Blind fury drove her—
Into pain so intense it dropped her to the ground.
She screamed silently, writhed in an agony that had no physical expression because she could no longer move any part of her body.
Scream after scream pierced her brain, overlaying onto imagines from the past—the men who’d died from the spider’s touch, though they’d been allowed to thrash and flail before succumbing to its poison.
Her vision blurred, narrowing until there was a sole point of focus. The witch hovered above her, curdled-milk eyes staring at her as they’d done at the bus stop, seeing her despite the blinding cataracts.
The matriarch murmured something, the language unknown to Araña, and the pain ceased, though the paralysis remained. “Foolish, foolish child to attack me. You remain in this world only because of debts I owe to those who would see you trained in the use of your gift.”
Bony fingers delved into a pocket and withdrew, holding a clear, ordinary-looking crystal. The witch dropped it onto Araña’s chest, and the spider scurried away from it just as it had done in the presence of the demon Abijah.
“The deaths you thought to avenge served a greater purpose. And the men you think you honor with your mindless violence were rewarded for their sacrifice. If your courage matches your fury, you can determine the truth of their fate for yourself before you seek me out again. Go see the shamaness Aisling. Offer the fetish to her. Tell her that her father wills her to use it in order to escort you into the ghostlands. Tell her she will gain a favor from him for doing it.”
A curse followed, or perhaps it was meant as a reminder of a lesson learned. The witch spoke and the pain returned, blocking out all reality and becoming Araña’s existence until it fell away abruptly, leaving her gasping, shaking—at last able to move again.
She rolled to her side, her body curling involuntarily into a fetal position and remaining that way until pride forced her knees away from her chest and gave her the strength to rise to her feet. She took a perverse pleasure in finding the knives still in her hands, and didn’t sheathe them until she looked around the room and found it empty, the Wainwright matriarch gone.
Movement behind her had Araña turning. Annalise stood at the doorway, expression disapproving. “I’ll see you out now.”
Araña took a step. Something at her feet glittered, and she looked down to find the crystal on the floor where it had fallen.
Longing held Araña motionless, the desire to see Matthew and Erik overriding her hatred of the witch and her fear of her gift. Pride urged her to turn away from the crystal and all it represented. But the memory of the vision that had brought her to the witch’s door at daybreak held her in place.
Before she could change her mind, Araña bent down and scooped up the crystal fetish then followed Annalise to the door. The witch opened it, her face no longer revealing her thoughts, her voice emotionless as she warned, “Inside the circle, those you care for in the ghostlands can touch you without fear. Beyond it neither you nor they are safe.”
TIR savored every moment as the night gave up its claim to land and sea and sky in a slow tide of diffuse, cloud-blocked sunlight. Freedom. It sang in his ears with each lap of water against the boat, with each seagull cry. It caressed his bared torso with a chilled, misty breeze that made him want to open his arms and embrace it.
For centuries he’d been trapped in dark catacombs or window-less cells, chained and enslaved, his only glimpse of the dawn what he held in his memories. Never again, he vowed. Never again would he wear shackles around his wrists and ankles and be helpless against humans.
He looked around at the wreck-strewn harbor and felt deeply satisfied at having fulfilled his promise to Araña and recovered her boat. Anticipation formed, swelling his cock as he pictured her expression when he got back to her and told her of his success.
Only the presence of the watching cormorants kept him from taking himself in hand and imagining the tight fist of his fingers was Araña’s mouth offering thanks, her cunt offering welcome. The doorway into the cabin offered further temptation, the erotic image of lying on the bed that had been hers and bringing himself to completion, leaving his scent in a primitive marking of territory.
He took a step forward, nearly giving in to the urge before he regained his self-control. Dangerous. She was so very dangerous to him. Time and time again she consumed his thoughts and made him burn—not for absolute freedom, but for her.
Tir turned away from the doorway. He closed his mind to the demands of the flesh, redirecting his energy instead to pulling up the anchor.
Two of the cormorants left their stations on what remained of a sunken container ship. But rather than joining him on the boat, they dove into the water after fish.
Birds and not skin-walkers, Tir thought, glancing at the remaining cormorants, though he didn’t try to determine which of them were men mimicking their totem guardian.
The low purr of a powerful motor turned Tir’s attention toward the shore. He started the engine, unwilling to leave the boat where it wasn’t easily accessible.
A sleek craft appeared moments later, emerging from a narrow space created by jagged pieces of metal rising out of the water like sunken mountain peaks. Rimmon was piloting the speedboat, his bodyguards near him, one holding a machine gun, the other a launcher of some kind.
“So you made it,” Rimmon said, circling the Constellation like a shark circling prey. “Now we’ll see if you can deliver on your promise or whether I’ll enjoy the companionship of your woman.”
Tir resisted the vice lord’s taunt and the temptation to violence, and Rimmon laughed, as if feeding on Tir’s fury, before saying, “Follow me. Don’t deviate from my path or you’ll sink the boat you’ve sold a portion of your soul to save.”
Tir followed, skirting hazards and guessing there were more he couldn’t see, their path revealing how unnecessary it was for Rimmon to hold the harbor with armed boat patrols. Only someone well acquainted with it or guided through it would have a chance of reaching shore.
Rimmon was climbing onto the pier as Tir brought the Constellation alongside it. Two men dressed in the same manner as the bodyguards stepped forward and helped Tir secure the lines. When it was done, Tir went to Rimmon’s side. The vice lord said, “My promise covers protecting the boat from theft or damage only. Not determining who has a right to board her, or keeping whoever occupies her safe.”
Tir shrugged, his thoughts moving beyond healing Rimmon’s daughter and going to Araña and the continued search for the tattoo translations. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Yes. Let’s see if pride goes before a fall in your case.”
The vice lord led him to a car, the bodyguards going ahead to open and close the back doors before taking up positions in the front seat. The interior smelled of leather and hashish and sex, much like the club Temptation did.
They left the port area, and at the edge of the red zone were joined by two other vehicles, open jeeps carrying armed men. It surprised Tir at first, but upon reflection, made sense.
Despite Rimmon’s nonhuman status, his ruined face was testament to the damage fire could do to him. A man who controlled a harbor was probably subject to attack from those who served the law as well as those who wanted to carve out a crime empire of their own.
Beyond what called itself civilization, they climbed into the hills. The vice lord grew more remote with each mile.
A stone house with floor-to-ceiling glass windows became their destination. It sat at a canyon edge, defying man and nature and whatever god the vice lord might answer to.
The vehicles stopped and the guards exited. Those in the car with Tir and Rimmon opened the back doors, then closed them again, trailing the vice lord and Tir into a house that smelled of incense and spoke of luxury.