Power: Arca Book 3

by Karen Diem

  His head tilted.

  “His queen. The rock we’ve been carrying around isn’t his heart, it’s hers! Canaiwari is her name, and the rock’s called the Heart of Canaiwari!” Trying not to think about what she was touching, Zita removed the gem from the mummy’s chest and bolted, sprinting through the room of dead creatures. Rather than risking her bare feet on the bridge, she leapt up onto the narrow handrail and scurried along that. When she reached the other side, she jumped down, rolled to the stairs, and bolted up them.

  Freelance was only a few steps behind her, his stride longer but his passage across the bridge slower.

  The thin red cloth Wyn had covered the female mummy in earlier remained, and Zita pulled that away. Up close, this mummy’s chest also had a hole in it, almost hidden by the drape of an arm. With a shudder, Zita thrust the gem inside.

  When nothing happened, she wound the fabric around the corpse to keep any bits of it from flaking off. When his heart returns…

  Her grasp as gentle as possible, Zita picked up the red-shrouded body and took a second to get used to the weight and balance. I’m bathing in sanitizer when I get home. At least she’s lighter than a full-grown person should be and thankfully not too tall, she judged. “You might’ve been drawn chubby, but you’re not that heavy anymore,” she said.

  The ground chose that moment to shake again.

  Zita sped back down the stairs, pushing by Freelance.

  A faint, mechanical sigh followed her. She sensed, rather than saw, him following. Despite her burden, Zita danced quickly around the spines on the bridge. She jogged to the burial chamber, ignoring the gruesome sights along the way.

  Zita skid to a halt and lowered the wrapped form to the thick stone slab, setting it on the outstretched arm of the other mummy. For good measure, she scooped up the finger that had fallen and set that in the male mummy’s hand. The dry bones were redolent with an odd stink, and she was happy to move away and pick up her water. “I hope this works because I’m out of ideas after this.”

  Her companion grunted. Even through the voice changer, it sounded like agreement.

  She shot him a smile and heard scraping behind her. As she twisted around to view the mummies, Zita inhaled and stepped back. The two bodies were now intertwined, their arms around each other and the Hearts hidden from view.

  Her voice came out a bit squeaky, and she retreated to the entrance to the cave. “Okay. That’s… something. How about we go now?”

  His goggles focused on the corpses, Freelance joined her, and they escaped into the passageway.

  The welcome warmth of party line touched her mind, and Zita stopped moving.

  You did it, Wyn sent, her mental voice slow and exhausted. The spell is stronger than before. Hurry back so we can leave. On the bright side, while I was part of it, I altered it a little. In the future, no one should be able to get in here without a skilled magic-user, not even if they sacrifice every descendant of the original tribe, as the conquistador attempted. Tiffany would need the blood of at least three different supers and a great deal of good fortune to manage it, based on the sloppy work I’ve seen from her so far.

  Touching her ear, Zita beamed and turned away from Freelance. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you yapping in my head again, even if it’s about awful stuff like mass murder. We’re on our way.

  We have to rest before we leave, Andy sent. Wyn is sick.

  I’m tired, not unwell. I don’t require medical assistance, though a chance to nap would be welcome, Wyn admitted.

  You were half-buried in the dirt. We couldn’t—even I couldn’t—dig you out, and while you’re free now, you are barely able to stand, Andy sent. Trixie said you were having seizures and if it continued, you would die.

  Zita ran a hand over her hair, forward and back. Carajo. Get some sleep.

  We’ll wait at the battle site. After my close acquaintance with the spell, I can open the entrance to let us out, but it would be easier to do only once. Wyn’s words were careful and precise, like a drunkard trying not to slur.

  After you rest, Andy sent.

  Zita added her mental voice to support his argument. Freelance and I can make our own way back. If Andy sees us once we get clear of the trees, he can pick us up as the Birdseed Pervert. If not, we can find the camp again.

  Please use Wingspan instead of that awful name, and I’m not taking that form again in this place unless I have to. Strangely, Andy’s words carried a strong wave of self-disgust and upset.

  You sure you guys are okay? Zita glanced at her companion and mouthed words as if she had an earpiece.

  Amusement and weariness accompanied Wyn’s acquiescence over the party line. Yes, fine. We’ll see you soon, Zita, or we’ll come searching for you. The warmth of the connection died.

  Something whispered behind her, and Zita turned.

  Freelance stood there, his head tilted to the side. Through the doorway, she saw the stone slab with the corpses.

  “It worked, but we’re on our own getting back. Muse is wiped and… did you cover both mummies with the cloth?” Her eyebrows rose. It seemed oddly sentimental for the mercenary, but she had left the one corpse rolled up in the fabric.

  He turned to study them, then turned back to her.

  Cold chased down Zita’s spine. “Right. Magic is creepy. You know, they can keep it. Let’s get going.” She scooped up her bag and headed toward the cave with the dead dinosaurs, pausing when her instincts insisted something was wrong.

  One step ahead of her, Freelance pulled a shotgun and a handgun, both with suppressors attached. “They’re healing.”

  Zita didn’t know where he’d gotten the long gun, but she abandoned that line of thought as she realized the reek of death was receding, replaced by a dry, scaly odor somewhere between that of a reptile and a bird. As she set foot in the doorway, she saw wings shivering as the creature pinned to the ceiling fought against the bubble gum. The candy fell out, and the feathered animal dropped to the floor where it rolled to its feet.

  “They animated only after we entered before.”

  Zita flexed her shoulders. “Feel like a run?” A quick glance at the doors showed her the openings were too narrow to exit or enter as anything much larger than a sheep. Praying they’d get through it without being eaten or killing anyone—if the creatures were people—she handed him her water bottle. “I’ll try to clear a path once we’re inside.”

  He tucked it into his bag and ran.

  Just inside, Zita became a rhinoceros and charged toward the door, knocking aside everything in her way except her companion.

  By the time they had reached the center, the cavern seethed with newly reanimated dinosaurs showing no indications of their previous deaths. Only the ones that Freelance methodically shot or that she tossed lay still on the ground. She sent up a brief prayer again that they weren’t really people.

  Thanks to the almost constant roar of Freelance’s guns, Zita was three-quarters deaf as she head-butted away a creature that had been diving their way. With a bellow, she dashed around Freelance, smacked another dinosaur with her horn and barreled through the swarm. Right before leaving the cave, she whirled to defend the exit, backing up one step too far. Her wide hindquarters got stuck in the narrow opening as she slashed at an attacking animal. She wiggled, trying to get free.

  Only seconds slower, Freelance seized her horn and used it to vault onto her back and over her.

  Zita’s ears rang with the close discharge of his weapon as he fired it behind her. The air was redolent with the coppery scent of blood, and warm wetness dripped down her side. With another swipe to clear space, she switched to Arca and backed out of the cavern.

  The creatures, several them injured, paced inside, but none moved to follow them, as if the entrance to the passageway were an invisible line they would or could not cross.

  Gracias a Dios, they’re limited to that cave. Saying nothing, she and Freelance hurried farther down the tunnel.

 
After they had gotten out of sight of the animals, Zita checked herself for injury. Her arms and sides were unmarked, but she frowned at the blood on one bare foot. She pulled up her pant leg to find the source. Long, narrow scratches greeted her, and those were already scabbing—her thick hide had protected her from serious injury. Her pants had either avoided being torn or had already mended themselves, so she pushed them back down to cover it. “No major hurts here, but I should clean it when I can. You?” The sharp bite of rubbing alcohol stung her nose, and she turned her attention to Freelance. Her breath caught.

  Her companion leaned against a wall and appeared to be pouring a flask on his leg. An empty canteen sat in a bloody puddle on the ground next to him. Freelance had propped his bag in the way so she could not see the severity of the wound, but the large square of bandaging he had prepared told her it was more than a scratch.

  “You want me to wrap that?” Her voice might’ve been louder than she intended, but her ears still rung from the firearms.

  His shoulders stiffened even more than before.

  Zita exhaled. “Look, I know you don’t know me, but given all the predators running loose, we can’t afford to leave a blood trail all the way back.”

  He stilled and set down the rubbing alcohol.

  Taking his inaction as permission, she picked up the bandages and eased in closer. “I don’t suppose you have a knife I can cut off your pant leg with?”

  “Roll it over the top.”

  Narrowing her eyes at him, Zita stopped and sighed at the apparent prudery. “It’ll attract carnivores, but if that’s what you want… Once we reach the others, I’ll get Muse to heal you, which should remove any infection and fix it up. Keeping the bloody pant leg is still a bad idea though.”

  His shoulders lifted once, then dropped.

  After that, she knelt and dealt with his injury. Although blood and the tattered remains of his pant leg obscured part of it, the rubbing alcohol and water had rinsed away enough to see a nasty gash in a firm, muscled light-skinned calf, one that already had a thin tracery of white scars. Sweet definition. I still want to know his exercise regimen, but whatever messed up his leg before this was extreme. Some of those scars might be surgical, but the others are too irregular. Maybe he shattered the bone at some point? Wonder if metal detectors beep if he walks through them unarmed.

  As she applied butterfly bandages to keep the edges of the wound together, then taped a pad over those, she found she couldn’t picture him without weapons. Nude, yes, but even then, her imagination supplied him with a gun. My pervy libido needs a cold shower. This is so not the time. “If you’re a total idiot and refuse to let Muse heal you, you’ll need stitches and actual medical treatment later,” she warned.

  After he packed up his supplies, Freelance inclined his head once. He offered the water bottle to her.

  “At least we’re through the worst of it,” she said, rising and taking a long drink.

  He didn’t reply.

  Por supuesto. Zita strode the last few feet to the cave with the bridge and stopped. The interior was pitch dark, though she still heard the hot spring bubbling. It felt warmer than before, and a strong wind gust tugged at her, its hot, greedy fingers redolent with sulfur. The square of light from the open trapdoor in the temple was not visible. Shifting partially to an owl did not help with her vision this time.

  “What now?” she groaned.

  After changing into a large bat, Zita rose in the air, opening her mouth to use sonar. The resulting information had her head spinning, and she landed again with a thud.

  Once she returned to Arca’s form, she rubbed a hand over her hair. “Something’s messed up. I can’t echolocate in there, and the wind makes flying almost impossible. Why is there wind when we’re underground anyway? How did your team get through this before?” If it weren’t pitch dark, I could teleport to the other side. I don’t know anywhere in this land well enough to go without seeing it. Stupid magic.

  He was silent. “Halja cut our guide’s hand and dripped his blood on the bowl before the chasm. The bridge appeared.”

  Zita inhaled. “Muse said the spell liked blood sacrifices. I’m not from this area, and I’m guessing you’re not either?” She paused for him to confirm.

  After a long moment, he shook his head.

  As if not being a native to one of the local tribes narrows down anything about him… Based on my glimpse of his leg, he’s white or mixed with it, so no real surprise, she thought. “Well, if I go slowly, I can find the bridge and walk along the railing of that, since I’d rather not risk the spikes.”

  His voice was like a gunshot. “No.”

  “What?”

  He gestured toward the impenetrable darkness.

  Zita followed his movement, her forehead wrinkling. “What? I can’t see a thing in there.”

  A half-twitch at her words suggested he might’ve been surprised by her statement. “The bridge is gone. Five stone spires have small wooden disks atop them made of the same thorny wood at irregular distances apart.”

  She twisted to eye him. “You can see through that? Is the railing gone too?”

  He nodded and tapped his goggles.

  “Right. Do you think you can get across?”

  Freelance flexed his injured leg as if testing it. “The disks are not secured to the spires. Someone would have to jump on them in rapid succession before the disk falls into the water.”

  “Someone. You mean me. So, you can’t?”

  His shoulders stiffened, and he said nothing. Instead, he took a few steps forward, disappearing into the inky cave. A familiar hiss, whirr, and thud revealed the use of his grapple gun, followed by a scraping sound and a wet splash.

  “You okay?” she called out.

  Freelance emerged, winding up a rope. His grapple gun had returned to his belt. “Stalagmites are too wide and the winds too strong.”

  Dark where it had been immersed in water, the rope steamed and radiated heat when she reached for it. She let it drop. “Here, lend me your goggles.”

  His fingers curled.

  For a minute, they stood there, her hand outstretched.

  Turning away, he dug through his pack.

  “You brought an extra set? Awesome. If I can see, it’s a done deal, pan comido,” she said.

  His back to her, he pulled off his goggles and slid something else on his face. When Freelance checked the dark cavern again, the ones he wore were twice the size of his originals. He stared into the cave, then turned away and switched eyewear again.

  Zita waited.

  After he faced her, once again in his original pair, he handed her the oversized ones.

  Excitement mounting, Zita took them and slid them over her head, adjusting the strap for her smaller size. She turned to the cave and couldn’t help the expletive that escaped her. “These don’t work.”

  “They did.” Even with the distortion by whatever voice changer he used, he made it sound like her fault. Freelance tucked away the old eyewear.

  “It’s not me, it’s you.” Zita pushed hair out of her face as she paced. This is like one of those awful trust exercises at a company meeting, only instead of accountants who drop me so they can see me fall on my culo, I’ve got a mercenary who might kill me. She stopped in front of him and placed both hands on her hips. “So, you can see… and I can jump. If you direct me across, I’ll attach a rope to the stalagmite nearest the door, and you can slide over on that.”

  He set down his pack, glanced into the cave, then inclined his head at her.

  Zita rubbed her hands and offered him a lopsided smile. “Let’s do a practice run in this tunnel, then go for it before my adrenaline fades. I’ll warm up with some jumps, and you start in with your advice when you’re ready.” She sprinted almost to the doorway where the dinosaurs seethed, and ran back, leaping randomly and trying to make her feet land together in as small a footprint as possible.

  “Close your eyes,” he called out.

 
She obeyed and tried to relax her body. He’s a sniper. Being a good judge of distance is a requirement for that.

  He barked a measurement.

  She jumped and crashed into a wall.

  “Dead.” Freelance tried another.

  This time, she smacked the wall hard enough to bounce off and stagger a step. “Carajo,” Zita said, holding her shoulder where it had hit.

  “Dead.” He gave her another measurement, one very close to what the previous ones had been.

  She leapt, and though an elbow bumped the wall, it did not slam into anything.

  “Dead. Poison spike. Again.”

  They continued until the routine got her down the length of the hall without hitting anything.

  Her muscles warm, loose, and slightly sore from collisions, Zita took a deep breath and a long drink of her water, almost emptying it. She tucked the bottle into a pant pocket. “If I fall, I’ll try to switch to a bird, but those gusts are brutal for small birds, and there’s not enough room for a large one.”

  He nodded and disappeared into the cave for a moment with his rope. When he reappeared, he handed her the end of the line.

  She retreated until she was as far back as the corridor allowed and could still be lined up with the darkness of the cave opening. The tight weave of the rope she gripped bit into her palm, and she squared her shoulders. “Nice rope. Ready.”

  “Four paces, jump eight feet to eleven fifteen o’clock, feet tight left.”

  Zita inhaled, ran, and jumped.

  He called out the next set of directions as she flew.

  She landed hard on a wooden object that sloped under her weight and launched herself again.

  Freelance gave another order.

  They managed to make all of the leaps up to the last one.

  Her feet hit the edge of a support, and she wobbled. Not going fast enough to make the next one. Taking the extra second, even as the wood tilted downward under her, she crouched to bring as much force to the last jump as possible and sprang out. After curling into a ball, she flipped and stretched out her arms.