To her horror, there was no strength in her limbs and her head swam alarmingly. The bag was wrenched from her grasp. She managed to get into a sitting position with her back against the wall and was able to kick out at her assailant’s groin. A grunt of pain greeted this action. She knew a moment’s satisfaction before a fist connected with her face. Seconds later a heavy boot thudded into her ribs.
“Stop wasting time.” Through the haze of pain, she recognized the toreador’s voice.
“The bitch kicked me in the balls. She’ll pay for that.”
“The clothes are expensive. Get them and the shoes and get out of here. She knows Lorcan Malone. That renegade bastard will take no prisoners if he hears about this.”
* * *
The resistance sidhes hauled the fishing boat ashore onto the beach. Dawn was stirring the Catalan skies above Barcelona, and Lorcan heaved a sigh of relief. He didn’t have a home, but this city was as close as it got. After more than thirty hours of being thrown about in a tiny boat on the open sea, he was looking forward to some sleep. Jethro stepped ashore beside him, yawning and stretching.
“Will you come and stay a while at the safe house?”
Jethro shook his head. “Places to go, people to see.” It was his standard response. It meant he had some risky dealings lined up that he was not prepared to discuss with anyone. Not even Lorcan.
“Take care, my friend. Lie low for a while. Vampires are not to be messed with.” Lorcan waved a farewell to the fishermen as they set off again.
Jethro’s hand strayed to his bruised cheekbone. “Tell me about it. But I owe Prince Tibor.” His expression hardened and Lorcan recalled the look of anguish in Jethro’s eyes as he drove the stake into Dimitar’s heart. The two men had buried their friend’s body in a shady spot on the Tangier cliff top before setting off on their journey across the Mediterranean.
“Why did Dimitar switch his allegiance from Prince Tibor to you? He was the prince’s human slave. You’re not a vampire. You can’t command the same sort of devotion.”
“I don’t understand it any more than you do. As soon as Dimitar set eyes on me he was adamant about it. The gist of what he said seemed to be that I was more deserving of his servitude than Prince Tibor.” Jethro scanned the expanse of blue sea. “What was the Romanian word he used to describe me? Maiestuos. I asked him what it meant and he said the closest translation was ‘imposing’ or ‘stately.’”
“And yet he’d met you?” Lorcan raised an incredulous eyebrow.
Jethro grinned. “Fuck off, Irishman.”
“Gladly.” He held out a hand and Jethro clasped it. “You know where to find me.”
“Likewise. And thanks. For clothing me as well as saving my life.” Jethro plucked at the T-shirt that strained across his muscular chest.
Lorcan watched him walk away before hauling his backpack onto his shoulder and making his way up the beach toward the port. The resistance safe house was within walking distance, and he drank in the early morning sights and sounds of the city as he made plans. Shower and sleep were fairly high on his list of priorities. Then he had to get to Otherworld and find out what had happened to Tanzi. If anyone could tell him what was going on within the dysfunctional sidhe royal family, it would be Cal.
The safe house was in a decidedly seedy area close to the famous promenade known as the Ramblas. Lorcan followed a series of narrow lanes that led him behind a fish market, dodging prostitutes, drunks and rough sleepers as he went. The location of the safe house was a closely guarded secret and Cal himself had overseen the web of detailed spells that had been woven around it to ward off intruders. Lorcan was one of the few people who could walk up the steep steps and knock on the scarred panels of the door without hindrance. He was conscious of hidden eyes observing him for several minutes before the door creaked open just wide enough to allow him to slip inside.
“Hola, Pedro.” The sidhe caretaker spoke very little and, when he did, only in Spanish. Fortunately, Lorcan had become fluent in that language over the years. Pedro had a reputation for never sleeping. During all the years he had been coming here, Lorcan had certainly never known a time, day or night, when the door was opened by anyone else. “How goes it?”
Pedro shrugged, closing the door behind him. From the expression on his face it might reasonably be construed that the world was about to come to an end.
“I’m going straight to my room.” Lorcan placed his foot on the first stair. Pedro and his wife, Maria, tried to keep one of the tiny attic bedrooms free for him. At times like this he was eternally grateful for their consideration.
“No, Senor Lorcan. No es posible.” Pedro’s voice halted him before he could advance any farther.
“Why isn’t it possible?”
“The house is full. We gave your room to the girl.”
“What girl might this be?”
“The one they found beaten and half-naked in an alley behind the Ramblas.” Conversing with Pedro was like wading through treacle at the best of times. Now, when he was bone tired, dirty and hungry, it was like having to wade there and back again.
“Pedro, try to remember I haven’t been here for weeks. I know nothing about any girl.”
Pedro’s smile was mildly triumphant. “No one does. She won’t speak. All she will say is your name.”
“My name?”
“Sí. ‘I need Lorcan Malone.’ Two days and this is all she will say.”
Two days. He had left for Tangier five days ago. “I will go up and see this girl for myself.”
Pedro returned no reply and Lorcan made his way up the familiar staircase with its worn carpet and peeling paintwork. Money was always tight and renovations were a luxury of which the resistance could only dream. How the hell did I end up in charge here? No one else wanted the job. That was the obvious answer. Being bloody good at what he did was the other. Hating Moncoya enough to want to bring down his network of evil was probably closest to the truth.
Moncoya represented the Celtic sidhes. The opposing Iberian sidhes formed the main backbone of the resistance. Ancient animosities still burned deep. Even with Moncoya in hiding, his network of evil remained in place. The work of the resistance was more important than ever now that Moncoya’s allies had been driven underground. Every penny was needed for the fight.
Lorcan paused with his hand on the attic room’s doorknob. He had no wish to startle this girl, whoever she might be. Most of the people who sought refuge in the safe house had traumatic stories to tell. Moncoya’s mortal residence, La Casa Oscura, was the most well-known of the dark houses. It was a portal to Otherworld, leading to the sleaziest side of the beautiful kingdom. Trafficking of substances and beings was rife, and La Casa Oscura was the conduit for much of this illegal trade. If this girl had been trafficked and used in ways Lorcan did not care to dwell upon, she would be disturbed. And rightly so. A man bursting into her room in the early hours was not going to help her recovery.
Yet this girl was asking for him by name, and he had no idea why. He needed to discover who she was in order to solve that riddle. Perhaps he could enter the room and get a glimpse of her without waking her? Gingerly, he turned the doorknob.
