Spider-Touched

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.”

Ice slid down Araña’s spine as she remembered Thane drawing the office building and saying, 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. He must have known when he gave her three days’ time to accomplish Draven’s task that she really had much less of it.

Araña touched the knives for comfort. It could be done. Tir was immortal, and the next time she saw him, he would be free of the collar, his power restored.

But she hadn’t lived with Matthew and Erik so long and not learned the value of gathering information when she could. “How many usually guard the maze grounds and buildings?”

“Anton doesn’t bother with guards because the demon protects him.”

“I saw only Farold, Anton, and the demon when I was held,” Araña said. “Who else is there?”

The gold of Levi’s eyes darkened in hate. “Gulzar.” It was more growl than word, a savage pledge of revenge Araña recognized and understood only too well.

“I’ll help you by doing what I can and sharing what I know,” Levi said. His hand emerged from a jacket pocket with a crumpled piece of paper. She guessed what it was, the notice putting a price on her head.

“I know about the reward,” she said when he would have given it to her.

Golden eyes lightened with surprise. “Then you took a big risk coming here. The same humans who enjoy watching Weres hunt in the maze come here and play out their fantasies of being superior by fucking them.”

Araña shrugged. Levi said, “There’s someone else who might help. A man who thinks his brother could be in Anton’s possession.”

The black-haired stranger she’d seen die with Levi in her vision came to mind. “Who?”

“Raoul. The werewolf bound for the maze and freed in the ambush.”

“Do you trust him?”

Levi opened his mouth but closed it without saying anything. His face hardened as he gave serious consideration to the question. Finally he answered, “I don’t know.”

Araña didn’t know either. Logic said the Were might be an ally. But the way his soul thread crossed and paralleled that of Jurgen’s suggested he might not be.

The door being jerked open kept them from saying anything more. Three drunken men stood in the entranceway.

“Room’s ours,” one of them slurred, pushing through his companions and tugging a doe-eyed prostitute into the room behind him.

The second man followed, unzipping his trousers and pulling out his cock.

The third also stepped into the room. He squinted at Araña, recognition struggling to swim to the surface of his alcohol-saturated brain.

“There’ll be more like these,” Levi murmured, stepping in front of her and blocking her from sight. “It’d be better if this discussion continued tomorrow.”

Araña ducked out of the room, careful to keep Levi between her and the brothel client. He was right. The hallway that had been empty minutes earlier was now crowded.

The dark cloak made her stand out. Taking it off was even riskier.

“This way,” Levi said, pressing his thumb to a spot on the wall.

There was a click followed by a panel sliding open. Araña’s heart began racing in anticipation as the staircase she’d climbed to Rebekka’s room was revealed, and beyond it, the unobtrusive door into the alleyway between brothels.

“Don’t come back here,” Levi said, crossing to a keypad. “Given the assault on the house, I can guess where the two of you will be staying. I’ll be there shortly after sunrise.”

He entered a code. Another lock clicked open.

“We’ll see you then,” Araña said, releasing the cloak and letting it hang as it would. Her hands settled on the hilts of her knives as she stepped outside, into a surreal moment where past and future came together, where a breeze picked up, bringing with it the scent of curry and the rustle of paper as a soiled newspaper tumbled over her foot, signaling the moment when the hunted became the hunter.

RAOUL felt a thrill of victory as the breeze reached him, carrying the scent of prey into the shadowy alley where he waited to see if Levi would emerge to keep their agreed upon meeting. He’d searched relentlessly all day, following the lion whenever he left the brothel, in the hopes Levi would lead him to the escaped prisoner.

Every turn had been a dead end. Every moment spent in Oakland an assault on his senses.

He was tired of paying for whores who stunk of other men and pretended pleasure, or stared out of vacant eyes as he thrust in and out of them.

He was tired of the noise and the stench of humans.

Even the ease with which he could hunt here in wolf form, feasting on those foolish enough to stray into his path, didn’t reduce the growing call to return to the compound surrounded by miles of forest and the human female who would soon smell of him and not his father.

He’d barely noted the cloaked figure going into the brothel. But his interest was aroused when he saw her slip through a side door. And then when her scent reached him…

Raoul opened his mouth slightly, letting air coat his tongue with the taste of woman and sex. She’d been with the demon-possessed human recently. She’d held her body open and let him spend his seed inside her.

It had marked her. And unlike the brand on her hand, there was no hiding it—at least not from a Were.

She was secondary prey, not as important to him as the escaped prisoner. He’d line his pockets with the reward Anton offered for her if he could, but he’d sacrifice her if necessary.

Raoul’s lips pulled back in a feral smile. With a fresh trail, he could easily track her, and he would. The only question was whether to leave the hunt until after he’d met with Levi, or to take it up now.

Alone he could subdue the female. She might be deadly skin to skin, but he had the armor of his fur if necessary, though he’d have to be careful. Even in the red zone he’d be fair game in anything but a humanoid form.

His attention swung back to the brothel. Perhaps it would be better to wait, at least until he learned whether Levi had taken the bait and decided to help him turn the prisoner and the woman over to the maze owner.

As if on cue, the lion emerged from the brothel. Raoul averted his eyes, wary the other Were would feel the intensity of his gaze and find him lurking in the shadows.

It was far harder to suppress his anticipation. Would Levi head toward the bar and their meeting? Or would he decide to go to the maze and attempt to trade whatever information he had to Farold or Anton in exchange for the werelion they held there?

The woman must have come to the brothel and spoken to Levi, delaying him. Otherwise Raoul would have expected Levi to leave earlier in order to get to the meeting place in time to make sure it was safe.

At the end of the street, a waif-thin young boy changed from a run to a walk as if fearful the shapeshifters who controlled and worked in the whorehouses wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from pouncing.

Raoul laughed silently. Stringy muscles and narrow bones, he’d killed a boy just like this one at dawn and left the carcass for scavengers after finding there wasn’t enough meat to waste his time trying to eat it.

The boy approached the brothel, squaring his puny shoulders as if preparing for their ridicule and taunts. “I’m lookin’ for a Were named Levi,” he said, his voice still a child’s.

“I’m him,” the lion said, leaping down the steps in a graceful bound.

“Got a message for you. From the healer, Rebekka.”

Raoul snarled in frustration at seeing his trap ruined. If he’d been close enough to rip the boy’s throat out, he would have, just to keep him from saying more.

“Where is she?” Levi asked.

“With the Wainwright witches.” The boy extended his arm, offering a tattered handkerchief. “The healer wants you to come to her there. She sent the cloth, so you’d know the message was real.”

The boy opened his hand, revealing a darkened token. “This is from the witches.”

“What do they want?” Levi asked, not taking the coin.

“Nothin’. They said if you didn’t want to take it, showin’ you was good enough. I’m to return it to them before I go home.”

“And if I take it?”

“Then you can pass through the wards at the border of the red zone without pausin’. And you can come see the healer without worryin’ about spells and such.”

“So they’re offering safe passage?”

The boy shrugged. “I reckon. I don’t know. I’m just deliverin’ the message.”

“Did you see the healer?”

“Sure, least I think it was her. She told me her name and said I was to tell you the trapper’s son was back with his mother.”

A low growl sounded in Raoul’s throat before he could stop it. He should have killed the toddler when he had a chance. If the messenger boy spoke true, then in all likelihood the compound was already abandoned, Eston’s mother gone and spreading her legs for some human male who offered protection.

Everything Raoul had been working for seemed lost in a single cruel sweep of fate as Levi took the handkerchief and token, then headed toward the red zone border without even a glance in the direction of the bar where they were to meet.

Raoul fought against changing form, his muscles strung tight in his fury. He wanted to chase the lion down and slay him, to slaughter the messenger boy as well. But reason prevailed.

He left the alley and found the scent of the prisoner’s woman. Sex-laden, marked. Easy to follow. And in doing so, he found he wasn’t the only one who’d recognized her.

His path crossed with two guardsmen as they emerged out of a brothel bar moments after the cloaked figure passed. He recognized them both—the one named Jurgen, and the other, Salim, who’d been driving the jeep when they tried to intercept the healer and the Were.

Another time Raoul might have decided it suited his purposes to kill the humans competing for the same prey, especially since these particular humans were responsible for letting the healer escape with Eston. But already he was adapting, realizing there were other females he could take for a mate. Virgin females who could be bought or stolen or captured.

Claiming his father’s woman would have been the ultimate in victory, the ultimate vengeance. Taking her would have satisfied him the way pissing on his father’s corpse had, but if she was already soiled by another human—

“You’ll take a third of the reward?” Jurgen asked, breaking into Raoul’s thoughts and verifying his suspicion they were all after the same prey.

Tasers. Netguns. Pistols. It took only a second for Raoul to inventory the weapons they wore on their belts openly because of the insignia patches sewn onto their shirts.

“Equal shares,” he said, agreeing to the partnership though he didn’t trust the guardsmen any more than they trusted him.

“Good.” Jurgen touched his netgun as their prey turned a corner ahead of them. “You take the street to the right of her. I’ll go left so she can’t use the alleyways to get away from us. Salim here will catch up to her and drive her forward. If she keeps going she’ll hit the open space near the maze. I can net her there, then taser her until she’s real compliant and real helpful about answering our questions.”

Salim’s hand settled on his gun. “What if she comes at me? I’m not going hand-to-hand with her. Not after what she did to Nelson.”

“Nelson touched her pussy. As long as you don’t do that, nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Farold said—”

“Shut the fuck up already. Shoot her and kiss off collecting any money. Even if she lives, a gun going off is going to bring the vice lords running to claim their take. Don’t get close if it’s going to make you shit your pants. Just let her know you’re coming after her and keep her moving so I can use the netgun.”

“Okay, okay,” Salim mumbled.

“Split up,” Jurgen said as they reached the street parallel to the one their prey had turned on.

FEAR spread through Tir like an inky black stain. His jaw ached from unconsciously clenching it as he worked his way through pages of long-dead languages, translating one symbol into another and then another and another, until he came upon a word he could speak and whose meaning he knew.

Prayers. Invocations. Incantations.

All of them using his blood to heal. Most of them turning it into something separate and living, something that could be offered like wine in a cup without his presence being necessary.

His emotions swirled like a building storm. For centuries he’d kept his sanity by imagining himself in possession of the translations. And now—

The tattoos on his right arm were translated and none of them unlocked the collar or made it disappear.

Terror grabbed and twisted his guts—that he’d have the same results when he finished transcribing the glyphs on his left arm.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping over the floor, a harsh, abrasive sound that jerked the bookseller from his own tasks.

The promise of violence gathered around Tir, and he caught himself looking upward. Stopped himself from raising his arms as if he could call out to the heavens and bring bolt after bolt of lightning down until nothing remained of mankind but smoldering ash.

Araña had bargained with the vampire’s servant. She’d made an agreement that might well cost her life, all because he’d been convinced these texts would free him and allow him to protect her.

Tir suppressed a scream of rage and frustration and fear. The muscles on his neck stood out, pressing against the collar as if by sheer force of will alone he could rid himself of it.

His hands balled into fists as he wrestled his emotions under control. Whether the remaining texts held the key or not, he needed to finish the translations and go to Araña.

He should never have let her out of sight to begin with. Caught up in the promise the book represented, he’d forgotten his thoughts when he returned to the healer’s house and knew Araña was back. A blink and she could be gone from his life forever.

HEAVY boots crunched rough gravel behind Araña, making no effort at stealth. Eyes bored into her back, almost inviting her to start running.

The footsteps sped up as she did, gaining slightly but still in no hurry to catch her. Not surprising.

There were people around. Vendors closing up their shops and stalls. Messenger boys on their bikes or on foot, hurrying to turn their coin into shelter for the night and food.

Her enemy wanted her alive.

She was counting on it.

A risk. But an acceptable one.

She walked in shadow, her hands caressing the hilts of the blades. The sweet promise of vengeance was a siren song she couldn’t ignore, the desire to kill Jurgen a black lust coating her heart and spreading through her veins. Maybe she was demon after all.

She glanced back. Instead of finding Jurgen or the black-haired stranger she thought was the werewolf Raoul, it was the guardsman whose soul thread was red mottled with black. Salim, who she’d seen in the vision of Levi’s death.

Herding her.

Premonition or instinct, it didn’t matter. When the roles of predator and prey were interchangeable, traps could work both ways. Erik and Matthew had taught her the value of a backup plan. Araña started running. A shout went up behind her. She didn’t look back again, even when her ears told her a second man had joined the first.

But she smiled, and ran faster, angling to the north and east, to the place where she’d emerged from the maze on the night she escaped it. She gambled that her pursuers didn’t want to draw attention to their hunt by firing their guns. And the gamble paid off. The opening that had been guarded by the spider was bricked off, but in the grove of trees in front of it, the slick knots resembling cancerous growths remained, spaced out along the path, one to a bough—just as they had been the night Gallo watched another prisoner stumble into the trap thinking he’d reached freedom when he escaped the maze.

Araña hesitated only long enough to glance back at her pursuers. Jurgen was steps ahead of his companion.

A fitting end, she thought, not needing to feel the slide of her knife between his ribs to have her thirst for revenge satisfied.

She darted forward, into the grove.

Above her, leaves trembled slightly, but she was left alone, as she had been the night she escaped the maze and took this path to freedom.

A scream marked the moment her pursuer followed her into the deadly trap. Araña stepped from the path, turning to crouch behind elephant-eared plants.

Softball-sized spiders slid downward on silky strands of thread, leaving the tree limbs smooth, free of their unnatural blemishes. There could have been twenty of them, or forty, hurrying to aid the one that had jumped to immobilize their prey when he passed underneath.

Not Jurgen. Perhaps he’d sensed a trap and yielded the lead to his companion. Or maybe his companion’s misfortune came from surging ahead before reaching the trees.

Either way, the guardsman named Salim lay screaming for help, unable to thrash or move his limbs because of the subduing poison the spider on his neck was injecting into his bloodstream.

Jurgen pulled his taser gun and fired it into the body of the spider. If it felt the jolt, either of the barb or the charge that followed, it didn’t show any sign of it.

The first of the other spiders reached the paralyzed man and began using the trailing length of silk it had descended on to bind his ankles together.

“Hurry, oh god, get it off me, Jurgen.”

Araña left her vantage point, merging into shadow with the intention of circling around and killing Jurgen while he was occupied with the spiders.

Instead of firing on even the first of them, Jurgen kept his pistol aimed for an attack. “There are too many of them. I don’t have enough bullets to take them all out.”

“Shoot them! Shoot them! Please, you can have my share of the reward.”

Jurgen jettisoned the taser cartridge and holstered the weapon in favor of drawing a knife. “Looks like that’s mine already. Besides, this will keep them busy.”

The rest of the spiders massed like a living carpet and slowly began covering Salim. Jurgen’s attention shifted, eyes searching for Araña in the rapidly darkening forest.

He ignored Salim’s terror-filled words and cries until Salim began shrieking, “Kill me. Oh god, Jurgen, kill me. Don’t leave me like this.”

“Sorry, Salim, I don’t know if they like dead prey.”

Jurgen probed the shadows, directing his next words at Araña. “Just you and me now, bitch. Time to come out and play.”

Araña answered the call, darting out and slashing at his back—finding body armor but drawing first blood on his upper arm.

The pistol fired as he reflexively squeezed the trigger. It fired again, an angry shot as he cursed.

She was already gone. Waiting for another opportunity.

Jurgen was no stranger to hunting in the forest. He used the evening darkness and soft loam to his advantage. Avoided the bones littering the path and hid the sounds of his movement in Salim’s sobs and mewling cries.

Retreat wasn’t an option even if Araña had been willing to consider it.

The open space and rubble-strewn ground between the grove and the reclaimed area of the red zone made that route an unwise choice.

Jurgen would use the gun now. If not to kill, then to incapacitate.

She could go deeper into the woods, taking a long detour and circling back to where Tir had told her the Constellation was moored. But doing it risked getting caught out in the night.

It left Jurgen alive to hunt her again.

This would end here. Tonight.

Araña picked up a human skull with strands of silk still clinging to it. She tossed it into a cluster of dried vine, distracting him long enough for her to move in, this time going for his legs, slicing across the back of his knee. Disabling him.

Jurgen screamed and fired, grazing her. It was a shallow wound, but it put the scent of her blood in the air and forced her to retreat.

Gasps of pain blended with his curses. He’d have to pause long enough to stop the bleeding, to fashion a crutch.

To decide.

Stay or leave.

It was already late enough for the feral dogs to be hunting.

If he was lucky he might make it to safety.

She moved in, not willing to allow him the choice.

He was silent now.

Hiding.

The creatures who called the forest home were silent, too. Waiting.

Only the sobbed prayers of the fallen guardsman drifted through the dusk. Eerie and surreal. Araña crept forward, slow and cautious. Adrenaline coursed through her, and heightened senses caught the flash of movement. She was already slashing before her mind identified her attacker. Werewolf. The one freed in the ambush.

Raoul.

Blood sprayed hot across her chest. Hers she thought at first, until the wolf’s body fell away, her knife going with it.

She’d severed the Were’s jugular, the move accomplishing it one she’d practiced so many times with Matthew that it needed no thought.

Sudden weakness drove her downward, onto her knees next to the furred corpse. Blood poured over her hand.

She stared, uncomprehending at first.

Hers, she realized. Heart rate spiking, pumping more of it through the place where the Were’s fangs must have punctured her artery.

She had minutes before she’d bleed out.

She dropped her second knife.

Increasing weakness and loss of focus made it a struggle to free her belt and get it around her arm. Ropes and knots were second nature because of the Constellation. All she needed to do was—

Pain slammed into her, a thunderous blow to her head knocking her off her knees and to the ground.

The belt fell away from her arm.

Blood pulsed, escaped in a rush again.

Jurgen crouched over her, rage and victory in his eyes as he held his gun to her forehead, the bare skin of his wrist only inches away. “Tell me where your companion is and I’ll let you tie the artery off. Otherwise, bitch, you bleed out.”

Too late.

She was cold. So very cold. She could barely feel her arms and legs. With a thought she found the spider. It hovered over her heart and seemed to grow larger, as if it stretched to meet the blackness forming at the edges of her consciousness, as if it were anxious to escape the tether of a mortal body.

No! she screamed silently, impressions flooding her mind.

Tir finding her in front of the mirror after her visit to the witches and showing her with pleasure just how thoroughly bound together her soul and flesh were.

The spider repeatedly seeking his touch.

The sense of unity she felt with it when she entered the vision place.

At the edge of death, all denial slid away. There was no separation of soul and mark. They were mirror images of each other.

Her acceptance of it brought the fusion of name and body, mind and spirit. And using the mark was as easy as drawing her knife.

It came to her hand, to her fingertips—a manifestation of who she was, what she was. And with the last of her strength she touched the bare skin of Jurgen’s wrist.

He jerked away from her, the bullet from his gun hitting the dirt next to her head. And then he was screaming, writhing. But there was no room for satisfaction. Only regret.

Tir, she wept, her last thoughts of him as darkness engulfed her, bringing with it heat and the roar of the fire calling her home.