by Jory Strong
He moved toward the doorway, intent on making his escape. She stopped him mid-stride by saying, “Are you looking for them? The papers covered with glyphs and texts?”
He was beside her with no memory of having returned, the knife held against her jugular vein as Araña had held the knife to the clerk’s throat in the occult shop. “What do you know about them?”
Saril’s gaze remained steady though he felt her fear. “A picture came, when you were healing me. I thought the pages were musical scores at first. But then I realized it didn’t make sense for me to see an image unless you were concentrating hard on one.”
Color tinted her face. Her voice softened. “I’m sorry if I stole your thoughts. I didn’t mean to. I’m a Finder. Sometimes it’s hard for me to stop being what I am.”
Thick lashes lowered to mute the emerald green of her eyes. “If you’re searching for them, I’ll help you. My debts are my own, not my… not Rimmon’s.”
Tir stilled completely. Did he dare trust her?
He pulled the knife away from her throat, feeling an unwelcome sting of shame—and recoiling from it as he’d done when he’d felt the same in Araña after she’d held the clerk at knifepoint.
Tir sheathed the blade to delay answering. Was it foolish not to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity? Or the wise avoidance of a neatly laid trap?
Her illness wasn’t feigned. Nor did he think the exchange with the vice lord had been an act put on for his benefit.
He glanced away from her and saw his reflection in a mirror. The collar around his neck caught the rays of the sunlight coming in through the window, mocking him, turning the instrument of his enslavement into something a human would wear as jewelry.
When he looked back at Saril, he made his decision. “The papers themselves aren’t important. They probably no longer exist. What I’m searching for is what was once written on them. The translations for the symbols inked onto my arms.”
Saril’s gaze dropped to the tattoos. She pushed off the heavy comforter and leaned forward, studying them for long moments before she used the arms of the chair to get to her feet. “I need my scrying bowl.”
Tir backed up to allow her room to move. Saril crossed to the dresser and lifted flowers out of what he would have labeled a squat vase, had he been interested enough to notice it. She shook the flowers gently to reduce the amount of water clinging to their stems before setting them aside. “My mother always said the best way to hide something valuable is to make it seem ordinary and put it in plain sight.”
Saril picked the bowl up and returned to the chair with it. Up close, Tir could see the lettering, something old, in a language that seemed familiar to him, as if he’d once known its meaning.
She bent over it, and he could feel the totality of her concentration. If she chanted, he didn’t hear it. If she closed her eyes, he didn’t see it. The workings of her gift weren’t obvious to him.
One moment ebbed into the next, like the slow trickle of a stream. He saw no change in the water. But when she lifted her face, her smile was one of triumph.
“I’m not sure if the papers are the originals, but pages holding the same information are bound in a book bearing the seal of the Knights Templar. It’s here in Oakland, at L’Antiquaire.”
THE new day brought a renewed sense of dread to Rebekka. She might be called a guest and allowed to wander the estate freely, both inside and outside, but she knew she was being watched for any attempt to escape, as surely as she knew her only hope of it was recovering the witch’s token and using it.
She didn’t forget she was a prisoner or that after allowing her a night to think about his proposition, to experience the comfort and security the wealthy took for granted, The Iberá would expect her to say yes to his offer of protection and employment. He’d expect her to name Levi, and tell him everything she knew about Araña and how they came to ambush the trapper and free the shackled prisoner.
Her answer hadn’t changed, despite the temptation presented to her. This wasn’t her world. It was as foreign to her as San Francisco and life as a vampire’s servant would be. Her place was in the red zone, where her gift made a difference in the lives of the Weres who had no choice but to prostitute themselves in order to survive.
Rebekka’s chest tightened with the knock on her door followed by the appearance of Janita. She rubbed her knuckles against the stiff fabric of the day dress she’d been provided.
“You look beautiful in that outfit,” Janita said, smiling and picking up Eston when he held out his arms to her. “The Iberá wishes to see you in his study. If you’re ready, I’ll show you the way before taking the little one to the kitchen for his meal.”
“I’m ready,” Rebekka said, unable to hide the nervousness in her voice.
Janita tsked. “You have nothing to fear. Carlos Iberá is a fair man. A good man. He takes care of his own. My family has been in service to him since he was a baby like Eston. When my cousin was accused of a crime he didn’t commit, The Iberá interceded and saw that justice was done.”
Rebekka nodded in acceptance of Janita’s assertions and resisted the urge to worry the fabric of the dress as she left the room. At the doorway to the study she placed a kiss on Eston’s cheek before he was taken off for his breakfast. Her heart squeezed at the sight of him disappearing around the corner, then nearly ceased beating altogether when she entered the patriarch’s office and a guardsman rose from a chair across from The Iberá’s desk.
He was heavily decorated, austere and autocratic. And in her fear she missed the family resemblance until the patriarch said, “This is my grandson, General Enzo Iberá. Tomás’s uncle.”
The general bowed slightly and said, “A pleasure, I hope.”
Rebekka didn’t miss the nuance. She focused on The Iberá, careful to avoid looking directly at the credenza where she’d caught a glimpse of the butler’s velvet-lined tray with the token exactly where she’d placed it. “I can’t accept your offer,” she said, taking the offensive. “And even if I did, it doesn’t change anything. I don’t know where the prisoner is.”
The patriarch seemed unfazed. “I’m sorry to hear that’s your initial decision. I haven’t lived so long by not being persistent. As to the other, I believe you when you say you don’t know what happened to the prisoner. Your friends might have a different answer, however.”
“My friend left when I did and didn’t go back.” She gave a quick, nervous glance at Enzo before adding, “The prisoner was still shackled when we fled as the guardsmen were approaching.”
“Someone remained behind,” General Iberá said. “It’s only a matter of time before we locate both that person and the one you claim is your friend. We know the child calls you Bekka. We’ve had men canvassing the gifted area since daybreak. None of the gifted has yet to admit they know of a healer who takes care of animals, but before long one of them will. The prisoner didn’t get out of his chains by himself. Tell us who freed him and, because of it, might know where he went.”
Rebekka’s throat tightened in fear. “I can’t.”
“Your answer grieves me,” the patriarch said, and his response seemed genuine. “I’d hoped—” He waved it aside. “No matter. There’s time yet for you to change your mind both on my offer to remain here and on helping us find the escaped prisoner.”
“Grandfather—”
“No. Her gift isn’t one to be thrown away casually, Enzo. If you’d seen her with the lion your brother and Tomás gave me for my birthday… Go ahead and take the steps we agreed on.”
The general nodded in acquiescence and pulled ink pad and fingerprinting card from a pocket. Rebekka backed up a step, only to find the butler had entered the room unnoticed and stood ready to restrain her, if necessary.
“Allow me,” Enzo said, reaching for her hand, his voice courteous despite the steel in it.
Rebekka took a deep breath and allowed him to fingerprint her. It could take him days, perhaps weeks, to find the ident
ification papers she’d been required to file when she homesteaded in the area set aside for the gifted. And even if he located them, Levi wouldn’t go to her house and Araña didn’t know about it.
When it was done, the general left, and Rebekka accompanied the patriarch to breakfast. There’s hope, she told herself, thinking of the token left out in the open rather than tucked away in a safe or hidden somewhere.
Her hope was short-lived. The butler announced Father Ursu’s arrival just after the meal concluded but before she’d left the table.
“Forgive me for arriving unannounced,” the priest said after he was shown to the less formal room where they’d eaten the morning meal. “The situation has grown more urgent, Carlos. Anton has learned of our interest in the prisoner. He’s made it known that he’s willing to pay a bounty for information, capture, or the prisoner’s corpse.”
From his vestments Father Ursu pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on the table. “That’s not all. He’s also circulating this.”
The priest’s eyes flashed with victory at Rebekka’s reaction to the picture of Araña. “Your guest recognizes her,” he said. “The woman managed to escape the maze even with the demon pursuing her. She wears a brand on her hand said to belong to the Church. Anton believes she’s with the prisoner. We don’t have the luxury of time any longer. Let me take the healer when I leave.”
Rebekka’s heart rabbited in her chest and her stomach roiled with the food she’d just eaten.
“Not yet,” the patriarch said, but his words held the possibility that, in the end, he would be willing to turn her over to the Church.
“Carlos—”
The Iberá held his hand up. “We can discuss this again later. Come, I want to show you something I discovered in an old journal I’m currently reading. There’s record of two urns like the one once housing the demon Anton commands. They might be of interest to you should the Church ever be in a position to get its stolen property back.” To Rebekka he said, “If you’ll excuse us.”
She nodded, but remained seated, unsure she could stand without trembling, but also wanting to follow their progress audibly and confirm they traveled down the same hallway she’d taken earlier to The Iberá’s study.
At the patriarch’s mention of the urn and the demon, a terrible certainty had settled on her. She’d never studied witchcraft, but it seemed likely a demon freed yet still subject to human command could be trapped and held again.
Rebekka remembered Annalise’s words at the occult shop clearly. A woman will run tonight as well. It is beyond our control as to whether or not she will escape. But should she survive, she will be as important to you and the… man… who waits outside for you, as she is to us.
At the time she’d dared to hope the Wainwright witches wanted the destruction of the maze or might be persuaded to involve themselves in it. She hadn’t contemplated their motives for enlisting aid should Araña escape the maze, because she had no basis for forming an opinion. She’d spent little enough time in the area set aside for the gifted and none of it around witches like the Wainwrights.
Then later, after it was done and Araña was safe, when she’d returned to her room and learned about Anton’s plan to acquire a dragon lizard and set it against Levi’s brother, she’d preferred to remain ignorant about the brand Araña wore or the spider-shaped mark Araña claimed made it dangerous to touch her.
But now, as Annalise’s words reverberated, with a refocused emphasis on Araña’s importance to the Wainwrights, Rebekka couldn’t shake the idea that they knew about Anton’s possession of the urn and its connection to the demon. She couldn’t rid herself of the certainty that the witches believed Araña could gain it for them, perhaps knew by the brand on her hand she was capable of accomplishing it.
Rebekka shivered at the idea of commanding a demon. And yet hope churned in her stomach along with fear. If the demon could somehow be trapped in the urn, then all the plans and dreams she and Levi held about freeing his brother and the others could be realized.
It was common knowledge Anton employed no guards because the demon couldn’t be defeated or subverted. It was the demon who patrolled the buildings and grounds. If the demon were no longer there…
Rebekka got to her feet and returned to her room, wanting to think and expecting to find Eston.
Instead she found a teary-eyed Janita.
“What’s happened? Where’s Eston?”
“I’m sorry, there was nothing I could do. I tried to bring him to you so you could say goodbye, but I was told no, it wasn’t allowed. Enzo took him with him when he left. The Iberá ordered Eston sent away.”
“Where?”
Janita brushed tears away. “I don’t know. None of us do.”
Seventeen
TIR knew the moment he reached the healer’s house that it stood empty of anything living. No emotion emanated from it, especially not Araña’s.
The excitement that had brought him here so she could accompany him to the bookseller’s shop became a cold, gut-wrenching fear before flaring into white-hot fury.
If anything had happened to her…
He entered the house, steeling himself for what he might find, then sagging as relief swept through him when there was no blood, no body. No evidence of a struggle. Nothing to hint she’d left unwillingly or an enemy had been there in his absence.
The drawings she’d done for Levi were on the counter, next to the uneaten bread and cheese he’d placed there. A pile of ash in the fireplace was all that remained of the wood burned there the night before.
Her cloak was also gone, as if she’d left the house on an errand of her own choosing. There was no note. But its lack didn’t mean anything other than she was being cautious.
He couldn’t stay, not when he was so close to gaining his freedom. Yet he prowled the tiny house repeatedly before going to the front door.
Her scent was everywhere. Evocative. Tempting. Taunting him with the memory of her on her knees before him.
A different type of heated fury flared inside him as he left. Something dark and primitive, bringing with it a demand she be punished for defying him when he’d ordered her to remain in the house until he returned.
THE shamaness’s house was freshly painted white adobe with a gray tile roof. It was small, the yard well tended. Flower boxes overflowed with color beneath the windows and on the porch. Tomato plants stood tall along one side, towering over vines holding squash and cucumbers. Songbirds flew to the ground from nearby trees, then back again, while chickens scratched and pecked, looking for food.
Like the witches’ house, a fence marked the boundaries of the property. It bore protective sigils similar to the ones carved into the door frame. And like the witches’ house, there was no symbol announcing what manner of gifted human lived in the house.
Araña had found it only by asking strangers for directions, her heart racing each time she approached someone, fear gathering in her chest that they’d be in possession of her picture and would seek the reward being offered for her.
The fingertips left bare on her gloved hand glanced over the hilt of a knife before going to the fetish in her front pocket. She felt no magic in the crystal, nothing to suggest it was a powerful amulet. And yet it must be.
Tir should be back with news about the boat. She longed for the safety he’d come to represent, for the feel of his arms around her and the strength she gained from his touch. But the desire to see Matthew and Erik again, to be absolved of the guilt she carried over their deaths, kept her from delaying by going back to Rebekka’s house.
Araña’s hand curled around the crystal through the material of her pants. Memories of the men who’d meant everything made her heart ache and her throat tighten on tears of hope and sorrow.
She opened the gate and stepped onto the property. A breeze swirled around her, bringing with it the unexpected scent of hot sand and desert spice.
Gauzy curtains billowed as it passed through an open window. Fr
om somewhere inside the house a woman laughed then abruptly went silent—the reason obvious as Araña reached the porch and looked through the bars of the protective outer door.
A man and woman stood embracing, their passion a scorching heat wave that had Araña’s body crying out for Tir’s. The woman’s low moan made Araña feel like a voyeur. She started to back away, only to stop when the woman laughed and extricated herself from the man’s arms, saying, “There’s someone at the door, Zurael, as I’m sure you already know.”
They turned toward her, and Araña was momentarily stunned by their beauty. Both had long hair, the woman’s blond, the man’s black. He was shirtless, his body deeply tanned.
Araña’s fingers rubbed over the sheathed blades of her knives, the habit so deeply ingrained she was barely aware of it until the man’s hand curled around the woman’s arm when she would have stepped to the door.
“No, Aisling,” he said, halting her with a murmured warning.
It was then that Araña saw the serpent coiled around the shamaness’s forearm, its head flattened on the back of her hand, so lifelike it took her a moment to understand it was a tattoo.
A deep sense of foreboding settled in her chest. Her attention shifted back to the man. Zurael.
Inhuman eyes of melted gold met hers. But it was the glimpse of the small, matching serpent on the side of his neck that sent fear slithering through Araña.
Demon, she thought, and realized the spider had reacted to Zurael in the same way it had to Abijah and the scorpion he wore, by sliding down to rest at the base of her spine as if cowering in the presence of a greater power.
There was a subtle change in the—in Zurael’s expression, as though he recognized something in her as well. His face hardened. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice holding a harsh warning. “Who sent you?”
Resolve stiffened Araña’s spine. It was too late to retreat now. It had been too late from the moment she’d seen Oakland. And knowing what fate waited there, hadn’t told Matthew and Erik and pleaded with them to abandon the search for a healer there.
