

  “Is anything?” I leaned forward, bracing my arms on my thighs. “What do we do?”

  Cooper actually shuffled his feet, his hands in his pockets. Had he bit his lip, he’d have looked like a child playing dress up.

  “What?” I asked. “What’s so terrible you don’t want to tell me?”

  “We don’t know. The manifestations stopped before the agents could figure out what happened. The soul-ablated weren’t discovered until after.”

  “Then how can you say it can be reversed if you don’t know how?” I demanded.

  “We know what’s causing the problem,” Marty said.

  “But not how to stop it,” I replied, “so we’re exactly where we started. Nowhere.”

  “The members of the Compact will know,” Cooper said.

  “Which members?” I asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Cooper said, shuffling again, “but we do know it’s possible.”

  “Again, we’re back at nothing.”

  “Caitlin, it’s not nothing. It’s a start,” Father Callahan said with unusual confidence, as if a positive outlook would make the impossible possible. “First, you need to access.”

  “Right.” I let my head drop and tried to reign in my irritation. “Any suggestions?”

  “Helen?” Cooper offered.

  “Oh, right, like I didn’t start with her.” I might have r
olled my eyes, but in my defense, involuntary reactions to stupid suggestions are out of my control. “She refused.”

  “Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’s not helping. Next suggestion.”

  Cooper turned to Father Callahan again. “Does the Church have other contacts with supernatural beings?”

  Madame Sabine’s laughter made us all turn as she slid out of her chair and crossed the room. She stopped in front of me, her hand lighting on my shoulder. I looked into her eyes, eyes that once transformed into glowing blue-white orbs as she pulled non-existent tarot cards from a normal deck. The electric buzz of magic radiated across my skin as she patted me. “Cherie, you’re wasting time. Instead of debating, go. Let the Compact find you.”

  Without another word, she left, humming to herself as the door closed behind her.

  Taking advice from others typically gets me in trouble, which is why I avoid even the most sensible tidbits of wisdom. Madame Sabine’s advice, I discovered, was no different.

  “I think this is the first time I’m glad to see you, Miss Kelley,” Officer LaFontaine said, peering over the door of his cruiser, the front sight of his Mossberg 12-gauge service weapon shaking despite bracing it as he trained it on the twelve-foot-wide coil of writhing snake filling most of the street.

  I glanced at him from where I stood, amused. “Why? Animal control busy?”

  “I hope you’re joking,” he said. Drops of sweat rolled down his bald, sunburned head. “This is more than a snake, and I only say that because I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  I glanced across the front seat of the car to where Boudreaux crouched behind the other open door, aiming another shotgun at the eight-foot-high pile of snake. He looked marginally more composed but refused to take his eyes off the creature. Probably best. The last thing I needed was those beautiful eyes rendering me stupid.

  Crouching beside LaFontaine, I asked for a rundown as Marty leaned in to listen.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy,” LaFontaine said.