by Jory Strong
An old, leather-bound journal was sitting on the patriarch’s desk. Rebekka opened it to a bookmarked page. Scratchy, handwritten text filled the right side of it.
The trader, Domenico Cieri, arrived in port today. He had in his possession two urns he claims were recovered from an archeological dig centuries ago and held in a private collection until financial disaster led to them being sold. They look authentic, like something from the Holy Lands, and the glyphs—I’ll admit, bumps rose on my arms when I traced my fingers over the symbols carved into the first of the urns.
Both are said to house demons, and it is a tantalizing prospect, though I continue to remind myself Domenico is a bit of a charlatan.
The first urn is sealed. Domenico claims (not knowing the full extent of my interest in such matters) that one need only be courageous enough to open it and a winged, tailed horror will appear to do the bidding of its new master. Of course, even the most ignorant of acolytes knows commanding a demon is not so simple (though of course I didn’t point this out to Domenico as it’s much wiser in these times not to do anything to draw the Church’s attention).
Demons have no love of humans and will expend as much energy twisting and evading and turning a command into something to suit their own purposes as obeying it.
The second urn is unsealed. If it did indeed once contain a demon, then there is no guarantee it is still bound to the vessel in any way. Scholars (dare I say, practitioners) of such matters are divided on this, and with good reason. Without the correct incantations or knowledge of the demon’s name, the results can be deadly.
Still, the urns are tempting, though of course, I listened to Domenico as one would listen to a tall tale at the bar. Tomorrow I’ll make arrangements for their acquisition, through the usual intermediaries so their purchase can’t be traced back to me.
Rebekka scanned through the rest of the entry. There was nothing more. Whoever the journal belonged to originally had moved on to list other items in the trader’s possession.
To the left of the entry, on the back of the preceding page, were sketches of the urns. Rebekka tried to memorize the images but quickly realized she’d never be able to describe the swirling sigils and unfamiliar symbols.
She was tempted to take the book, but its loss would be immediately noticeable, more so than the token. Reluctantly she closed the journal, only to open it again and cringe as she tore the pages containing the entry and the sketches from it. She tucked them into a pocket of her dress before shutting the book again and going to the door.
She held her breath and strained to hear any sound beyond the thick wood. Nothing, and she couldn’t afford to stay longer or escape through the window. If there wasn’t a search in progress for her yet, there soon would be.
Her hands trembled as she twisted the doorknob and slowly pulled backward, creating a tiny space. She heard footsteps and the sound of the patriarch’s motorized chair coming toward the hallway containing the study. Heart lodged in her throat, she darted from the room and slipped into the library several steps away, huddling next to the door so she could get to her room as soon as it was safe to attempt it.
“It’s time to turn the healer over to the Church, Grandfather,” Enzo said as they neared the library door.
“Allow me to do things my way. I’ve got months yet before the disease will kill me. If the prisoner is not what we believe he is, if his blood won’t heal me, then there won’t be a miracle and hurrying will have accomplished nothing. If you’d seen her with the lion—”
“There were drawings at her house. Two of them were of guardsmen I recognized. They’re men I’d marked for trial with a recommendation of the death penalty because of their involvement with the maze. One of them has already met his death. He was murdered near the Mission at around the time Tomás intercepted the healer. The third picture was of Tomás.”
Rebekka pressed the fisted hand containing the token to her mouth to keep from making a sound. The drawings had to belong to Araña, and she couldn’t have known about the house unless Levi took her there.
“You believe an attempt will be made on Tomás’s life?”
“I think it’s possible. The prisoner saw Tomás when he went to the trapper’s compound to look at the lion. Even blindfolded, as Father Ursu insisted be done on the second visit, the prisoner would have recognized Tomás’s voice.”
“I’ll send Tomás away.”
“That would be wise. And the healer?”
There was a long pause. Instead of an answer, the patriarch asked, “What of the child? Is he back with his mother?”
Relief gave Rebekka a moment’s respite.
“Yes, the unit I sent was in range of our newest cell tower an hour ago. They’ll be back shortly.”
The study door opened and they went inside. Enzo said, “Grandfather, if it could be any other way, I wouldn’t lobby so hard for this, but so much is at stake. Not just your life and Tomás’s, but all you’ve worked for, all the Iberás have stood for since our ancestors started reclaiming Oakland from anarchy and lawlessness.”
“I know, Enzo. I know.”
“Then let me take her. I can insist on being present when she’s questioned. Perhaps she can even be brought back here afterward. We can’t wait. The restoration of the guard and the elimination of the red zone are within reach. But if the prisoner disappears or Anton Barlowe takes possession of him, it might be decades before we’re this close again.”
There was a long silence. “I’ll speak to her one last time. If my effort to enlist her aid fails, I’ll allow you to take her to Derrick. Close the door. Let me gather my thoughts for a moment and share them with you before we proceed.”
As soon as she heard the click of the study door, Rebekka fled to the room assigned to her.
Janita looked up, a smile on her face. “Good, you’re here. I was getting worried. Hurry! Hurry! Let me help you out of that dress. Your bath is drawn and your evening clothes set out for you.”
“I need to be alone,” Rebekka said, practically shoving Janita from the room then pulling a heavy wooden chest containing handmade quilts in front of the door. It wouldn’t hold against a true assault, but hopefully it would hold long enough.
Janita pushed and encountered resistance. “What’s wrong? Please, at least tell me what’s happened to upset you.”
“I can’t.”
There was another push. Soft, and then Janita’s footsteps hurried away.
Rebekka scoured the room for what she needed. Candles and matches were easy. But a knife—
Foolish, foolish, foolish, not to think ahead and plan.
She lit the candle on the dresser and pressed the witch’s token into the wax so the flame danced on either side of it, turning it black. Her eyes desperately sought something sharp, anything, skipping over the handheld mirror to settle on an expensive bottle of perfume provided for her just as the clothes she wore had been, as if by wearing them she could fit into this world.
Rebekka picked the bottle up and smashed it against the corner of the dresser, breaking it without drawing blood. She would have preferred that she had, so she wouldn’t be forced to drag the sharp edge against her skin.
She slashed and held her hand over the token, squeezed so a drop of blood fell for each word of the spell. Rather than tamp down the candle flame, her blood fed it, making it leap hungrily upward as if it would wrap around her hand and consume her.
Rebekka reached the last word and hesitated, knowing instinctively it was the most powerful, the one word whose use was irrevocable—but in the end she gave in to the inevitable, preferring to take her chances with the witches instead of the Church. She spoke what she feared might be the name of a demon. Aziel.
He chose his moment to arrive. Not appearing until the chest was shoved away from the door with force, and both the patriarch and Enzo had entered the room to take note of the token and the candle.
Then it was as though a rent appeared in reality itself, tearing an opening between two wo
rlds so a shrouded figure could step through it.
Aziel carried a staff and the aura of death. His face was darkness itself.
In the hallway, Janita fainted without a word. The Iberá fumbled with his single useful hand, struggling to pull the crucifix from beneath his starched and buttoned shirt.
He spoke a litany of Spanish, but Aziel only laughed. “Your prayers have no power over me. But your death will serve as a warning to your grandson. It will serve as proof of my resolve. The healer is to be safely delivered to the witch’s house and those in your family who survive you will cease hunting the tattooed one, or every man, woman, and child bearing the name Iberá will enter the ghostlands.”
The sigils on Aziel’s staff came alive. He stretched the end of it toward The Iberá, only to halt a hair away from Rebekka’s chest when she stepped in front of the patriarch and said, “No. I don’t want his death on my conscience.”
The black hood holding no visible form tilted, birdlike. “And you, Carlos Juan Iberá, if I honor the healer’s plea and allow you to live, will you be required to answer for the death of your entire family?”
“No,” the patriarch said, sounding like the old man he was. “No.”
The sigils on the staff turned from red to icy blue. Rebekka gasped as it plunged forward, passing through her body like cold light to touch The Iberá. “Forget your answer and suffer the consequences,” Aziel said. “Your fate is now bound to the healer’s. Take her to the witch’s house and consider your search and your part in this done.”
Twenty-two
REBEKKA had no way of knowing if the Wainwrights expected her or not, though she imagined they knew she’d used the token, and perhaps the spell summoning Aziel was meant to have her brought to their home.
Was he a demon? She still didn’t know.
He’d struck fear in her heart. But he hadn’t felt evil.
Then again, what evil she’d experienced and witnessed had been done by beings of flesh and blood, not formless dark.
She rubbed her palms over the stiff fabric of the borrowed dress. The Iberá had insisted she keep it, along with the matching jewelry, and she hadn’t stopped to argue, though she was glad to have the bundle of her own soft, frayed clothing in her lap.
It had been offered through the window of the chauffeur-driven car by Janita, who’d recovered from her faint and cared enough to retrieve it and see that Rebekka had it before the car pulled away.
Tears leaked from Rebekka’s eyes. She couldn’t stop them. She was safe. Free. Everything that had happened seemed like a surreal nightmare though she knew it had been real and her peril no illusion.
The token was like ice where it pressed between dress and flesh. Aziel’s parting words to The Iberá were burned into her memory.
His fate was tied to hers.
It wasn’t a responsibility she wanted. His wasn’t a world she would ever feel comfortable in.
Liar, a small internal voice whispered, reminding her of the lions and the value the patriarch placed on her gift, the genuine caring she’d seen in Janita’s face when she picked Eston up and carried him off for his meal or told Rebekka she looked beautiful in the elegant, expensive dresses.
Rebekka rubbed the tears away. At least Eston was back with his mother.
Perhaps that’s what had made her step between Aziel and The Iberá. Or maybe it was the patriarch’s repeated reluctance to turn her over to the Church, until the very end, when Tomás was threatened.
Rebekka didn’t know. Maybe she’d never know. Or maybe it was a healer’s nature—the same nature that had seen The Iberá’s atrophied and useless limbs and wanted to restore them despite her status as a prisoner.
The chauffeured car pulled to a stop in front of the witch’s house. Rebekka got out quickly, not waiting for the driver to open the door—though he waited, as if she were the guest The Iberá had named her, and didn’t drive away until she’d passed through the wrought iron gate and reached the front door to have it opened for her.
“Come in,” Annalise said, leading Rebekka to a small room just off the foyer.
Rebekka sat, then stood, uncomfortable in the presence of so much magic pressing in on her. “I should be at work.”
Annalise folded her hands over her knees but didn’t rise from the chair she’d claimed. “The Weres are lucky to have you.”
Rebekka found herself lowering to the settee. Memories crowded in, of the caged werecougar freed during the ambush and forced to choose between human and animal forms, of Levi, who’d had to do the same, of the countless others she’d fixed but couldn’t truly cure.
She’d wondered, flirted with the idea of asking the witches for help with her gift after accepting the token, had come to suspect they wanted the demon in Anton’s possession. Her mouth grew dry with the question she was ready to dare despite her fear of the answer.
“I can’t heal them completely. My gift isn’t strong enough, and because it’s not, they remain trapped between forms, or are forced to choose between them.”
Annalise leaned forward, her eyes holding Rebekka’s. “There’s a war brewing between supernatural beings, not unlike the one occurring at the dawn of human creation. Depending on its outcome, the world as we know it may change again. As alliances are forged, healers will emerge who can make those Weres trapped in an abomination of form whole, able to shift completely as they were always meant to do. You are one of those healers.”
“If I’m willing to pay the price.”
“There is always a price to pay. But sometimes it’s in the choices made.”
“Is the escaped prisoner one of the healers you speak of?”
“That remains to be seen.” Annalise got to her feet. “I imagine you’re worried about your friend, the Were who accompanied you the other day. He is out of harm’s way for the moment, but it would be wise to send for him. A messenger is waiting.”
Sudden fear swept into Rebekka. She stood. “I’ll go to the brothel myself.”
“As you wish,” Annalise said, though she made no move to escort Rebekka to the front door.
Rebekka took a step and halted. Unbidden, Aziel’s words to the patriarch came to her, like a hint left for her to discover. Consider your search and your part in this done. As if this was an elaborate game, the very web she’d once fleetingly thought herself trapped in.
Choices. She’d chosen to ally herself with the Wainwrights the moment she’d pocketed the token in the occult shop and memorized the spell. She’d wondered what it would cost to be able to cure the Weres fully, so they could shift between perfect forms.
Maybe she couldn’t know the cost ahead of time. Maybe she could only go with her heart and do what she considered right at each juncture, as she’d done when she stepped between Aziel and the patriarch without agonizing over the decision.
Rebekka tugged a flowered handkerchief from the pocket of her bundled pants and handed it to Annalise. “Levi will come if this is sent with a messenger.”
“I’ll need the token as well.”
ARAÑA raced toward the brothel. Fear crowded her when she saw the hyena-faced Weres standing on either side of the door instead of Levi. Sweat coated her skin, and the demon’s warning in the vision place raged through her mind like fire consuming dry tender. With that choice you will return to your flesh prison without knowing what changes you wrought.
Was this the wrong day despite the increasing uneasiness and urgency she’d felt at L’Antiquaire and after leaving it? Or was Levi’s absence proof she’d changed the pattern leading to his death?
Araña pulled the cloak around her more tightly, making sure the hood and the tilt of her head shielded her face as she went to the front door. One of the Weres opened it—and there was Levi, so close that in another moment he would have been where she’d expected to find him.
He reached out as if to take her hand, then remembered the spider and indicated they go to the right instead. Lewd comments from the prostitutes followed them down a
hallway of glass-fronted rooms.
Inside, male and female Weres plied their trade, servicing humans who paid to get something they couldn’t otherwise, while others paid to walk the halls, watching them. At the corner Levi indicated a turn to the left, and they traveled a corridor marked by closed doors as well as open ones allowing glimpses into rooms containing only a bed.
“So he didn’t survive his attempt to recover the boat,” Levi said in oblique reference to Tir’s absence.
“He survived and found a hiding a place for it.”
Levi stepped into the last room before the hallway ended. “So you’re here because of Rebekka. You used your gift to find her.”
“I attempted it.” Araña’s mind closed against the images of Levi dying. “Rebekka’s not at the maze. A private army stormed her house today. A guardsman general was with them.” A life lived among outcasts and outlaws kept her from mentioning the priest who’d urged Rebekka be turned over to the Church for questioning. She couldn’t be sure Levi wouldn’t trade Tir for the healer.
“Did you recognize any of them?”
“No. The cars they arrived in sported flags, a red lion rampant against a shield with a field of gold behind it. The soldiers had the same image on their uniforms. Do you know who the crest belongs to?”
Levi shook his head. “No. But it should be easy enough to find out.”
“Tir and I will do what we can to free her. And if it’s possible, we’ll free the Weres held at the maze. I made a bargain with Draven Tassone through his High Servant. Fulfilling it will require me to break into Anton Barlowe’s house.”
The statement was met with silence rather than amusement. “You’ll die in the effort.”
“Or die if I fail to accomplish it.”
Levi shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “How long do you have?”
“Three days.”
“Not even one,” Levi said, “unless you want to take on the traveling magistrate’s armed guards. By noon tomorrow the magistrate will arrive with those he’s judged guilty elsewhere, criminals he’ll turn over for the administration of their punishment. At least half of them will end up at the maze. The law requires the magistrate’s guards remain with them to ensure they get a fair run, and to certify justice was carried out either by their deaths or their experience in the maze.”
