by Jory Strong
Through the window she saw it approach, the masked man driving while another, younger and barefaced, rode in the sidecar. They slowed to a stop, though the driver didn’t turn off the engine or dismount.
The club prospect got out of the sidecar. He stood next to it, body vibrating with excitement as he listened to the other man give final instructions, or remind him of the rules.
Rebekka’s mind raced, panic getting the better of her, freezing her at the window until she saw the driver lift his arms and remove the velvet ribbon with the key on it, passing it to the younger man.
She hurried to the stairs then, climbed just far enough to gain momentum, knowing she couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t falter. Surprise was her greatest weapon. Her only chance lay in a quick, unexpected strike, one deep enough to sever an artery.
Outside the sound of the motorcycle engine grew fainter as it drove away. Her would-be rapist and murderer entered the house cautiously, as she’d expected him to.
He reached the foot of the staircase, eyes going to the knife, her grip on it so tight her fingers paled against the dark hilt. There was no need to feign fear, to force it into her voice. “Please don’t do this,” she said, taking a step back as if she intended retreat. “I’m a healer.”
A sneer formed when his gaze moved to the tattoo. His body telegraphed his intention to charge a heartbeat before he did it.
Rebekka leapt forward with only one thought, one emotion. To do whatever it took to survive.
They collided. The knife held low, already thrusting forward between his thighs, her knowledge of anatomy making her accurate.
His expression went from surprise to shock to terrified understanding in the instant before he grabbed her, pushing her away from him instead of to the ground beneath him. Blood already soaking his pants.
He tried desperately to staunch the flow. But it pulsed through his fingers with the pounding of his heart.
“Please, help me,” he begged. “Please. My family has money. They can make you rich.”
Rebekka stood motionless, watching in frozen, sickened horror as he bled out, his panic growing and his pleading little more than sobbing at the end.
Despite knowing there was no other choice, that he intended far worse for her, she threw up when he ceased breathing. Continued to retch until the instinct for survival kicked in, urging her to get out of the house, to get as far away from it as quickly as possible, before the man wearing the mask arrived.
She liberated the key. A shudder went through her at the thought of wearing the dead man’s shirt, but without it she’d be naked.
It took effort to get it off him. She was panting, hearing the phantom approach of a motorcycle by the time she escaped the house and ran for the forest, seeking refuge in the thick press of trees so anyone who pursued her would have to be on foot.
Healer
UNSEEN, Tir watched as Levi approached the Iberá estate. Days ago thoughts of retribution would have dominated; now he found irony at events playing out here, between a family that had once paid coin to purchase him and prolong his enslavement, and a Were who’d left him free but shackled by chains in the woods.
Behind the high, gated walls of the compound, lions began roaring as if scenting a being who could take their form. On the walkway along the top, men stopped patrolling and pointed automatic weapons down at Levi as others emerged from the gatehouse with pistols drawn, witch-amulets glowing in the presence of a Were.
“What brings you here?” one of them asked, his eyes going to Levi then skittering away, searching the area behind him as if fearing a surprise attack.
“I’m here to speak to the Iberá patriarch.”
“And you are?”
“My name won’t mean anything to him. But the healer Rebekka’s does. And maybe, if the guardsman Captain Orst mentioned it since returning from a salvage operation in Were lands, the patriarch might know the name Aryck.”
The guard’s expression remained suspicious despite obviously recognizing at least one of the names Levi used. He returned to the guard-house, not bothering to close the door as he placed a call and repeated what Levi had said.
A moment later a heavy door swung open, offering a glimpse of manicured lawns and a magnificent house. Levi was motioned through it and escorted to the front door by guards. The butler took over, inviting Levi in and leading him to the patriarch’s study.
Tir followed, lips curved in dark amusement. So Addai spoke the truth even if he didn’t elaborate on it. In the end, Caphriel’s game had been turned to their advantage.
The patriarch sat behind his desk. At the corner of it, a militiaman wearing the stripes of one in command stood at ease, as if there to listen rather than guard.
“Why did you come to me?” The Iberá asked.
Levi’s hands clenched into fists. “Rebekka forgave you for holding her here against her will because she believed you were sincere in your desire to see the guard cleaned up and the red zone made a thing of the past. I’m here on her behalf.
“Since she was sixteen, Rebekka has been a healer in the Were brothels. We were working to help those we could to escape life as a prostitute. The vice lord Allende learned of it. Now the buildings are locked down and he plans to make an example of anyone who intended to leave or turned a blind eye to what was going on. He’ll sell their contracts to the Pleasure Venture when it arrives in port. Will you help the Weres Rebekka cares about? Or do you care only about the fate of humans in this city?”
In answer The Iberá picked up a slim phone. His hand trembled slightly, the effects of disease rather than emotion as he touched a button and spoke to someone on the other end. “Use what contacts you have to reach the vice lord Allende. He plans to sell some of the contracts he holds to the Pleasure Venture when it reaches port. Find out if he is willing to sell those same contracts to me. Let him know I intend to remove the shapeshifters from the area.”
The patriarch set the phone down. To Levi he said, “Often victory is more easily achieved using money instead of soldiers. While we wait for Allende’s answer you can accompany Colonel Peña to the planning room. If force becomes necessary—”
He stopped speaking as a dark-haired beauty appeared in the doorway. She frowned, either at having caught his mention of force or at finding he had a visitor. But when Levi turned, her eyes widened and her mouth formed a small O in seeming recognition.
There was a flash between them. Physical attraction and something else, an inevitability reminding Tir all too well of the first time he’d seen Araña.
“Isobel,” the patriarch said, the sharp crack of his voice enough to divert her attention and raise a blush to her cheeks.
“I’m to tell you everyone is gathered for the birthday party.”
“I will be there momentarily.”
“I’ll let them know,” she said, careful not to look at Levi as she turned away and retreated down the hallway.
“As I was saying,” The Iberá continued, “while we wait for Allende’s answer, you can accompany Colonel Peña to the planning room and provide information about the layout of the brothels as well as security measures. If force becomes necessary to extract those who wish to escape, then you—and any other ally you can personally vouch for—will need to go with the colonel and his men. I won’t risk having them killed by the very ones they’re attempting to rescue.”
“I understand.”
The patriarch’s hand settled on the controls operating the wheelchair. A motor hummed to life quietly in a signal of dismissal.
Colonel Peña moved to Levi’s side, and the two left the room. Tir waited, allowing The Iberá to maneuver the chair out from behind the desk before materializing, blocking the old man’s path in a display of angelic glory, of power and shimmering, unfolded wings.
If the patriarch guessed the being now standing before him was the very one his grandson had offered coin for, there was no sign of it in his face. He paled but didn’t cower as his good hand grasped the
crucifix worn beneath his tailored shirt.
Restoring the old man to good health would once have required Tir’s blood. Now, free of the sigil-inscribed collar, it required only his will.
He felt Araña’s presence in his mind a heartbeat before her voice whispered through it like a caress. Addai says it’s time to finish this and go to Rebekka.
“Your fate is bound to the healer’s,” Tir told the patriarch, amused by the subtle, dual meaning contained in the words. “You have proven yourself worthy of being called an ally.”
He bent forward and touched The Iberá’s useless hand where it lay on the arm of the wheelchair.
“Be healed,” he said, willing it so.
And so it became.
Thirty-six
ARYCK smelled death moments before he saw the house. The scent of it escaped through a barred window, blood and bowel and urine.
Flies were already gathering for the feast. Their buzz seemed loud in the sudden, oppressive quiet of the forest.
Instinct urged caution even as man and Jaguar raged, feared. Screamed silently at the prospect of finding Rebekka inside, always and forever gone from their lives.
The weight of it nearly crushed Aryck. The knowledge he’d failed her yet again felt like a mortal blow.
He tucked the witch’s pathfinder into the clothing collar he’d fashioned upon entering the woods and left the cover provided by the trees. His ears told him there was no one alive in the house but he still approached it carefully. The isolated location, the barred windows, the cameras mounted near the roof, all made him think this could be a trap.
Rebekka’s scent slammed into him like a fist to the gut when he neared the front door. It made her presence real, overrode the tiny, flickering hope the witch-produced tool was wrong, the hint of suspicion they had betrayed him—either of which would have been preferable to finding Rebekka inside.
Two men had been here before him. Aryck crouched, committing their scents to memory before picking up a handful of twigs and going to the door.
It was unlocked, adding to his sense this was somehow a trap. He stepped to the side and opened it, alert for any change in sound, for movement at the edge of the forest.
The smell of death intensified.
Aryck wedged the twigs under the door, holding it open as he cautiously entered the house. The Jaguar part of him raged, wanting a form that lent itself to ripping and slashing in a venting of fury.
Reason prevailed up until the moment Aryck saw the man’s corpse. In a glance he read what had happened by the blood pools and spatters on the stairs and walls, knew Rebekka lived, and, regardless of the cameras perched in the corners, changed.
He left the house at a run, following her path around and into the woods. It became easier the farther he went. She was barefoot, her feet bleeding.
Pride filled his chest when she came to a stream and began traveling in it. Making it more difficult to be tracked by humans. Not for him.
The water was shallow and the bed rocky. But the breeze carried her scent and it grew stronger with each step he took. He loped, his heart pounding not from exertion but from anticipation, from the knowledge he was only moments away from her.
He would never let her ago again. Regardless of what had happened to her since being taken prisoner, he wouldn’t leave her side or let her push him away.
She was his mate. He knew now the true depth of the word.
He rounded a curve and heard her running out of sight ahead of him. She was whimpering in pain, her breathing coming in fast pants.
A cry of denial screamed through him. Remorse followed when he realized the sound of his splashing pursuit had reached her, driving her forward in fear for her life.
He stopped. Shifted. Yelled, “Rebekka! Rebekka! Stop. It’s me.”
Rebekka stumbled and nearly went down to her knees at the sound of Aryck’s voice. It can’t be, she told herself, afraid she was hallucinating, then worse, that maybe with the taint to her gift came madness, insanity.
A chill swept through her. She kept going, only to falter when she heard him say, “Please stop, Rebekka! Let me catch up to you. I was with Levi earlier. I know you healed him. I know you can stand before the ancestors. The brothels are locked down, and Levi’s gone to the Iberá estate to ask for help freeing the outcasts.”
She did stop then, her grief over the loss of her gift making it impossible to go on. She stepped onto the bank and turned. Waited, almost expecting a phantom, a spirit apparition, not the flesh-and-blood man who appeared moments later, moving so stealthily she hadn’t heard his approach.
“Aryck,” she whispered, tears freed with the reality of his presence.
He closed the distance between them at a run. Discarding the clothing collar steps away from her before hugging her to him with a fierceness at odds to the trembling of his body.
She held him just as tightly. Didn’t try to stop crying as she closed her eyes and pressed her face to the crook of his neck, breathed in the scent of him, allowing herself the illusion everything would be all right now.
“You came after me,” she said, touching her mouth to the bite mark on his skin, remembering how he’d wanted her mark on him.
“Too late,” he said, loathing in his voice. “I failed you again. First in letting you leave without me, then in not getting here in time to protect you.”
Her throat went tight imagining what would have happened if he’d been on the Constellation with her when Kala arrived. He’d be dead. Led into an ambush because of the knife held to her throat, or killed by a bullet where he stood on the deck.
At least this way he lived. Even if she could no longer enter Were lands, or be his mate, or heal, at least he hadn’t lost his life because of her.
“You came after me. I’ll never forget it,” she said, her heart breaking with the knowledge she was only going to lose him again.
She lifted her face, wanting one last kiss, needing to soak in a little more of his body heat to offset the chill at her core. Through the blur of tears she saw the starkness of emotions laid bare, love and desire, remorse and gratitude.
And then his mouth was on hers, his tongue thrusting, rubbing against hers, emotional hunger rousing a physical one in a burst of hot flame centered between her thighs.
Her hands roamed his back. His did the same to hers, their lips parting only long enough for him to rid her of the dead man’s shirt so they were skin to skin.
He hardened against her belly and she desperately wanted to feel him inside her, his body joined to hers. But when he lifted her, as if to thrust into her where they stood, her thoughts flashed to the Were ancestors and reality drenched her like frigid water.
“No,” she said, stiffening in his arms, hating the pain that returned to his eyes at her rejection.
“Give me a chance to prove myself to you,” he pleaded, his voice gravelly with unshed tears.
“It’s too late,” she whispered, understanding Aryck’s respect of the Were ancestors and his fear of being made outcast in a way she hadn’t until she healed Levi.
She saw the shimmer of tears on his cheeks as he allowed her to see what the thought of losing her did to him. “It doesn’t have to be too late. I’ll stay with you. I’ll work with you and Levi to help the brothel workers escape Allende.”
“My gift is useless now. Tainted because I killed a man. I can’t go before the ancestors again. I can’t return to Were lands. I can’t be your mate.”
“You killed to save your life; how can it be wrong?” Aryck asked, challenging her in the same way she’d challenged him about the outcasts.
He pressed kiss after soft kiss to her cheeks, her lips, her ears, trying to convey the strength of his belief and his refusal to accept defeat when it came to her. “No Were, living or dead, would judge your soul tainted for defending yourself. If you doubt it, I’ll bring a shaman to you. I’ll go before the ancestors myself on your behalf and ask for a judgment.”
Her arms tighten
ed around his waist. “They can’t help. I’m not Were.”
Aryck touched his forehead to hers. “Then we’ll go to the witches. Levi took me to the Wainwright house. We bargained with them to find out if you lived and where you were. I’ll bargain with them again if it means we can be together.” He thought he saw a flash of hope in her eyes, then wondered if he was mistaken when he felt the subtle bracing of her body.
“What if the cost of restoring my gift is that after Oakland I have to go to another city, and then another, and another? Twice I’ve met my father. He says he’s not demon, but I have no proof he’s telling the truth. He paid my mother to carry me to term and keep me safe while I was still a child. He created me for a purpose.”
“Then I’ll come with you and keep you safe. I’ll help you with your work and at the same time continue lobbying for an alliance among all Were groups.”
“And if the witches can’t help me? If Nahuatl or another shaman says you’ll be made outcast if you remain with me?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve already given you my heart and my body, my Jaguar soul and my human one. You’re my mate, Rebekka. Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be, in life and in death.”
Aryck took her lips in a kiss that conveyed the strength of his conviction even as he silently begged her to believe in him despite his failing her, to feel for him what he felt for her. He plundered her mouth with the thrust of his tongue against hers, boldly claimed her as belonging to him, and didn’t stop until she was clinging to him, her body melded to his in a softening that shouted acceptance.
He didn’t know how desperately he needed to hear the words until she whispered them. “I couldn’t tell you why I had to leave Were lands, not if I wanted to be able to heal Levi and the others. I hated leaving you. I hated knowing my choice hurt you. I love you.”
“Weres rarely speak of love,” he said, tenderly brushing his lips against hers. “We say instead, everything I am and have belongs to you.”
“It is so among the Djinn as well,” a male voice said, and Aryck spun, putting himself between Rebekka and the sharp-featured man who’d managed to sneak up on them.
