They took up positions near the cars they’d arrived in. The high-ranking guardsman was last to emerge, carrying the drawings Araña had done.
He stopped next to the priest. His face was grim.
“Cabot Lavene was killed the other day near the Mission,” the guardsman said, showing the priest the first of the images before sliding it to the bottom. “This is Jurgen Reichs. He’s one of those I’ve been watching. It won’t be hard to prove his involvement with the maze.”
That picture went to the bottom. The priest visibly stiffened at the final image, the one Tir knew belonged to Tomás. “Have your grandfather turn the girl over to the Church for questioning. Impress on him how dangerous it is to delay.”
“I’ll speak with him. In the meantime, I’ve left four of my men inside and ordered others into positions where they can watch the approaches to the house.”
“Good. You’ll be in touch with me later?”
“Yes, by phone if not in person. I’ll press my grandfather to make the transfer before nightfall, but I suspect he’ll put off a decision until the morning, arguing Tomás is safe enough as long as he remains at the estate.”
The priest nodded then climbed into his chauffeured car. The others got into the cars that brought them, and a moment later the street was empty, the house left as a false beacon of security.
“They’ll probably have men stationed near the red zone,” Araña whispered. “And they’ll position themselves along the most direct route, expecting us to come that way. If we keep to the ruins, we can cross the border—”
“There’ll be no need to worry about them at all once the bookseller’s safe is open and the translations are in my possession.”
“And what about Levi? What if he comes here and walks into a trap meant for you?”
Tir’s nostril’s flared as he felt the weight of her judgment against him. He leaned forward abruptly and tangled his fingers in her hair. “What of the Were? In the forest he left me shackled for the guardsmen to find. He argued against freeing me.”
“And you would have risked your life if your positions had been reversed? Your freedom when it seemed like a foolish waste? He could have turned us away last night or betrayed us. Instead he told you about Rimmon and what you might face when you went to recover the Constellation.”
“Unless he provokes the men waiting in the house, he’ll be tran quilized and captured. What then, Araña? Do you think he won’t betray me in exchange for his own freedom and the healer’s?”
The sting of her disappointment in him lashed across his soul. She said, “These are your enemies. Not theirs. When I drew the picture of Tomás, you guessed who might have Rebekka. You—”
Guilt slapped him, making him snarl. “Even now I don’t know who or where, though with time she can be found.”
Araña’s eyes darkened into endless black. Resolve and determination slid up her spine, throbbing so deeply he felt it pulsing through him. “She might not have time. The Church is no friend of the gifted. I’m going—”
“No.” Fury at the idea of her risking herself made his voice harsh. “I’ll find the healer. I’ll rescue her from my enemies as soon as I’m free of the collar. The Were, too, if he’s unfortunate enough to stumble into this trap.”
Araña’s relief melted over Tir, along with her pleasure in his promise. It should have angered him that her emotions so often became his. It should terrify him that her will could become his own. But instead he found himself fighting the urge to push her onto her back, the need to eradicate all remnants of their argument making him want to cover her with his body and feel her underneath him.
His mouth settled on Araña’s and she willingly parted her lips for him. Her tongue greeted his, sliding against it in a sensuous celebration of intimacy restored.
He could spend an eternity with her and never have his lust sated to the point where he would desire another female. Even in their cramped, debris-strewn hiding place, he wanted to free his cock and join with her.
Tir forced himself away from her. “There’s not much of the day left. We need to go to the bookseller’s.”
It pleased him that physically parting seemed as difficult for her as for him. Her dark eyes hid nothing from him. They smoldered with desire. Caressed him.
“You’re right, we need to go,” she said, sending a lick of flame along his cock when she glanced downward and wet her lips with her tongue.
“Araña,” he growled.
Her smile held feminine satisfaction. Her eyes, when they lifted and met his, held an awareness of the power she had over him, how thoroughly she’d enslaved him and made him a prisoner to his need for her.
“That look invites further punishment,” he said, urging her from the hiding place before lust delayed them further.
They clung to ruins where they could. Several times they were forced to duck into shadows by the sound of a diesel engine, followed by the passing of a sleek car carrying the gold flag with the red lion rampant.
Eventually they passed out of the area set aside for the gifted and into neighborhoods where groups of houses had been reclaimed. Dogs barked, announcing their passing. Children looked up from evening chores of gathering food from gardens and chasing chickens into well-protected coops.
Older children drove cattle and sheep down the street, returning from a day in the forest, or maybe from a day spent guarding the animals as they grazed among rubble.
The residential section gave way to what had once been a business district. A goat rounded the corner in front of them, its eyes wild with fear, the bell tied to its neck clanging as it sped past.
Tir drew the machete as quickly as the knives appeared in Ara ña’s hands. They approached, bracing themselves for whatever predator might charge after the goat.
Instead there was the panicked bleating of more goats, the shout of a boy, and then the horrible, abrupt sound of silence.
They surged forward, around the corner.
Tir had no name for the things he found there. But Araña did.
“Chupacabra. Goat suckers.”
The creatures were reptile and mammal combined, leathery skinned with sharp spines running down their backs, their fangs driven deep into the throats of two goats and a boy barely in his teens, their cheeks puffing in and out as they drank blood.
“He’s still alive,” Araña said, rushing forward and willing to take on all three of the creatures.
Tir passed her, though he doubted it would make a difference. The boy no longer struggled.
The closest chupacabra lifted its mouth away from a goat’s throat and screeched in warning, flashing its bloody fangs. It screeched again when Tir kept rushing toward it, then sprang away like a kangaroo, emitting a sulfur stink an instant before the machete sliced through the air where the creature had been.
He kept going, trusting Araña to watch his back. The second chupacabra jerked, nearly severing the goat’s head from its body in its hurry to get away from Tir.
The third, smaller and probably less dominant than the other two, followed the example of its companions, abandoning the boy it had been forced to take as a meal.
Arterial blood sprayed out in an arc of red. Tir reached the body and could almost feel the soul hovering free, thinning, slipping away.
Too late, he started to say. But before he could utter the words, Araña’s sorrow at being unable to save the boy washed through him, the intensity of her emotions striking so deeply he acted without thought.
Tir sank to his knees and opened his mind, accepting the pain. He touched his hand to the boy’s torn throat and willed it healed, willed the soul to return to the still warm flesh.