Cursed Sight Read online

  From hairline to lower spine, the skin of my back was imprinted with the tapered, irregular pattern of a Panther's pelt. Very few Walkers have such a Mark. A blessing and a curse, it meant I was special. It also meant growing up in the Colony pretending I didn't hear the snide whispers and envious comments.

  Muscles bunched, tensed. I steadied the weapon, balancing it on my knee. A sudden wind gusted around me, tugging at my hair, pulling slim strands free from the thick braid, which hung to my waist. Loosened strands whipped around and stung my cheeks with tiny slaps. The one thing I got from my mother that I could have with me all the time — thick, midnight hair that sometimes caught my father's eye and cast a grayness over his face. Times when the distance between us felt like miles.

  The glittering night was subdued. Silent condemnation? Even the chatter of traffic was a whisper on the air. A powerful engine throbbed below. An old Bentley pulled up to the curb pouring its passengers onto the sidewalk. Two young women, rail thin to the point of skeletal, were draped over their distinguished host, doe-eyed and adoring. I restrained the bitter urge to vomit.

  Silver hair, arrogant lines. My target had arrived.

  Game on.

  The girls tittered and the night air drew the sound to me, crisp and clear. If I'd cocked my ear, I'd have heard the words he uttered to them. But I wasn't interested in anything he had to say.

  Enjoy it while you can, you piece of scum. Tonight I will send your sorry hide back to the Darkness where you belong.

  Larson Keyes: Politician, adulterer, wife-beater. King of vices. But none of it mattered - Senator Keyes was already dead. What was contained within the flesh-and-bone shell of the man was NOT a man. Inside the polished exterior, something insidious and gut-wrenchingly evil now lived, had taken slow and deliberate control. Neither the senator, nor his family, would ever know he'd been killed by a Wraith. A possessor of bodies, devourer of souls.

  I forced my jaws to unclench — my teeth hurt.

  Sliding the tiny vial into the chamber in the crossbow, I readied the weapon, taking care to keep my fingers clear of the poison-tipped arrow. The diminutive arrow was designed to sink into the creature’s flesh, decreasing the possibility of it being removed. The longer the poison remained, the quicker the death.

  I aimed and fired a single silent shot.

  Below me, the Wraith clutched his chest. His breath clattered in his throat, Adam's apple bouncing in tempo. His eyes bulged, face caught in a horrible grimace, pulled taut in a gross parody of shock and agony. Screams echoed around him as the large man crumpled to the unforgiving concrete.

  The sight of Keyes' now-lifeless body spurred both horrified girls to run in terror. They did not see the dark wispy shadows, which spewed from his mouth. Did not see those shadows writhe and curl and twist away from the body, smoky gray fingers reaching for the tiny rips in the Veil, seeking to escape to the questionable safety of the Dark-World. They should be grateful to be blessed with such blindness. I certainly would have been.

  The body of the Host lay discarded. A dried husk of the man smiling and preening mere minutes before. Desiccated skin lay sunken on bones, papery thin and fluttering in the breeze.

  I rose, stretched my cramped limbs. I had time to contemplate the blood on my hands. Impossible to avoid the body count. After all, I was a killer. A Wraith-Hunter. But even though it's the Wraith I track and sever from this World, it's the body of the Host I have to terminate. The same Host who dies soon after the Wraith takes up residence, smothered by an evil blackness which sucks the life from him until what's left is a living shell without a soul. The Host was a lifeless puppet, and it didn't matter. My heart still shattered a little, ached a little each time I lined my target up within the cross hairs of my scope. Every time I watched a Host die by my hand.

  And, after the deed, I was still a killer.

  I left the rooftop, stuffing the small crossbow into my backpack, and turned my back on the sirens. As they sang in the distance, I shimmied down the fire escape super-fast. I dared not tempt Fate. It would be difficult to save anyone else from the black clutches of another Wraith if I were stuck in a prison cell. As I jogged away, my body zinged with pride. Then I came crashing down from my temporary high.

  I was probably the only one proud of me. Would my father care? Only enough to admonish me, and warn me not to embarrass his precious reputation. Would my mother care? Who knew? I hadn't seen or heard from her in twelve years. Nobody in my family had heard from her since the day she'd walked out on us without so much as a fare thee well.

  Heading back to the Rehab Center, I sent a prayer of gratitude to the Lady Ailuros. My job as a trainee drug counselor gave me access to a patient information network, which acted as a grapevine of the abused. One of the ways to sniff out a Wraith. Along with countless other addicts, Senator Keyes daughter Katie had sought secret refuge from his beatings in the euphoria of drugs. Her young, innocent face, so similar to mine. A different world and we could have been friends — giggled over boys and neoned our hair together. Shared stories of our first kisses.

  But reality had a way of keeping that alternate world very well cut off from me. So I had concentrated on helping her.

  Wraiths left a residue on their victims. A substance in their breath, which clings to those they came into close contact with. And those they tortured and abused. A substance only I could see. Katie had worn the pale peach tendrils around her in a misty shroud. An almost coral sign akin to a neon arrow.

  Wraith marks the spot.

  And I wasn’t about to complain. That very residue allowed me to track them, hunt them.

  And kill them.

  Skin Deep Ch2

  The door stood open and my supervisor walked back and forth, already arranging the chairs in a cozy circle. Clancy grinned as I entered. “Hello, Miss Tardy,” she teased. I stuck my tongue out at her and stashed my backpack behind the desk.

  I always arrived at least thirty minutes early, something she teased me for often enough. Today, despite still being wired from the hunt last night, I was only fifteen minutes early, so technically, she was right and I was late.

  I’d headed to the group therapy session in spite of the dull headache pounding my skull with the feverish tenacity of a jackhammer. Post-assassination stress headache. I blinked the thoughts away and focused.

  While these sessions weren’t compulsory for the clients, my attendance was mandatory as far as I was concerned. I’d never missed a session since I started working for the Sandhurst Center for Rehabilitation—also known as the Rehab Center.

  “You okay?” Clancy’s voice cut through my thoughts and I realized I still stood at the table, stock still.

  I nodded. “I’m fine, just a headache.” I squeezed my forehead, trying to massage the throbbing away. The pain had crept up on me, so unbearable now I couldn’t swallow without feeling it pulse in my throat and in my skull.

  Clancy tucked her long, dark hair behind her ear and walked over to me, her green eyes narrowing on my face. “Look, take off if you’re not feeling up to it, okay? Go home and sleep it off.”

  I shook my head and regretted it immediately as a sudden throb gripped my head in an agonizing vice. Swallowing a groan, I said, “No, really, I’ll manage.”

  “Alright. But you look like crap. What will our kids think?”

  A giggle escaped my lips. “Yes, Ms. McBride. I’ll put on a happy face for the kids,” I answered, my voice still dry but filled with laughter.

  Clancy grinned and rummaged through the desk, rearranging paperwork, her hair hiding her features. Our coloring—hair, eyes, even skin tone—was so similar many people assumed we were related. I took it as a compliment. Despite being Human, Clancy embodied everything I wanted in a friend and mentor. And she always had my back.

  But she didn’t know I wasn’t Human. And I had no intention of finding out how she would react to my true identity. What would she think if she knew her bright young counselor was a Panther shape-shifter? H
umans weren’t known for their acceptance of the unknown and I wanted our relationship to remain just the way it was.

  A hum in the corridor announced the first arrivals, who usually waited for company before they entered. Clancy and I fiddled with paperwork until the group settled. Still officially in training, a qualified counselor often joined me for assessments. And each class proved an educational experience for me.

  The stragglers trickled in and the group began to settle.

  Todd Denfield, one of our regulars, sat back in his chair, almost melting into the metal backrest. A picture of enforced, bored non-attention. When Todd’s rough voice broke the usual beginning-session silence, nobody in the room was more surprised than myself.

  “How do you become gay?” Heads turned as the fourteen-year-old boy voiced the question, eyes downcast.

  Silence smothered the group, palpable and thick. My jaw stuck, unsure how to respond. But even as Clancy and I shared a quick glance to decide who would respond, one of the other patients answered the question.

  “There’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ gay, Todd.” Sam answered. He was one of the older, already-rehabilitated kids, who often returned to attend the open forum. He admitted it reminded him of what he had to lose, of how hard he’d worked to pick himself up from where he’d fallen. “Maybe tell us why you’re askin’?”

  Todd gave him an impatient glare and shook his head. Eye-watering bright fluorescent light glazed his dark hair, gelled and spiked to stand straight up in places, while curtaining his eyes in oily fronds. “So— how does it happen? I mean, how do you know you’re...gay?”

  “You just do, like knowin’ you’re straight.” Sam looked around the room. He received a chorus of nods. It seemed the simplest answer, and the best one.

  “And can you stop?” Todd asked. “Like today you’re gay and tomorrow you’re straight.”

  “There are people who are bisexual, which means they find both sexes attractive. But I don’t think a person’s sexual orientation can change overnight.” Sam sat back, satisfied with his explanation.

  Todd stared at the older boy, dark eyes thickly lined in black. He’d failed to hide the purple crescents hugging each dull orb, betraying nights of sleeplessness. Todd’s upper lip curled. A thankful smile made slightly grotesque by two tiny silver piercings that clung to the soft flesh of his lower lip. As I watched him, the telltale signs beneath the pasty-pale goth foundation became clearer. Faint coral smudges stained the skin at his neck, almost hidden by a thick, studded-leather collar. His clothing looked unnatural, uncomfortable. A staged, gothic treatment, which I’d always taken as an outward indication of his inner emotional turmoil. I’d been presumptuous. So blind.

  Good thing Clancy knew I felt a bit under the weather. At least now, she wouldn’t realize I sat there almost paralyzed with shock.

  How did you miss the signs, Odel? You’re slipping big time.

  They’d been right there in front of me all along and I’d missed them. The peach residue which clung around Todd’s neck screamed of a Wraith’s touch, something I saw every day— because it’s my job to hunt the god-damned soul-sucking freaks.

  I let out a tiny breath of relief. Todd wasn’t the one possessed. Perhaps his father? But, the many traces of pale peach and coral located around Todd’s neck and arms proved the Wraith definitely abused the boy. I may be too late to help him. My stomach twisted. This lack of observation and awareness could mean the death of an innocent boy.

  Aching head temporarily forgotten, I contemplated my next move as the session disbanded and the kids trailed out of the room and down the hall.

  I sighed as Clancy waved a quick goodbye, shaking a finger at me – a warning to go home and rest. I began stacking chairs to move them to the storeroom, still chock-full of guilt for being so blind to the presence of a Wraith around Todd. No matter how much I convinced myself the make-up Todd had slathered on hid the signs too well, spotting Wraiths was my job.

  The vicious throb returned with a vengeance once silence descended on the room. I tried to ignore it while it ate further into my brain, further into my neck and shoulders. I sat heavily on my seat and rolled my head from side to side, hoping the movement might relax the muscles, while I pressed desperate fingers into lumps the size of peach pits pebbling the muscles in my neck.

  A Wraith-hunt now was inconvenient to say the least. But, headache be damned. I had to make time for a bit of recon at Todd’s house later in the day.

  A boy’s life hung in the balance.

  Skin Deep Ch3

  My head still throbbing, I dragged my body from my office, to make a stop at my friend Tara’s shop. Tara was a MetalSinger, an Ethereal with the ability to manipulate any solid substance with only the power of her mind and the blood that sang in her veins. Though Tara’s gift lay in working metals, her real power was the strength of her heart.

  When I’d arrived in Chicago to stay with Grandma Ivy, I’d needed a weapon for protection. Grams’ friend Storm had generously provided Tara’s name as a legitimate weapons forger and I’d had a crash course in direct contact with an Elemental Fae. I’d never trusted anyone easily but she was one of the most caring people I knew. Somehow it had been easy to trust her. Deep down I hoped I’d never regret it.

  I set off, jogging the three blocks to Tara’s shop, worried because I hadn’t been able to get her on the phone. Though eager to see the modifications she’d made to my old bow, I was more interested in the ammo she’d been developing. Tara was a weapons manufacturer, but for me she often went above and beyond. She knew about my Hunting and she and her mother Gracie had been searching for just the right substance to fill the cartridges for my jazzed-up bow. Just the right substance to kill a Wraith on contact.

  When I reached the shop, a closed sign hung in the window, and peeking in through the front window confirmed the place was draped in shadows. I had more luck at the rear entrance. A broken exhaust pipe propped the back door open. An iron security gate still shut me out though. Tara’s vague, gray shape moved about inside the dingy back room.

  I peered into the room. Ebony tendrils escaped a haphazard topknot and clung to Tara’s neck and shoulders, slick with sweat. Her pale skin, like most Elementals, bore the swirled markings of the Elemental Fae Court she came from. The glamored patterns remained unseen by Humans unless they had the Sight.

  Through the bars, I watched her smooth the curved blade of a scimitar with the tips of her fingers. The metal glowed red against her fingertips as they slid along the blade, shaving fine slivers off until the edge became so sharp it disappeared. Tara honed bladed weapons capable of slicing through bone like butter.

  I swallowed back the bite of metal as the warmth from the room bathed my skin. Although Tara worked with metal, she never needed a furnace to heat the material to a red-hot, pliable substance. She did pretty well with just her fingers.

  She ceased her work and laid the blade on the worktable. Rising, she dusted her hands on the seat of her pants. I hadn’t dared to disturb while she worked, only rapping my knuckles against the door now as she stretched.

  “Hey, look what the cat dragged in,” Tara said, grinning at the pun. Feline jokes were a favorite of hers, and she managed to throw a different one at me every so often.

  Corny, but cute.

  She shut the gate behind me, leaving the door open for fresh air. Besides a fear of overheating the room, she possessed a second elemental trait— claustrophobia. Adaptation to the Human way of life took longer than a few decades, but most elementals managed to a certain extent.

  “Sorry, I called, but...”

  “Yeah, I’ve been busy back here. A couple of orders keeping me frantic.” She shrugged an apology and moved to the table where the scimitar blade sat. Even without a handle, it was still a vicious enough instrument. “What do you need?”

  “Just running by to pick up the bow. Is it ready?”

  “Oh, sure.” Tara led me into the silent shop, where the odor of metal perme
ated the air and the dust motes danced in the dull afternoon light.

  “Where’s Gracie?” I asked.

  “Mum was called back to Court. Something’s going on and they needed her right away.” Tara frowned for a moment then disappeared behind the counter. Something must be up in the Fae courts if Tara was worried. I hoped her mother was going to be okay. They both lived on the edges of the Court’s rule, probably breaking a few laws with their weapons manufacturing, never mind their specific, made-to-order ammunitions.

  Tara popped back up seconds later with an object wrapped in black felt. She laid the package on the counter and flipped the edges open to reveal my crossbow. I’d missed it. Small enough to carry around in my backpack, shiny black steel; it was as lethal as it looked.

  “I’ve made a few special modifications for you.” Tara reached into a drawer beneath the counter and handed me a small box. Inside sat a row of tiny vials.

  Tara picked out a single tiny bottle, popped the chamber open on the bow and slid it into the slot. Then she readied the weapon. “This vial is packed tight with microscopic needles. Each needle is filled with a lethal poison. You have to take careful aim because the glass splits on impact and the needles enter the body in a fine spray. It’s so fine it’s undetectable. And untraceable.” Tara smirked, very proud of her efforts.

  “Thanks, this is just amazing. How do you always know what’s perfect for me?” I shook my head as I asked the question, and as expected, she shrugged.

  Minutes later, bow tucked discreetly in my backpack, I headed home.

  I entered my apartment the usual way, taking the steel stairs of the rattling old fire escape, two risers at a time. The fire escape’s rusted bolting threatened to dislodge in too many places. At times it swayed, rebelling against my weight. Light on my feet, I was in no danger of plunging seven stories to the broken sidewalk. I wouldn’t be so bold as to assume the nine-lives theory applied to Walkers. And I wasn’t itching to put it to the test, either.