'Since we have no more use for it,' he added with a natty smile.
Clambering up the rocks between one of the hundreds of waterfalls, Claudia paused to look back down the valley. As the lakes fell away, to become pools of liquid emerald dwarfed by vertical walls of white rock, she had a bird's eye view of Geta's final resting place. A bizarre eagle's eyrie, flat on the tree tops, where his bones would eventually fall through the branches, back to the earth, the battleaxe along with them. Macabre, but then we all have rituals, she thought, remembering the sacrificial haunch of venison she had left under the willow, covered with spikes of lilac-blue vervain, when Jason hadn't been looking.
Geta might have kidnapped her twice — once on the night of the fire, and once again as she was leaving Nanai’ — and he might have been a pirate without conscience who had willingly crashed his own ship and let the crew drown rather than share the treasure he believed hidden by his captain in the cave, but the great flat-faced, slant-eyed ox had died saving her life.
Vervain was sacred to Venus, and although Venus could not possibly be the same goddess of love that the red-headed barbarian claimed as his clan protectress, maybe — just maybe — this Argimpasa of his, whose symbol was the serpent, might recognize the sanctity of the offering. For good measure, Claudia had strewn marigold petals, as well. Flowering all year round, they symbolized everlasting life and Geta would appreciate that, because, she suspected, he would already be at the helm of some celestial warship raiding the dark shores of Hades!
But a few flowers are one thing. Jason's determination was quite another.
He had carried the corpse for twenty-four hours simply to reach a place where willows and water combined. Altruistic? To give a fellow countryman the send-off he felt he owed him? Or a determination to follow the ritual, no matter what obstacles stood in his path? She considered the way he had worked. Not just with Geta's funeral rites, but in every detail from the low, insolent bow on the prow of his warship to the slow, mimed handclap. From the casual way he took out the eye of his opponents with the slingshot to the planning well in advance of the wolf howls. He would undoubtedly argue his was a methodical nature, others might call it controlling.
To a killer, control is everything. Control empowers him. Lifts him above the material plane to a metaphysical level.
The key to her survival was to deny him that chance.
At the top of the last cascade, Jason pointed. 'Smoke,' he said. He was carrying his own quiver and bow now, and without encumbrances they were able to travel much faster. 'Too much for a single house, it looks like there's a settlement over the ridge. With luck, we can buy horses from them.'
'To strangle or ride?'
He flashed her his wolfish grin. 'I'll let you know when we get there.'
Terrific. An adventuring psychopath who knows that I'm wise to him and doesn't care. He's played on my fear of his headhunting tendencies, not just with the wolf heads but by deliberately keeping me in the dark about Geta, and he's keeping the pressure up still. Same old game he'd played with Leo when he delivered the war spears. First in the boat shed, then in the stables, then in the bath-house door: creeping that little bit closer each time, making Leo aware of what he was doing, taunting him, even. But still Leo fell into the trap. And why? Because Jason had taken care to coat it with his special honey.
'But I don't have a sweet tooth,' she whispered to the forest.
For now, though, she was safe. Jason the pirate moved under cover of darkness, sneaking in, sneaking out, leaving no trace. Jason the butcher liked to take risks. He preferred to operate when people were buzzing around, because the fear of discovery was every bit as thrilling as the agony of his helpless victim. It underscored his superiority over the rest of the human race. Highlighted his supremacy over mere mortals. Allowed him to rise above them.
Claudia's instincts had been right on target when, with Azan's thugs crowding in, she had believed that was the moment Jason had chosen to kill her. Her error lay not in the timing… but in the location.
'You're going back to the Villa Arcadia, aren't you?'
'What makes you think that, lieutenant?'
'Because you have unfinished business there,' she replied. Me.
The demon laughed.
Far from subsiding, Clio's anger had bloated into a great balloon of outrage. Like a cripple's hunch, it sat on her back, throbbing with fury, ugly and violent, and screaming for justice.
This wasn't fair.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
She should have been rich by now. Returning home to her hilltop village in fine clothes and foolish shoes, riding in a litter, her litter, carried shoulder high through the streets by slaves, her slaves, tossing alms to street beggars like petals.
Instead, she was stuck in this hell-hole with no food and no means to earn food and she had certainly left it too late to start socializing with the townspeople now! Tolerating a vampire on the outskirts of their community was one thing. The bastards probably even bragged about it to their neighbours. But that wasn't to say they'd countenance one in their midst.
'This isn't my fault!' she yelled at the sky. 'I've done nothing wrong!'
Her fists tore up tussocks of grass, pummelled chunks out of the drystone walls, hurled rocks at the carrion birds pecking at the piles of rotting intestines.
'Bastards!' she screamed. 'Bastards, the lot of you!'
Jason. Leo. Every man, woman and child in the town, including that runt of a priest. Especially that runt of a priest.
'I hope your soul burns in the Lake of Fire for eternity!'
Llagos could have spared her this, the dirty, sneaking, peeking bastard pervert. As the most respected priest on the island, his voice carried influence. They would have listened to him. Now they shunned her. As a result, Clio was destined to starve slowly to death, unable to get off the island because even if she could pay, no one would take her.
'Damn you all,' she shouted. 'Damn you and your ludicrous superstitions!'
That little Persian creep didn't help. Muttering to himself in his own unintelligible language as he pored over livers and entrails, finding portents in everything from clouds to wave formations to lizard prints in the dust. And the silly sods drank in every one of Shamshi's dire warnings!
'When the moon wears a halo and little lambs bleat, so Cressian cradles will rock.'
That, apparently had been his first pronouncement upon arrival at the Villa Arcadia two years ago, a prediction any fool could have made. After the midsummer revelries, there was always a rash of new-born babies in spring. But Shamshi had banked on the islanders' innate apprehension of foreigners. His ways could not possibly be their ways, they reasoned, so his predictions must truly be a gift from the gods. And when he said that before the sun rises thrice more over their heads, a woman shall die, they knew it to be true. At first they had tried to make Clio herself the victim. Nudge the prophecy along a bit. Help the cause. But they hadn't needed to. From her hilltop eyrie, Clio had watched another solemn funeral procession wind its way out of town, where a woman in traditional dress was buried with her hands folded over her breast. An old woman, by the size of her. Probably the cobbler's ancient mother, which meant Shamshi had seen the old crone and recognized that she'd been near to death.
Yet the islanders still believed that every word which dripped off that miserable fraud's tongue was a result of his divinations!