Inhuman eyes of melted gold met hers. But it was the glimpse of the small, matching serpent on the side of his neck that sent fear slithering through Araña.
Demon, she thought, and realized the spider had reacted to Zurael in the same way it had to Abijah and the scorpion he wore, by sliding down to rest at the base of her spine as if cowering in the presence of a greater power.
There was a subtle change in the—in Zurael’s expression, as though he recognized something in her as well. His face hardened. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice holding a harsh warning. “Who sent you?”
Resolve stiffened Araña’s spine. It was too late to retreat now. It had been too late from the moment she’d seen Oakland. And knowing what fate waited there, hadn’t told Matthew and Erik and pleaded with them to abandon the search for a healer there.
“The Wainwright matriarch sent me.”
Araña slid the fetish from her pocket. She held it up so the shamaness could see it through the bars of the outer door, and noted how Aisling’s eyes widened in surprise.
“The witch said to tell you that your father wants you to use this crystal in order to escort me into the ghostlands. She said if you do it, you’ll gain a favor from him.”
Zurael growled, “Aisling,” but the shamaness ignored the refusal he’d infused her name with and said, “Come in. The door is unlocked.”
Araña entered the house and found the same desert spice and hot sand scent the breeze had held. She gave the shamaness her name, along with the fetish.
Aisling couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the crystal, as if it held some secret in its icy heart that only she could see. With a low growl, Zurael put his arms around her waist, pulling her backward against him until there was an unbroken line where their bodies touched.
“Send it back,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “I warned your father against making you his pawn again. I won’t allow you to risk yourself.”
“I’ll be safe. Using his name to enter the ghostlands will ensure it. And I’d be foolish to throw away the offer of a favor.”
Zurael hissed, a serpentlike sound that sent fear skittering along Araña’s spine. She balled her hands into fists to keep them from curling around the handles of her knives.
The shamaness tore her attention away from the crystal. “What is it you seek in the ghostlands?”
“The fate of my family. I want to see for myself that the Wainwright matriarch told the truth when she said they’d been rewarded in the afterlife for the taking of their lives.” There was no masking the emotion from her voice.
Sadness came to Aisling’s face, making her look delicate and vulnerable. Her hand closed around the crystal. “When did they die?”
Araña’s throat tightened as images from the fight with the guardsmen scrolled past. “Three days ago. The day we arrived in Oakland.”
“Do you have something belonging to them?”
This time she allowed her hands to curl around the dark hilts. “Their knives.”
Aisling nodded. “That will work.”
“I’ll accompany you into the spiritlands,” Zurael said.
Amusement replaced the hint of sadness still lingering on the shamaness’s face. “And leave our physical bodies unguarded?” A muscle spasmed in Zurael’s cheek. The gold of his eyes took on a deadly cast. “I could forbid it.”
His threat was met with a laugh. “You won’t.”
“If anything happens to you—”
Aisling silenced him by turning in his arms and pressing a kiss to his lips before pulling from his embrace. She reached out, probably intending no more than to offer a touch of reassurance or encouragement, but Araña jerked away.
“It’s not safe to touch me. Not here anyway. The witch, Annalise, said it could be done in the ghostlands as long as I stay in the circle.”
The shamaness’s eyebrows drew together in contemplation rather than fear. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth then finally gave a small nod. “I think I know what needs to be done in order to escort you there. This is something you want to do now?”
Araña’s mouth went dry and her heart kicked into a hard, rapid, throbbing pace. “Yes.”
Aisling shared a glance with Zurael. His frown was scorching, but he locked the barred door anyway, then closed the solid front door and secured it as well.
“This way,” the shamaness said, leading Araña to a room that had obviously been created for the sole purpose of journeying into the ghostlands.
It seemed little more than a huge closet with a dirt floor. Fetishes perched at the edges of shallow openings carved into the adobe wall at the corners. They were so lifelike Araña thought they would come alive if filled with the spirits of the creatures they represented.
Bear. Raven. Serpent.
Spider.
Only Aisling’s voice instructing her to sit pulled Araña from the black-onyx thrall of the last fetish.
She sat, cross-legged in the restricted space, and became aware of the glyph-marked wood turning a soft, dirt floor into a well-protected altar.
The shamaness sat next to her, assuming the same compact, cross-legged position before leaning forward and tracing a symbol into earth that smelled of delta waterways.
Araña expected Aisling to draw a circle, but apparently the single sigil in combination with the perched fetishes and the glyph-inscribed wood enclosing the dirt was enough.
When the shamaness was satisfied with what she’d drawn, she turned slightly, her expression solemn, her Angelite-colored eyes meeting Araña’s and holding them. “It’ll take a blood sacrifice, yours I think, to free you from your body enough to enter the spiritlands. The only other time I’ve accompanied someone like this, it took their death. I can’t guarantee it won’t require yours as well. Do you wish to proceed?”
Araña felt calm. She wouldn’t die here. She wouldn’t die like this. When the demon who’d marked her with the spider claimed her for Hell, it would be in terror and pain, in fire. “Yes.”
The shamaness nodded. “Cut yourself with the knives one at a time and hand them to me, giving me the names of your family members as you do so.”
Araña didn’t hesitate. She pulled Erik’s blade from its sheath and sliced across her forearm, welcoming the pain.
A memory welled up with the blood. It flowed across her consciousness as metallic-scented red slid across deeply tanned flesh, making Araña think of those early years when Erik was teaching her to read. How he’d listen to her stumble and struggle through the words each evening until finally they came smoothly and effortlessly.
“This blade is Erik’s,” she said, passing the knife to Aisling before drawing Matthew’s blade and cutting a line parallel to the first. Memories surfaced with the strike, learning of a different kind. From the very first, Matthew had concentrated on teaching her how to wield a weapon, how to defend as well as attack.
He’d cut her a hundred times. And she could still remember the pride and satisfaction on his face the day she’d finally drawn blood—sending him into the cabin for a lecture from Erik and stitches, because even though she’d succeeded, she was still unskilled in controlling the extent of the damage she inflicted.
“This one belongs to Matthew,” Araña said as the blood from the second cut mingled with that of the first.
Aisling took it, dropping the fetish into Araña’s hand. “Use this as a focus,” she said. “Close your eyes and picture them.”
Blood streamed over Araña’s wrist and pooled in her open palm, surrounding the fetish and making her think of a buoy set in a red sea.
She closed her eyes and let the memories come, images as unfettered and uncontrolled as the wind.
There was a pulling sensation, much like the one she’d experienced at the doorway of the occult shop—as if something attempted to suck her soul from the body housing it, but she didn’t fight it.