“You’ve stolen my sacrifice!” said a familiar voice, but it was not the masked figure that spoke. It was the same voice that had spoken in all her visions of this place, and it seemed to come from every direction at once.

  Then the figure turned to the altar, pointing the dagger away from her and toward the prone shape that now appeared on the altar’s rough surface. Sierra saw that it was Aiden, bound and bleeding. His eyes, puffy with bruises, were closed, and his mouth was cut and bloody. He was naked and defenseless. The ropes that bound his ankles and the bonds that forced his arms cruelly behind him were studded with thorns that sliced into his flesh, blood trickling onto the stone beneath.

  “What are you talking about?” shrieked Sierra, her suspicions of Aiden forgotten in her rush of terror and pity for his suffering. “What sacrifice?”

  “I told you to bring me the one to be sacrificed. Coyotl. My enemy’s lap dog. He was in my hands. But you defied me, and he escaped. There must be blood shed for me, and now you must be the one to do it.” The black-clad figure turned and held the knife out to her. The hands were slimy with dark blood, as was the knife. She shrank away from it, shaking her head.

  “No! I won’t do it. No!”

  “You can't escape me,” said the voice. “You may be protected, but eventually, you’ll come to me willingly. And then…then I will debase and violate you in ways you can’t imagine. You will be so degraded that you will willingly allow me to rape your mind even as I use your body. Further, you will beg me to do more and more, even to the point of death. For all your suffering, you will plead with me for just another moment of pain, of shame. At the end, when it seems you cannot continue to live, I will sustain you—so that I can extract another iota of agony from your spent body and your ravaged spirit.”

  Sierra clapped her hands over her ears and closed her eyes. Then she thought of Aiden, helpless and bleeding on the stone altar. She opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and rushed at the masked figure, heedless of the knife.

  It was cold, cold, cold. She could see nothing. She couldn’t breathe. It was black, and she was sightless and suffocating, her consciousness dying away like a candle flame in a bell jar. She couldn’t breathe…

  Cold water shocked her awake, gasping. This time, she really was awake, but not in the familiar surroundings of her bedroom. Nor was she lying in Chris Jumlin’s elegant guest bed. She was lying on the stone altar in Jumlin’s basement. Despite being caught by Jumlin and bound hand and foot yet another time (this time with duct tape, the rope being shredded by the obsidian shard), she had somehow fallen into exhausted sleep in the dark once he had left her.

  “Wake up,” said Jumlin’s smooth voice. A movement behind the altar made Sierra strain her head over her shoulder to see who was there. Theresa made another sweeping motion along the floor, and Sierra heard the glassy clatter of the knife shards being swept into a dustpan. Theresa glanced up at Sierra’s anxious face and scowled as if Sierra had broken the knife expressly to annoy her.

  “Well, you bought yourself some time,” Jumlin said. “But I don’t think you’re going to enjoy the time you have left. It will take time to make another sacrificial knife. A day or two, perhaps. But Lord Tezcatlipoca is impatient for his offering, so no longer than two days, I assure you.” He reached down and roughly tore the thick duct tape from Sierra’s mouth. The ripping away of the tape was just one pain among many, and she winced only slightly.

  “Where are the feathers?” he demanded, as Sierra gingerly licked her burning lips. She stared up at him.

  “I don’t know,” she croaked. Her throat felt dry as hot sand. “They were gone when I got home. You should know—it had to be one of your people that stole them. Or one of your—things."

  Without any change in expression, Jumlin reached down and hit Sierra across the face. “Don’t fuck with me, woman. Tell me where the feathers are.” His voice remained steady and cold, with no sign of emotion.

  Tears sprang to Sierra’s eyes from the blow, but she refused to let them fall. “I don’t know!” she snarled. “You can hit me all day and you still won’t find out, because I DON’T KNOW!”

  Jumlin raised his hand as though to strike her again, then he let his arm drop to his side. “Someone’s playing a double game. It better not be you,” he stated flatly. “Dying isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you, you know. Theresa, finish up and get out of here.” He turned and left the room.

  Once the door closed behind him, Sierra looked at Theresa. “Please,” Sierra croaked, “Could I please have some water?” Theresa looked at her with open hostility.

  “Later. If I remember,” was all Theresa said, as she turned out the light and locked the door. Sierra heard her footsteps in the corridor outside, retreating, then the sound of shoes on stairs, going up. Sierra was alone in the dark. Again.

  “Dying isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.” Jumlin’s parting words played over and over in her mind. Sierra recognized the moment he had said it that he was right. There were many more hideous things a person could be made to endure, after which death would be a blessing and a balm. The thought made her quail inside; it made her guts liquefy and her head spin, and she struggled to focus her mind on the question of escape.

  It was laughable, really. She’d been clobbered over the head and probably had a concussion, and now she was wrapped up in silver duct tape like a spider’s hors d’oeuvre. Her best chance of escape seemed to be the hope that someone would arrive to rescue her, and she calculated the odds of that happening at roughly zero to none, as no one knew where she was. Except for her captors, of course.

  But Jumlin had not gagged her again. Her skin burned and itched where the adhesive had torn away, but her mouth was unimpeded. For a mad moment, she thought of chewing through the duct tape, but that hope died before it was born. Her wrists were tied behind her back, and she would have to be more limber than a Chinese acrobat to reach her ankles with her mouth.

  Frustrated and weary, Sierra lay in the dark, her mind skittering about in search of a solution. In the profound darkness, her brain conjured up sparks and flashes of colored light, as though straining to provide something for her eyes to do in the absence of real light. She closed her eyes, but the colored lights did not go away. When she saw a glow through her closed lids, she thought it was another hallucination. But the glow did not diminish, flash or spark, and Sierra opened her eyes.

  A woman stood next to the altar, looking at Sierra. She was of medium height, with long, black hair falling to her feet. She wore several heavy necklaces of turquoise, shell, and red coral. Her clothing was white, filmy, and indistinct, as though spider webs had been woven into a long tunic. Her face was serene and she wore a small, kind smile upon her lips, but her eyes—her eyes were completely inhuman. They were large, round, and black, and seemed to be compound, like the eyes of a bee. Lidless, they glittered darkly in the strange light surrounding the woman. She moved soundlessly closer to the altar on white buckskin boots, heavily ornamented with turquoise and silver. Sierra cringed, wondering what this apparition meant to do to her, bound and helpless upon the altar.

  The woman stopped next to the altar and spread her hands, palms parallel to one another. As she moved her hands apart, webs formed between them, perfectly formed like a new web at dawn, when the spider has just finished the night’s painstaking work.

  The woman intoned, “As I break these bonds, so shall your bonds be broken.” She flung her hands wide, breaking the webs, and Sierra felt the constriction of the thick tape around her wrists and ankles snap. She winced at the stab and prickle of blood rushing back into fluid-starved tissues. She sat up cautiously, rubbing her wrists. The woman’s eyes were terrifying, but she had freed Sierra, so perhaps she was not an enemy. Sierra’s ability to trust had been dealt several bad blows lately.

  “Thank you,” Sierra whispered, her mouth dry. “Thank you.” And then, “Who are you?”

  The woman smiled tenderly at her, and her compound eyes glittered. “I am Kóhk'ang Wuhti,” she replied. Seeing Sierra’s uncomprehending look, she added, “I have many names. In your tongue, I am Spider Grandmother.”

  Sierra saw that her long tunic was moving. Its filmy tendrils swayed with every tiny movement of the woman’s body. Then Sierra saw, scattered among the shining threads, tiny spiders of every color, shining like jewels, constantly spinning new threads.

  “Why did you help me?” Sierra asked. She knew she should make a run for it, knew she had no time to linger, but she needed to know. Was this—creature? Avatar?—friend or foe?

  “You spared my children, so I spare you,” was the reply, accompanied by another sweet smile. “If you wish to repay me, protect my children.”

  “Your children?” Sierra wondered out loud, and then she remembered the little spiders in her workshop, and the ugly black monster she had discovered in the drawer of Jumlin’s guest bathroom. She made a quick resolution to never squash a spider again, no matter how huge or repulsive, then swung her legs over the edge of the stone and stood. Her body protested at its recent mistreatment, but she ignored it.

  “Do you know Chris Jumlin, Spider Grandmother?” Sierra asked.

  “I know Jumlin,” was the answer. “If you do not wish to die, you must leave. I would not usually interfere with that one’s hunting; he will be very angry and very hungry when he finds you are gone.”

  “Hungry?” asked Sierra, her skin prickling. “Do you mean that…?”

  “My meaning is that you must leave now,” Spider Grandmother said firmly. “Follow the Hummingbird Way, Sierra.” She held up a hand as though in blessing.

  Sierra didn’t need to be told again. By the light of the shining woman, she made her way to the door. Though she had heard Theresa lock the door when she left, it was now unlocked. But as she put her hand to the doorknob, she heard feet stumping down the cellar steps. Heart pounding, she shrank back.

  “What do I do?” she whispered to Spider Grandmother, who still stood by the altar. The Avatar stood unmoving for a fleeting moment, then she moved toward the door, motioning Sierra to step aside. Her silver-white robe floated around her in shredded veils.

  When Theresa unlocked the door, she was vaguely surprised to find that she had instead locked it. Impatiently, she turned the key again and shoved the door open.

  As she turned on the light, Theresa found herself enveloped in a mass of something white and sticky. She batted at it, but it just clung more tightly, gluing her eyes shut, filling her nostrils, stifling her mouth.

  A voice hissed at her just as Theresa saw the hundreds of tiny spiders gathering around her eyes and mouth. “This is for all the cans of poison. This is for the newspapers. This is for the crushing of your shoes,” the voice whispered in her ear, and Theresa’s vision went dark.

  Chapter 22

  Kaylee woke to the sound of banging on the front door. She was still dressed, so she rolled out of bed and staggered downstairs. There was no sign of Chaco or Fred, so she opened the door. She had expected it to be Sierra, but instead it was Clancy, looking disheveled, his hair standing up in clumps. Kaylee knew that, if anything, she looked worse in her rumpled, slept-in clothes and hair that must be standing out like a dark dandelion puff.

  As she stood in the doorway, blinking at him in surprise, Clancy pushed past her. “Where’s Sierra?” he demanded, head swiveling around alertly. Kaylee shut the door and trailed after him.

  “She’s not here,” said Kaylee. “I think she’s—well, the police arrested her last night, so I think she’s in jail. We—I had a very late night. I was planning to go down there and see about bailing her out this morning.”

  Clancy looked at her for the first time. “Don’t I know you?” he asked, eyebrows knit in concentration.

  “Not exactly. I work at Black Diamond, so you’ve probably seen me around. I’m Kaylee Shore. I work in Marketing, like Sierra used to.”

  “Oh.” Clancy walked into the kitchen and peered around as though Sierra might be hiding in there. “Are you a friend of Sierra’s? Her roommate?” He pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down heavily.

  “Yes. Friend, not roommate. I was just, um, staying here until Sierra got back. Taking care of her…dog. Why were you looking for her? Is there a problem? I mean other than her being in jail? But you couldn’t have known about that,” said Kaylee, looking around for the coffeemaker. She spotted it and began rummaging in the cupboard for coffee.

  “Well, that’s the problem,” Clancy said. “Sierra’s not in jail.”

  Kaylee ceased rummaging, a package of paper coffee filters in her hand. “What? How do you know? That’s not possible. I was there when they arrested her. She must be in jail. Unless someone bailed her out. Maybe she called a lawyer.”

  Clancy ran his fingers through his already-chaotic hair. “No. I listened to my voice mail messages early this morning. Sierra left a message explaining where she was, and asking me to get her a lawyer. I rousted my lawyer friend Sam out of bed and took him down to the jail, but when I got there, they didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked to see the records, and there weren’t any records. That is, there was no record of her arrest, no record of anyone posting bail. No booking, no sign-out. Nothing. The cops just shook their heads and said I was mistaken.” He looked at Kaylee bleakly. “I was really hoping that somehow she’d gotten home and was safely in bed by now.”

  Kaylee resumed making coffee, her full lips pursed in thought. Finally she asked, “What do you think happened? I saw the cops arrest her. They put her in a squad car and drove away. How could there be no record of that?”

  “I have no idea,” replied Clancy. “Prisoners don’t just disappear from the county jail. Records don’t just vanish. Cops don’t forget someone they’ve booked into jail just a few hours previously. It’s as though she stepped through a door into another universe or something. I’m worried, Kaylee. I don’t have any idea what’s going on, and I’m worried.”

  Kaylee pushed the start button on the coffeemaker. She put her hands on the back of a kitchen chair to keep them from shaking and leaned forward, looking into Clancy’s eyes. “Clancy, I’m terrified. I know a bit more than you do about this, and there’s something terribly, horribly wrong. I am certain that Sierra’s life is in danger.”

  He stared at her. “What do you mean?” In reply, she called out, “Chaco, please come in here. Not as Coyotl, please.”

  Clancy looked dazed. “Chaco? Sierra’s ‘friend’? What does…”

  Chaco strolled into the kitchen. He looked rested and fresh, as though last night’s events had never occurred. His odd eyes were clear amber and his skin glowed with health. He looked at Clancy and said, “Clancy Forrester, I presume?”

  Clancy narrowed his eyes, but before he could speak, Kaylee cut in.

  “Chaco, I’m afraid Sierra’s in big trouble. She disappeared from the jail last night, after leaving a message on Clancy’s phone. I think we need his help right now, but he can’t help us if he doesn’t understand. Could you please help him to understand what’s going on here?”

  “Wait just a minute,” Clancy began, but he broke off with a strangled gurgle as Chaco transformed. His lithe body flowed and shifted like a handful of melting crayons as a large coyote took shape at Kaylee’s feet. Within seconds, Coyotl stood on the tiles, bracing four slender legs and shaking out his fur. A long, red tongue slid over his furry chops, and he sat, staring at Clancy with bright eyes.

  Clancy froze in his seat. He had gone pale, and beds of sweat stood on his forehead. He rubbed his eyes. He looked at Chaco again. He put his head in his hands, raked his fingers through his hair again, and took another glance. Chaco sat patiently, panting a bit. Then he twitched and began to scratch behind one pricked ear with a vigorous hind paw, wearing a rather vacuous expression. Clancy watched this, mesmerized and unspeaking.

  Kaylee waited for Clancy’s questions, but the man said nothing. Finally, she asked, “Are you ready to hear about it now, or do you need more time?”

  Clancy glanced up at her, face ashen. “More time,” he said, swallowing hard. His voice was barely audible. Kaylee tried to imagine the roil of emotions, questions, dismay, disbelief, and perhaps terror behind the pale mask of his face. She found a bottle of brandy in the cupboard, poured a generous shot into a mug, and filled the rest with steaming coffee. She set this down on the table next to Clancy.

  “It’s a bit early, but you look like you could use some reinforcement,” she said. He picked it up, still staring at Chaco (who was now nibbling with sharp teeth between his paw pads) and took a hearty gulp. Instantly, he sprayed coffee into his lap and began coughing.

  “Hot!” he managed to gasp, and then, “What the hell did you put in this?” as Kaylee mopped him up with a dishtowel. Chaco morphed back into a human to help with the cleanup. By the time they finished and Clancy wiped the tears of pain from his eyes, he seemed to have recovered from his shock. He took another cautious sip from his mug, which had cooled off during the commotion, and eyed Chaco, now sitting across the table from Clancy with his own (brandy-less) mug of coffee.

  “I don’t even know where to begin asking questions,” Clancy said, his face having regained its normal, healthy color. “I don’t know the right questions to ask.”

  “You got that right,” said Kaylee grimly, and began to tell the story from the beginning. Mid-narrative, Fred wandered into the kitchen, looking for breakfast. When he saw Clancy, his orange eyes whirled in agitation and he popped into nothingness. Clancy yelped, “Whatthehell?” and shot up from his chair like a bottle rocket. As he stood staring around for the small monster he had glimpsed, Chaco said, “It’s all right, Fred. Clancy’s in on the whole story, just about.”

  Fred reappeared and climbed into the chair with the telephone book on the seat, raising him to table height. He popped a digit into his mouth and sat on his fat bottom, staring solemnly at Clancy. “Clancy,” said Chaco, “This is Fred. Fred, Clancy.” Fred held out a rather damp paw, and Clancy shook it gingerly.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32