I pointed down. “Wipe your feet.”
The harvester’s eyes were pinpricks of orange, like the last, brief light of a candle wick after the flame was extinguished. They flickered and peered at the old welcome mat.
Curly script beneath faded yellow sunflowers read,An it harm none, do what you will.
Slowly, awkwardly, the harvester scuffed its bony feet on the mat.
“Do you understand and accept the contract?” I asked.
The harvester nodded.
“Then come on in.” I stepped back to give it space. “I’m Jenny Winter. I don’t suppose you can tell me what’s wrong?”
Being attuned to the unnatural didn’t mean I could understand them, and harvesters were the strong, silent type. It ducked inside. The door closed behind us on its own, the latch clicking softly into place.
The harvester’s hooded head stayed low, avoiding eye contact. Knotty fingers fidgeted. For a scavenger of stubborn spirits, it was surprisingly shy.
Up close, it smelled like four-day-old roadkill. The stench didn’t bother me too much; I’d trained to ignore far worse. But now I deliberately leaned in, studying the harvester’s BO like a sommelier with an old bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.
Rot and death, but also an earthy smell, like soil after the rain: petrichor. The scent of harvester blood was a permanent addition to my sensory memory. I’d had to throw out my favorite boots after killing the harvester at Sleepy Hollow. Nothing got that smell out of leather.
“Wait here.” I hurried to the end of the hall. The closet door swung open as I approached. This house had witnessed me treating countless patients over the past two decades, and it knew the routines.
“Thanks,” I said. Two first aid kits sat on the middle shelf of the closet: a red one and a larger black one. The first aid kits were repurposed tackle boxes, heavy enough to stop a small-caliber bullet. Red was for humans; black was for everything else. I grabbed the black.
I returned to the front of the hall and set it on the floor. From the top tray I took an infrared thermometer and pointed it at the harvester’s torso. I sucked air through my teeth when I saw the number.
“Your body temp is thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. You’re in bad shape.” It should have been between fifty and fifty-five.
Next, I grabbed a smooth, flat stone on a leather cord from the kit. I tied the cord around my head so the stone hung over my right eye like a patch. I adjusted it until the small hole through the stone was directly in front of my eyeball.
Hagstones were natural magic for seeing through illusions and charms. The type of rock didn’t matter, but the hole in the stone had to be natural, formed over time by running water. Using a waterjet cutter made a nice hole but didn’t do squat, magically.
This was a Petoskey stone I’d found in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula while hunting a rogue wendigo. I’d hand-polished it to bring out the pretty spotted fossil pattern and to keep it from scraping the skin of my eye socket.
The shadows and darkness around the harvester thinned as I peered through the stone, letting me see its physical form. Her form, rather. The tall, bony body was clearly female. “You poor thing. Who did this to you?”
Crusted blood the color of swamp muck covered three deep stab wounds to the chest. The arms had been slashed as well.
I imagined the scoffing of my old mentor, Felipe Aguilar, his heavy Spanish accent filled with disdain.
Sloppy and crude. A Hunter must be precise. Any threat can be ended with a precise enough strike.
Harvesters couldn’t be hurt by normal weapons. Bullets were useless. Knives and swords would snap before they pierced that dead flesh. You needed magic, and you needed to sever the head. This was the work of an amateur, albeit one gifted enough to see the harvester and strong enough to injure it.
From the size of the wounds, they’d used a wide-bladed knife. Small abrasions on either end of each injury suggested an upward-curved guard that had struck the skin with each deep stab.
The harvester sagged against the wall, dislodging several colorful flyers from the large public bulletin board.
I caught her arms and helped her to sit. Despite her height, she weighed no more than fifty pounds, tops. The feel of the leathery skin shrink-wrapped around thick arm bones brought back memories of Felipe’s old training drills.
Twist and hold the wrist. Use the arm as a lever to control the body. Strike the elbow from the outside to break it. Draw your blade and step in for the killing chop to the neck.
Instead, I patted the harvester’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up.”
Felipe would be so disappointed in who I’d become. The thought warmed my heart.
“Temple, I could use a hand down here.” I didn’t bother to raise my voice. The house would carry my words to his bedroom.
