“No!” Oriana shouted, jumping forward.
Duilio fired a split second too late, his bullet striking stone. Maria Melo tumbled off the roof. Oriana managed to get one hand on the woman’s skirt, but the woman’s weight began dragging her toward the gap between the two merlons.
“I can’t hold her!”
Duilio dropped to his knees next to her, trying to get a better grip on the fabric or a limb, but Mrs. Melo hung limply, bent at the waist, both arms and feet dangling down. “Damn! She must have hit her head going over.”
Oriana felt herself slipping closer to the edge. Her hand burned, the fabric twisting tighter around her fingers. Duilio reached over the edge of the precipice, trying to get a hand on the woman’s jacket.
Cloth ripped with a hiss. Oriana let out a cry of frustration as the fabric in her hand suddenly came loose. Duilio tumbled forward in a desperate effort to grab Mrs. Melo, but Oriana grabbed at his legs to steady him.
He sat down hard against the side of the merlon, his breath coming short. “Thank you.”
Oriana peered over the edge of the wall, Duilio’s hand knotting into the back of her borrowed jacket to keep her from going over. He might not be able to see the ground, but sereia eyes were better in darkness.
On the rocks below, Maria Melo lay broken. She wasn’t going to move anytime soon.
Oriana sat there, Duilio’s arms about her as they both tried to catch their breath. She needed to remember every word the woman said. Maria Melo had given up a few pieces of the puzzle . . . and that was more than they’d had this morning, but she’d taken most of her secrets down with her.
Oriana grasped Duilio’s arm, feeling dizzy now the confrontation was over. There was one thing she could prove. “We . . . we have to retrieve her body.”
Duilio rose and hauled her back toward the doorway. “We’ll get the guards to do that.”
She pressed a hand against her aching arm, and then swayed. Duilio caught her before she could hit the gravel rooftop.
* * *
The stairs down to the basement level were dark, but Joaquim could see lights in the hallway below—the gymnasium where the infante kept beating Duilio. That thought made a brief smile cross his face. But it fled when he saw a black-garbed figure steal up the stairwell at the far end of the long hallway.
Anjos had ordered them not to pursue the healer, but he wasn’t going to let this man get away. I just won’t get within arm’s reach.
As he passed the entry door to the gymnasium, he saw the stocky young man Bastião had left in the chaplain’s care. Hands bound behind him, the man slumped on the floor, mouth agape and eyes staring. Joaquim leaned against the doorframe to peer at him. That left little doubt their chaplain was a killer . . . and was willing to kill again.
Determined not to lose his quarry, Joaquim made his way cautiously to the end of the hallway. He paused at the base of the stairwell, listening. Footsteps moved away on the floor above, so he started up. He came out on the ground floor, back pressed to the wall. His heart beat loud in his ears as he listened for movement.
Where was the man?
Then his eyes caught a movement, a black shape coming out of that center hallway as if he’d taken the wrong direction and had to double back. Joaquim chased the man down the hallway. Just before Salazar reached the outside doors, they swung open, and two uniformed officers of the Special Police stepped inside. Salazar retreated toward Joaquim.
“Don’t try it,” Joaquim warned, raising his gun.
Salazar spun around and ran toward the two newcomers instead, catching one with a hand wrapped around his throat. The officer gasped, his eyes wide and his weapon falling to the floor. The other raised his gun but didn’t fire, saying, “Let him go.”
Salazar began backing away, dragging his hapless hostage with him as a shield. He backed into a side hallway and into a brightly lit room, shutting the door behind him.
The outer doors opened again. Miss Vladimirova stepped inside, Anjos and Gaspar directly behind her, and Joaquim waved for the two inspectors to join him. “He went inside that room. He has an officer hostage.”
“The officer’s dead then.” Miss Vladimirova’s veiled head turned toward Anjos. “I will go.”
She walked slowly toward Joaquim, setting his skin crawling as she neared. He glanced at Gaspar and Anjos. Neither argued with her. They merely checked their guns and headed for the door, Anjos grimacing as if in pain.
Joaquim turned the latch, pushed open the door, and Miss Vladimirova walked inside, the scent of river water drifting with her. The room appeared to be a sitting area with chairs and tables clustered in small groups, abandoned now. The police officer Salazar had taken hostage lay on the entry rug, eyes open. His throat looked scalded.
Joaquim crossed himself. “How many people can he kill?”
Miss Vladimirova’s head swiveled toward him. “I do not know if there’s a limit.”
That didn’t sound good. Salazar wasn’t using his borrowed strength to heal now, so what could he do with that power?
“The energies will burn him if he doesn’t use them,” Miss Vladimirova volunteered. “So he will use them to strike.”
No, that wasn’t reassuring. But we can’t stop now.
There were two doors on the far wall. Joaquim strode to the nearer, opened it carefully and peered out. It led onto a narrow dark hallway that must be a servants’ passage, one that would take them right back into the main body of the old palace, judging by its placement. A hand settled on Joaquim’s arm—Gaspar. He’d forgotten the man was behind him. “Find him,” Gaspar said. “We’ll follow.”
Joaquim swallowed. He knew what the hard-eyed inspector wanted. Gaspar wanted him to prove he was a witch yet again, to use his long-buried abilities to bring down a man who’d done far worse with his witchery.
He didn’t know how he was supposed to do that, but he had to try.
Joaquim clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and forced himself to concentrate. This wasn’t like finding Duilio whom he knew as well as himself. He didn’t know Salazar at all. His name meant nothing, and all Joaquim could do was string together what few facts he had and his brief glimpses of the man. Priest but defrocked, illicit. Torturer, despite being called to heal. A man with no respect for women. That thought brought out a flash of fury and, for an instant, he could almost see Salazar as a faint light traveling away from him. He pointed in that direction before his sense of the man faded.
Gaspar nodded and pushed past, whispering, “Well done.”
Joaquim followed, jaw set. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. Gaspar meant to kill the man, but Salazar had killed two men in the last few minutes, which surely made him formidable enough even for Gaspar. Anjos and Miss Vladimirova followed more slowly.
When they reached the end of the hallway, Gaspar pulled the door open. They’d clearly ended up in the original palace, with a hallway heading both left and right, and to one side a spiral staircase led up to the next floor. Gaspar glanced back at Joaquim. “Well?”
Joaquim focused on Salazar again, gaining a sense of the man more easily this time. “Up.”
“That’s a strange choice,” Gaspar whispered. Anjos hadn’t quite reached them, so Gaspar made a gesture to tell him they were taking the stairwell. Gaspar started up, hugging the outer edge of the spiral. When they reached the top, they stepped out into the hallway and Gaspar gestured for Joaquim to be still.
“What are you doing here?” he asked the empty hallway.
Joaquim wondered if Gaspar had lost his mind.
The Lady abruptly appeared, her back pressed against the opposite wall several feet farther down the hall. She looked unusually pale and her eyes were wide and frightened. “He chased me up here,” she whispered. “Thank God he couldn’t find me.”
Gaspar didn’t spend time consoling her. “Where are the of
ficers who were guarding you?”
She pointed toward a doorway. “Giving chase. They followed him in there.” She grabbed Gaspar’s arm and gestured toward the wall a few feet away. “He touched that.”
A handprint showed on the wall, where the plaster was scorched. Gaspar reached out and touched it. “Still warm. Stay with us,” he told the Lady. “Tavares, guard her with your life.”
Joaquim opened his mouth to argue, but didn’t have any logical protest to make.
Gaspar opened the door and entered, stepping over the slumped body of a man in police uniform that lay next to the door. Joaquim followed, keeping the Lady behind him.
The room was some sort of waiting area with chairs lining two long walls. A red runner led up the center to a desk on a dais, and near that Salazar waited for them. A second police officer stood in his clutch, unresisting like a rag doll. It seemed to take no effort on Salazar’s part to hold him up. Was that strength stolen from his victims?
“Come any closer and I will kill him,” Salazar said, angry eyes on Gaspar.
Gaspar gestured and Joaquim obediently split away, crossing the aisle and pressing against the far wall. Then Gaspar raised his pistol and calmly took a shot at Salazar’s head. The priest’s head snapped back, a small hole appearing in his forehead. But before their eyes, he shook his head and the bullet hole disappeared. The police officer slumped to the floor instead.
What just happened? Joaquim gaped at the officer now lying on the red runner. A small hole showed on his forehead.
Gaspar tossed his gun to the floor and charged at the priest instead. Salazar held his arms wide, waiting for Gaspar to tackle him. Joaquim cast a quick glance at the Lady, then moved closer as Gaspar barreled into the priest, shoulder first. Salazar staggered back, but kept his feet. He slapped a hand against Gaspar’s cheek.
And then he snatched it away as if he’d been burned.
Roaring in a guttural voice, he shoved at Gaspar instead, actually throwing the inspector back through the air. Gaspar slammed into the far wall with a loud grunt. He slid down and caught himself on a chair, surprise flickering across his features as he gripped his right side with his left hand. His jaw clenched in pain.
The Lady moved toward her husband, but Joaquim blocked her path. “Stay back. Please, Lady.”
At the far end of the hall, Joaquim saw Inspector Anjos enter, the black-draped woman with him. Four palace guards in their old-fashioned uniforms followed them. One of them ran past Anjos, ignoring the inspector’s order to stop. The guard tried to catch Salazar’s arm, but the priest grabbed him instead, laying one bare hand to the man’s throat. Joaquim smelled burning flesh.
Then Salazar saw Miss Vladimirova and his eyes went wide with terror. The man backed up against the wall, dragging the guard with him. Anjos stayed at her side, his gun ready. The other three guards spread out, cutting between Joaquim and the priest.
“This is simple,” the woman said in her oddly flat voice. “You will come with us, or I will make you regret it.”
Anjos dared a quick look down at the dead police officer just as the captive guard began to struggle in Salazar’s grasp. The priest’s eyes seemed fixed on the woman like the point of a compass, though. He didn’t move either way. She raised one gloved hand. “Come now.”
“I’d listen to her,” Anjos said. “We have you surrounded.”
Salazar’s eyes snapped toward Anjos. “I can keep your prince alive. I can control the infection. So long as I’m with him, he won’t die.”
Was that his plan all along? To keep the prince tied to his questionable mercy?
“Yes, you can,” Miss Vladimirova said. “Killing every day to keep him on his feet. But I could, too. We don’t need you for that.”
Salazar’s eyes skimmed over the officers in the room, Anjos only a few feet away, Gaspar still hunched on the wooden chairs, Joaquim farther back. Then he shoved his current captive away and jumped toward Anjos, one hand snaking out to grasp the inspector’s hand over the gun. Anjos didn’t hesitate. He fired. The healer hissed in pain, but didn’t release Anjos. “If you have any fondness for your protector, whore,” he said to Miss Vladimirova, “you’ll stay away. I’ll kill him, inch by inch.”
Anjos began breathing heavily, but didn’t move. Blood dripped from his hand, as if all the vessels were rupturing. Anjos tried to raise his other hand to pull back the gun’s hammer, but froze in place.
Joaquim watched Anjos struggle. If he shot Salazar, the priest could just transfer the injury to Anjos, couldn’t he? That was why Gaspar had tried attacking him bodily. Joaquim stepped forward.
“Get back,” Gaspar hissed at him, teeth clenched. “Don’t interfere.”
Joaquim cast him a horrified glance. Salazar was going to kill Anjos. Then he felt the Lady’s hand on his arm. “Let her do this,” the Lady whispered in his ear. “She’s far more powerful than he is.”
“He’s killed four people now. How can she beat him?”
“He’s got Anjos,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the tableau ahead of them. “There’s nothing in the world more important to her. Not even her own self-control. To save him, she might even come back to life.”
He peered at the Lady’s avid face, trying to grasp her meaning. She’d said she believed that Miss Vladimirova had stopped her own life, a matter of control. A healer had to have life to heal someone else, though, and Miss Vladimirova didn’t. Had they put Anjos forward intentionally, to force the Russian woman’s hand? Joaquim kept his gun trained on Salazar, just in case. Blood ran from Anjos’ hand now, a steady stream.
“Let him go,” Miss Vladimirova said to Salazar. “Your last warning.”
The other guard jumped onto Salazar’s back, breaking his grip on the inspector. The healer twisted in the guard’s grip, wrapped a hand around the man’s throat, and that guard went limp.
Released, Anjos fell to his knees, his right arm hanging at his side.
Joaquim stepped forward again. He could shoot, now that Salazar wasn’t touching the inspector.
Miss Vladimirova held up one hand. “Don’t waste him.”
He spared a glance at her. Waste him?
Anjos now knelt in a pool of blood, his life bleeding away.
Miss Vladimirova stepped closer to Salazar. “You know what I am, don’t you? You can feel it in yourself already. I am your death.”
Salazar leaned toward Anjos, but before he could touch the inspector, Miss Vladimirova stretched her arms toward him.
A wind whipped through the room, and for a split second Joaquim’s breath was stolen away. He felt strangled. Then the sensation released him, passing as quickly as it had come upon him. One of the two remaining palace guards ran from the room, bumping into Joaquim as he fled.
Miss Vladimirova stood with her arms outstretched. Salazar arched toward her as if a hook were buried in his stomach and she was reeling him in. Then he collapsed to the floor.
Joaquim felt cold all over. She’d taken Salazar’s life without even touching him.
She gasped in a huge breath, sounding like she’d been underwater. Joaquim couldn’t see her face, but she threw back her veil and ripped off her hat, revealing a golden braid fiercely pinned back in a bun. She continued to gasp for air, visible waves of heat coming off her body.
Then she spun toward Anjos. She cried out something in her own tongue, brokenly. She fell to her knees in his blood, grasped Anjos’ wounded hand in hers, and ripped at his shirt with her free hand. She worked that hand inside his undershirt. Her eyes closed and she went still.
Joaquim had never watched a healer at work. This seems . . . voyeuristic.
He turned away. Behind him, the Lady knelt at Gaspar’s side. The inspector perched halfway between sitting and standing, his right arm clutched close. Joaquim helped her get Gaspar situated on the chair, which earned a pained grimace from the ins
pector. Broken ribs, without a doubt.
Gaspar waved Joaquim away, so he went and checked on the downed men. The police officer Salazar had held hostage lay dead, a bullet wound to his forehead as if he’d somehow been given the injury in Salazar’s place. One of the palace guards was stunned, but alive. His throat was red and burned, but he was breathing. The other hadn’t fared so well, neck twisted at an awkward angle. The first police officer, abandoned by the entryway, was dead as well.
That left the healer. Joaquim didn’t want to touch Salazar’s body. He was putting it off. As if by agreement, he and the remaining guard settled for grabbing Salazar by his feet and dragging him away from Anjos and Miss Vladimirova. They left him near the door, and Joaquim asked the guard to keep an eye on the corpse, just in case.
“Take his head off,” Gaspar hissed from his seat. “To be sure.”
Joaquim cast him a horrified glance. Is he serious? The palace guard didn’t hesitate, though. He drew his saber and swung it at the healer’s throat.
“Little different than a vampire,” Gaspar said. He pointed toward Miss Vladimirova with his chin. “That one’s been walking around dead for decades.”
Joaquim swallowed. He didn’t have a good grasp of witchery, but it seemed a barbaric step. He was in above his head with these people. He looked back to where Miss Vladimirova still leaned over Anjos, speaking softly in a strange tongue. He could see heat rising from the woman’s form, rippling the air about them, but it eased and then faded away. Joaquim eyed the pool of blood in which Anjos lay, wondering how much a man could lose and still survive.
The woman released Anjos’ hand and fell to her hands and knees. Anjos began coughing. Surely that had to be a good sign.
“Help me turn him,” she begged, one hand extended toward Joaquim. “Help me.”
The Seat of Magic Page 36