Sweat made her palms slick and her clothing cling to her. She started to leave, only to remember the conversation between Father Ursu and The Iberá about the demon in Anton Barlowe’s possession.
An old, leather-bound journal was sitting on the patriarch’s desk. Rebekka opened it to a bookmarked page. Scratchy, handwritten text filled the right side of it.
The trader, Domenico Cieri, arrived in port today. He had in his possession two urns he claims were recovered from an archeological dig centuries ago and held in a private collection until financial disaster led to them being sold. They look authentic, like something from the Holy Lands, and the glyphs—I’ll admit, bumps rose on my arms when I traced my fingers over the symbols carved into the first of the urns.
Both are said to house demons, and it is a tantalizing prospect, though I continue to remind myself Domenico is a bit of a charlatan.
The first urn is sealed. Domenico claims (not knowing the full extent of my interest in such matters) that one need only be courageous enough to open it and a winged, tailed horror will appear to do the bidding of its new master. Of course, even the most ignorant of acolytes knows commanding a demon is not so simple (though of course I didn’t point this out to Domenico as it’s much wiser in these times not to do anything to draw the Church’s attention).
Demons have no love of humans and will expend as much energy twisting and evading and turning a command into something to suit their own purposes as obeying it.
The second urn is unsealed. If it did indeed once contain a demon, then there is no guarantee it is still bound to the vessel in any way. Scholars (dare I say, practitioners) of such matters are divided on this, and with good reason. Without the correct incantations or knowledge of the demon’s name, the results can be deadly.
Still, the urns are tempting, though of course, I listened to Domenico as one would listen to a tall tale at the bar. Tomorrow I’ll make arrangements for their acquisition, through the usual intermediaries so their purchase can’t be traced back to me.
Rebekka scanned through the rest of the entry. There was nothing more. Whoever the journal belonged to originally had moved on to list other items in the trader’s possession.
To the left of the entry, on the back of the preceding page, were sketches of the urns. Rebekka tried to memorize the images but quickly realized she’d never be able to describe the swirling sigils and unfamiliar symbols.
She was tempted to take the book, but its loss would be immediately noticeable, more so than the token. Reluctantly she closed the journal, only to open it again and cringe as she tore the pages containing the entry and the sketches from it. She tucked them into a pocket of her dress before shutting the book again and going to the door.
She held her breath and strained to hear any sound beyond the thick wood. Nothing, and she couldn’t afford to stay longer or escape through the window. If there wasn’t a search in progress for her yet, there soon would be.
Her hands trembled as she twisted the doorknob and slowly pulled backward, creating a tiny space. She heard footsteps and the sound of the patriarch’s motorized chair coming toward the hallway containing the study. Heart lodged in her throat, she darted from the room and slipped into the library several steps away, huddling next to the door so she could get to her room as soon as it was safe to attempt it.
“It’s time to turn the healer over to the Church, Grandfather,” Enzo said as they neared the library door.
“Allow me to do things my way. I’ve got months yet before the disease will kill me. If the prisoner is not what we believe he is, if his blood won’t heal me, then there won’t be a miracle and hurrying will have accomplished nothing. If you’d seen her with the lion—”
“There were drawings at her house. Two of them were of guardsmen I recognized. They’re men I’d marked for trial with a recommendation of the death penalty because of their involvement with the maze. One of them has already met his death. He was murdered near the Mission at around the time Tomás intercepted the healer. The third picture was of Tomás.”
Rebekka pressed the fisted hand containing the token to her mouth to keep from making a sound. The drawings had to belong to Araña, and she couldn’t have known about the house unless Levi took her there.
“You believe an attempt will be made on Tomás’s life?”
“I think it’s possible. The prisoner saw Tomás when he went to the trapper’s compound to look at the lion. Even blindfolded, as Father Ursu insisted be done on the second visit, the prisoner would have recognized Tomás’s voice.”
“I’ll send Tomás away.”
“That would be wise. And the healer?”
There was a long pause. Instead of an answer, the patriarch asked, “What of the child? Is he back with his mother?”
Relief gave Rebekka a moment’s respite.
“Yes, the unit I sent was in range of our newest cell tower an hour ago. They’ll be back shortly.”
The study door opened and they went inside. Enzo said, “Grandfather, if it could be any other way, I wouldn’t lobby so hard for this, but so much is at stake. Not just your life and Tomás’s, but all you’ve worked for, all the Iberás have stood for since our ancestors started reclaiming Oakland from anarchy and lawlessness.”
“I know, Enzo. I know.”
“Then let me take her. I can insist on being present when she’s questioned. Perhaps she can even be brought back here afterward. We can’t wait. The restoration of the guard and the elimination of the red zone are within reach. But if the prisoner disappears or Anton Barlowe takes possession of him, it might be decades before we’re this close again.”
There was a long silence. “I’ll speak to her one last time. If my effort to enlist her aid fails, I’ll allow you to take her to Derrick. Close the door. Let me gather my thoughts for a moment and share them with you before we proceed.”
As soon as she heard the click of the study door, Rebekka fled to the room assigned to her.
Janita looked up, a smile on her face. “Good, you’re here. I was getting worried. Hurry! Hurry! Let me help you out of that dress. Your bath is drawn and your evening clothes set out for you.”
“I need to be alone,” Rebekka said, practically shoving Janita from the room then pulling a heavy wooden chest containing handmade quilts in front of the door. It wouldn’t hold against a true assault, but hopefully it would hold long enough.
Janita pushed and encountered resistance. “What’s wrong? Please, at least tell me what’s happened to upset you.”
“I can’t.”
There was another push. Soft, and then Janita’s footsteps hurried away.
Rebekka scoured the room for what she needed. Candles and matches were easy. But a knife—
Foolish, foolish, foolish, not to think ahead and plan.
She lit the candle on the dresser and pressed the witch’s token into the wax so the flame danced on either side of it, turning it black. Her eyes desperately sought something sharp, anything, skipping over the handheld mirror to settle on an expensive bottle of perfume provided for her just as the clothes she wore had been, as if by wearing them she could fit into this world.
Rebekka picked the bottle up and smashed it against the corner of the dresser, breaking it without drawing blood. She would have preferred that she had, so she wouldn’t be forced to drag the sharp edge against her skin.
She slashed and held her hand over the token, squeezed so a drop of blood fell for each word of the spell. Rather than tamp down the candle flame, her blood fed it, making it leap hungrily upward as if it would wrap around her hand and consume her.
Rebekka reached the last word and hesitated, knowing instinctively it was the most powerful, the one word whose use was irrevocable—but in the end she gave in to the inevitable, preferring to take her chances with the witches instead of the Church. She spoke what she feared might be the name of a demon. Aziel.