Touched With Sight (4 page)

Yes
, Predator whispered,
that's exactly what we're supposed to do
. Catherine felt the edges of Predator rub against her conscious mind, like a furry caress.

She shuddered. The thought of taking human life left her feeling physically ill. It was the barrier with which she defined her human self, the one thing that kept her from being a beast. Humanity. Compassion.

What if an enemy threatened your pride? You'd let the enemy kill your loved ones?

No, she'd try to threaten them. To scare them away. Hurt them a little if necessary.

But not kill them.

Not if she could help it.

If you don't kill the enemy, they might come back
, Predator scoffed.
Better to finish cleanly the first time.

Catherine slammed her fist against the wall, hard, causing little cracks to rift out from the area of impact. There was now a hole in the wall with the approximate diameter of a tennis ball. She stared at it unseeingly.
I did that. I did that with my fist. With my own hands.

She bit her lip as she stared at the crumbling plaster flaking from the shattered tile.

(Don't fuck with me, or I'll let him have you.)

Then she swept out of the girls' room.

Violence again. It seemed as if she were caught in an endless cycle of it. Causing, and receiving. Over and over. Would it only end with death? If so, whose?

Karen was right, in a sense. She was afraid. She was afraid that if she succumbed to the killing she'd never be able to stop. Catherine was afraid that she'd turn into just another mindless bestial drone who only lived for the hunt. The potential for it was in her blood. That was frightening.

Did that make her a coward?

Murph the janitor was mopping up the floor outside the restrooms. He was an old human man who'd been through Vietnam and back, and thought character was something that had to be beaten into you with a paddle. “Catherine Pierce,” he said gruffly. “Just what are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Just having a snack. Babies, you know. Drowning bushels of kittens always makes me starved.” She nodded towards the bathroom. “Might want to give that a minute.”

“
Don't be smart, Pierce.”

“
I'll be sure to impart that knowledge to my teachers, sir. They seem to believe otherwise.”

“
Little wisenheimer.”

She heard him grumbling under his breath as he walked into the bathroom with the mop and bucket, shaking his head. She started to creep away, but when she heard his outraged cry she quickened her pace to an all-out run.

“Pierce! Pierce, you hooligan! Get back here! Defacing school property! Oh, I got you this time!”

“
I didn't do it!” she shouted, as she cut down the hallway that led to the front of the school.

“
Of course you did it! It's always you, isn't it? And don't think I don't see you bullying the other students, eh! Like that girl that just came out of here. Whatshername. 'Course I don't know how you manage, being the wee slip of a girl you are—”

She was almost to the double doors.

“—why, back in my day, girls were into sewing and dressmaking. Dancing. Nice ladylike activities that don't hurt nobody. But you—you go skulking around putting holes into plaster!”

Catherine opened the doors and stepped out into freedom. The janitor, being an elderly man in his late sixties, had given up the chase at the end of the hall. She could see him standing there, shaking his mop and brandishing it threateningly as she stepped onto the bus.

“It isn't always me,” she muttered, ignoring the look the driver gave her. “Not always.”

But, as usual, nobody heard.

“
I met with your shifter today.”

Finn dug his fingers into the phone. He had been expecting her call—she couldn't avoid him forever, he and his family were too powerful and she would not want to risk showing disrespect—but he had never believed she would dare undermine him in this manner.

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“
You're hardly impartial, Phineas,” she said. “Considering your obsession with the creature, I thought a second opinion necessary. But you were right; she does have the book. It has chosen.” Karen paused. “But as much as it kills me to admit it, I don't think she is a practitioner.”

“
Take care what you say to me,” he said coldly. “Do not mistake dedication for
obsession
.”

Karen made a derisive sound. “You're a vermin-lover, Phineas. Let's not mince words.”

“I could have you condemned for saying such things.”

“
But you wouldn't, would you? No. You wouldn't want to risk an investigation. Not the heir to the throne.” He could imagine the simpering smile, laced with contempt. “Because you know I speak the truth.”

Finn clenched his teeth. “What do you want from me, Karen?”

“I want you to stop sniffing around her like a dog in heat. You're not the only one who's going to be humiliated if this gets out. How do you think this will make me look? And my family?” Her voice hitched. “Karen Shields, daughter of Lincoln Shields, losing her betrothed to an—an
animal
.”

His aura surged and blazed around him in silvery flames. “She's part of my investigation.”

“I think you've done more than enough 'investigating.' Don't you? Whatever she may be guilty of, black magic is not part of it. Although her aura is strange, isn't it? Like a beacon. It draws the shades even as it repels.” Karen paused. Finn held his breath, but the other witch pursued a different tack. “She is not completely repulsive—by their standards, at least. I will give you that.”

The current of magic around him ebbed with his comprehension. “I don't see what—”

“Get her out of your system.” Karen enunciated each word carefully, so there was no way he could miss her meaning. “I don't care how, so long as you cease this pathetic sneaking around. Then go through with the engagement with me, as planned. Let the Council laud the match. As soon as the attention dies down, and we create an heir, you can take her as a mistress. We have enough on her that she would have no choice—it'll be that, or be sent to the Keep.”

Finn sucked in a breath. His pride was injured by the thought of the shifter having to choose between him and death. Many shape-shifters would rather kill themselves than be taken prisoner.

But what was Karen saying? That she
approved
of this liaison? Or was at least willing to tolerate it? Impossible. She was as disgusted by their kind as any other. He shook his head. Too much time had passed. “You are trying to trick me into revealing something.”

“
Do you think you are the only one with secrets?” Karen scoffed. “Ours was an engagement of convenience. There was never any real attraction between us. I am willing to make concessions.”

In spite of himself, he felt a bolt of resentment that she hadn't enjoyed what he considered his best efforts in the bedroom.
She
had not exactly been his first choice either. And then the real meaning behind her words hit him, and he understood at last why she could afford to be so gracious. It took Finn a moment to compose himself enough to get the words out. The realization filled him with a different kind of fury.

“
There is another.”

“
Yes.” She sounded amused, as if she'd expected him to figure this out before.

“
Who is he?”

“
She
,” Karen said, with light emphasis, “is no one you know.”

“
But she is a witch,” Finn said, running through the female witches of his acquaintance. Trying to picture them entwined with the woman who would be his wife, but not his lover.

He couldn't do it.

Karen's laughter broke through his thoughts.

“
Oh, yes,” she said, softly. “Whatever else I may be, a vermin-lover I am not.”

The Trans lived a block away from Catherine and her family in a house just as old. Victorian, Catherine thought. She'd had to get off the bus two stops earlier. Even though they lived in the same neighborhood the Trans' house was much nicer. It had a wide driveway with a private vineyard on the left-hand side. On the right was an expanse of well-watered lawn maintained by the help of gardeners, and a white-painted gazebo she'd been insanely jealous of as a child.

“
Hello, Mrs. Tran,” she muttered, focusing all her attention on the wadded up papers she was pulling out of her book bag so she wouldn't have to look at the house, “I have David's homework. And if you ever want to see it again, you'll pay me the two million dollars I asked for.”

Somehow, she didn't think smart-ass comments were going to win the Trans' hearts.

Maybe she was fucked, either way.
At least I can put a brave face on it
, she thought resignedly.

Catherine walked up to the front door. Nothing had really changed. The roses were still there, alive and kicking even after three winters' worth of frost. In front of them was the ugly troop of lawn gnomes—except, here, Catherine couldn't help but notice the conspicuous absence of the purple-hatted gnome her mother had given them as a Christmas gift many years ago.

Curiously, that gave her the courage she needed. She drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and rang the doorbell. Quickly, before she lost the nerve. She could hear a child shouting inside—probably David's younger brother, Samuel, who would be close to six now—followed by the rattling of a chain. The papers crinkled loudly as Catherine's grip on them tightened. The door opened a crack and a clipped, female voice said, “Who is it?”

“
It's…it's Catherine. Catherine Pierce. I'm in David's Biology class. I…um…have his homework.”

Mrs. Tran had always been beautiful, more like a fairytale princess than a mother. She looked young, too, far younger than Catherine's mother did, and guarded her age jealously. Once when David had asked her which animal of the Zodiac she was, Mrs. Tran had told him she was born in the year of the Crane.

David had once told Catherine—a long time ago—that her settled form was a lynx. She didn't find this the least bit surprising (once she had looked up what a lynx was); the woman exuded self-assurance, feline grace, and perfect entitlement. And she could be just as crafty.

As the door swung open, Catherine saw only a battered husk of the woman she remembered from her childhood. Mrs. Tran's long, black hair wasn't brushed, and looked as if it hadn't been for quite some time, and had a greasy, matted look. And her eyes—the same strange, glittery onyx as David's—they were so red and pinched, like she'd been
crying
.

Those eyes widened alarmingly, until the whites seemed to eat up her entire face, and then to Catherine's horror, the woman began to sob. Not quiet, hitching gasps, either, the way people did when they were trying to be discreet. No, this was a full-out bawl.

Catherine glanced nervously over her shoulder. The street was empty but that would quickly change. She started to reach out but couldn't quite bring herself to touch and comfort the woman. Physical contact among shifters was rare and Mrs. Tran would likely perceive it as aggressive.

“
Mrs. Tran—” she tried, keeping her voice soft and nonthreatening.

The woman didn't seem to hear her.

Catherine cleared her throat. “Mrs. Tran, what's wrong?”

“
David's missing.”

Chapter Three

Missing
.

The word, and its implications, spun through Catherine's head in a vortex of apprehension.

David was missing?

Mrs. Tran's eyes darted to the street, and then back to Catherine's face for a moment, before swinging back to a car that had started to pull out of a garage down the lane. She looked like a cornered animal, and Catherine knew full well how quickly such an animal could turn to the offensive.

Her finger's wrapped around Catherine's arm, tightly enough to make her flinch, and when the older woman began to drag her inside the dark doorway saying, “Come inside…we shouldn't talk…not on the porch. Not where they might be listening…” she began to feel terrified.

Who were
they
? Did they even exist outside Mrs. Tran's head? Had the older woman gone crazy? Had David never made it home last night? The questions were coming nonstop.

She had to struggle to keep up with Mrs. Tran's paisley-covered form as the woman jerked her down the foyer like a child with a pull-toy. Catherine stubbed her toe on a box that looked as if it were full of cookware. There were a lot of boxes lying around, all of them filled with toys, clothes, and various other household implements that were often taken for granted. All of them boxed up.

It's like something out of a Stephen King novel
, she thought, biting her lip.

What horrors lurked in the recesses of the Trans' house?

Mrs. Tran halted in the kitchen. Beige granite counters. An elm table handmade by David's great-great-grandfather in Vietnam. She knew this room well. Sudden movement caused her to shift her attention. As if Catherine had been the only thing keeping Mrs. Tran upright, she fell back into one of the upholstered dining chairs and didn't move.
Like a rundown wind-up doll
.

“
David's missing,” she repeated, in a weak voice. There was a cup of tea on the table. She started to drink out of it, frowned, and set it down. Catherine could see a froth of green mold floating in the porcelain cup, and felt her stomach rise.

“
Missing?”

Catherine picked up the cup from the table and emptied the moldy tea in the sink. It gave her a polite excuse to turn her back on Mrs. Tran and compose herself. “Since when?” She'd seen him hours ago. His parting words to her had been so sweet….

Mrs. Tran lifted her head a little to look at Catherine with bleary, unfocused eyes.

“
His bed was empty, his car was gone. I thought perhaps he'd gone to school early, but his backpack—his backpack was still by the door.” She broke off then, reaching out for where the teacup had been. Catherine was glad she'd had the foresight to remove it. But then, the woman looked up at her and said, absently, “Did you see where I put my tea?”

It was with great effort that Catherine cleared her throat. A lump had formed there, a tumor of guilt swelling, making it difficult to breathe.

He never made it home?

“
You don't know where he is, do you?” She reached out beseechingly. So beseechingly that Catherine found herself taking a step back, much to her disgust. “You were so close as children. Did he tell you where he went?”

“
I just came by to deliver his homework.” Catherine set it down carefully, wondering how she could escape from his mother's kitchen. Mrs. Tran stared at the homework fixedly, as though wondering how it came to be on her kitchen table. “I'm going now,” Catherine added.

“
Wait.” The claw-like grip around her wrist was back, tighter than before. So tight, in fact, that it felt as if she was trying to leach something vital right out of Catherine's skin. “He must have told you something. He must have—”

“
You're
hurting
me.” Catherine took a large step backwards, nearly yanking Mrs. Tran out of her chair. “I don't know where he is. His disappearance is news to me. I'm sorry.”

She was sorry. Sincerity and loss seeped through every word, straight from the heart.

Something must have happened to him on the way home. There's no way he'd make his parents worry like this on purpose.
Which begged the question—where was David's father? Working? How could he have left his wife all alone when she was clearly a nervous wreck?

And what about David? Had he been in an accident…?

No
.

No, that was too horrible to think about. And impossible! David was a good driver.

Mrs. Tran flinched. “He loved you,” she whispered, choking.

Catherine looked up sharply. “What did you say?”

“When he was younger, he used to say that he was going to marry you. The very idea—”

Mrs. Tran broke off, as though realizing “the very idea” was standing in the middle of her kitchen. But she didn't apologize. Even in the midst of her grief, even when she was trying to drink out of teacups filled with mold, Mrs. Tran would not debase herself.

“I was so afraid…so afraid something like this might happen.”

“
Something like
what
?” Catherine wasn't angry yet, but she was getting there. Fast. “What the fuck's happened?” The expletive just slipped out. But Mrs. Tran didn't even notice.

“
We're relocating,” Mrs. Tran said, somehow managing to answer and ignore Catherine's question simultaneously, making her even more worried than before. “As soon as Tom gets back from work.” Well, that answered the question of David's father. “I suggest you and your family do the same.

“
What's happened?” Catherine stepped closer. “Why are you relocating?”

Mrs. Tran shook her head. “You were always too wild. Too reckless.”

Catherine blinked, staring down at her in shock.

“
Thomas and I worried about David. About what might happen to him for getting mixed up with you and your … peculiarity.” She made some kind of warding-off sign with her hands. “None of it was good. You were trouble from the start. Time only made us more certain.”

“
So you made me the scapegoat?” Catherine asked. “You thought suffocating him—
smothering
him—would make him safe?” Clearly, she didn't know David, or anything about how life worked.

“
We wanted him to be
normal
,” Mrs. Tran said, in a flat voice that was somehow worse than anger. “He wouldn't go out with Bonnie Sung, even though she had a nice family. Even though she was the perfect girl for him, and could have given him a future that posed him no risk. And it was all because of you.” She pointed a finger at Catherine. “
You
did this to him!”

Catherine's anger snuffed itself out as she realized just how accurate Mrs. Tran's accusations were. If David had never made it home last night, which was looking to be the case, that meant something had happened to him after he'd left Barton Academy.

Which would make his disappearance my fault
.
The only reason he'd been there was because of me.

All the warmth in her body seemed to seep out at once, leaving her feeling chilled. She shivered and buttoned her coat up the rest of the way.

What have I done?

“
I've got to go.” Catherine stepped in the direction of the door. “My parents … they'll be worried.” She kept all her movements slow, her voice soft. Prey had the reins. Catherine focused on the door, and only the door, as she took care not to do anything to upset the nervous woman.

“
Go,” Mrs. Tran said.

Catherine no longer trusted herself to look at Mrs. Tran's face. She was afraid of what the older woman might see in hers. Guilt seemed to sear her skin like a brand, marking her like stigmata.

Almost there.

A dark-haired boy raced into the kitchen, to clutch at his catatonic mother's legs. He was wearing Oshkosh overalls over a yellow t-shirt that seemed far too bright in the middle of this sad, emptied-out room. A solitary ray of sunshine. The boy glanced at Catherine curiously.

He looked, Catherine thought, with a sour taste in her mouth, exactly like David.

Gods, he's even younger than I thought he would be.

As she watched, her eyes brimming with tears that she would not—
could not
—let fall, he shot her a toothy 'I-can-do-anything' grin. “My name's Samuel. I'm seven and three quarters.”

Catherine stared at him in horror.

Then, like a coward, she ran.

The moment he'd gotten the text from her—“it's too cold”—he knew. That was the phrase that they had agreed to use if one of them ever became compromised. If Karen wasn't dead already, she would be soon. The Slayers had gotten her.

 
Finn wasn't sure how he felt about that. Regret, yes, and perhaps even a bit of remorse. But there was relief there as well—Karen had been the only one to guess his secret, and with her out of the picture his reputation was secure once more.

Not that he could have saved her, even if he'd wanted to. That option was not viable. He needed the Slayers to relax enough to let down their guard, to the point where he could infiltrate their ranks and find out where their base of operations was situated.

If they found out that they were being hunted by a member of the esteemed Council, they would break ranks like frightened ants, to burrow back into their man-made hell-holes from whence they came. And he was close—
so close
—to finding them out.

Them, and their leader with his ridiculous name. Emilio Bordello.

He glanced up at the Pierce's household, shadowed now in the gloaming.

It's almost time.

Mrs. Pierce was on the computer when Catherine arrived home. She was in the middle of the perfectly ordinary task of checking her stocks portfolio. Her hair was tied back in a chignon and she was wearing an old gingham house dress.

It's amazing how well she plays the part.

“
Catherine Diana Pierce—do you know what time it is?”

Catherine groped for her watch, but her mother beat her to it.

“Almost five! I called the school—they paged your name and said you weren't there. Or weren't responding.”
You did
what? thought Catherine.
Fuck
. “I was this close—
this
close—to calling the police. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times.”

“
Mom,” Catherine said, “Chill. The human police don't do a thing unless you've been missing for more than forty-eight hours at least.”

“
That's not the point—”

“
Mr. Hauberk was just having me deliver David's…David's homework to his house. I should have called.” She lowered her head a little, showing submission. “I'm sorry.”

Towards the end she began to gasp, like a suffocating fish. The air in her lungs felt so tightly compressed it was almost solid. She kept choking on the lump it made.

Catherine's mother relaxed. “That certainly doesn't excuse your behavior but I'm happy to hear that you're taking on some personal responsibilities.”

Keeping her lips tightly closed, Catherine nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak. There was a sob welling up in her throat, accompanied by a desperate, childish urge to bury her face in her mother's dress. To be held and petted while she sobbed out her problems as her mother comforted her, the way she had when Catherine was younger.

At Catherine's silence, her mother went on, “And how
are
the Trans?”

Catherine nearly told her everything.

The words rose up to her lips, threatening to bubble over like tea left on the stove for too long, but she clamped her jaws down, swallowing back the truth like the bitter medicine it was. Too much, too late. The witch—the truck with the red-eyed goons—Karen's threats—David asking her out again—David's disappearance—the book—

If she talked now, she wouldn't be able to stop.

What if she freaked? In spite of that 'you must be careful speech', her mother was just as susceptible to error as the rest of them. She doubted that her mother would be able to sit as quietly as she'd suggested Catherine had. Not when her children were involved.

The last thing Catherine wanted was for her mother to do something drastic, like pulling Lucas and her out of school, or interrogating Mrs. Tran even more conspicuously than Catherine already had. She saw her mother bursting into a Sterling Rep meeting, with her fierce golden eyes. She saw her mother getting hit by a silver bullet.

She'd gotten into this alone. Now she had to get out of it…alone. She wasn't going to put anyone else at risk. Not after David.

So she laughed, gods have mercy on her, and said the first 'safe' thought that came to mind. “Mrs. Tran is really letting herself go.”

She felt terrible the instant the words were out of her mouth. But it turned out to be the right thing to say. Her mother's hazel eyes lit up with malicious glee. “Really!” Her tone adding “tell me more.” And so, Catherine obliged.