Touched With Sight (12 page)

Cautiously, she lifted the ring to her nose and sniffed. She could smell the witch, and something else—human, possibly. The smell was faint. Possibly male. And yet—Catherine frowned—not.

Whose ring is this?

Chapter Nine

All she wanted to do was lie low until graduation, until she could go off into the world and live her life the way she had planned. Maybe purchase a small bookstore, or become a reclusive author with a small house in the woods where she could Change whenever she wanted. Witch-free.

It was starting to look as if that wasn't ever going to happen.

The next Sterling Rep meeting was coming up fast. Catherine felt the hairs on her body prickle every time she thought about it. If the organization
wasn't
a front for Slayer activity, the witch would continue to plague her with his presence as he attempted to uncover their actual location. But if it was, then her life—and the lives of her pride—would be endangered.

Want 2 go on dbl-date w/ Finn & Mike?

She dug her fingers into her phone so hard that she felt the plastic yield. That was the absolute last thing she wanted. But she could only imagine what the witch would say if she refused.

With effort, she relaxed her grip.
Today?

After skool.

“Fucking great,” Catherine snarled under her breath, tapping out a quick,
fine
.

Too bad if her response didn't meet the minimum level of required enthusiasm.

Catherine slammed the door and locked it quickly, tucking key and lanyard beneath the neckline of her blouse.  The street was completely deserted. Vernal pools were scattered around the stretch of property distinguishing her family's from the adjacent ones, with the cloudy sky reflected in the mirrored surface. Some of the larger pools had attracted ducks, which turned to look at Catherine curiously, though keeping their distance. They could smell the predator on her.

She continued down the path. Soon she was approaching the next development. The road was empty, save for a blue pick-up truck. With the thinning paint and slashes of orange rust, part of her couldn't help noticing subconsciously that the truck seemed out of place in a relatively wealthy neighborhood. Eucalyptus trees framed the street in parallel lines. As she walked into their long shadows, she felt the temperature drop until the air itself seemed to freeze.

Catherine wasn't sure how she knew he was behind her, but she did. She turned around, inhaling sharply when her suspicions were met. A spark seemed to arc through his dark green eyes like a comet shooting through a starless sky. Then his expression flickered, becoming a neutral mask once more, his lips twisted into an expression of muted condescension. She responded in kind by a slight widening of the eyes and clenching of the jaw. He was wearing a parka and a novelty t-shirt. This one said, “No, it's not a wand. I'm just happy to see you.”

“
Nice shirt,” she said flatly. “What happened to lying low?”

“
Harry Potter,” the witch said innocently. “I understand it's quite popular among humans.”

“
Not among shape-shifters,” Catherine said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He looked frustratingly perfect. Annoyingly perfect—untouched by the rain and the wind, without even so much as a single tousled lock of hair out of place. “Were you looking for me?”

“Don't flatter yourself. I live here.” She tore her eyes away. “What's your excuse?”

“
I was waiting for you, shifter mine.” He stepped out of the street and onto the sidewalk, in the direction of the blue truck. “I knew you'd come.”

“
It's a school day.” Her breath came out in a frosty plume. “Look, it's cold—”

“
Is it?” he interjected, absently straightening his shirt. “I hadn't noticed.”

“
It's cold,” she repeated, “And I am doing you a favor. Which, incidentally, you really don't deserve. Remember trying to kill me? Because I do.”

“
So I can safely assume you aren't here for the benefit of my company.”

“
I'm waiting for the bus. Oh, and by the way, my friend wants us to go on a date with her.”

She tried to adopt his cool condescension, making it sound like she would rather do anything else.

Instead of being annoyed, her efforts to gall him only served to heighten his amusement. The witch gave her another one of those irritating once-overs, but something gave him pause and she saw his mocking expression turn speculative before her eyes. “You're not wearing my ring.”

“
No.”

“
It really works,” he said. “Unlike that.”

She closed her hand around the quartz. “Why did you give it to me?”

His eyes were unreadable. “I thought you'd like to see what a real protective charm looked like.”

“
It's convenient when a gift can double as a threat.”

“
Just as wit can double as a shield?”

That robbed her of a response. The witch laughed—gods, how she hated him—but the chuckling was brief, as if his heart wasn't quite in it, and his expression sobered, becoming business-like.

He headed towards the run-down truck. “Come.”

“
This is yours?” It smelled like cigarette smoke on the inside. She made a face.

“
In a manner of speaking.”

“…
Goddess in Heaven—you mean you stole it?”

He glanced at her sidelong. “Don't look so shocked. It isn't as if you're a stranger to petty crime.”

“This isn't 'petty crime.' This is grand theft auto. You can go to jail for this.” She reached for the door on the driver's side and he popped the lock. “I am not riding shotgun in a stolen car with you. Unlock the door. I'm driving.”

“
You are mistaken.”

“
Like you've ever driven a car, you goddamn Luddite.”

“
I cast a glamor over the plates.” He hot-wired the engine. “It should last for a while.”

“
You're a Councilman! You're supposed to follow the rules, not break them!”

“
A common misconception.” The witch clicked his tongue. “I only break them when necessary.” He pushed open the passenger door. “Now get in the car, before I find it necessary to run you over.”

With a low growl, she grabbed the door by the handle and swung herself inside.

The moors were slick with ice, which merged into brownish sludge where mud and ice and rotting leaves had melted into a slushy stew. Flurries of snow whirled around, caught in the icy wind  blowing off from the North Atlantic. Below the crust of frozen earth it was significantly warmer, however, and in a natural, underground stadium formed in the limestone foundation, a group was convened, listening to the distant roar of the wind caught in the tunnels above.

Numerous torches cast wavering trails of light, demarcating the placement of their sconces. There were no chairs, only stalagmites that had the points sheared off, creating flat surfaces that provided naturally forming benches in the cavern. At the front, below the silent, robed figures, the rock bed leveled off at a slight incline, where dripping water had eroded away at the surface over several millennia. A man walked towards the podium, keeping to the shadows. His familiar—an arctic wolf he called Desdemona—padded along silently beside him.

As he ascended the platform, she said, “Have you heard from Phineas yet?”

No. He has ceased communication.

Her snowy fur bristled. “Perhaps he was discovered and captured by that savage.”

Perhaps.
Royce Riordan pursed his lips.
And perhaps not.

“
You believe he is unworthy of his seat on the Council?”

Royce shook his head thoughtfully. Phineas had yet to prove himself, and there was much of his late wife in the boy. She had been weak and prone to flights of fancy befitting a human, not a witch queen. He wondered sometimes if Phineas were also capable of such treachery.

On the other hand, he was quite good at hunting down insurgents. As a bounty hunter, his son had more than proved his worth. His hatred of shape-shifters was legendary, and the savages shivered in their beds at night for fear that Phineas would come for them, too. They did not do well in captivity. Facing such punishment, even the wildest of the beasts were kept in check. It was almost enough to negate some of the very disturbing rumors he had heard about his son.

I found the information I received troubling. There have been reports of inter-species breeding.

He glanced at Desdemona, his expression unreadable. But she could sense his emotions just as well as she could her own. “And this would pose a threat to your plans.”

This truce cannot work. Not in the face of such a threat. We have no time.

“Ah,” said Desdemona. “You need a distraction, so you intend to throw them under the bus.”

The Glamors have assimilated far better than we thought—at a glance, they look completely human. Who will Slayers be first to attack, then, if push comes to shove?

“This concerns you.”

Yes.
His voice was laced with a dark, dangerous emotion that caused a sharp surge in his aura.
We cannot forget who the real enemies are. A wild animal will always be wild. If it is capable of acting tame some of the time, it becomes a volatile, unpredictable creature and all the more dangerous because of this deception. A predator capable of stalking its prey in plain sight.

Desdemona gave a slight incline of her head. “They have always been such savage creatures.”

His lips curved into a slight sneer. “Interesting sentiment, coming from you.”

A few of those assembled heard his voice that time since he had made the mistake of speaking aloud, and they turned in his direction accordingly. Royce glanced at them impassively, silently cursing his familiar—who tossed off an insult of her own.

“And your son, as well, perhaps?” she said, baring her sharp teeth. “That's what you fear, isn't it?”

Ignoring her, and his subsequent disgust, Royce took his place in the center of the podium and gazed out. The witches waiting to hear him speak gave him heart. He was their leader, their king; they had come all this way to hear him speak and gain succor from his wisdom.

“It's time to take action.” Though his voice was quiet, it carried well into the hush and was amplified by the high ceiling of the cave. “The Slayers are spreading very quickly—like a plague. And the only way to cleanse a population of a plague is to issue quarantines and raze everything that cannot be stabilized. Purification through fire.” He paused, as if expecting dissent.

None came. At least, not immediately.

“As you know, the vampires are mercenaries. They have been known to assist the Slayers in exchange for blood money”—this was met by bleak laughter—“but their strength and speed makes them formidable. The truce established them as a common enemy of the Council, and yet—it would be better to have them as allies than enemies. It would be more focal to our cause.”

A thin, female voice broke the silence. “And how do you propose we do that, Your Highness?”

He grinned, showing white, even teeth. “It's simple. We buy their loyalty.”

The woman sat down, her lips pressed into a line. This answer did not satisfy.

“The shape-shifters have been threatening to secede from the Council for quite some time now. They are on the verge of collectively coming out to the humans and revealing our world. All of our world,” he added, “which cannot be permitted. With the advent of this recent wave of Slayer activity, revealing ourselves now could prove to be the tipping point to our race's destruction.”

Outrage—and fear—met this statement. He paused a moment, letting it take root. They were playing right into his hands, this group.

“The vampires want blood, and the Slayers are able to provide them with a paltry amount. Enough to wet the tongue but not to satiate. Whereas we have a ready supply at our disposal.” He looked at them all, meeting each eye in turn. “In this way, we can kill two birds with one stone. We gain the vampires' allegiance and silence the shape-shifter insurgency—forever.”

There was a drawn-out pause.

Another man stood up. This one was quite old, with a long, silver beard and an emerald python coiled around his neck like a collar. “Are you proposing that we allow the vampires to reinstate the slave trade?”

Royce shook his head slowly. “I never said that.”

“Not explicitly.” The man was frowning. “Four hundred years ago, the vampires were at the crux of their civilization. They threw the world into darkness, hunting the savages—and our kind—with untold ruthlessness. Do not forget, Your Highness, that they are mercenaries. Mercenaries who would think nothing of hunting us for sport. They would be quick to bite the hand that feeds if they thought they could get a supply of fresh blood without the use of an intermediary.”

The woman who had spoken before stood up again. “His Highness does have a point, though. The savages are just as ruthless as the vampires, especially the young ones. They heal rapidly; and while their intelligence may be found wanting—” scattered laughter “—their brutish strength and speed make them difficult to match, physically. Silver is precious and hard to obtain, and it is the only thing capable of warding off those creatures, whereas vampires can be destroyed by both fire and wood. Might I suggest sending those with mastery of fire as delegates?” she added suddenly.