Spider-Touched (39 page)

“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.