Spider-Touched

Twenty-one

THANE entered a short time later, accompanied by bodyguards. He was everything Araña would have expected of a High Servant. Deadly beauty and lethal charisma combined.

Tir came to her side, equally beautiful and equally deadly, though Araña hoped the situation wouldn’t escalate into violence. Thane’s eyebrow lifted at Tir’s action, his storm gray eyes glittering with amused speculation—until something cold and alien passed through and they were left the color of smooth steel.

The hair on the back of Araña’s neck stood. She shivered, remembering Matthew’s speculation that a vampire could take possession of a High Servant’s body in daylight.

“Any deal will be with the human,” Thane said, his voice indicating there was no room for negotiation, his gaze settling completely on Araña. “I’ve already spoken to Cortez’s man and he’s agreed in principal to allow you access to the book, as long as it doesn’t leave the premises and is returned to the safe in its existing condition. What do you have to barter with?”

“I’m a thief.”

“Draven rarely requires the services of a thief. But your skills might be put to a different use. What are they?”

“I’m good with safes. And alarm systems.”

Thane’s smile was more savage flash of teeth than anything else. “Then perhaps we can deal. The question is, how good are you? Good enough to succeed when the penalty for failure will be death?”

A low growl came from Tir. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back to his chest in a possessive, protective gesture that made Thane’s amusement reappear.

Thierry said, “She’s good enough.”

An elegant eyebrow lifted again, this time in obvious surprise. “High praise indeed, coming from you.”

“What’s does Draven want done?” Araña asked, sweat trickling down her back.

Thane snapped his fingers, and a smallish man she hadn’t noticed stepped from behind one of the bodyguards. He held a museum catalog. It was old, the date on its cover indicating it was for a show taking place in San Francisco during the days when The Last War raged, before the world knew it truly marked the end of civilization as it had been.

At a nod from Thane, the man opened the catalog to a faded, glossy page with a ceramic urn that had once been part of a traveling collection. Despite its obvious worth, the sight of it filled Araña with deep uneasiness.

It was wide at the bottom, narrow-necked, and sealed with both stopper and wax. Writing covered it, like the tattoos trailing down Tir’s arms, though none of the sigils on the urn resembled the ones he wore.

“Draven wants this destroyed. It will shatter easily, as long as it is done with willing intent and by human hands.”

The sweat coating Araña’s skin grew chilled. “What’s in the urn?”

“As you will discover if you accept the task and succeed in getting to where it is currently being kept, the stopper has been removed. If it’s with the urn at all, it is of no consequence and doesn’t fall within the scope of the bargain. Only the urn does. Draven wants to assure himself it can’t be used again for the purposes it was created.”

Araña glanced at the description beneath the picture. It held no additional information, but served to remind her that the urn had been part of a museum display in San Francisco before the supernaturals emerged from hiding.

Vampires were said to have a noncorporeal form. They were said to be very nearly immortal. Perhaps one of them had once been trapped in the urn.

She licked suddenly dry lips. “Where is it?”

Thane’s smile was a shark’s, his gray eyes equally merciless. “In the possession of Anton Barlowe, the maze owner, who lives in a house wired with an advanced alarm system and is, as you might know, guarded by a demon. That’s why I ask if you’re good enough, and say if you aren’t, you will die. The demon will kill you. Or his master, Anton, will.

“Or Draven will see it done if you enter into a contract with him and then fail to deliver what you promised. Success provides the only possibility of remaining alive. As I said a moment ago, Draven rarely has use for a thief. I am aware of details regarding how entering Anton’s house might be accomplished. If you are willing to attempt it and guarantee the urn is destroyed in the prescribed manner, then Draven will intercede on your behalf with Virgilio Cortez.”

Araña suppressed a shudder as the image of the demon rose in her mind, sending the spider scurrying to the sole of her foot. The prospect of facing Abijah again made her legs threaten to give out. An icy fist squeezed her chest as she remembered fingers ending in curling, wicked claws, leathery black wings against an evening sky, and the coppery smell of human blood on his skin.

Tir’s arms tightened around her waist. From what seemed like a long distance away, she heard her own voice say, “We’d have to have access to the book belonging to Cortez before going after the urn.”

At some subtle signal, the small man closed the museum catalog and retreated from sight. Thane’s arctic-cold eyes bored into hers. “I have no problem allowing for a couple hours’ grace with respect to the book, and wording the agreement accordingly, as long as you agree to complete the task within three days’ time, the beginning of which is marked at tonight’s sunset.”

The merciless smile reappeared. “Be very clear. Your task isn’t finished until the urn is willingly destroyed by human hands. They can be your hands, or another’s, it doesn’t matter. But if I were in your position, I wouldn’t risk failure by delaying to see it done. If you need a few moments to discuss your decision with your companion, by all means, take them.”

Araña didn’t need a moment. She saw no real choice. If Thane left without an agreement and she broke into the safe, the vampire families would unite to mete out their punishment, and she didn’t doubt their reach extended into the ghostlands where Erik and Matthew were. They wouldn’t stop hunting her until they’d administered their justice—a justice that would probably see Tir in chains again.

If she agreed, and because of the translations, Tir’s power and memory were restored, then—

“I will protect you,” Tir said, stroking her cheek, directing the next at Thane. “Your enemies are mine.”

Thierry chose that moment to mediate on her behalf as he’d agreed to. “Thane has indicated he’s in possession of certain details, which I assume relate to the maze, and more particularly Anton Barlowe’s security. Since it’s in Draven’s best interest you succeed, Araña, it would be appropriate for Thane to share what he knows so you can more properly assess the proposed job before giving him your answer.”

Thane’s laugh held genuine amusement. “So she was clever enough to get you working on her side—it bodes well for her chances of surviving if she agrees to a contract with Draven.”

He snapped his fingers again. The small man reappeared and placed paper, pen, and a wooden box on the table in front of Thane.

Thane took up the pen and drew what Araña had already seen for herself once—a security gate opening into a fenced driveway and leading to the building where Jurgen and Cabot had sold her to Farold for the maze.

“This building serves as office and prison,” Thane said. “It also contains living quarters for those who assist Anton as well as those who are required by law to be on the premises at certain times.”

With quick strokes he sectioned off a portion of the building to the right of the counter where she’d been forced to stand as money was counted out and her picture taken. “This is Farold’s apartment. The front office area extends into it.”

He drew a larger square, then two curved lines creating a path between the two buildings, though Araña remembered seeing only a wall when she was taken through the front door at gunpoint.

“A fully enclosed walkway leads from the office in Farold’s living quarters to Anton’s house. There’s a door on either end, both alarmed, both unlocked using a keypad.”

Thane retracted the ink tip with a click and traced the route from the main office space, through the portion of it in Farold’s apartment, through the tunnel and into Anton’s house as he said, “This is the best chance anyone has of getting into the house and upstairs to the study, where the urn is kept.

“There are no windows facing the red zone outside Anton’s house. What windows there are all face the maze. The bottom floors are barred and the entire yard fenced to prevent hunters or runners from straying or attempting to kill him. Not that many would dare.

“The demon patrols the maze as well as all the buildings on the grounds, and as you have cause to know, he can be both corporal and incorporeal.”

Araña stiffened at his allusion to her encounter with Abijah. Thane’s eyes became a gray swirl of amused condescension. “Surely you don’t imagine Draven must supplement his income by collecting bounties on those who’ve escaped the maze. The fact you managed once and made a big enough impression on Barlowe that he wants you back is enough to qualify you for this job, even without Thierry’s recommendation, though I’ll admit to being surprised when I entered and saw you here.”

Matthew and Erik’s training kept Araña from missing the bigger picture. There was no way Thane had gathered all this information in the short time between Thierry’s call and his arrival at the shop. “How come Draven hasn’t gone after the urn before now?”

“Who says he hasn’t?” Thane countered.

“Has he?”

Thane considered his answer for a long moment, then said, “No. The timing has not been right, until now.” His eyes became the cool of steel gray. “Do we have an agreement, or do you need a moment to decide?”

A remembered conversation from her time at the maze slid into Araña’s mind, her subconscious already planning how she would accomplish this seemingly impossible task.

We’ll allow her two knives in the maze and give Abijah permission to play with her all night if the convicts don’t kill her first.

Why not add a caveat that Abijah can’t intentionally kill her unless she’s escaping the maze? If she survives his attention, that’ll make her next run a profitable one.

Done. Abijah has his instructions.

“I agree to the terms,” she told Thane.

“Then I’ll prepare the contract.”

Araña closed her eyes and soaked in Tir’s warmth as she listened to the sound of a pen scratching over paper. Her stomach churned with thoughts of facing Abijah again.

Taking comfort in Tir was a show of weakness, one that would have gained her a severe frown from Matthew, but she didn’t force herself away from the haven of Tir’s arms until Thane’s sardonic voice said, “If you’re ready…”

The document was short and simple, exact, and created in duplicate. It covered not only her agreement for services to be rendered for Draven, but Virgilio Cortez’s restrictions with respect to the book.

Araña read it before accepting the pen Thane offered and adding her signature beneath his on each page. When it was done, Thane said, “One last thing.”

His hand went to the wooden box. With the flick of his wrist it opened to reveal a syringe.

“Roll up your sleeve and hold out your arm,” he said, lifting the syringe from its bed of satin.

Araña’s heart pounded in her ears like a violent surf. When she hesitated, Thane motioned toward the signed papers. “They’re not official until I press the Tassone seal to them. That requires blood.”

A glance at Thierry, who’d returned to his work at a nearby table, gained her a solemn nod. She rolled up her sleeve and held out her arm.

Elegant fingers clamped down, forcing a vein into prominence, the material of her shirt keeping Thane safe from the spider.

Araña looked away as the needle slid through her skin and the syringe filled with blood. She expected Thane to store her blood in the satin-lined box. Instead he plunged the needle into his own arm and injected its contents into his vein. The sight of him doing it made her feel light-headed, nauseous. Sweat broke out again, icy and frightening.

“Done,” he said, calmly snapping off the needle and dropping the used syringe into a wastebasket at the end of the desk.

Thane lifted the satin bed the syringe had been resting on and retrieved an official stamp. He pressed it to both copies of the contract, leaving the red-ink seal of the Tassone family—a serpent holding an apple in its mouth, the three segments of its S-shaped body impaled by an arrow from a point behind its head to just before the tip of its tail.

The small man stepped forward to put the stamp away before reclaiming box, pen, and one of the signed contracts as Thane went to a safe. He opened it and removed a bound book, then returned to place it in Araña’s hands. “You have until sunrise to examine this in accordance with the terms of the agreement, and until sunset in three days to fulfill your obligations.”

“I understand,” she said, clutching the book to her chest and waiting until Thane left before offering it to Tir.

He stroked her cheek with the back of one hand, the emotion in his eyes something she’d never forget. “This will take some time.”

“We’ve got until sunrise.”

Tir leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. A thousand sentences crowded in, tangled in emotion so acute only two words could emerge. “Thank you,” he said, taking the book from her and sitting at the desk, opening it.

It smelled of leather and the smoke of oil lamps, until he reached parchment texts placed behind others centuries younger. There he found the scent of desert and incense, of a past so ancient it was only a whisper, marking the very dawning of human civilization.

Araña’s hand settled on his shoulder, her fingers stroking nervously, her worry vibrating into him. He looked up from the old parchment and took her hand, carrying it to his mouth and placing a kiss against her palm.

“All will be well,” he said, guessing her promise to the vampire was the source of her anxiety. “The Finder’s gift is a true one. These are the pages I remember.”

Her eyes went to the faded ink and foreign symbols, none of which matched what was on his arms. He pressed another kiss to her palm. “If I could free them from their binding and place them in their correct order, it would speed the process. But even then, it would still require time and concentration to untangle the incantations. I may well need until sunrise to accomplish it.”

Araña glanced at the tiny grime-coated row of windows near the room’s ceiling and knew she couldn’t stay. She felt confined, agitated. Thoughts of Levi and the brothel kept crowding in, along with images of the guardsmen and the dark-haired stranger from her vision.

Was tonight the night where her path crossed with theirs? Or was it merely the approaching dusk, and the knowledge it would soon be too late for her to leave the building that had her anxious?

She didn’t know. She couldn’t be certain. When she’d been standing in front of the tapestry with the demon, she’d known only that she was in the future.

“I’ll wait for you at the boat,” she said, pulling her hand from his, not daring to tell him she intended to go to the brothel.

His frown told her he didn’t like the idea. She leaned in and touched her lips to his cheek, unconsciously mimicking the strategy and words Matthew had so often used with Erik. “If I stay, I’ll drive you crazy with my pacing.”

Tir turned his face, capturing her mouth in a fierce kiss and her hair in a firm grip, holding her there until the need for air forced them apart. “I’ll come to you,” he said, releasing her, and she escaped the room before he thought to make her promise to go directly to the boat.

REBEKKA matched the rose in front of her to the page holding a description of its origins. Whatever arguments Enzo had made to The Iberá about taking her with him during the assault on her home, they hadn’t been persuasive. No one had come looking for her, though there wouldn’t have been much need for a search.

As soon as she’d emerged from the walkway elevator, intending to find a hiding place, the butler had been there, a cold, austere shadow holding a wealth of carefully concealed suspicion. His presence was followed by a series of maids, including Janita.

They’d offered to bring her food or drink, to show her to the music room or the art room or the television room. They’d suddenly needed to attend to housekeeping chores in whatever room she settled in, until she’d finally been driven back outside, where at least she could pretend she was alone as she wandered among beds of carefully tended roses.

It was there she’d heard the heavy throb of diesel engines marking Enzo and the Iberá private militia leaving the estate. It was there she’d seen movement at a window and crouched automatically, her fingers stroking the butter-smooth petals of a rose as if it held all her attention.

Curtains parted. Glass windows were opened by the butler, revealing the patriarch sitting behind his desk in the study—and giving Rebekka a glimpse of much needed hope. If he left, even for a few minutes, she could slip in from the gardens and reclaim the token.

Hours had passed since she’d returned to the house and made her way to the library, expressing a great interest in roses to the maid who quickly appeared, and taking one of the tomes about them out into the garden on the pretext of learning more about the bushes planted there.

Her fingers tightened on the book each time she heard a vehicle come in or leave through the gate the private army used. Had they found Levi? Or Araña? Or the prisoner?

If so, she didn’t think they were on the estate. Enzo would have prevailed then and had her sent for.

The scent of roses grew more cloying as her tension mounted. Her eyes ached from reading about them, but she wanted to be prepared if she was questioned and had to feign enough interest to avoid suspicion.

She was far enough from the main entrance that the guards no longer paused as they noted her presence in the garden. There were stretches of time when none of them were visible on the wall at all.

If only… Rebekka’s heart tripped into a desperate race when she saw the patriarch leave his desk. The moment she’d hoped for had arrived.

She checked the wall, and her breath caught at the sight of a guard there. His back was to her, as if he was watching the lions on the other side.

The horrible scream of prey dying confirmed her guess. The sound was followed by lions roaring throughout the compound.

Rebekka bolted for the study and clamored through the open window, only to hear the sound of approaching footsteps. There was no place to hide except underneath the patriarch’s desk. She curled into a ball, skirts tight against her legs, the book on roses clutched to her chest.

She thought it must be the butler entering. He paused in the doorway, as if the scent of roses had left a trail leading to her hiding place.

Rebekka didn’t dare breathe. If she could have stopped the wild pounding of her heart, she would have.

He moved into the room and closed the windows. Locked them. Lingered for what seemed like an agonizing eternity before leaving and closing the door behind him.

She didn’t move for fear he stood just outside, in the hallway, to make sure his suspicions were unfounded.

The clock on the patriarch’s desk ticked loudly. Elsewhere on the estate, another tolled, announcing the half hour and serving as a warning the dinner hour approached. Janita would be looking for her now.

Rebekka forced herself from underneath the desk. The token was where she thought it would be, still lying on the velvet of the butler’s tray. She grabbed it.

Sweat made her palms slick and her clothing cling to her. She started to leave, only to remember the conversation between Father Ursu and The Iberá about the demon in Anton Barlowe’s possession.

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 worlds 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.”