Spider-Touched g-2

by Jory Strong

  They didn’t have time for this. Intellectually he knew it. But just as he couldn’t stop himself from questioning her, he couldn’t keep from stepping her backward, into the shadows, his hands moving from her arms to her wrists and pinning her against what remained of a collapsed exterior wall.

  Where before he’d broken through the barrier she erected with tenderness, this time he took her mouth aggressively, plundered it with dominant intent and the hard thrust of his tongue.

  Her resistance burned away, melted under the onslaught.

  He claimed her cries. Refused to grant her breath that didn’t come from him. And in doing it, bound himself more tightly to her.

  “Tell me what you were thinking,” he ordered, his cock throbbing, urging him to force her to her knees, to demand she worship him with her mouth.

  “I was wondering if you’re a demon,” she said, and with a thought he found he could tell where the spider riding her body was. It rested on her palm, pressed to his as he continued to hold her hands pinned to the rough brick wall.

  Was he demon? Was that why he could sense the mark? Or had he somehow forged a bond between them when he willingly shared his blood and healed her?

  “There have been those in the past who called me by that name,” he said. “But I told you the truth when I said I don’t know. My memories are locked away by the collar.”

  He lowered his head and claimed her mouth again, this time gently, wanting her to offer her submission willingly. Wanting her to accept him regardless of what he might be labeled.

  She responded with the touch of her tongue to his, a sensuous dance in dark heat that left him light-headed and craving the feel of skin against skin, the sound of her voice pleading with him not only to take her, but to grant her sweet release.

  “Does it matter what I am?” he whispered against her lips long moments later.

  She shivered, as though some part of her mind continued to fight her body. “What matters is what you’ll do when you’re free of the collar.”

  “No less than what you intend for the guardsmen who killed your family and would have raped you. I’ll hunt down my enemies and slay them.”

  He leaned into her, pressing the hard ridge of his erection to the juncture of her thighs. “Tell me, would you have sliced into the clerk’s flesh if he’d refused to cooperate?”

  Araña would have turned from him if he hadn’t been blocking her from movement. He felt her shame as surely as if it were his own, and might have recoiled from it if his rage hadn’t quickly replaced it, reminding him of what he’d suffered while at the mercy of humans. He despised them—all of them except her. It would take a lot for him to hate her.

  Tir didn’t like the power she held over him.

  “Tell me,” he said, pressing her for an answer. “Would you have forced the clerk to answer the questions put to him?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I don’t draw a weapon unless I’m prepared to use it.”

  Tir released her and stepped away, fearing if he didn’t, he would take her against the wall and further delay them. “You wanted to make sure your boat is still berthed where it was left,” he said, signaling the end to their discussion.

  She nodded, emotions in turmoil, but he preferred their battering against his psyche to the silence and containment. They walked the length of the area set aside for humans with gifts. At its edge there was a store serving as a general market.

  Heat surged through Tir when she placed her hand on his arm, stopping him in the shadows. “Wait here and I’ll go in and get you a shirt. You’ll need it before we go any farther. Tattoos are outlawed in most of the places where the Church has influence and the non-gifted rule. They’re reserved for marking criminals.”

  He and Araña had clung to the shadows where possible, but he’d been aware of eyes following their progress, strangers noting them from behind concealing drapes and shutters. “I’ll wait,” he said, and watched as she crossed the street and disappeared into the store.

  There were others coming and going from the market. Many of them glanced his way, sensing his presence though he did nothing to draw attention to himself.

  Was it because the humans were gifted? Or was it so dangerous in this city that they had all become wary prey?

  Worry for Araña crept in the longer they were apart. More than once he caught himself rubbing his chest.

  He didn’t like having her out of his sight. Despite the spider mark and the knives she carried, she was so very mortal.

  He took a step forward, only barely stopping himself from going after her. The tightness in his chest grew more pronounced. When had he come to fear her death so much?

  Eleven

  THE heavy gates bore the same heraldic crest as the flag fluttering from the car’s antenna. Private soldiers, wearing black uniforms bearing red lion rampant insignias, stepped from a gatehouse and approached the driver’s window, while others aimed automatic weapons down at the car from on top of the wall.

  A glance in, and probably a subtle signal later, and the soldiers stepped away, allowing the car Rebekka was in to enter the estate. A second gate and more armed guards followed before she saw the place Tomás called home.

  Manicured lawns and bright flowers were a testament to the wealth the Iberás held, as was the house. It would have been considered a mansion in the days before The Last War.

  Through the open driver’s window, she heard the distinctive roar of a lion. It was answered by another lion, and then a third.

  “My grandfather’s menagerie,” Tomás said.

  Bile rose in her throat along with outrage as she thought of Anton Barlowe and the Weres he held captive in the maze, the creatures he knew Gulzar had tortured until they were trapped between forms. Her hands balled into fists. “Werelions?”

  In answer Tomás tugged on a chain around his neck and pulled it free to reveal the charm at the end of it. “Animals. Pure lions.”

  The driver parked next to another dark car with deeply tinted windows, and whether by his action, or Tomás’s, the locks on the back doors disengaged.

  When she would have slid from the car, Eston leaned away from Tomás, his arms opening for her. Rebekka hugged the toddler to her, chiding herself, as she stepped onto the grounds of the estate, for taking comfort in holding him as though he were a shield.

  Elegance. Wealth. Beauty. They were in every direction she cared to look—as were the walls protecting them.

  “There’s no point in trying to escape,” Tomás said. “At night lions roam the entire area between the inner and outer walls.”

  He didn’t expand on the statement further or point out the impossibility of her gaining freedom. He didn’t need to.

  Even if she should somehow manage to get past the guards, walls, and lions, the estate was set far enough away from the reclaimed heart of Oakland to make getting there through predator-filled forests impossible. She could use her gift to calm warm-blooded animals and Weres, if she had time to establish rapport, but they weren’t the most deadly creatures prowling the night.

  The front door opened and a uniformed butler stepped outside. His face revealed nothing, though Rebekka saw his spine stiffen in disapproval, as if he thought Tomás was in the company of a low-class woman who’d managed to seduce an Iberá then present him with a bastard child.

  Rebekka’s stomach revolted, and she quickly blocked thoughts of her mother and her own birth. She stood straighter, forcing herself to enter the house as if she were a guest instead of a prisoner.

  A priest stood in the foyer, his attention on an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair. Both of them glanced up, but it was the priest who sent dread curling through Rebekka by asking, “How is it she’s got the trapper’s child?”

  “She was there when the truck was ambushed,” Tomás said.

  “Where’s the prisoner?”

  “She claims not to know, Father Ursu.”

  “Was she willing to venture a guess?”

 
“No.”

  “Not surprising. She’s one of the gifted, and a witch’s pawn at that.” The priest’s eyes narrowed and Rebekka felt the full force of his attention. “She carries something evil with her, a token perhaps.”

  “Search her,” the old man said, directing his command to the butler who now stood within striking distance of Rebekka.

  Father Ursu held up his hand, halting the butler’s movements. “Allow me to handle this matter at the church. I can dispose of the item there and question her about the ambush.”

  Icy fear washed over Rebekka as she imagined an Inquisition-like room and doubted she’d leave it alive. She wouldn’t betray Levi or Araña, but if she could otherwise use the truth to gain her own freedom…

  “I don’t know who he is or where he would go,” she said, unable to keep the terror from her voice.

  “But you freed him all the same,” the priest said.

  “From the chair he was tied to and the cage inside the truck. But he was in chains when I left. None of the keys on the trapper’s ring fit the locks on the shackles. There was nothing I could do for him. The guardsmen were drawing near. It was too dangerous to stay.”

  Father Ursu looked at the old man, the man Rebekka guessed was the Iberá patriarch. “Is it possible Enzo is mistaken? Could someone in the guard have taken the prisoner and perhaps sold him to Anton?”

  The old man shook his head. “No. Enzo’s spies would have told him. He’s been collecting information on those who disgrace the integrity of the guard for years. His efforts have doubled in preparation for cleaning house when he is finally in a position to do so. There were shackles at the site. If she speaks the truth, then there’s no need to involve her further in this matter.”

  Father Ursu placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “She speaks the truth but she plays with it as well by making it sound as though she was the only one present when he was removed from the trapper’s truck. Tomás saw at least one other, a man, and told us he thinks there might have been a third person there, too. If she doesn’t have the information we want, perhaps her friends do. The sooner they’re questioned, the better.”

  “Who were you with?” the Iberá patriarch asked Rebekka.

  Fear threatened to close off Rebekka’s throat. “I won’t tell you his name. He left at the same time I did. He doesn’t know any more about the prisoner than I do.”

  The old man’s eyes settled on the child she held to her chest then shifted to Tomás. “Where did you find her?”

  “Near the Mission. I recognized Eston, then her, when they passed on a bus. Guardsmen were chasing her by the time I caught up to them. They said her companion had killed one of theirs. But they didn’t see her get in the car and I don’t think they suspected me of harboring her. I thought it better to bring her here and send word to Enzo in case she’s wanted for other crimes.”

  The patriarch nodded in approval. “You made a wise decision, Tomás. Until Enzo is named head of the guard and able to cleanse it of those who don’t deserve to wear its uniform, all of them must be looked upon with suspicion.”

  Father Ursu said, “The time for restoring law and morality to Oakland is close at hand, Carlos. Enzo gaining control of the guard is just the first step. Your continued presence on the council is more critical than ever before. The prisoner needs to be found, quickly and quietly. We need answers. Let me deal with the matter of finding out who her companions are.”

  Cold sweat drenched Rebekka’s skin at the persuasiveness of the priest’s voice. To see the guard cleaned up…

  She might have willingly offered to help them recapture the prisoner except she knew only too well how little the laws applied to the wealthy and powerful. And she would never trust the Church, which held that Weres were abominations originally created by forbidden science and by gifted who dabbled in black arts and bred with animals.

  The Iberá patriarch’s attention returned to Rebekka, but his question was for the priest. “You say she’s gifted. What can you read of her ability?”

  There was an almost imperceptible tightening of skin at the corners of Father Ursu’s eyes, a subtle tell Rebekka might not have noticed if she hadn’t spent much of her life around Weres. “A healer of some type, but given the witch’s evil she carries with her and her presence when the trapper was murdered, her gift has most likely been tainted and turned into a thing of darkness.”

  “By all accounts the trapper’s death was well deserved,” the patriarch said. “The guard would have killed him if they’d caught him transporting dragon lizards. Just as the Church would put its former priest to death for any number of sins he’s committed before and since creating the maze.”

  “I won’t argue that point with you, Carlos. It’s always been the purview of both state and Church to punish sinners when necessary.”

  “My gift is to heal animals,” Rebekka said, remembering the lion roars she’d heard when they entered the estate and desperately hoping the revelation of her talent would keep her from ending up in Father Ursu’s care.

  Interest sparked in the old man’s face. “Ah, that would explain her presence at the ambush, Derrick, which any other time I would have applauded, given what was intended for the animals on that truck. She’ll stay here for the night as my guest.”

  The priest openly frowned. “Time—”

  “Is of the essence,” the patriarch interrupted, his voice now holding the imperious tone of a man whose personal power couldn’t be ignored, even by the Church. “No one is more aware of it than I am, though I do share your concern about whatever witch’s evil she might carry on her.”

  To Rebekka he said, “If you’ll kindly remove it from your pocket, then I’ll have you shown to your room and brought a change of clothing suitable for joining us at the evening meal.”

  Caught in the fear of being taken to the church, Rebekka hadn’t given much thought to the token in her pocket. Her mind had been paralyzed, locked in finding a way to survive without betraying Levi. But now she was loath to give up the inscribed pentacle.

  Too late she remembered standing in the occult shop with Annalise and glancing down at the book in the witch’s hand, automatically memorizing the short spell requiring candle, blood, and token. Should you need to use it in order to summon help, change the last word to aziel.

  The butler moved closer. He’d unobtrusively picked up a tray, and now he held it in front of her. Rebekka easily imagined him doing the same to another guest, taking a weapon perhaps, or something else banned from the patriarch’s presence.

  There was no choice—not if sacrificing the token kept her out of the Church’s care. She placed it on the velvet-lined tray.

  Father Ursu stepped forward, as if he intended to take possession of the pentacle, but the butler was already turning away, his movement allowing the patriarch to see the token before it was taken from the room.

  It was another defeat, and as with the others, the priest’s voice held no acknowledgment of it. It remained smooth, unperturbed. “Do you think it’s wise to keep it here, Carlos?”

  The patriarch laughed. “Surely I can be trusted to keep something so insignificant safe. It bears the Wainwright sigil, one that automatically marks it as evil in the Church’s view. If it were truly harmful, the healer wouldn’t be able to carry it. Now, as much as I hate to admit it, I need to rest before the evening meal is announced.”

  “I’ll take my leave then.” Father Ursu glanced at Eston. “What of the child? Surely you don’t want to be burdened by it. Can I be of assistance there? He differs from those typically accepted into our ranks, but considering your support of the Church, he’d be accepted and raised for the priesthood.”

  Carlos Iberá snorted. “And have everyone wondering which of my children or grandchildren produced a bastard?”

  “My word alone would be enough to have him taken in.”

  Rebekka’s arms tightened reflexively, making Eston wriggle and fuss in protest. “He’s got a mother,” she sa
id.

  “A pathetic creature destined for a life of poverty and abuse,” Father Ursu responded, confirming her guess that he had been at the trapper’s compound.

  For the first time she wondered what his interest in the prisoner was, and why—given the Church’s power and that of the Iberás—they hadn’t brought the chained man to Oakland under private guard.

  “Leave the boy here for now,” the patriarch said after a long pause.

  “Very well. The rest of my evening is spoken for, but send word if you need me.”

  “Of course.”

  Tomás opened the door so the priest could depart. A moment later the butler returned and escorted Rebekka to a room with no locks, either on the inside or the outside.

  AS Araña emerged from the shop, relief slid through Tir, cutting away his worry and leaving need in its place. He took the offered shirt when she reached him, but instead of putting it on, he crowded her, maneuvering her into what privacy could be found beneath the leafy canvas and shade of the tree.

  “Give me the machete,” he said, tormenting them both with the command.

  He nearly doubled over at the sound of her soft whimper and the slight tremble of her fingers as she obeyed him by opening the front of her shirt so she could remove the harness holding the blade’s sheath in position along her back.

  His hands balled into fists to keep from reaching out and pushing her bra out of the way so he could look at her breasts. If he saw them, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from touching, suckling.

  His cock throbbed at the sight of the leather straps against her skin. She was so utterly feminine. And yet she was a warrior, too. A survivor.