Page 69

He finished his own cup. “Carlos chose as his spirit aduende. That spirit found a receptive soul, took him by the hand, and led him down the paths to the dark powers.”
“You couldn’t stop it?” Nora asked. “Keep him from that path, or perhaps guide him back?”
Benicio shook his head. “The attraction of power, especially the power of darkness, is very great. When Carlos first came here, he followed my lessons, wanting to learn. He wasn’t sure if the teachings were real or perhaps just old Indian superstitions. But in time he tookhikuri—and, eventually, met hisduende. Onlythenhe realized the power was real, and that he, Carlos, could harness it. But aduendespirit is not only full of deceit, but patient. The process was slow, subtle. By the time I realized what had happened, he was already lost.”
“What then?”
“I told him to leave. He took the power and knowledge with him and disappeared. I never heard from him again.”
“But…” Nora had become increasingly shocked. “He wrote a book. You really never knew that?”
Don Benicio shook his head again. “I never knew it. Perhaps he did not want me to know it. I fear—”
He stopped. But Nora guessed what he might be thinking. Despite being scoffed at by certain scholars as fantastical, or even fiction, Oskarbi’s book might well have been academically sound—revealing truths that were never meant to be revealed.
“Do you think,” she pressed, “the deaths of these women might have something to do with all that you’ve just told me—of Oskarbi trying to harness these dark powers?”
Benicio bowed his head. “It is possible. In fact, it is likely. Dark spirits are attracted by sacrifice—especially human sacrifice.”
Another silence fell. The temperature of the room, already cool, seemed to fall several degrees.
“And yet Oskarbi disappeared twelve years ago,” Nora said, almost to herself. “Nobody has seen him—he seems to have left no trace.”
Don Benicio turned his dark eyes on her. “He was already far along the dark path when he left—and he would only have increased his power since. Wherever he is now, you can be sure that hisduendeis there, too.”
39
SKIP, ENCLOSED INcool darkness, swam back into consciousness. For a moment he had no idea who he was or what had happened, and he was abruptly seized by panic. But as he struggled to sit up—gasping for breath, head pounding, and black spots blossoming in his vision—the attack came back to him, first in fragments, then in force. Once again he realized he was bound in the dark with leather straps, his hands behind his back and his ankles tied together. How long had he been there? It felt like days he had been drifting in and out of consciousness.
Panic blanketed him once again. He made another effort to sit up, every bone in his body aching. They had beaten the crap out of him. At least his head seemed finally to be clearing—a little.
“Hey!” he cried out. “What’s going on?Hey!”
Nothing. The air smelled of earth and dirt, and the darkness was absolute. He was still underground. He practically choked, hyperventilating in terror. Who had attacked them—and why? Where was Edison? He dimly remembered, through a haze of pain, Edison getting a terrible beating.
He struggled and screamed, then screamed again. The sound was muffled, dead. But there was no sound, no light, nothing.
At last, he managed to struggle upright, then began pushing himself backward with his feet—the only way the leather strips allowed him to move. The ground was hard dirt, and his heels dug in as he forced his way backward. And then, suddenly, he encountered something—a wall. He felt with his hands. It was smooth and felt as if it had been plastered. He could tell it was slightly curved.
“Hey! Someone!Anyone!”
It was like shouting into a hole.
The panic surged again, and Skip fought to tamp it down. He had to think, figure out what to do. If only he knew what was going on, where he was, who these people were, what they wanted, then maybe…
He heard a faint groan in the darkness.
It came from the other side of the cave, or well, or whatever hole he was in. With an effort, he turned around and began digging his feet in, pushing himself in the direction of the sound. His head pounded, and one of his eyes felt swollen, almost shut. There was blood crusted around his nose. He was thirsty and hungry.
He gave a cry of surprise as his tied hands encountered something soft and yielding—a body. He slowly let his hands crawl over the clothing, the skin. He opened his mouth to cry outWho is it?—and then, for the first time, realized it might in fact be better if he made no sound at all.
The body moved, and he heard another groan. Christ, it sounded like Edison.
“Edison!” He shook the body as best he could. “Edison, is that you?”
No answer. Skip prodded again, eliciting another moan. It sure as hell sounded like Edison. It had to be Edison. He must be badly injured.
“Edison,” he whispered. “It’s Skip.”