They undressed her with their eyes and Tir stiffened at her side. “It’s okay,” Araña murmured, comfortable despite the glances. She’d been in plenty of diners and bars like this one, where men who lived and worked on the water gathered. “We need to eat before we go to the brothel. This is a good place to do it.”
There was little chance of guardsmen wandering in for drink or food. Only trouble would bring them, and these men didn’t want trouble, not of that kind, not in a city like Oakland. And if someone were curious enough or bold enough to approach Tir, thinking he was a pimp… then perhaps they’d be able to gather information on how frequently the docks were patrolled and what manner of predators roamed them at night.
Araña allowed Tir to guide her to a stool along an L-shaped counter separating customers from a cook and a server. At his silent urging, she took the open seat against the wall while he took the one next to her.
Grease spattered as baskets laden with cut potatoes were dropped into deep pools of cooking oil. Flames jumped as fish were tossed on grills.
“You ready?” the server working the counter asked, stopping in front of Tir.
Stained pictures hung on the wall next to where the cook was busy slapping food onto plates and passing them to an older woman to deliver to those waiting at tables. Prices next to the pictures, as well as crude writing, noted what the diner served.
Beer. Fish. Fries.
The catch of the day was salmon.
“Fish,” Tir said.
The server’s gaze flicked to Araña then to the male customers crowding around tables. “Your woman eating or she here to work?”
Tir’s nostrils flared at the question. Araña put her gloved hand on the bunched muscles of his thigh in a soothing gesture.
“She eats. Fish for her, too.”
The server shrugged and told Tir the cost of the meal. His expression said he thought Tir was a fool for paying with cash from his pocket when he had a woman who could cover it by working in the alley on her back or knees.
Tir turned toward Araña, and within a heartbeat, eyes smoldering with hostility changed, the flames of hatred giving way to heat as they looked at each other and remembered their last meal together.
Liquid desire pooled in her labia with thoughts of breakfast and his feeding her by hand. Color rose in her cheeks.
Silence stretched between them. The need to touch was countered by the feel of strangers watching and the necessity of remaining alert to their surroundings.
“Later,” Tir murmured, and she gave a slight nod before escaping the intensity of his gaze.
Their food arrived in an unceremonious slide of plates along the counter and a clatter of forks. They ate, and as they did so, interest in them faded, except for five men who sat huddled over their beers, whispering and nudging one another, passing something she couldn’t see around the table until finally one of them lurched to his feet and approached.
A few steps away from Tir, the man doffed his tightly woven knit cap and held it in both hands. Grit clung to the grooves in his skin, and his fingernails were outlined in dark grime. His eyes dropped to where Araña’s gloved hand remained on Tir’s thigh, only partially obscured by the counter.
Sea-chapped lips pulled away from tobacco-stained teeth. “My friends and me, we was wondering if you’re selling time with the woman. ’Cause—”
Tir stood. The man backpedaled, fingers lifting away from his clutched cap in a gesture of peace. “Sorry, no offense meant.”
Araña touched Tir’s arm, her stomach muscles tightening at the returned interest the encounter had generated, the attention she felt on her gloved hand and the speculation it would arouse. “We can go now,” she said.
He turned away from the retreating man. “You’ve had enough to eat?”
“Yes. For now.” Their plates were both empty, none of the food wasted.
They left the diner. The five men followed them out almost immediately.
Tir freed the top buttons of his shirt as they walked, so he could retrieve the machete strapped to his back if necessary. “Let’s return to the bus stop using the same route we took to the docks.”
Araña’s hands curled around the handles of her knives. “They’ll split up and try to trap us in one of the alleys.”
Tir laughed. “I look forward to it.”
She glanced at his face and read anticipation to match his words. So be it, she thought, closing her mind to any hint of conscience. The men following them were bringing death on themselves.
Araña turned, entering the first of the alleyways that would lead them to the bus stop. In her mind she traced the remainder of the route and considered the best spot for an ambush if she were the one planning it.
The men from the diner weren’t as patient. Or as stealthy.
She heard the pounding of footsteps moments after she and Tir crossed a narrow street and entered a second alley.
“Stop. This is as good a place as any,” Tir said, sliding the machete from its sheath, its blade gleaming wickedly.
Araña drew her knives as their attackers entered the alleyway from both ends. Three to the left. Two to the right.
“You won’t need your weapons,” Tir said, stepping in front of her, crowding her so she was forced backward between him and the wall. “I won’t allow you to put yourself in danger needlessly.”
His arrogance aggravated her as much as his protectiveness pleased her. “Move,” she said, pressing her knuckles into his back instead of the tip of her knife he probably deserved. “I can hold my own.”
“I know, but in this instance, there’s no need for you to.”
The men advanced, knives in their hands, sure of themselves and growing more so the closer they got. On some silent signal, arms went back to the left and right, then shot forward hurling blades.
Tir blurred into motion, so fast, so smoothly efficient, that before Araña could step forward and follow his attack with one of her own, he’d knocked the thrown knives from the air and moved into the offensive.
It was a fluid dance of man and weapon, his movements a poetry glorifying the righteous slaying of his enemies. Blood coated the sides of the buildings within seconds. It pooled, surrounding severed limbs and soaking into clothing. It painted the cracked and broken pavement and whatever trash it touched. And in the midst of the carnage, Tir stood unscathed, unbloodied.
For an instant Araña thought she saw the air vibrating around him, recognizing his supernatural nature even if he himself didn’t remember what he was. He looked up and their eyes met. Heat and frigid cold washed through her, desire and primal fear combined. He was a ruthless warrior whose beauty held perfection as well as savagery.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She almost obeyed without question, Erik and Matthew’s training deserting her until she had the strength to look away from Tir.
Then instinct guided her, habit. She crouched down and quickly went through the closest man’s pockets. There was paper money, enough of it that he could have paid for a shared prostitute if that’s where the men’s true interest lay. It was slick with blood and folded around stubs from a gaming club.
Araña left it, though she knew Erik and Matthew would have chided her for doing so. She moved to the next man, the one who’d approached them in the diner.
There was a paper folded into fourths in his shirt pocket. She opened it and trembled at the sight of her own face staring back at her.
A reward was being offered to anyone who came forward with information leading to her capture, or who braved the warning that she could kill with a touch and brought her to the maze themselves. Alive. She was worthless dead.
Tir took the paper from her and read it before crumpling it and tossing it aside. He cleaned the machete with the dead man’s knit cap then sheathed it and stood, his fingers a steel band around her arm as he forced her to her feet.