This story is a sequel to the Swimsuit Contest and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, so applying logic again, this story should be read after them. To do otherwise would probably ruin the stories for the reader. This story contains violent and sexual content and is suggested for mature readers (18 and over).

Chapter 1. A Disturbing Report.

"Of course we have no way of knowing if this incident involves Chifley," said Falshingham.
He had placed the crumpled newspaper, an old copy of El Comercio, on the writing desk in their Lima hotel room. He had unearthed it in the Public Library earlier that day. Lara Croft had no difficulty reading the bold headline in Spanish.
"Fiendish killer mutilates girl," it read.
Falshingham looked at the creasing of her brow and could read the grimness in her expression. Even someone who did not know her well could see the tension that troubled her.
He stifled a sigh, feeling all of his fifty-seven years. This was precisely what they had hoped not to find. They were searching for Peter Chifley, the photographer who had saved Lara's life during her adventure on Madunai Island, off the coast of Peru. The demon that had threatened her had taken possession of Chifley's body, but the young man had not allowed it to rule him. He had kept the demon inside himself, then had entered the Pacific Ocean to swim the fifty kilometres to Peru, forcing the demon to cede control of his body to him, in order to survive the swim.
Lara had not known if Chifley could have survived such a marathon swim and was left to wonder what the result of his possession would be, if he had survived. She cared tremendously for him, and owed him her life and her soul, but events had conspired to delay her search until now, five months after his disappearance.
"The date is one week after he left Madunai," she said tersely. "I suppose another 'fiendish killer' could have arrived in Lima at the same time, but it seems unlikely."
"Let's not leap to any conclusions, Lara. The killer has not been found and could be someone unknown to us. The writer suggests there might be some sort of cult involved."
Lara read from the newspaper. "'The young woman left the hotel with a young man, described as a handsome Englishman.'" She looked up at Falshingham. "Sound like anyone we know?"
"You forget, I haven't met your… friend. And I repeat, we do not know that he is responsible for this."
There was a sadness in her face that denied his attempts at reassurance. She turned back to the article and read it to the end.
"Where do we go from here?" asked Falshingham. "Should we speak to the police?"
"Not if we don't want to be interrogated. It seems they have no leads and two English visitors asking about the death might raise their suspicions."
She folded up the paper, leaving the article on the outside. She held it up for Falshingham's perusal. "The journalist who wrote this, Pedro Martinez, would be a safer place to start."
"And I thought you hated dealing with the press," he said, trying for levity.
"Needs must when the devil drives," she replied. She sighed, an unusual sound from her. "And it seems the devil is driving Peter. He must have lost the battle for possession of his soul."
"We don't…"
"We don't know that for a fact, no. I realise that Falshingham. Don't patronise me."
He inclined his head but said nothing. He knew her well enough now to know when to keep silent. He moved to the window, looking out over the streets of the Peruvian capital. Spanish Colonial buildings lined the streets, where the traffic was still busy though the daylight was fading. He watched the people moving along the sidewalks and wondered if Peter Chifley walked somewhere among them, a wolf in sheep's clothing.
His heart ached for the young man he had never met. He had taken on the demon to save Lara from it; he had sacrificed himself to keep her safe from its malice.
"The Comercio offices will be closed for the night," said Lara in her usual business-like tone. "A good night's sleep will do us both some good."
"Certainly," agreed Falshingham. "You know I need at least eight hours a night."
The last time he'd said that Lara had found it terribly amusing but there was not even the hint of a smile now. He realised that any attempt at humour now would be wasted.
"I'll change in the bathroom," he said, allowing her some privacy to get changed herself.
While he changed into his nightshirt, a sight that would have amused Lara if her thoughts were not so bleak, he wondered why she had insisted on sharing one hotel room. Neither of them was exactly short on cash, after all. He was too mature to entertain any thoughts of romance; in fact the very idea was too daunting to consider. He thought the sharing of a room was a sign of trust from her, but there was more to it than that.
They were undertaking a dangerous business, seeking out and trying to destroy the most elusive and powerful enemy Lara had ever faced. He suspected she wanted to keep a close eye on him, for which he was grateful.
He looked into the bathroom mirror, taking stock of all the lines on his face and all the grey in his hair. He had never been heroic by nature and he was too old to become one now. He just hoped he would be able to offer her some help. He could not shoot a gun to save himself, he could not fight worth a damn, but he hoped that his knowledge would be a worthwhile weapon. Knowledge, arcane knowledge, was all he had to offer.
And he knew from grim experience that there was a world of difference between knowing and doing. He believed he had a good understanding of the black arts, of demonology, without having much first hand experience of them. His young companion had seen more sorcery in her short life than he would ever hope to.
He knew, better than anyone did, the ordeals she had been through. He admired her tremendously, both for her courage and resourcefulness. He had been thrilled when she asked him to accompany her on this, her personal quest. He prayed that he would not disappoint her.
He used the toilet then decided that he had allowed her sufficient time to get ready for bed. He moved to the bathroom door and asked, "All decent in there?"
He half expected some barbed remark from her but her sense of humour had evaporated with the discovery of the killing. "You can come out Falshingham."
He entered the bedroom and saw that she was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing a brief nightdress. She rose when he emerged and moved into the bathroom herself. When she returned he studied the long legs that her nightdress exhibited but did no more than admire them. His feelings for her were best described as paternal pride. He was pleased that such a famous young beauty had decided to call him a friend.
She pulled back her bedsheets and entered her bed. "Goodnight Falshingham," she said, then turned off her bedside lamp.
"Goodnight Lara," he echoed, turning off his own lamp.
The room was not yet dark, the sun still half an hour from setting, but Falshingham was tired from their long flight from London to Lima and he found himself quickly falling into slumber.
He woke several hours later, seeing moonlight stealing through the blinds of their window. He turned towards Lara's bed and was disappointed to see that she was still awake, her head turned in his direction. Her eyes shone in the moonlight and he wondered if she had been crying. The grim expression on her face suggested that sleep would not attend her that night.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, his voice slurred by his own guilty slumber.
"You snore," she said, without a trace of her usual humour.
"Yes, so I'm told," he muttered. "Something I should have warned you of perhaps."
She did not respond to his words and he knew that it was not his snoring that disturbed her. He knew also that her instinctive assessment of the newspaper report was probably correct.
He did not want to irritate her any further with flimsy reassurances. "If the demon has taken control of Chifley… what will you do?"
She spoke mechanically, without needing to consider the answer. "I will kill him. It will be necessary, and it will be a kindness to Peter to end his suffering."
But it would not end hers. She felt responsible for her lover's miserable fate. He understood why sleep was a stranger to her that night.

Chapter 2. A Curious Reporter.

The offices of El Comercio were close to Lima's central plaza and only walking distance from their hotel. Falshingham looked like an English tourist, wearing slacks, a white shirt and a Panama hat. Lara looked like an executive, wearing a business jacket with a short skirt and matching black bag.
"Allow me to do the talking," she said quietly as they entered the lobby of the building.
"Always," agreed Falshingham.
He was surprised by how energetic she was, considering the sleepless night he knew she had endured. He had struggled to keep up with her during their walk to the building and now, in the lobby, she walked to the reception desk with a brisk efficiency he could barely match.
"We're here to see Pedro Martinez," she said in perfect Spanish.
The receptionist reached for her phone, an automatic response to Lara's authority, then she paused. "Whom shall I say is wishing to see him?"
"Falshingham's Investigations," replied Lara without hesitation. "We're interested in his report of January 24th about the Slasher."
The receptionist accepted that statement with forced indifference. She lifted her headset and pushed a button. When the party on the other end responded she quickly repeated the message Lara had given her. There was a long pause then the receptionist nodded and put down her headset.
"Senor Martinez will see you now. He is on the third floor."
Lara thanked her then they moved to the elevators. "Falshingham's Investigations?" muttered Falshingham in a peeved voice.
"Better your name than mine," she replied. "I'm too well known."
"A situation I have avoided, in the past, by not using my name," he chided her.
"Point taken Falshingham, but they love to look at passports here and using your real name will give us some credibility."
"Something we'll certainly need. I'm not sure how to play at being a private investigator."
The vaguest hint of a smile flickered on her face but was gone before he could be reassured by it.
"Just frown a lot, say very little and look mysterious," she instructed him.
"One at a time, or all three at once?"
A definite smile this time, though it was gone by the time the elevator delivered them to the third floor.
A short, olive-skinned mestizo met them at the elevator station. His teeth flashed in a bright smile when he introduced himself, in English, as Pedro Martinez. Despite the smile his dark eyes studied them with suspicion.
"I'm Lauren Carter," said Lara smoothly. "This is my employer and the CEO, if you like, of our company, Falshingham Investigations."
"Pleased to me you, Miss Carter," said Martinez with Latin charm and an American accent to his English. "Would you be offended if I asked to see your passports?"
"Not at all," she replied, casting a quick, smug glance at Falshingham.
Both she and Falshingham produced passports, which they showed to Martinez. Falshingham noticed that the one Lara produced had a different photo to the one she'd used at the airport. Doubtless it identified her in the alias she had used. Once again he admired her ingenuity.
After studying the passports Martinez returned them. "Come into my office," he said.
They walked past a large room filled by low desks and thin partitions. Word processors worked furiously at every work station and the hubbub of the staff resembled a stock exchange.
Martinez apparently warranted a private office, into which he escorted his two guests. It had a similar desk to those outside, with a computer monitor and keyboard on it, with chairs to either side. The walls of the office were decorated by photos of Martinez with various people, probably local celebrities. Martinez sat behind the computer, Lara and Falshingham sitting opposite him.
Lara began with some flattery. "Your English is excellent Senor Martinez."
He inclined his head, watching her like a hawk. "I speak Spanish, English and Quechua fluently, and can get by in Portuguese."
Falshingham saw the flicker of a smile on Lara's face and he wondered how many languages she spoke herself.
"And what is your interest in the Slasher report?" asked Martinez, his suspicion visible in his eyes.
"We believe the offender may be the same man who is involved in a case we're working on."
"What makes you think that?" asked Martinez. He was not willing to accept their story at face value.
"There are similarities in the two murders," said Lara, watching Martinez' face, trying to read his expression and understand the reason for his suspicion.
"Similarities?" Martinez was playing his cards close to his chest.
"The victim in our case was lured from a dance club, by a man described by witnesses as handsome and personable. The girl was not seen alive again; her mutilated body was found the next day."
Martinez watched her with hooded dark eyes. He was unimpressed by her story so far. Everything she had said about the killer she could have learned from his report, which in fact she had. She decided to say no more, to let him voice his doubts rather than inadvertently undermine her story.
"Where did this other murder take place?" asked Martinez.
"In Surrey, England. The mother of the victim hired us when it was clear that the police were making no progress."
"Our police sought the help of Scotland Yard and could find no murders matching the savagery of this one." He was contradicting her statement, as much as calling her a liar.
Falshingham spoke for the first time. "The Surrey police believe the killer they seek is a local. They even believe they know who he is. They have not considered the possibility, as we have, that the killer had killed before and would kill again. Believing they are dealing with an isolated crime, they have not given the details of the murder to Scotland Yard."
Lara looked up at Falshingham with approval. Nice save, she thought.
Martinez was far from convinced. "What weapon did your killer use?"
Lara frowned. She had hoped to avoid the need for such details by avoiding the police, but Martinez was interrogating them with the same zeal as a detective. It was clear that her answer was crucial to her credibility.
What weapon? Some kind of knife, obviously, but why was its type so important? Why had that detail been left out of the report?
What knife would the demon have used?
"That was one of the weird features of this killing," she began, hoping that Martinez would offer her some assistance, but he remained silent. She decided to plunge on ahead. "It seems he used a blade with a curved point."
Such a blade had been used by the Cadachacs to offer sacrifices to the demon, but Lara knew, within seconds, that she had said the wrong thing.
Martinez was smiling but there was no humour in the smile. "You're not detectives are you?"
"What makes you say that?" she retorted irritably.
"You don't look like any detective I ever met," he said, his smile taking on a lecherous curve. He jerked his thumb at Falshingham. "He might well be, but you're here for another reason."
"She's a client," said Falshingham smoothly. "She insisted on accompanying me in my investigation. I'm afraid we haven't been entirely honest with you, but I will correct that now. With your permission Lauren?"
Lara looked at him with a mixture of irritation and admiration. Falshingham had something in mind. She nodded to allow him to take over her speaking role.
"No-one was killed in Surrey, but there was an attack upon an intended victim, in the way that we have said. That intended victim was my client here, Lauren Carter. The man we are seeking attempted to rape her, with threats that he would tear her to pieces afterward. That she survived is a testimony to her courage."
Martinez turned to Lara, concern outweighing his suspicion. Lara avoided his eyes. Falshingham's story was a brilliant lie but, damn him, it was painfully close to the truth.
"Lauren decided not to report the matter to the police. She has some knowledge of the demeaning rigmarole involved in such an investigation. But she was not content to let the matter rest, to allow her attacker to continue his crimes. She hired me to track down the culprit, but we had little success in England. Then we heard of this killing and were alerted to the similarities in the nature of the crime, although the end result was clearly more tragic here."
Martinez looked back at Falshingham, gauging his words carefully. Falshingham looked back with calm assurance.
"I see," said Martinez, the suspicion in his eyes now gone. "I'm sorry to give you such... an inquisition," he said to Lara.
"Don't be sorry senor, be helpful," she replied harshly.
He frowned, unlocked a desk drawer, then hesitated. "I'm not sure if I should show you these. I'm not meant to have them and I think they may disturb you."
Lara interpreted his reluctance as concern and reassured him. "You will not offend me senor, I'm tougher than I look."
Martinez studied her face for a few moments then nodded. He withdrew a large envelope from the drawer, then pulled a sheaf of photos from it. He spread the photos on the desk in front of Lara and Falshingham.
Falshingham's mouth tightened and his face paled. Even Lara's equanimity was disturbed by what she saw.
The photos were shots of the deceased. The topmost photo showed her face, pale and ghastly, her mouth gaping open and a bloody wound around her throat. Despite the gruesome appearance, it was nevertheless possible to see that this unfortunate brunette had been pretty in life.
Lara moved the photo aside gingerly, as if touching the body itself. The next photo was a full-length shot of the girl. Her white dress was shredded, and was heavily stained with blood where it clung to her body. Bloody patches covered her near-naked body, concentrated around her large breasts and her groin, where her anatomy was almost unrecognisable.
Lara swallowed hard, her throat dry. She continued to leaf through the grisly exhibits, seeing photos of the girl from different angles and photos of the site where she was found. She struggled to suppress her nausea and found her anger rising like bile in her throat.
"Bastard," she breathed.
She looked over at Falshingham. An experienced surgeon, he was not unfamiliar with the sight of blood, but his pained expression revealed his revulsion.
"What knife did he use?" she asked Martinez, remembering that the reporter had focused on that point.
"He didn't," replied Martinez. He paused, giving them time to digest an awful concept. "Forensic tests suggest these wounds were made by biting, by human bites."
Lara scowled and turned her head to Falshingham, glaring at him as if to say, "You see now what we're dealing with?"
Falshingham was surprised by her anger and turned his head back to Martinez. "Do the police have any leads?"
"Only what I wrote in my article," replied Martinez. "The culprit is English, with an upper class English accent, a man of considerable charm. Miss Carter..."
"Yes, that's him," she replied tersely. "I know it. We're dealing with the same bastard."
"With a particular taste in victims," observed Martinez sourly. "This poor lass, Conchita Perez, was also a... well-endowed brunette. I have seen photos of her before her death, Miss Carter, and you have a striking similarity to her."
Lara's face was pale, her expression impenetrable.
"There have been no more killings," continued Martinez, "so we should be grateful for that much. However the Policia, and myself, believe that he is no longer in Lima, probably no longer in Peru."
"There have be no killings elsewhere in Peru?" asked Lara. "Would you be aware of any such deaths?"
"I have good connections with the Policia, which gave me the chance to hold these photos. I would know if any other murders of this savagery had occurred.
"If you will permit me an observation, Miss Carter, I would advise you to abandon this... adventure. This creature is clearly demented, and terribly dangerous. You have been fortunate to escape him once--you should not offer him a second chance."
Lara looked at him sternly. She did not want to hear this.
"It would be wiser to leave this investigation to the man you have hired. He is clearly competent and professional, and better suited to this dangerous business."
There was a vague smile on Lara's face when she tactfully replied, "You may be right Senor Martinez. I will think about what you have said."
She stood, carrying her shoulder bag and leaned over the desk, staring at one of the photos on the wall behind Martinez' head. "Is that Guillermo Vilas?" she asked.
Martinez turned to see the photo she indicated. "Yes. That was twenty years ago, while I was a sports reporter."
"Can I see it?" asked Lara enthusiastically.
Martinez turned and moved to the wall where the photo hung. He lifted it down then brought it to the desk. Lara looked at it with a dreamy smile on her face.
"I had a poster of him on my bedroom wall when I was a schoolgirl," said Lara.
Martinez smiled. "He is still popular with the ladies," he said. "In fact, if you go to Buenos Aires I expect he would be happy to meet a fan like yourself."
"No, no," said Lara, returning the photo. "I'll enjoy the memories instead, I believe."
Martinez escorted them back to the elevators and they left the El Comercio building.
"What was that about?" asked Falshingham when they were back on the street.
There was a hint of a smile on Lara's face and he thought he detected some secret smugness. "I was once an admirer of Vilas, what is so strange about that?"
"Lara, why do you keep secrets from me? As a competent and professional private detective, who has clearly missed his calling in life, I can tell that you're up to something."
Lara smiled and it was the smile he had not seen since finding the newspaper article. "Let's get some beers," she said.
He was staggered by her change in mood. He had thought their venture into the newspaper offices had been a failure, yet she was positively cheerful.
"Uh, yes. Of course."
They entered the nearest pub and Lara moved to the bar. "Dos cervezas, por favor."
A few minutes later they were seated at a table, drinking two Coronas. A band playing guitars and pan flutes played "El Condor Pasa" in one corner.
"Why do no countries outside England serve their ale at a civilised temperature?" complained Lara.
She was enjoying her cold cerveza nevertheless. Falshingham was burning with curiosity. "Alright Lara, you've teased me enough. What did I miss? What did you learn that has cheered you up so much?"
"Firstly, I gained a souvenir," said Lara. She opened her shoulder bag and revealed one of the police photos inside it.
Falshingham pursed his lips in a moue of distaste. "So the Vilas interest was a distraction. My detective skills are over-rated; I was standing beside you and didn't see you snatch it. But why do you want such a thing?"
"It will be useful, believe me," she replied.
"Such a gruesome souvenir is hardly enough to explain your buoyant mood," he persisted.
She frowned at him, though it was a frown full of humour and affection. "What you missed Falshingham, was what he said quite plainly. There have been no more killings."
"That he knows of."
"He has connections with the Policia and I estimate him to be an insightful reporter. He would know."
Falshingham took a sip of his beer and considered what she'd said. "You hope that Chifley may still be in control after all?"
"The key word is hope, Falshingham. At least I have that much again."
He studied her closely. Her feelings for Chifley were making her more vulnerable than she should be and that worried him. "You're not going to welcome him with open arms I hope," he cautioned her.
She frowned again, this time from genuine annoyance. "I'm not a fool Falshingham."
"No, no, of course not. But we're back where we started aren't we? We don't know what Chifley's... status is and we don't know where he is."
"We'll go to Cuzco," she stated emphatically.
He raised an eyebrow. "Why Cuzco?"
"Peter doesn't have a passport, so he's probably still in the country. After the killing of that poor girl Peter, or the demon, would see the need to leave Lima. Cuzco is the oldest city in the Southern Hemisphere, so the demon might feel an affinity for it. And with the police hunting for an Englishman the best place to hide is in a popular tourist area, where there are other Englishmen."
"That's what your instinct tells you?" he asked seriously.
She nodded. "Then that's where we'll go," he said, downing his cerveza in one long draught.

Martinez typed at his keyboard but found himself unable to concentrate. Something wasn't right, something about his recent visitors.
He was convinced that he'd seen the young woman before.
She was hardly the type of woman he'd forget, so he assumed he'd not actually met her before and had only seen a photo of her. He struggled to remember the context of the earlier sighting. The most likely place was in one of El Comercio's articles, one he hadn't written himself.
He used his computer to access the newspaper archives and typed Lauren Carter into the search engine. There were no responses. He frowned. Not her real name then.
He was subeditor of the main news section of the newspaper, so the story could not have been there. The sports section perhaps. He often looked through that section of the paper, his old stamping ground. But he would remember if she were a famous athlete, surely?
The arts and entertainment section then. But something about the sport aspect nagged at him. She had looked very fit and athletic.
A sudden inspiration seized him. He typed Sports Incorporated into the search engine and had his answer a few seconds later.
"El Huaquero," he breathed. (The Tomb Raider)
There was a story here, as sure as the morning sunrise. He reached for the phone.

Chapter 3. An Ancient City.

"How do you intend to find him?" asked Falshingham.
They were in the Cuzco's Hotel Espinar. Once again they had chosen a hotel close to the centre of the city, though they had not been able to get into any of the five star hotels, so close to the local festival of Inti Raymi. This time they had chosen to have adjoining rooms rather than a single room. They were talking in Lara's half of their accommodation.
Lara sat on one of the two beds, studying a map of the city.
"We'll go to all the usual tourist haunts and make ourselves visible."
"You hope that Chifley will find us, rather than the reverse?"
"We can also show a photo of him at all the city's hotels, hoping someone will recognise him."
Falshingham frowned. "It doesn't sound very productive."
Lara mirrored his frown. "If you have a better idea Falshingham I'm willing to hear it."
"As a matter of fact Lara, I may have." Having said this he fell silent.
Lara waited, frustrated by Falshingham's dramatic pause.
"You remember that you volunteered to have me teach you the arcane arts?" asked Falshingham.
"I don't like the sound of this," muttered Lara.
"Let me give you your first lesson," continued Falshingham. "I can teach you to project yourself."
Lara smiled. "Like projecting my voice--ventriloquism?"
Falshingham grimaced. "Don't be obtuse Lara. I can teach you the art of astral projection. You can explore the city without leaving this room, without endangering your body. There have probably been countless times when this skill could have saved you some pain."
Lara intended to honour her promise to let Falshingham train her, but she was impatient now to see the city. If her instincts were correct, Chifley was somewhere nearby. She struggled for a way to dissuade him from his suggestion.
"Lie back on the bed Lara, you need to be fully relaxed."
"I'm not going to do this Falshingham. I've had a bad experience with hypnosis, as you well know." Lara's most recent expedition had been the result of exploitation by an unethical hypnotherapist; one Falshingham had referred her to.
"Thank you for reminding me of my guilt Lara, or else I'm sure I would have forgotten it."
There was an acerbic tone to his words that she was not familiar with. She had offended him.
She considered the situation. Falshingham was eager to provide some help to her; he had come across the globe with her to do so, but she had dismissed his first suggestion with little better than contempt.
She knew that she should accept his advice; it was usually sound. She was uneasy about the nature of this suggestion but he would not have offered it if he did not believe it had a chance of success.
She lay back on the bed, but did not remove the frown from her face.
"Much better," said Falshingham. He rubbed his hands together, his jovial boisterousness restored.
"Lie back on the bed and close your eyes," he instructed her.
She glared at him but it was a playful glare, something only she could do. She made herself comfortable, as directed.
"This is not hypnosis," he reassured her. "You will be in control throughout. You will actually gain control, not lose it."
"So you say," she muttered testily, though she found herself reluctantly fascinated by what Falshingham was attempting.
"Concentrate on your legs first," he said, his voice low and even. "Imagine them getting heavier, as if they were sinking into the bed."
Lara was still frowning, now from concentration.
"Now your arms, let them go heavy also. Relax them, let all tension out, as if they are no longer part of you."
Lara felt an uncharacteristic anxiety. This seemed very much like hypnosis. If it were anyone other than Falshingham guiding her she would not have persisted with it.
The preparation took only a few minutes, as Lara progressively relaxed all of her body. She felt dreamy and light, more relaxed than she could ever remember being.
"Now let it go," murmured Falshingham. "Let your body go."
And that was what happened. Lara felt her body sink below her and a wonderful feeling of freedom resulted, as if her body were a prison she had escaped.
It took a few moments to understand where she was; a few more to learn to see without eyes, but she was soon aware of her essence floating in the hotel room above the body she had recently occupied. She was also aware of a thin silver strand that stretched from her position back to her body.
She was amazed by what was happening and astonished that she could have achieved something like this so easily. What else might Falshingham teach her?
And though she was aware of her excitement, she couldn't feel it. She could not feel her pulse racing, could not feel the tensing of her muscles, the tingling in her spine. All visceral feelings were gone and yet she was thrilled by her success.
She looked down at her body, studying it with a critical eye. A part of her mind wondered why she had worked so hard to keep it fit when she didn't really need it. She could see herself breathing, though she could not feel the air in her lungs. She could see a steady pulse in her neck but no blood pumped through her. She was distanced from all that.
Falshingham sat beside the bed, watching over her dormant form. She struggled to remember why he had organised this projection and wondered if she had left her mind behind as well. She would have laughed if she had a mouth to do so.
She was meant to search the city, meant to seek someone out.
All the pleasure she felt faded with the memory of her purpose.
She drifted to the wall of the room, hesitating before the physical barrier for several moments before she realised that it was no hindrance to her. She slid through the wall and found herself on the streets of Cuzco.
She looked back and saw that the silver cord trailed behind her, a guide to her corporeal form.
Then she began to explore.

Falshingham kept a vigil beside Lara's body, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest and the fluttering of her eyelids. To any other observer she would appear to be dreaming peacefully but he knew that he was, in essence, alone in the room.
Lara shuddered violently. Her back arched, almost lifting herself off the bed, then her eyes opened.
She smiled at him, her eyes unfocused. "Well, that was an interesting experience," she murmured.
"You did well," said Falshingham. "Most people, on their first projection, are reluctant to leave the room their body lies in."
"It was incredible!" she said, with more enthusiasm. "How often have you done it yourself?"
"Almost daily for the past twenty years," he said with pride.
"So you're a veteran. You've probably seen some amazing things while you've been wandering. I saw a guy who was..." A sudden thought disturbed her. "You've never spied on me in the shower, have you?"
"Lara!" Falshingham was aghast at the suggestion.
She smiled at his expression. "It's still a little disconcerting to think that there might be unseen watchers of your every move. It's enough to make a girl paranoid."
"There are ways to prevent intrusions, but I'll teach them to you another day."
"I look forward to it."
"Did you see any sign of the demon?"
She shook her head. "It's time we searched through normal means," she said.
They stood and moved to the door but Falshingham indicated that she should wait before leaving. He reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a small, glittering object.
"What have you got there?" she asked.
"Something that may aid our search."
He held it out to her and she saw that it was a small pendant. A golden chain led to a green orb, set in gold. It was simple in design, but strangely beautiful.
"What does it do?" she asked.
"It detects the presence of evil," he replied cautiously, expecting cynicism.
Lara might have scoffed if it had not been Falshingham suggesting it. She studied the pendant with renewed interest.
"What does it do? Sound an alarm?"
Falshingham frowned but actually seemed relieved that she did not protest further.
"It becomes warmer. That's why it needs to be worn against the skin as a pendant, so you can be aware of its message."
She smiled. "So we'll be playing you're hotter, colder, freezing with it?"
He smiled in return. "The device is not as sophisticated as that game, Lara. It will only respond when very close to the presence of evil."
"How close?"
He looked a little uncomfortable. "I'm not sure. Probably only within range of vision. You see, I haven't used this trinket before."
"Hmm. Did a gypsy sell it to you?"
Falshingham was indignant. "I am sure of its authenticity but it is not often that I am hunting demons."
Lara took pity on him. "Well maybe we'll get the chance to see how it works here in Cuzco."
They left the hotel and moved onto the streets of Cuzco. Colonial architecture predominated, as in Lima, but there were glimpses everywhere of the Incan Empire that had been ruled from this city five centuries earlier. The famous stonework of the Incas lined whole streets, where not even a knife's blade could be passed between the stones, so perfect was their fit.
There were English-speaking tourists wherever they looked; they did not stand out from the crowd here. The native residents of the ancient city approached them, wearing traditional hand-made clothing and welcoming smiles. Some tried to sell trinkets and craftwork; others tried to steal from their pockets while they were distracted. Lara was too experienced a traveller to fall victim to any of their ruses.
They wandered around the city, searching a sea of faces for the one Lara knew. Many of the streets were familiar to her from her earlier travels through them. They eventually found themselves at Santo Domingo, the church built on the ruins of Coricancha, Cuzco's major Inca temple.
They made their way inside the cathedral, along with dozens of tourists to the site.
"Did you know that in an earthquake in the sixteen-hundreds destroyed the cathedral, leaving only the original Inca stonework standing?" asked Lara.
"Like an ancient god shrugging off the assault of the Christian god," was the reply, but it was not Falshingham's voice.
Lara turned in surprise and found herself looking into the eyes of Peter Chifley.

Chapter 4. Confessions.

Lara took a step backward, her heart jolting in her chest. An ocean of conflicting emotions washed through her, joy and terror foremost among them.
Chifley stood watching her with his disarming, mischievous smile and his eyes bright with excitement. Was that the joy of being reunited with a lover, or the anticipation of coming to grips with a hated foe? Was it mischief in his smile, or malice?
Externally he did not seem any different to the man she had met on Madunai. He did not stand out among the other tourists in the cathedral. He even had a camera draped from his neck, the emblem of the tourist. Lara knew, however, that this man was much more than he appeared.
She glanced about quickly to locate Falshingham. He was studying a stained glass window, oblivious to who had appeared next to Lara. Typical, she thought. Still, she had not expected him to assist her in any physical confrontation.
"You look wonderful Lara," said Chifley. She wasn't sure if she could trust that smile. "But this is new."
His hand reached out to her left ear and she flinched away from his touch. Her earlobe had been split by a bullet in Congo a few weeks ago and she thought it had healed without a visible scar, but his eyes missed nothing.
She wished the gentle touch of his hand did not make her so uneasy.
Chifley frowned at her response, withdrawing his hand. "Sorry," he murmured. "I guess it's pretty hard to trust a man possessed?"
There was so much of the Chifley she remembered in that wry statement. She wished she could trust him but knew she could not. He seemed like himself, but he had seemed so before.
She had encountered what lived inside him and it made her flesh crawl.
"Why didn't you call me?" she asked. She was appalled by how lame that sounded. "Why didn't you let me know you were alive?"
He frowned. "I wasn't sure that would be welcome news. Is it Lara? Are you happy to see me?"
Lara's face revealed little. Happy? No, that was not the word she would use.
She was not required to answer because Falshingham returned to her side. His face was grim, his lips tightened to a thin line. He looked Chifley up and down then asked her, "Is this the one?"
Lara nodded. Falshingham put his hand on his chest, feeling the amulet he wore under his shirt. Chifley looked at Falshingham with curiosity.
"Who's this Lara? Is this your father?"
Chifley knew that Falshingham wasn't her father. She didn't like the scornful tone in his voice. It didn't sound like him; she knew whom it did sound like.
Chifley could see the resentment his question had caused. "We need to talk Lara. I am still in control of the demon, if that's what you're wondering."
Lara turned to Falshingham. "No warmth," said Falshingham.
Chifley looked perplexed by that comment but he said nothing. "We'll talk," declared Lara. "Lead us to the nearest pub."
Chifley understood the implication; she did not want to turn her back on him. Nevertheless he smiled and led them out of the cathedral.
Chifley walked with slow, deliberate steps and Lara was disturbed to see that he moved differently to how she remembered. He had always had a casual grace in his gestures and his gait, but he now moved with a stealthy power, like a wild animal. Each step, each movement, seemed to be purposefully restrained, as if he did not dare allow himself free rein.
He led them into a tavern with several empty tables and a small stage, where a four-piece band played on pan flutes and guitars. It was a different venue in a different city, but they were playing El Condor Pasa, the same song.
They chose a table in the corner away from the band. A young cholo served them promptly with three beers, then left them be.
There was an ominous silence. Falshingham and Lara both watched Chifley with undisguised suspicion.
Chifley smiled, unperturbed by their scrutiny. "I know what you're thinking," he said.
His smile was as beguiling as ever but his tone carried a smugness that Lara was unfamiliar with from him.
"I say again, I am still in control of it Lara. It's still my unwanted guest, but I still rule the roost."
"So how have you managed, since Madunai?" she asked him, her voice carefully neutral.
He lifted the camera that hung around his neck. "Much the same career, just several rungs lower. I take photos of the tourists at the popular sites and usually they're happy enough with the results to pay me for them."
His voice was casual but she thought she could hear his frustration.
"Why have you made no attempt to contact me?" she asked suspiciously.
"Because I couldn't be sure it was me that wanted to." He frowned then explained further. "I'm afraid my guest is still fixated on you Lara. I wasn't sure whom I'd be helping by contacting you. And your lukewarm greeting means you are thinking that too."
He shifted in his seat. "Even now, just sitting across the table from you, he's getting very restless. Give me a moment."
Chifley fell silent, his frown fixed on his face. He remained still and silent but beads of sweat began to form on his brow.
Lara glanced over at Falshingham. The occultist did not return the look; he was watching Chifley with curiosity.
"OK, that's settled," said Chifley. His smile was forced. "He's going to behave."
Lara pulled her backpack around to her lap. "If you're in control of it, how do you explain this?"
She produced the police photo she'd stolen. The bloodied body of Conchita Perez was displayed on the table.
Falshingham reared back in disgust, then quickly scanned the room to make sure no-one outside their table could see it.
Lara barely noticed Falshingham's reaction. Her eyes were focused upon Chifley.
Chifley stared at the photo, his eyes widening in horror. A remembered horror. A terrible agonised expression stole over his face, revealing a man haunted by a gruesome past.
And Lara knew. She knew that it was Peter Chifley who sat across from her, not the demon. She began to pull the photo away, regretting the pain she had caused him.
"I'm sorry Peter," she murmured.
Chifley's hand fell onto her wrist with a speed that was startling. His grim face was years away from the smiling man who had sat down minutes ago.
"Who was she?" he asked, his voice husky "I never learned her name."
Lara did not try to remove his hand, though her instincts cried out to do so. "Conchita Perez," she replied quietly.
"I never saw her alive," Chifley said. "I first saw her when... like that. And my first thought, my worst fear, was that it was you."
He released her wrist and she returned the photo to her backpack. Its removal from the table did not ease the tension. Falshingham was looking at Chifley with a horrified fascination and Chifley, for his part, sat with shoulders hunched and head down, avoiding the eyes of his companions.
Lara said nothing. Her heart ached to see Chifley so tormented. She knew an explanation was coming and she waited for it with uncharacteristic patience.
Chifley put his head in his hands for a few moments, then ran his hands back through his hair. When he began to speak his voice was little more than a whisper.
"When I arrived in Peru, after the swim, I thought I'd conquered the beast. It was silent, as it had been when it first... entered me. I thought, I hoped, that it was defeated and no longer a threat. Foolish, I know now, but I hoped the danger was past. Especially foolish, because I could tell it was still inside me. I had strength I'd never had before. I was so much more... aware. All my senses were alive, like I'd been asleep the rest of my life. And I had stamina like never before also. Not only in the swim, but for days after arriving on land I felt that sleep was no longer something I required.
"I know now that the demon was deceiving me, lulling me into a trap that I should have foreseen."
He ran his hands through his hair again, almost tearing at his hair this time.
"It made me think I didn't need sleep any more. I know it sounds stupid, but I felt like I was in control, invincible. But after three nights without sleep the next night it all caught up with me. The demon caught up with me."
He winced. He did not need the photo to animate his memory.
"I don't even remember falling asleep. But I certainly remember waking. Oh God. I woke standing over her, mutilated like in that photo, with the taste of her blood in my mouth!"
He fell silent, chewing at his lip, his face a mask of misery.
"The demon hoped to break me I think," he continued, his voice bleak. "And if it had been you, it might have worked. But when I realised that it was someone else, god help me, despite the horror of what I'd done, what he'd done, there was a moment of relief. At least it wasn't you.
"I didn't know what to do. I toyed with the idea of turning myself into the police. I couldn't do it. I was terrified of having to explain what had happened. If I said I'd done it I would have to try to come up with a motive for such... savagery. And if I tried to explain about the demon, they'd have me imprisoned in a psychiatric hospital. They'd fill me with drugs and I'd probably lose control over it. It might well get free of me, leaving me in prison while it was outside, able to kill more innocent victims. And even if I was put into a criminal lockup, I didn't want to be punished for what I hadn't done."
He looked up at Lara now, his eyes beseeching hers, asking for forgiveness.
"It's alright Peter. I know it wasn't you, not really. I'm sorry for doubting you."
"You'd be mad to trust me," he replied, his voice shaky with emotion. "I've managed to keep it under control by day and I've taken precautions at night to stop it from killing again. But it's changing me. Day by day, inch by inch, I'm losing my soul here!"
He leaned forward, head in hands, and took some deep, shuddering breaths. "The other day I was walking down one of the back alleys and saw a dead dog. There were flies buzzing all over it and its tongue was hanging out of its mouth. A horrid sight, but I found myself smiling. I found it terribly amusing and I can't understand why. Or last week, when I saw a child hit by a speeding taxi, I couldn't get there quickly enough. I started taking photos of the injured boy. Why? For what possible reason? I just couldn't seem to get enough of the blood, the pain, the suffering that the accident had caused.
"That's not me Lara. At least, that wasn't me before. I don't know who I am now."
The cheerful facade was gone and she saw the tormented young man underneath. That torment was on her account and she hated herself for having left him alone so long.
She moved around the table to sit beside him. He looked into her eyes for a few moments, his pain visible, then she put her arms around him, holding him close. He was limp in her arms for a few moments, unsure of whether or not his arms should hug her in return. Hesitantly he put his arms around her, with a gentle embrace that proved again that he was in control of himself.
"I'm sorry Peter," she whispered. She was surprised to find herself on the verge of tears.
"I am so glad you're here," he said. "I wasn't sure whether I should hope for it or hope never to trouble you again."
"I'm alive because of what you've done for me Peter," she said quietly. "You've been in my thoughts often, and those thoughts have not entirely been about gratitude."
He pulled back from her embrace and looked at her face. His own expression was troubled. "I... don't think it would be safe..."
She wiped quickly at her eyes then shook her head. "I may thrive on danger Peter, but going to bed with a sadistic homicidal demon is beyond the pale even for me."
His attempted smile was an uneasy mixture of relief and disappointment.
"I'm hoping for something a little safer, but exciting nonetheless. An unpossessed Peter Chifley."
His eyes opened wide. There was a desperate hope in his eyes. "Can you help me?"
She hesitated, not sure how much to reassure him. She turned to their companion at the table. "Falshingham?"
The eccentric aristocrat had been staring at Chifley throughout their conversation. Lara's question roused him from his reverie. "Yes Lara?"
She gave him an exasperated look. "Well? Can we help Peter?"
Falshingham frowned. He did not want to raise false expectations in Chifley. There was another concern too, one of greater importance.
"I take it that your occupant is aware of any conversations you have?" he asked Chifley.
Chifley nodded.
"Harrumph!" Only Falshingham could make such a sound, thought Lara, and still sound clever. "Then we'd best keep our plans quiet, eh?"
Chifley smiled. Lara smiled also, a knowing smile. Falshingham had given Chifley some hope without making any promises.
"Of course, it would be helpful if we knew more about your occupant," continued Falshingham. "Have you learned anything that might help me to identify him?"
Chifley's smile soured. "I've learned more than I ever wanted to know, but I can't put a name to it, if that's what you're asking." He turned to Lara. "I know it's vicious and savage and I know that it's still obsessed with you."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if shutting out an image that the other two hadn't seen. "And you, Mr. Falshingham, will get to know more tonight. Tonight's the night I have to sleep, so you'll get to meet my occupant, as you call it."
Falshingham beamed with anticipation, which annoyed Lara no end. Didn't he realise what they were dealing with?
Her annoyance stemmed also from the way Chifley's announcement had affected her. She recognised the way she felt, this deep uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. The demon might be safely housed in Chifley, but the prospect of meeting it still terrified her.

Chapter 5. Confrontation.

Chifley had been living in a humble adobe house just outside Cuzco. It was nestled in the Andes and there were spectacular views from several points along the path that wound up to his home. Falshingham paused to enjoy each of the panoramic views, both to feast his eyes and to rest his legs. The climb to Chifley's house was not an easy one.
Lara struggled to conceal her impatience. She was curious to see where Chifley had been living and what precautions he had devised to prevent the demon from harming anyone else. The adobe house had been visible from lower in the track, but it was the glimpse of female underwear on a washing line outside the house that had her intrigued.
Chifley had either not noticed her impatience or was unmoved by it. He stood beside Falshingham, whose face was flushed with exertion. Chifley pretended he did not notice the aristocrat's shortness of breath and spoke about the panorama that was spread beneath them.
"Magnificent isn't it?" he said.
"Wonderful," gasped Falshingham. "Too good to just rush past without a look, eh?"
"Definitely. You can see Sexy Woman from here."
"What's that?" Lara was suddenly interested in what they were saying.
"Sacsayhuaman, the Inca fortress, the place where they'll celebrate Inti Raymi tomorrow. See, over there. The tourists all call it Sexy Woman and think they're hysterically funny."
Lara was frowning. "I wondered who you were referring to, Peter."
He smiled but said nothing. If there was a woman living with him there was not going to be an explanation yet.
She waited in ill-humour, almost stamping her foot with impatience. While Chifley pointed out various features of Cuzco from above she considered the possibility of Chifley having taken a lover. She could hardly blame him if he had. They had been together only one night and then, after his act of unexpected courage, she had abandoned him.
She imagined one of the brown-skinned beauties that had been drinking and laughing in the cantina. She had seen them glance in Chifley's direction more than once, less than subtly, though he had not appeared to notice. He was a good-looking bastard, she thought. After all, she'd taken to him pretty quickly back on Madunai. But she was infuriated by the thought of someone else sharing his bed these past months, while she'd been struggling through the trauma of Madunai and contending with monsters in the Congo.
Falshingham eventually started ascending the path again, keeping pace with Lara and Chifley as well as he could. Lara was aware of the fact that Chifley was deliberately moving slowly, keeping his pace down. She was managing the ascent fairly well but for Chifley it was not a struggle at all. She knew that it was more than just being acclimatised to the Andean altitude; there was strength in him that was carefully hidden.
They reached the house with ten more minutes of climbing. Lara confirmed that what she had seen from the bottom of the hill was, in fact, the case. Two bras and a pair of brief panties hung on the clothesline.
She frowned at Chifley but he was oblivious to what she had observed. He led them to the house, into a very basic living room. There was a primitive table, with two rough-hewn wooden chairs. A low couch, made up as a bed, stood against the earthen walls.
Chifley put his camera on the table then called out a name. "Bonnie!"
A young woman appeared from an adjoining room. She was everything Lara had feared she might be. She was a mestizo, with the flawless brown skin of the Inca and the large brown eyes of the Spaniard. She was a beautiful girl, with high cheekbones and a full, sensuous mouth. She wore a simple homespun dress, but her slim figure was complimented by it. A golden crucifix hung from her neck. She smiled at Chifley, her eyes bright at the sight of him. She frowned when she saw his companions and shyly lowered her head.
Lara looked the girl up and down, then turned to glare at Chifley. Before she had a chance to say anything, Chifley said, "Steady on Lara. It's not what it looks like."
"Oh please, Peter! At least come up with a more original line."
"Bonnie and I... we aren't in a relationship. It's more of... an arrangement."
"How convenient." Her tone was icy.
"No, wrong word," stammered Chifley. "Listen. Every third night I have to sleep. So every third night Bonnie comes here to look after me."
"Look after you?" Lara wished she could keep the anger out of her voice, but found that she couldn't.
"I'll show you," said Chifley. He led them through to a small bedroom, bare of all furnishings other than the single bed. He stooped, reaching under the bed, and produced a dilapidated sports bag. He opened it and spilled the contents out onto the bed.
Four padded shackles, with chains attached, lay on the threadbare bed covering.
"Harrumph!" offered Falshingham.
Lara began to speak, her irritation still visible on her face, but Chifley spoke over her. "Every third night she shackles me to the bed, with instructions not to untie me, regardless of what I might offer her or threaten her with, until the sun rises the next day. That's the arrangement. That and nothing more."
Lara glared at him, trying to judge the truth, or otherwise, of his words.
"So why are her panties on your line?" she asked. 'God, that sounds so bloody awful,' she thought.
"She usually stays overnight. Sometimes she does some washing while she's here--this place has a wonderful stone-age laundry. She sleeps on the couch in the main room. I suspect she also says prayers for my soul, which don't seem to be working, but I am grateful nevertheless."
Lara stood very still, though there was tension in the set of her shoulders. "Well she won't need these any longer," she said. She gathered up the shackles and chains into the sports bag. "You can tell her that her services are no longer required."
Lara carried the bag to the door, eager to leave the place behind. She was embarrassed by her own behaviour. She knew she was acting like a bitch, a jealous bitch for God's sake, but she found it hard to behave any other way.
She turned back to her companions. Falshingham was looking at her with surprise on his face. Chifley was speaking quietly in Spanish to Bonnie. She nodded silently, her shoulders slumped with disappointment. When Chifley finished speaking she looked up at Lara, a brief intense look. There was a wealth of feeling in that glance, none of it friendly.
Damn it all! It didn't seem to matter that he was possessed or that he was impoverished. The women still love him. Lara was unfamiliar with the way she felt, and ashamed of the way it was making her behave. She stepped outside the hut and took a few deep breaths of the cold, rarefied air.
Falshingham was the first to join her. He put a heavy hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it away. "Lara..."
"I don't want to hear your wisdom right now, Falshingham, if you don't mind."
She had her back to him but she could almost hear his heavy shrug.
Chifley joined them a few moments later and they began their descent back to Cuzco.

Lara opened the door of Falshingham's suite and ushered Chifley into it. Falshingham followed, his eyes never leaving Chifley's back.
Chifley moved around the room, looking at its plush furniture, examining the contents of the mini-bar. "Ah, the trappings of luxury!" he said. "I've missed them."
"How long had you been living in that hut?" asked Lara.
"Almost from the time I got here." He opened a small bottle of Johnny Walker from the minibar and took a hefty swig from it.
"Please, make yourself at home," said Lara.
Chifley licked his lips. "Medicinal," he muttered. "It'll help me sleep."
He polished off the rest of the small bottle then moved to the toilet. When the door closed behind him Lara turned to Falshingham.
"Do you have to stare at him continually?" she asked. "It's annoying me, so it must be driving him insane."
Falshingham looked surprised. "Was I staring?"
"Your eyes have barely been off him since we met him."
"Really?" Falshingham was surprised by his own rudeness. "I suppose you're right. But it is fascinating isn't it? An ancient demon housed within that young man! I know people who would kill for such an opportunity as this."
"I'm more concerned for the man playing host, Falshingham."
Falshingham nodded, looking abashed. "As am I Lara. I haven't forgotten why I'm here."
Chifley emerged from the toilet. There was a strange expression on his face, part sadness, part embarrassment. "We'd better get me to bed," he said. "I'm getting dangerously weary."
They moved to the bed and Chifley emptied the contents of his sports bag onto it. The padded shackles tumbled onto the bedspread. He turned to Lara, his expression still one of chagrin.
"It's alright Peter," she said quietly. "I'll do it."
A timid smile flickered for a moment on his face then he lay himself down, face up, on the bed.
Lara took one shackle and closed it around his right wrist. She then padlocked the attached chain to the bed head. She repeated the action with his left wrist.
Chifley tugged on the chains, testing their strength. He grunted his approval.
Lara moved on to his ankles, chaining him spread-eagled to the four corners of the bed.
"Don't start getting any ideas now," joked Chifley nervously.
Lara smiled but there was no humour in her serious brown eyes. She tried to suppress a growing anxiety.
"Whatever I say or do, don't release me until dawn," instructed Chifley.
"I understand Peter."
Falshingham brought some chairs beside the bed, one to either side. Lara sat to Chifley's right side, Falshingham to his left.
"I apologise in advance for anything it says or does," said Chifley, his voice weary.
"It's alright Peter. Sleep now."
She tried to give him a reassuring smile but was too nauseated to manage it. The demon inside him was something that had ruled her nightmares for months and she was about to be re-acquainted with it.
Chifley closed his eyes. His face bore an expression that revealed that he was as uneasy about the situation as Lara.
Falshingham looked away from Chifley's face and watched Lara. He knew her well enough to recognise her uneasiness. He opened his mouth to offer some reassurance, then realised he had nothing of value to say.
Lara continued to watch Chifley. Though the room was well lit, her face was shadowed by doubts.
Chifley opened his eyes and sighed. "It looks like sleep's not coming tonight after all." He stretched his arms. "Can I sit up for a bit?"
Lara leaned forward, her mouth tightening. "Nice try, you bastard."
Chifley lunged up from the bed, his head thrusting at her, his teeth snapping together a bare inch from her cheek.
Lara dropped back into her chair, her heart hammering in her chest. The demon strained against the limitations of the chains for a few moments more then relaxed back onto the bed.
The demon smiled. God, she hated that smile, especially on Chifley's face. "You always were a smart girl Lara. I look forward to finally getting a taste of you."
Lara glared at him. "Dream on," she jeered, but her voice was unsteady.
"Dream? Oh yes, I will," replied the demon. "I have had plenty of time now to dream of you and what I will do with you. The girl in Lima, the one in your photo? Imagine yourself in that picture my dear. But with you I will not be so kind, not so hasty. I will make sure I taste every inch of you."
It snapped its teeth together twice then smiled again.
"He has good teeth, your boyfriend. And the girl in Lima was his fault really. Has he told you that he's a biter?"
Lara frowned but said nothing.
"Oh yes, he's a biter all right," continued the demon. "Ask any of his past lovers. Love-bites are his speciality, so now they're my speciality too. In Lima I was only doing what he's always wanted to do."
"Give it up," Lara grated. "You can't expect me to believe that."
"No? It doesn't really matter whether you do or not. But I always take on aspects of my host and that part of your Chifley is part that I have delighted in. The girl in Lima was tasty, very tasty. And you, my dear, you will be absolutely delicious!"
Lara felt her stomach churning with fear. The creature was chained and helpless, yet it still managed to terrify her.
"Oh dear!" said the creature, in mock alarm. "Just the prospect of it has been enough to excite me!"
Its eyes looked down at its groin, where an erection was straining against the trousers it wore.
"Perhaps you'd like to get a taste of me first, eh?" it teased. "You were quite enthusiastic the last time we met."
Lara's face flushed and she found herself with nothing to say.
"Gayak!"
Falshingham uttered the word like a growl, speaking with an anger Lara had never heard from him.
"Oh, and who do we have here?" asked the demon, turning its head to the left. "Got a taste for older men Lara? Chifley will be livid!"
"Gayak," repeated Falshingham. "Demon-god of the Cadachacs."
"An educated older man." It turned back to Lara. "Is it his mind that appeals to you Lara? Not much of a body to speak of, eh?"
"Bramsuha of the Hindu pantheon," intoned Falshingham, reining the demon's attention back to himself. "The eater of minds."
The demon smiled at Falshingham. There was such malice in that smile that Falshingham baulked.
"A well educated older man. But you have the advantage of me, in more ways than one." It rattled its chains. "What's your name, old man?"
"Bataan-Ra, of the Egyptians," continued Falshingham, his face grim. "The Betrayer."
The demon's smile broadened. "Such childish name-calling, for such an old man. You should know better."
The evil smile vanished. There was undisguised hatred in its face. "You should know much better. I am not an enemy you wish to have."
"The enemy of my friend is my enemy," intoned Falshingham. "We will defeat you, whatever name you carry."
The demon laughed, its host body trembling with laughter, its chains rattling. Its laughter seemed to echo off the walls and throb in their ears. Falshingham cast an uncertain glance at Lara, who returned his look with a troubled frown.
When the demon's laughter faded it spoke again, its voice rich with evil merriment. "And how will you do that, old man? How will you succeed, where hundreds of others have failed?"
Then its mood shifted again, its voice cold with menace. "Understand this, old man, with your supposed intelligence. I was old, nay, ancient, before the Egyptians named me Bataan-Ra. I saw the birth of the world--helped to shape it. I am deathless, I am timeless. You cannot defeat me."
"You are lying," replied Falshingham calmly. "You are no god. You move from one pantheon to another, choosing the persona that best suits your appetites. And who would you be now, in the modern world?"
"Pray that you live long enough to find out, old man. When this host is finished with, I will move on."
The words were spoken with venom but Lara thought she saw some doubt in the demon's eyes.
"We should go Lara," said Falshingham. "I know all I need to know."
"Going so soon? After all this time Lara, I thought you'd have more to say to me."
"I have nothing to say to you," she said, glad for the chance to get out of the same room as the creature.
Falshingham and Lara stood. The demon was infuriated by their departure.
"Off for a screw are you? Lara, your taste in men is appalling."
They moved to the door that led to the adjoining room.
"If you need any assistance old man, I can offer it. Believe me, I know how to make the bitch scream..."
They moved into the adjoining room and closed the door on the demon's rage.
Lara paced up and down the room, breathing heavily. She wished there was something or someone she could hit. She prided herself that she was not easily intimidated but the demon had done so while chained and helpless.
Falshingham sat on one of the two beds, "What a charming fellow!" he said.
Lara gave him a strained smile. "Practically irresistible," she returned. "What did you learn about him?"
Falshingham didn't answer immediately. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and pulled his amulet up from where it had rested on his chest. The green orb was glowing a fierce red and Falshingham looked relieved to have it away from his skin.
"Damn near burnt a hole in my chest," he complained, though he looked at the pendant with satisfaction.
"The demon Falshingham," repeated Lara impatiently. "What did you learn?"
"I only confirmed what I'd already suspected. The main thing to tell you is that he is not to be believed. What he said about Peter is just his way of disturbing you."
Lara was quite astonished that Falshingham would mention this first. "Thank you Falshingham," she said, grateful for his consideration.
Her face hardened. "But can we destroy it?"
Falshingham shook his head. "I doubt that we can destroy it, not completely, so we might be wiser to try to contain it. Manacha, the priest-king of the Cadachacs, was able to seal it on Madunai Island for centuries."
"We tried that once already--Peter and I thought we'd trapped it."
"I have another approach to the problem. We'll need a totem, an object that has been prepared to act as a receptacle for our friend next door."
"And you would be able to get it out of Peter and into this object?"
"One step at a time, Lara. First I'll have to locate a totem. They're not sold in corner stores." His pendant was cooling and he placed it back inside his shirt.
Lara frowned. "How rare are we talking about Falshingham?"
His smile was sheepish. "There are perhaps a dozen known Possession Totems in the world today. Of course, in medieval times there were hundreds. The Knights Templar..."
She sensed a coming monologue and interrupted. "A dozen! Let me guess the rest. They're all hidden or guarded or lost."
"It's not quite as desperate as that Lara. I believe there's one here in Cuzco, in fact."
Lara looked at him suspiciously. "Tell me the rest."
"Well... It may not be lost, but it is hidden and guarded I'm afraid."
"Guarded by whom, exactly?"
"I suppose you'd call them a coven. A gathering of witches. And they are nothing to scoff at Lara. Their leader is perhaps the most powerful sorcerer alive today."
"Demons and sorcerers--this is certainly an eventful year for me. You're sure they have the totem."
"To be honest Lara, I'm not sure of anything. This coven, the Dark Guardians, has kept itself secret for decades. I'll need to learn more, much more, before we can proceed. I spotted an Internet cafe near the tavern we met Chifley in, so tomorrow I'll start doing some research."
It still amused Lara that a man so obsessed with ancient, arcane lore could use modern technology to research it.
"I'll help, if I can," she said. "But we'd best sleep ourselves, if we're going to be surfing the net tomorrow."

Chapter 6. Press Release.

Pedro Martinez believed his luck had finally changed.
He had been trying to track down Lara Croft for days. His efforts had started well; he'd identified her hotel in Lima fairly quickly. However when he'd gone there he'd discovered that she'd checked out less than an hour before his arrival. Airport receptionists were harder to bribe or charm than hotel staff and it had taken days to learn that she and her companion had taken a plane to Cuzco. But now, the first hotel he'd checked in Cuzco, the Hotel Espinar, had proven to be the correct one.
"She's still in her room?" he asked the porter.
The porter was a middle-aged, overweight Peruvian native. Martinez believed himself to be a good judge of character and recognised the man as a good potential source of information. He was frustrated by his job, tired of being looked down on by the rich tourists whom he served every day and eager to make some money at their expense.
"She's there, with her men friends," replied the porter. "I'd have spotted her if she'd come back down, believe me."
Martinez did not need much knowledge of human nature to understand the gleam in the porter's eyes. Lara Croft might be trying to travel incognito, but her beauty made that difficult.
"Tell me about her 'men friends'," he asked.
The porter waited until Martinez creased his palm with another twenty dollar US bill, always the best currency for bribery.
"There's an old gent--distinguished-looking. A nice enough guy, tips well. Then there's a younger guy. Good-looking I suppose, flashy smile. But something creepy about him."
Martinez felt his pulse quicken. "An Englishman?"
"Yeah, they're all English. You know the type--talk like royalty and expect to be treated like it."
"And this young man, you say he was 'creepy' in some way?"
The porter paused and Martinez wondered if her was angling for another bill, but the man spoke after he'd had time to collect his thoughts.
"I don't know why I got the idea really. He didn't really do or say anything strange. His eyes just looking weird, I guess. And he's a strong one. He was carrying only one bag, carrying it in one hand, as easy as you like, but when I took it from him I nearly did my back in again. It felt like it was full of lead weights."
Martinez thanked him again with a twenty-dollar bill, then he moved to the elevators. While waiting for it he pondered what to do. He wondered if, in hunting Croft, he might have found the Slasher.
The Slasher. It was a stupid name, especially since the killer had never used a weapon to "slash" with, but headlines demanded a memorable name for the murderer. It had been months ago now and the readers had largely forgotten about it. Conchita Perez' parents rang him weekly however: they had not forgotten, nor would they allow him to.
The lift arrived and he pushed the button for the third floor, the level where Croft and her companions were staying.
What was Croft's involvement in this? He had established that she'd already left Peru after the Madunai shoot when the killing occurred. Had she known the killer, or suspected that she knew him? Was the "handsome, young Englishman" with her now the same man described by witnesses in Lima?
Whatever the facts, he knew he should now proceed cautiously.
He arrived at the third floor of the hotel, and looked up the carpeted corridor before leaving the elevator. There was no-one in sight. He strolled down the corridor, taking note of the numbers on the doors. He found their rooms easily enough but walked right past them without pausing. He turned the next corner then waited, considering his options.
He would pay a fortune to be able to look inside their rooms. He might be able to set up some pretext, pretend to be room service for one. As an investigative reporter he had used such deceptions on many occasions but Croft and Falshingham had seen him recently and were sure to recognise him. He baulked at the idea of enlisting someone else, one of his colleagues perhaps, to play such a game. If he was wrong about the situation he'd be wasting their time and if he was right he'd be endangering their life, not to mention having to share his story with them.
He moved to a fire escape door at the end of the short passage he stood in. He opened it quietly and looked out. He could scarcely believe his luck. The balcony of the nearest room was only a short distance from the fire escape. He would be risking a three-storey drop but he could reach their window.
He looked at his watch. It was after midnight and they might well be asleep. He didn't intend to break into their room, even though his troubled youth had equipped him with the skill to do so; rather, he hoped to overhear some conversation. Best to act now, he decided.
He took one look down at the alleyway below him. Good, the fall would kill him rather than cripple him. Better still not to fall at all.
He climbed outside the fire escape rails. The nearest balcony was close enough for him to actually step from one perch to another, though his breath caught in his throat in the moment he stood balanced between them. Then he climbed over the balcony's side and stepped up to the window.
There was a narrow gap between the drawn curtains. Inside, a bedside lamp lighted the bedroom. His breathing staggered again at what he saw inside. The young Englishman, whoever he was, was chained spread-eagled to the bed.
And although his gasp of surprise had been barely audible to himself, the man's head turned toward the window.
He jerked back involuntarily, startled by the man's gaze. He could not have been seen, surely? He could only get a glimpse through the curtain's gap and he stood in the midnight darkness. He took a few silent breaths then put his eye to the gap again.
The young man's gaze was fixed on him. There could be no doubt.
When the young man had first turned his head to the window Martinez had been shocked by the intensity in his face. The man's expression had changed somehow, but was no less intense. His eyes beseeched his visitor for aid. He even tossed his head to one side, beckoning Martinez to enter.
What the hell was going on here?
Martinez didn't know what was happening but he knew that he'd never find out if he left. The window was latched, but he needed only a pocketknife to prise up its handle.
He stepped warily into the bedroom, one eye on the chained man, and one eye on the door leading to the adjoining bedroom.
"Hurry up!" hissed the man on the bed with desperate urgency. "They'll be back in a few minutes!"
A sense of unreality made Martinez falter. What was he doing here, an intruder in a bedroom with a man chained to the bed? He felt like he had stepped through a looking glass, rather than a window.
"I'm Pedro Martinez," he said, "from El Comercio."
It sounded ludicrous, introducing himself to the prisoner. He wasn't sure why he'd done it though he suspected he was trying to introduce some normality to the situation. The chained man looked at him with contempt.
"I don't care who you are, just get these shackles off. The key is on the bureau."
Martinez moved to the bureau and got the key then paused. Things were moving too quickly. He wasn't going to be doing anything until he had some understanding of what was going on.
"So, who are you then?" he asked the chained man. "Why are you....?"
"Will you stop the damned introductions? Use the key! They'll be back here any moment, then we're both dead men."
The man's urgency was infectious and Martinez held back from using the key with an effort. He glanced at the door leading to the adjoining bedroom, finding that his own anxiety was growing to match the prisoner's.
He reminded himself that this man might well be a suspect in a vicious killing.
"Tell me about Conchita Perez," he said, forcing himself to remain calm.
"Who? What are you playing at? They're getting ready to kill me!"
"The girl in the Lima dance club," persisted Martinez.
The man's face contorted for a moment into something ugly, then the desperate fear was back. "Yes, that was me," he said. "I lured her out of the club but I never harmed her."
"She was certainly harmed by..."
"I know! I know! I thought it was just going to be a lark, a bit of fun. But the people who hired me to get her are sick and deadly. And they're next door! For Christ's Sake, will you get me out of here?"
Martinez struggled to understand what the man had told him. "Lara Croft is next door?"
"Yes. She's one of their leaders. She's the one who tracked me down, after I'd been hiding out here in Cuzco for months. And she'd the one who's going to get her jollies by killing me."
Martinez swallowed nervously. Lara Croft, a killer?
The prisoner could see his doubts. "She's into all this witchcraft madness, both her and the creepy old guy with her. It was them, them and their group, who killed that girl."
Martinez looked back at the adjoining door with a fear to match his companion's. He'd done some research on Croft and it was true that she had an interest in the occult. He was confused and frightened and acutely aware of the passage of time.
"Will you hurry up! They must be nearly ready for their ceremony."
"Ceremony?" He felt like his mind was paralysed with uncertainty, able to do little more than repeat what was said to him.
"They're going to do to me what they did to the girl. For God's Sake Martinez, or whoever you are, you've got to get me out of here!"
"She told me she was looking for you--that you were the killer of that girl."
"So now that she's found me, why hasn't she turned me into the police? Why chain me to the bed like this! Does this look like I'm having fun here?"
Martinez had always suspected that it had been some kind of cult killing; he'd even hinted at it in one of his articles. This chained man knew the whole story and he would be able to confirm his suspicions in his next article, which would be a huge front-page story.
First he had to get the fellow safely out of harm's way. He worked quickly on the shackles, casting frequent glances at the neighbouring room's door.
He undid the man's wrist shackles then turned his attention to his ankles. While he was unlocking the last shackle the man leaned forward on the bed and grabbed his head, snapping his neck with one fierce twist.
His brain survived for a few seconds after his lungs stopped breathing. He lay on the carpeted floor, looking up at the man who'd killed him. The man smiled at his staring eyes and gaping mouth, struggling for air that would not come. His killer then turned toward the neighbouring room's door, no longer looking at it with the pretence of fear, looking at it with malignant glee.
And in the malevolence of the man's smile Martinez gained some understanding before he lost all thought.

Chapter 7. Hunger.

Lara Croft. The woman who had defied him. The woman who had damn near imprisoned him in the temple again.
The woman who had occupied his thoughts for months now. Just as Chifley was infatuated with her, he was fixated on her, though his own interest was far from romantic.
He had dreamed of her suffering. He had planned for her pain. It was going to be a masterpiece of cruelty.
And now she was next door, sleeping, unsuspecting, vulnerable.
This would be a night to remember.
Gayak moved to the door and listened before opening it. There was a muffled snoring sound. He smiled, wondering if the snorer was the Croft bitch or her companion.
His smile became a frown. Her companion was a hurdle still to be overcome.
Moving swiftly and silently he gathered the shackles into the sports bag that Chifley had carried them in. He made sure the scarf that had sometimes been used to gag him was at the top of the bag. He planned to use the bonds on a new victim, a woman who would end the night praying for death.
He opened the door slowly, making not a breath of sound. He moved into the other bedroom, silently closing the door behind him.
The two who had stood arrogantly over his bound form were both there, in separate beds. The old man was in a bed near the window. Nearer him, her hair unbound on the pillow, was Lara Croft. He breathed in the atmosphere, revelling in their vulnerability.
Now, how to handle this? He had little interest in the old man, but the idea of making him watch Croft's suffering was almost irresistible. It would be wonderful to have an audience, especially someone who cared for her, someone who would suffer through her agonies. He could hurt two people with every cruelty.
He stifled a sigh when he realised that it would not be practical. He had only four shackles and Lara Croft had four strong limbs that would need to be restrained, to allow him to do his work. With regret, he decided he would have to kill the old man to silence him.
And perhaps it would be more intimate, just Lara and himself, through the long dark night.
He remembered, all too well, how she had bested him. Three times in combat she had defeated his host. He had admired her, had wanted to inhabit her, but he now knew that she was too strong, too defiant, to allow him to rule her as a host body.
But he would rule her body from without. He would cause her more pain than she could imagine. Her scornful dark eyes would shine with tears; her pride would dissolve into whimpers. And he would keep her alive as long as he could, for as long as he could restrain his hunger.
What a pity that they were in an occupied building. What a shame he would need to gag her, to deny himself the delight of hearing her screams.
And to cap off his joy, when morning came and his host awoke, what a sight he would have to greet his waking vision.
And so, to work. He could snap the old man's neck as easily as the reporter's, could do it while he slept. It was unlike him to be so kind.
He approached the old man's bed. He hesitated for a moment, seeing the old man turn restlessly in bed. His breathing became rapid and he grunted in discomfort. He twisted from side to side, as if pursued by something in his dreams.
You are being pursued in your waking world, old man, thought Gayak, moving closer.
Then Falshingham sat forward in his bed, clutching at the red orb that was burning on his chest. He saw Gayak, his eyes opening wide in fear. "Lara!" he cried.
Damn! The old fool might ruin everything! He had to silence him immediately.
Falshingham lifted his bedcovers and leaped out of his bed on the side opposite Gayak. He never moved his terrified eyes from Gayak's face.
"Lara!" he yelled again.
Gayak smiled. He was like a child calling for his mother. He advanced on Falshingham around the foot of the bed.
Then something connected with the left side of his head, knocking him to his right, where he crashed to the floor.
He turned his head in the direction of the assault and saw Lara Croft scrambling to her feet. She then stood only a few feet away, wearing a short nightdress. He put his hand to his head, realising that she had floored him with a flying kick. There was blood on his hand when he pulled his hand away from his temple. The kick would probably have knocked out a normal man, but that description did not apply here.
And the way she stood, her legs apart and her fists raised, suggested she was ready to deal out more damage to him.
Gayak was disappointed that his stealth had failed but he smiled up at her. "Well don't you look lovely, my dear, in what you're almost wearing. Let's get rid of it shall we?"
He started to rise to his feet but she stepped in and swung another kick into his face, toppling him back. He grabbed at her leg as he fell but she stepped back out of his reach.
"Get my guns Falshingham," said Lara, her eyes never leaving her adversary.
Falshingham climbed over his bed, keeping as much distance between Gayak and himself as possible. He moved behind Lara to a wardrobe near the main door.
Gayak rolled to his side. He looked up at her from the floor. His nose was bloodied but his smile was unruffled. "No more kicks to the face, my dear, if you would. Your boyfriend might lose some teeth, and I'm going to need them."
"Stay down," commanded Lara.
"Oh I can't do that, my dear" he said, sounding so charming, so much like Chifley, that she felt nauseated. "I may not have an opportunity like this again. And I'd hate for you to miss out on my attentions."
He rolled away from her then sprang to his feet, standing near the window. She swung another kick at him but he moved too swiftly for her to land it. She stepped back and they stood facing each other across the dark bedroom.
His smile infuriated Lara. She may well have broken bones already--Peter's bones, God help me--but he seemed to feel no pain whatsoever. He looked like he was relishing the prospect of fighting her.
Gayak was recalling their other encounters. Each time her opponent had been, due to his habitation of them, stronger and faster than the athletic woman in front of him. Yet each time she had overcome them. He did not rush at her; he knew not to underestimate her.
Falshingham moved to Lara's side and clumsily placed a pistol into her right hand. She grabbed it with competent ease and aimed it at Gayak. The demon did not seem perturbed by this.
"OK, you slimy bastard," said Lara. She failed to keep the relief out of her voice. "Let's go back into the other bedroom."
"No, I don't think so," was Gayak's smug reply.
"You think I won't use this pistol?"
"No my dear, I know you won't use it. My host is your lover, after all. Bad form to kill your lovers, what?"
His overdone British accent infuriated her further. "I need not kill you, you bastard. A leg wound will stop you in your tracks."
"It may slow me down, my dear, but it won't stop me. You'll have to kill this host to stop me--and that won't stop me at all, will it?"
She swallowed nervously. If she was forced to kill Chifley she would be playing into the demon's hands, freeing him to inhabit someone else.
"I know more about this world than I did on Madunai. Even if you were to wound me sufficiently with the gun, then you'd have to take your insipid boyfriend to hospital. And under anaesthetic, who do you think will rule him?"
She gave the gun back to Falshingham, who held it in a trembling hand, his face a picture of confusion.
"Mano a mano, eh?" said Lara, sounding more confident than she felt. "That's what you want is it?"
"If that means I get to beat you around a bit before tasting your flesh, then yes, that is what I want. So good of you to oblige me."
"Consider it a personal favour," she replied, launching another kick at him before finishing the sentence.
He dodged and her leg swung through empty air. She took a few steps back to regain her balance and was surprised that Gayak did not rush at her. He seemed content to smile at her, to allow her time to realise her peril.
She stepped in and jabbed a fist at his face. He partly blocked it but she managed to connect with his right eye. He barely blinked; his smile did not waver.
The dread that had accompanied all previous meetings with the demon now returned. How could she stop it, without killing Chifley?
Gayak attacked for the first time, swinging a fist at her. She deflected it with her left arm, then grabbed his wrist with her right hand. She used his forward momentum to swing him into the wall behind her. He crashed into the wall, breaking plaster off it, but turned immediately to face her.
"I have a problem you may be able to help me with," said Gayak conversationally, as if their combat were irrelevant. "I've been wondering where I should bite you first."
His eyes roamed over her body, concealed only by her brief nightdress. Under that malign gaze she felt naked and vulnerable.
She hated the way the demon made her feel. She hated the creeping fear she could feel in her skin. And she hated the demon with a passion, for all the misery it had caused her.
Her anger exploded into a flurry of blows. She wheeled on one foot, kicked then ducked and struck out with a stiff arm jab. Blow after blow she landed on her foe, driving him backwards. Some he managed to deflect, but most connected with his chest or head. He staggered back to the window then a flying kick, accompanied by a cry of rage, sent him crashing through the window. He reeled back a few steps, still on his feet, then hit the balcony rail. He twisted on the rail, flailed his arms for balance, and then lost the battle. He fell backwards over the balcony, vanishing into the night.
Lara rose to her feet the moment after she landed but reached the balcony too late to prevent the fall. She looked down over the edge and saw Gayak lying on the concrete pavement below, blood pooled around his head.
She gasped with a new fear. Dear God, Peter!
Then down below her startled eyes Gayak rose to his feet, a little stiffly, but otherwise untroubled. He looked up at the balcony, flashed a smile at her, then walked off down the empty street, without even a limp.

Chapter 8. Ghost Search.

Lara put one foot on the balcony's rim, preparing to leap down into the dark alley, before Falshingham put a restraining hand on her arm. "Lara, we're three stories up."
She looked at him and he was startled by the anger in her face. She glared at the hand on her arm. Nevertheless he spoke on. "And you have no supernatural powers. At least, none that I am aware of."
She moved away from the balcony then, stepping back through the shattered window. "I've got to stop him Falshingham. God only knows what horrors he'll commit before morning."
Falshingham followed her to the door, putting his hand on the door this time to halt her. "I don't think God has much say in what he does, Lara. But there is a better way to chase him."
Lara glared at him again. "What are you trying to say?"
"Stop a moment and think Lara. Firstly you'll have to get dressed."
She looked down at her nightdress: in her enthusiasm to pursue the demon she'd forgotten she was wearing it.
"He'll be long gone before you get down to the street. You can find him faster if you project yourself. When you know where he is, you can go there physically."
She wanted to deny what he was saying but she suspected he was right.
"You can go to places your body cannot. You can move more swiftly. And he cannot ambush you, something he may be planning to do."
She frowned, unsure of whether or not to agree.
"At least scan the hotel lobby before you go down to it," urged Falshingham. "It will take little time, and might save your life."
"Alright," she agreed reluctantly. "I'll search for him. Any ideas on where I should look?"
"You've explored the city more than I," he replied as she lay down on her bed. "It might be worth looking into the Cuzco hospital. He may have survived that fall, but it must have hurt him."
"The lobby and the hospital," muttered Lara. "At least that's a start."
Falshingham pulled a chair up to her bed, then sat with her pistol in his lap. "In case he decides to return," he said, putting one hand on the gun. "Now close your eyes Lara."
It took much longer to induce the trance than it had the first time. With Gayak loose in Cuzco it was almost impossible to relax herself. It was an effort not to swear at Falshingham, with his slow, steady voice, but she found that when she listened to his instructions she was able to achieve the focus she needed.
Fifteen minutes after Gayak had crashed off the balcony Lara Croft pursued him, as an astral projection.
She moved down to the bloodstains in the empty alleyway. The amount of blood there amazed her, once more, that Gayak had been able to walk away from the fall.
Surely he was wounded, by the blood loss if nothing else. He must be vulnerable now, if only she could find him.
She drifted down the alleyway, following the direction that Gayak had taken. She entered a main street with the hotel's entrance to her left. Falshingham might have been correct to suspect an ambush. She moved to the entrance and into the foyer. It was quiet, in keeping with the lateness of the hour. The night porter slumbered in a small office, his head on his hands. The desk clerk looked habitually bored, an expression that would have been unlikely if a bleeding man had recently entered. Nevertheless she swept around the perimeter of the lobby, drifting behind curtains, exploring storage rooms, a smoking room and a deserted cafe. Gayak was not present.
She returned to the street and scanned the nearby buildings. Which direction would he take? Where did he lurk?
There was an English style pub around the corner from their hotel, the Cross Keys pub, and she moved quickly to it. It seemed as likely as anywhere for Gayak to hide himself. She moved under the huge metal keys hanging outside the building then explored the interior. It was very much like the pubs at home, but the clientele were tourists from all over the world. She moved through their midst, unseen, but did not find Gayak.
She moved back out to the street and became aware of music, even though she had no ears to hear it. A dance club, somewhere nearby, a place not unlike the one where Conchita Perez had been last seen alive.
She swept toward the vibrations she sensed. As she neared the club, the Ukukus Bar, she recognised the music. Ricky Martin sang "La Vida Loca" in Spanish. He could well be singing about her, she thought.
Back in her hotel room her face smiled briefly. Falshingham wondered what was amusing her.
She did not need to trouble the bouncers at the entry door; she swept past them unawares. Their hostile glares looked right through her. Inside the club the atmosphere was smoky and the music was loud, both of which would have annoyed her if she had been there in person. She drifted among the dancers, glad that she had taken Falshingham's advice. The cavorting bodies did not hinder her and dark corners were easily explored. The men's toilet was full, with men standing in line urinating at the wall fixture. She was vaguely amused by a scene she'd never witnessed. The door of a closed cubicle was no barrier to her vision but it was occupied by a wretched, vomiting young man. Gayak was not among the drunken men here. Nor was he anywhere in the club, a determination she made within a few short minutes.
She located and explored five other nightspots of Cuzco, but there was no sign of Gayak in any one of them. She found it hard to keep track of time, but she was sure she had taken more than an hour to find nothing.
Where else had she intended to search? It was difficult to concentrate in this dream-like state. Hadn't Falshingham suggested something?
She remembered and exited the nightclub she was in through a side wall. She had driven past the hospital earlier that day, on their way back from Chifley's former home, and knew where it stood. And with that knowledge came speed. As soon as she had thought of where she was going she was there.
She moved through the busy emergency department, all the staff and patients unaware of her presence. She moved through the large waiting area, where many patients grumbled impatiently about the length of time they'd been waiting and about how much sicker they were than the last person called through to the treatment area. Lara moved to that area. A central desk supported phones and computer terminals and a large whiteboard displayed the patients' details on the wall behind it. Around all the walls were curtained cubicles, from which came muffled conversations and groans of pain.
A doctor moved from a cubicle to Lara's left, pressing a button on a beeper in the pocket of his white coat, cursing irritably in Spanish. He moved to a phone on the desk and Lara drifted into the cubicle he'd left. A young boy sat on a trolley there, his mother holding a plastic kidney dish under his chin as he vomited into it.
'Definitely not what I'm searching for,' thought Lara, as she moved through the curtains into the next cubicle.
A very pale elderly man lay on a trolley, his face unutterably sad. A young doctor was speaking slowly and painstakingly to him in Spanish. Lara realised that she had entered at the end of a long conversation and knew that the news being conveyed was not good; knew also that the patient was not surprised by it.
Lara moved through several cubicles, getting intrusive glimpses into the lives of strangers, then she encountered a cubicle she could not enter. The curtain was a barrier to her, more impassable than it would have been if she were physically present. She was puzzled by this and tried unsuccessfully a few more times to pass through the screen. She then became intrigued by the muffled conversation she could hear from the other side of the screen.
"It is agreed then?"
The voice troubled her, even though she had never heard it before. There was a resonance to it, a deepness that bespoke power, an inflection that implied cruelty.
There was a moment's silence then the voice spoke again. "We are agreed on the price for your co-operation?"
"Are you sure you can deliver what I require?"
Lara was startled to recognise Chifley's voice replying to the first speaker. Despite her ethereal state, she felt a wave of dread pass through her.
"I am more certain now than ever," replied the mellifluous voice. "Deliverance is close at hand."
Then the curtain in front of Lara came to life. Slivers of light parted from the curtain, as if reflected from it, and moved toward her. One passed through her left thigh.
(At the Hotel Espinar Falshingham frowned and muttered to himself. Lara's left leg had started to twitch, like the start of a convulsion.)
Another shard of light pierced Lara, passing through her stomach. She felt no pain, but was aware of a strange uneasiness in her spirit form.
(Lara's stomach began to ripple, as if something was alive beneath her skin, moving like waves of the ocean. Falshingham watched in horrified fascination.)
Lara retreated from the curtain, knowing instinctively that she was under attack, but not knowing how to combat it. If she had been present physically, she might have been able to fight, but in spirit form she had no defences.
Though she retreated swiftly, the shards were swifter. One pierced her chest.
(Lara's breathing stopped. There was one last shuddering gasp then not even a whimper. Falshingham grabbed her shoulders, trying to rouse her, yelling, "Come back Lara! Get back now!")
Lara had retreated from the emergency department, from the hospital itself out onto the dark street. The uneasiness in her spirit form had deepened to a strange dread, as if someone had walked over her grave.
Still the shards kept coming at her. She managed to shift her spirit form away from the next one, but three more were moving from the hospital, each one moving towards her like an arrow.
Then she remembered the white cord, the cord that trailed from her body to her consciousness. Once remembered, once focused upon, the cord was her avenue of escape. She moved along it with the speed of thought, returning with a rush to her hotel room.
She woke to find Falshingham kissing her, a wide-mouthed repulsive kiss.
She pushed him away, her mind reeling in confusion and horror. "What the hell do you think...?"
The question remained incomplete. She coughed a few times--deep, racking coughs. She inhaled a shuddering breath. She became aware of pains throughout her body, pains like gunshot wounds, though there was no blood on the bed. Her stomach churned with nausea and she managed to turn onto her side before she vomited copiously over the carpeted floor beside the bed.
"Lara?" asked Falshingham, his voice heavy with concern. "Are you alright?"
She stared down at the remains of her last meal, perspiration dotting her brow. "Certainly," she gasped, knowing that she would soon vomit again. "I always... vomit... when I'm happy."
Then she vomited again.
Falshingham put a steadying hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it away.
When her stomach had emptied itself she rolled onto her back. She closed her eyes for a moment, then when they opened they were full of rage. "What the hell were you playing at? Taking advantage of me while I was away?"
"I was giving you mouth-to-mouth Lara. You'd stopped breathing."
He could see her anger turn to fear in her eyes. "I was attacked," she said. "They knew I was there."
She rose to her feet and took a few unsteady steps to the bathroom, then paused. Her head was swimming with dizziness. Falshingham intercepted her and guided her back to the bed.
"You'll need to rest," he advised her. "You've been through some kind of sorcerous attack. You were clinically dead for a few moments there."
"We can't afford to rest," she argued, though she did not try to stand again. "We've got to get to the hospital before the demon leaves."
Falshingham moved to the bathroom to get some towels and a moist face-washer. "So Chifley was there?"
"Yes. And he wasn't alone. I think the Dark Guardians have him."

Chapter 9. Loose Ends.

Falshingham laid the towels over the vomitus on the floor then gave her the face-washer. She wiped her mouth with it while he fetched a glass of water from the bathroom sink.
She took a cautious sip from the glass, swilled it around her mouth, then spat into one of the towels.
"How are you feeling?" asked Falshingham.
"That question doesn't get any smarter Falshingham. I feel wretched."
"I'm wondering when to tell you the next bit of bad news," he said quietly.
She glared at him. "There's more? Tell me now, you couldn't make me feel much worse."
He pursed his lips into a moue of distaste. "There's a dead body in the other bedroom."
Her glare intensified, as if he were the killer. "Anyone we know?"
"I think it might be the reporter we met in Lima," he said timidly.
"You think?"
"I didn't want to touch it." Her eyes regarded him with contempt. "I mean, it's a crime scene now. I shouldn't touch anything there."
She rose to her feet, holding onto the bedside table. Once she was confident she could stay upright she moved to the adjoining door and stepped through. Falshingham followed closely behind her.
Martinez' body lay where it had fallen, his head twisted to an impossible angle.
"I was wondering how the demon got free," mused Lara. She squatted beside the body to see its face. "It's Martinez."
"Lara! Don't touch him! You'll incriminate yourself!"
She gave a brief, sharp laugh. "I think having a dead body in our room is incriminating enough, don't you?"
She moved to the window, looking at where the latch had been prised open. She pushed it fully open. "Martinez must have realised who I was," said Lara. "He must have been a peeping tom at the window. When he saw Peter tied up he came in to heroically rescue him."
"Lara! Don't touch anything! Wait there!" Falshingham dashed back into the other room and returned moments later with two pairs of surgical gloves. He handed one to Lara.
"This is our room Falshingham. It's hardly suspicious if we have our fingerprints here." Despite her words she began to pull the gloves onto her hands.
"Yes. Of course. Sorry Lara, this is all a bit much for me, I'm not thinking clearly."
"I realise that. You've missed the most obvious aspect of this situation. We have to get rid of the body." She tugged her second glove tight over her fingers and released it with a dramatic snap.
"Get... rid of it?"
She nodded. She was still pale and shaken, but her face was determined. "We have no choice Falshingham."
"But this is a murder victim! We can't just..."
"We can and we must! Think about it. The reason not to interfere with the body is to help the police gather evidence from it, yes?"
Falshingham nodded. He was started to look as nauseated as her.
"Well, no matter how much evidence the police gather, how likely is it, do you think, that they'll conclude that this man was killed by an ancient demon housed in Peter's body?"
Falshingham said nothing. He could see where her logic led.
"If we leave the body here either Peter, or ourselves, are going to end up in jail over it. And we have another problem. The things that attacked me, I suspect they are coming here. The demon knows where we are, so they will too."
Lara rubbed her forehead. "This whole adventure is going downhill at an alarming rate."
"I'll have to carry him," muttered Falshingham. "You're still too weak."
Lara managed to produce a wan smile for him. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't see how we can smuggle it through the hotel. And thanks for the resuscitation too, while I think of it."
Falshingham was relieved to see her smile, weak though it was. "My pleasure."
"Yes, too much pleasure I'd say. Don't get the idea you can try it again."
"Lara!" He was shocked by her suggestion, until he realised that she was teasing him.
Lara was quiet for a few moments then said, "I think there's only one solution to this. We can't expect to carry him through the corridors and foyer of the hotel, even at this hour, and not be noticed."
"The night porter has... an unhealthy interest in you. You could distract him while I get the body out of the hotel. We could wrap him in a blanket."
"And it would look like a body wrapped in a blanket. And there's the desk clerk also to consider, not to mention whoever might be on the main street, if we get that far. It's not going to work that way. And we don't have the time to spare. We have to get to the hospital."
"What is the alternative?"
She moved back to the window and looked down. "If his body is found in the alley there, they'll assume he died from the fall."
"It won't pass close inspection Lara. Any injury to the body when it falls will be determined as post-mortem. Any pathologist worth his salt will know that the man was dead before he dropped."
Lara toyed with the idea of carrying the body down the fire escape. There was too great a risk of being seen and, frankly, she didn't feel strong enough at present.
"It's the best we can do," she decided. "But we should try to throw the body to one side, so it's not obvious it came from our row of balconies."
"You mean to throw it over? One, two, three heave ho? Lara, this is a human being's body we're talking about..."
"A human being who came spying at my window."
Falshingham, already uncomfortable with what they were planning, was horrified by Lara's callousness.
"I know he didn't deserve what happened to him," said Lara wearily. "I would prefer to let him rest in peace. But we don't have that option."
Falshingham was frowning but after a few seconds he gave a stiff nod.
"We want to be on the balcony, in view, as briefly as possible," said Lara. "We also need to be as quiet as we can. It will be a one-two-three heave, but we'll count in silence. We'll aim to the right and try to land him at the bottom of the fire escape. Any questions?"
Falshingham shook his head, his face grim.
Lara stepped out onto the balcony to check that no-one would be a witness to what they did. The alley below her was deserted and as far as she could see nobody stood at his or her hotel windows. The buildings across the alleyway were in darkness, as would be expected at 4 a.m.
She returned to the bedroom. The body was heavier than either of them had anticipated. Falshingham took Martinez under the shoulders and Lara grabbed his legs and they carried him, with muffled grunts, out onto the balcony. Falshingham was at pains not to look at the dead man's face.
Their effort to throw him off the balcony was futile. Lara was still feeling ragged from her encounter at the hospital and Falshingham was not a strong man. They managed to tip him over the right side of the balcony then they moved quickly back into the room without even checking to see how the corpse landed, although they heard a nauseating thump below them.
Lara closed the window and turned the latch. She looked at Falshingham's face and was not surprised to see guilt carved into his features. She felt the same herself.
"I don't like it either," she muttered, her voice lacking its usual authority. "But if Martinez is to get any justice for his murder it will be provided by us, not the police."
Falshingham nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then tried again. "What do we say if the police do ask us about the body? If Martinez spoke to his editor about coming to see you, then they will track you down, false name or not."
Lara had considered this. "As far as we know, Martinez is still in Lima. We tell the truth about seeing him there, but haven't seen him since."
"And why did we see him? To track down an ancient demon?"
She frowned. "That's difficult. Let's think about it on the way to the hospital."
"What about room service for the... mess next door?" asked Falshingham. "The whole place will stink by the time we get back."
"We should check out of here anyway."
"That will only make us look more suspicious."
"So will calling room service in the middle of the night. Let's sort it out when we get back, we have no time to waste now."
Lara returned to the other bedroom and grabbed some clothes from the wardrobe. Falshingham followed her and was barely quick enough to avert his eyes when she discarded her nightdress. He moved to the window and looked down at the alley. There was no movement, no sign that anyone was aware of the reporter's body.
A few minutes later Lara announced that she was ready. He turned to see her wearing a short skirt and a tight leather jacket. The jacket hugged her waist and emphasised her cleavage.
"You seem dressed for clubbing rather than for action," he observed tartly.
"The action is disguised," she replied. She opened her jacket to reveal an armpit holster carrying a small pistol. "It creates a small bulge but the viewer's eyes are drawn elsewhere," she explained. She zipped up the jacket again.
They left their suite and moved to the elevator. Falshingham's face was creased with worry, not only about what they had done, but also about how ashen Lara's face was. She was exhausting herself, going out so soon after being clinically dead. He knew, however, that she would not welcome any advice to rest.
"What attacked you at the hospital Lara?" he asked, as the elevator doors closed.
"Spirit creatures, like shards of light. They went right through me."
"Air elementals," said Falshingham and began to look even more anxious than moments before. "Very powerful sorcery. They can be used to act as sentinels, to keep people and even their awarenesses away, or used to attack enemies. Their attacks are electrical in nature, making muscles spasm and, in your case, the heart stop."
"How can they be combated?"
"That's why they're so powerful. I don't know of any effective defence."
"Great. If I encounter them again, they kill me again?"
"I believe you will be less vulnerable in your physical form. Your astral self is a creature of energy itself, making their attacks more effective."
The elevator opened and they moved through the foyer. The desk clerk and the porter looked up as they emerged. They moved to the street without pausing. She was reluctant to admit how weak she still felt. They moved to the cab rank near the hotel entrance.
There was only one cab present at this time of night. They gave their destination and were there within minutes. Lara tipped the driver generously.
They paused outside the hospital, looking up at the austere building. Not long ago Lara had viewed this scene with spectral eyes, while her life had been in limbo. She was nervous about this return.
"Any suggestions if we do encounter those spirits again?" she asked.
"Distract the conjurer," was Falshingham's advice. "They require a lot of sorcerous power and intense concentration. If you can disturb that concentration the summoning should falter."
"That's a better answer."
"I've had a few minutes to consider it," replied Falshingham. "What about the question I asked you?"
"About why we visited Martinez, if we're asked? How about this? We say that we're interested in the Perez murder because we've heard a rumour that it was a ritual killing and the Dark Guardians were involved."
"Aren't you complicating things a bit?"
"If Martinez spoke to his editor he probably told him why we'd visited him. By linking the death to the Dark Guardians we may be able to find out more about them."
Falshingham was not convinced. "I suspect I already know more about them than the local police do."
"Then tell me now. Quickly. They are probably in there now."
Falshingham glanced nervously at the hospital then replied. "Every one of the members of the society is a sorcerer, or sorceress, of some power. They will not be asked to join unless that is already the case, and none refuse. Because by joining they make invaluable connections and have the chance to enhance their abilities."
"How many of them could summon air elementals?"
"A precious few," said Falshingham, almost wistfully. "And if the summoner was actually talking with Chifley while doing so, then I believe I know who we're dealing with here."
"No time for amateur dramatics here Falshingham. Tell me!"
"Marco del Amarzoc, the leader of the Guardians. The most powerful living sorcerer on the planet."
"Tell me about him. And give me some good news, please."
"The bad news first, I think. I am no match for him Lara. I'm an enthusiast, but more of a dabbler than a practitioner. If we were to proceed to a sorcerous combat, I'd advise you to retreat smartly."
"And the good news?"
"There's more bad yet to tell. He is not only powerful he is utterly ruthless. I have had nothing to do with him, no first hand contact, and I had hoped to keep it that way. He is somewhat of a Mafioso in the world of sorcery. Anyone who is not for him is considered to be against him, and anyone he regards as a threat is eliminated. Do not underestimate him as an enemy."
Lara patted her pistol in its armpit holster. "Don't tell me he's immune to bullets."
"You may get no opportunity to use it. He will not travel without bodyguards of some kind."
"Of some kind? As in my new elemental friends?"
"Exactly."
"Do you have any good news at all?"
"A little. I cast a warding spell on you while we were in the cab. It should protect you against minor enchantments."
"But our enemy uses major enchantments? Am I understanding this correctly?"
"Yes, but against one of his lesser sorcerers it may still prove useful."
"Thank you Falshingham. What about yourself?"
"I carry a coin in my pocket which serves the same purpose," he replied.
"Good. A girl is grateful when a man brings his own protection."
She laughed briefly, more amused by his dumbfounded expression than by her own jest. "Let's get cracking," she said with false confidence, then moved to the hospital entrance.
They paused once inside, scanning the waiting area for any signs of their enemies. It looked unchanged from Lara's recent visit. The same people appeared to be still waiting.
"Let me talk for us," offered Falshingham, moving toward the triage desk.
"Habla Anglais?" he asked the triage nurse.
"Poco. A little."
He put his hand on his chest. "Hoy medico. Doctor Falshingham. I am looking for a patient of mine, whom I believe is here."
This was too much for the triage nurse to translate and she called to a young man in a waist-length white coat. She spoke quickly to him in Spanish. He looked up at them, saw Lara, then smiled. His feet moved him around the desk to speak with them but his eyes never left Lara's chest.
"What can I do for you doctor," he said, reluctantly turning his eyes to Falshingham.
"I am Eric Falshingham, the Harley Street psychiatrist. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
"Of course, of course," lied the intern enthusiastically. "What brings you to Cuzco?"
"I am here to search for a patient of mine, this young lady's brother in fact," continued Falshingham, gesturing towards Lara.
The intern took this as invitation to stare at Lara's chest again. "I will do everything in my power to assist you, my dear," he said. He was not lying this time.
"The man is an Englishman and we believe he would have arrived here within the past two hours. He fell from a balcony and would have had injuries related to that fall."
"You are fortunate. I treated the man you're looking for. You say he is a patient of yours?"
Falshingham looked around himself at the crowded waiting area. "Could we discuss this in more privacy?" he asked.
"Of course. Follow me."
He escorted Falshingham out of the waiting area into the treatment area. Lara followed uneasily behind them. She saw the central desk, the curtained cubicles, and the whole scene familiar although she had never physically been there before.
She glanced at the cubicle in which Chifley had been. The curtain was partly open and she could see a young woman lying on the trolley inside.
They were ushered into a small office sparsely furnished by a coffee machine, a desk and chairs, a sink and several lockers. "Peter's gone," Lara whispered to Falshingham.
Despite her hushed voice the intern overheard her. "Yes, I'm afraid he discharged himself, before we could even get X-Rays done."
"Do you know where he went?" asked Falshingham. "Did he leave with anyone?"
The intern frowned. "I'd like to know a bit more about your patient before I answer those questions."
"Of course. I am worried about him, as is his sister of course, so I become impatient. As you may have guessed, he is a psychiatric patient. He has confessed to hearing voices, voices that tell him to perform dangerous, sometimes violent acts. He needs to be treated, but he refuses treatment. I had arranged for involuntary admission to a psychiatric hospital in London, but he left the country. And he is a rich man, with some people eager to take advantage of his confused mental state."
"I see," said the intern, though all he was seeing was Lara's cleavage. Lara bit her lip and endured his leering gaze.
"I believe I can help you in a small way," continued the intern. "Your patient left in the company of a local celebrity, Senor Marco del Amarzoc. A rich and powerful man. Why would he be interested in your brother, senorita?"
"I don't know," answered Lara, her weariness beginning to get the better of her. "Perhaps he's interested in madness."
"And how would he know that your brother was here? This puzzles me. He arrived within minutes of your brother's arrival."
"These are questions we will ask Senor del Amarzoc on your behalf, my friend," said Falshingham. "Can you tell me where he lives?"
"Everyone in Cuzco knows where he lives. He has a castle, no less, north of the city, nestled in the Andes above Sacsayhuaman. A cab would take you there, but I doubt you'll be able to see him. He guards his privacy, with armed guards no less."
Falshingham stood. "Thank you for your help."
"De nada," replied the intern, flashing a smile at Lara. She did not attempt to return it.
The left the hospital and stood on the sidewalk of the Avenida de la Cultura. Looking back at the centre of the city they could see the illuminated face of la Campania. Early morning worshippers would arrive in less than two hours. Lara could feel every hour of sleep she was lacking.
"Well then, on to the Amarzoc Palacia," she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
"No Lara. Not now. I need some sleep and I know that you need it even more."
"Dawn is only an hour away Falshingham. I don't want Peter to wake into fear, to find himself a prisoner of Amarzoc's circle."
She saw another cab rank near the hospital entrance and moved toward it but Falshingham stepped in front of her.
"Have you heard nothing I've told you?" He sounded as close to anger as she'd heard him. "This Amarzoc is bloody dangerous Lara! You can't just storm through the front gate and expect to survive. We need to carefully plan the next step in our campaign."
"Campaign...?"
"And don't forget that you were clinically dead only a few hours ago. You're not physically ready for this Lara. We're going back to our hotel."
There was an anguished expression on her face, more than weariness could explain. "How will I rest knowing that Peter is in their hands?"
"They will not harm him Lara. This much I understand. They want the demon that resides in him, so they will take good care of him."
"This much you understand? Falshingham, if they want the demon all they have to do is kill Peter! And I'm sure Gayak has explained that to them. He might already be dead."
Falshingham frowned, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and fear.
"Excuse me, Miss Lara Croft?"
Lara turned to see a pair of the local policia standing behind her on the pavement. 'God, I must be tired, not to hear them approach,' she thought.
"That's correct," she said as she faced them, her mind racing. Could they have found Martinez' body and tracked her down so soon?
"We were hoping to ask you some questions related to a man of your acquaintance, a certain Pedro Martinez."
Her heart skipped a beat but there was not a flicker of doubt on her face. "The reporter?" she asked calmly. She could feel Falshingham stiffening beside her but was glad he chose to say nothing.
"Yes, the reporter. We would like you to accompany us to our headquarters to answer a few questions about him."
They had not mentioned murder and had not mentioned a body being found. Was this some tactic to trip her up?
"Why? Is he in some kind of trouble?"
Lara was quietly proud of herself for this calm query. The policeman speaking gave her a small smile, which told her much. It was the kind of smile you would give to a worthy adversary. They knew she was not as innocent as she pretended to be.
"Si, you could say that," was his measured reply. "If you would come with us, por favor?"
He gestured towards a police car parked about a hundred metres away. She was surprised that she had not seen it when she emerged from the hospital. She considered refusing his request, then decided that would only heighten their suspicions. She moved in the direction of the police car, with Falshingham right beside her.
"No senor, we do not need to speak with you at this time," said the policeman to Falshingham. "You are free to return to your hotel, but we would ask you not to leave Cuzco without first informing us."
Falshingham puffed out his chest in indignation, unaware of how ridiculous he looked. "What's that mean? Am I under house arrest?"
"No senor, not at all," replied the policeman, with some irritation. "It is a polite request, not an order. We are more civilised in Peru than you give us credit for."
Falshingham looked suitably abashed. "I'm sorry. I don't know..."
"Go back to the hotel," said Lara. "At least one of us should get some sleep."
"Quite right," he said, nodding briskly. "Good luck then."
She smiled at him, glad for several reasons that they had chosen not to question him.
Falshingham moved toward the cab rank and she turned back to the police car, suppressing a weary sigh. The bed that she had refused to return to now sounded very attractive.
The policeman opened the back door of the car and Lara moved into the empty back seat. When she sat down she realised with a start that the seat was not empty. Somehow, in the shadowed interior, she had failed to see its occupant. He leaned forward, coming into the light projected by the streetlights. His face was swarthy and bore a curling moustache and a thin line of beard. His eyes were intelligent and bright, positively gleaming as they studied her.
"A pleasure to meet you Miss Croft," he said, his voice rich, his English perfect. "To meet you in the flesh, that is."
She knew that hypnotic voice immediately. She had heard it recently, behind a hospital screen, making deals with a devil.
The policemen had entered the car, one in the driver's seat and one on the other side of her, but they were no longer policemen. Their uniforms were gone; they wore burgundy robes in their place, though there had been no time for such a change of clothing to occur. Their skin had changed also, had paled to a deathly shade, while the whites of their eyes were bloody.
Lara needed a moment to quell her rising fear, to decide on her response to what was happening. It was a moment she could not afford.
Amarzoc moved his hand onto her thigh, a casual gesture, like that of a benevolent uncle, but nevertheless too swift for her to prevent. There was a sudden sharp pain in her leg, beneath his fingers, beneath a ring upon his index finger.
She reached for her pistol, but the creature beside her grabbed her arm. She grabbed at Amarzoc's hand with her other hand, but his grip was fierce. She could feel something being injected into her thigh.
"What the hell are you doing?" she asked, tugging furiously but vainly at his hand.
"Something to calm you down, Miss Croft. My new friend Gayak insisted that you were dangerous, though I fail to see how."
She abandoned her attempt to move his hand from her thigh and swung her hand around to her other assailant, smashing the heel of her hand into his nose. She felt no bones break under her punch; the creature's flesh felt far too spongy and soft to have bones beneath it. She watched in horror when she pulled her hand back to see the creature's face stoved in. It smiled a twisted, grotesque smile, exposing blackened gums.
"Unwise Miss Croft," mocked Amarzoc. "You'll only get your hands dirty."
Her horror mounted when she saw a layer of flesh, like melted lard, on the heel of her hand.
The car was moving away from the kerb and she lunged past the creature between her and the kerbside door. Amarzoc was still holding her thigh, but she managed to get her hand on the door handle before the ghoul grabbed hold of her.
She saw Falshingham getting into a cab. As their car moved toward the cab she cried to him for help, too fearful to care about her pride. Falshingham heard her and turned towards the car. She tried to scramble past the ghoul and managed to put a hand on the window as they overtook him.
And Falshingham waved cheerfully at her, still seeing a police car, blind to its terrified passenger.
The ghoul grabbed her with a strength that contradicted its flaccid skin and pulled her back to the centre of the seat. She reached for her pistol again, but her jacket was too tight to allow easy access to it.
"Ah, you have a gun somewhere behind all that bosom, do you Lara?" asked Amarzoc mischievously, leering at her chest.
Lara began to feel the effects of whatever she'd been injected with. Her head swam with confusion amidst her growing terror. The streetlights seemed to be fading on either side of the road and the dashboard glowed like neon advertising. Amarzoc's smile was impossible wide; his whole face was glistening with white fangs.
"You don't mind if I call you Lara, do you?" His voice seemed to come from somewhere far away, from a reality she'd left behind.
Amarzoc held one of her hands while his ghoul held her other. He began to unzip her jacket.
"We'd best rid ourselves of that pistol Lara. It's the sort of thing that would spoil our celebration."
She knew she had only moments of consciousness left before she was lost. She kicked out at an unsuspecting target. Her leg struck the driver in the back of his neck. This time she did feel the satisfying crunch of breaking bones.
The driver slumped forward on the steering wheel and the car veered off the road, still travelling at driving speed. It crashed into a brick wall and everyone in the back seat was thrown forward. The hands that had held her released her and she was flung forwards, through the gap between the front seats, onto the glowing dashboard. She impacted on her shoulder and there was a wrenching pain, which was easy to ignore; in her dream-like state she barely believed that she'd broken her collarbone. The ghoul that had been seated beside her was less fortunate. It smashed through the windscreen of the car, splattering blood and its loathsome fatty tissue over her.
She reached for her pistol inside her unbuttoned jacket, to find that it had already been removed from its holster. She looked up, now facing back into the car. Amarzoc, buckled down by a safety belt, was smiling that impossible smile, holding her pistol and aiming it at her. If the death of his two underlings and the smashing of his car troubled him he was disguising it well.
"I now believe all that I've been told about you Lara," he said blithely. "What fun our celebration is going to be, if this little escapade is anything to judge by."
Lara wondered if she could get to the door before he shot her. She then began to wonder how much longer she could keep her eyes open.
"You really shouldn't make such a fuss Lara, I am here to do you a great service after all."
Her eyelids were irresistibly heavy and she allowed them to close. She heard only one more thing before the drug defeated her.
"I'm going to reunite you with your boyfriend."

Chapter 10. The Dark Guardians.

Lara woke slowly, struggling to the surface of the deep stupor she drifted in.
She wrestled with images that were only half-remembered, wondering if they had been real or drug-induced. Blood red eyes, fatty decaying flesh on her hands, blackened gums, all of these she saw over and over. Worst of all was the image of a satanic smile, with sharpened teeth, a smile on the face of a deadly enemy.
Then she began to feel the pain in her left shoulder and knew that much to be real, too real.
"Lara?"
The next reality made itself known. Wherever she was, she was not alone.
She opened her eyes, an act that had never been such an effort before. She was in a small room, its walls of Inca stonework. A sturdy wooden door was the only exit and was currently closed. And her cellmate was Peter Chifley.
She started involuntarily, hurting her shoulder with the sudden move away from him. She stifled a groan of pain.
And Chifley watched her reaction with a hurt expression that identified him in an instant.
"Ugh. Sorry Peter, but the last time I saw you..."
The sadness on his face made her hesitate. He wasn't going to enjoy what she had to tell him.
"Go on Lara. What did I do--it do--last night?"
She did not shirk the question. "The demon killed a man last night, the man whom we assume set him free."
"Who was he?" Chifley's face had the haunted look she was becoming familiar with.
"He was a reporter from Lima. I suspect he'd followed me here to Cuzco."
"Was he... Was he trying to help me, when he let the demon loose?"
"I suspect that's the case."
She turned away from Chifley's anguished face.
The cell they occupied was made of Inca stonework. There were no windows. The cell was lit by several candles in wall alcoves, though the light seemed too bright to be coming only from them. There were no torches that could be used as weapons, no electric bulbs that could be shattered to produce sharp glass fragments. She studied the incredible stonework of the cell, something that she would usually be fascinated by, but now she had other concerns. Major concerns.
"We're being held by a group that call themselves the Dark Guardians. What do they have planned for us?" she asked Chifley.
"I don't know Lara. I doubt it will be anything pleasant."
She could hear the fear in his voice, though he was trying to disguise it. She did not feel particularly courageous herself. Her shoulder hurt fiercely and she knew she was in no condition for any combat, if she were fortunate enough to get the opportunity. She noticed that her shoes had been removed, along with the belt on her skirt.
"There's a chute in the corner if you need the loo," said Chifley, turning his back.
She made use of the primitive amenities, then washed her hands in a plastic basin that sat by the chute. Again, the basin would not be useful as a weapon.
She remembered being splattered with blood, and worse, from one of Amarzoc's ghouls when it went through the windscreen of the car. Someone had taken the time to clean her up since then. Whether they had undressed her and cleaned her clothes or cleaned her while she wore them, she found the prospect disturbing. She wondered if Amarzoc had performed the task himself.
She tried to ignore the thought; it only made her feel more vulnerable, more helpless.
"Do you remember anything from last night?" she asked Chifley.
"Not after falling asleep on the hotel bed. Where are we now?"
"I wish I knew. We must be somewhere in or around Cuzco, with this stonework to judge by. I suspect we're in Amarzoc's castle, that it was built on top of Inca ruins, though it must be a well kept secret if so."
"And what about your friend, Falshingham?"
She hated to dash his hopes but she it was no time to deceive him. "I wouldn't expect him to come charging to the rescue. As far as he knows I'm being questioned by the police, and I doubt he knows where we are. We don't know for sure where we are. And even if he did, there wouldn't be anything he could do."
"So what should we do?"
"We wait. We are alive, so they must want us alive. They must have some use for us in mind. So we wait and hope for an opportunity, a chance to take advantage of whatever they have planned."
She wished she was as confident as she sounded. Their situation could not have been much worse.
"God Lara. I'm sorry to have landed you in this."
She shook her head. "You've got it backward Peter. You're in this situation because of me. You saved me on Madunai, and you're still paying for it."
His face was drawn and he looked far older than his age. "I've heard of these Dark Guardians, though the locals only speak of them in whispers. I wish I knew what they intend to do with us. I wish... I'm sorry Lara. I'm bloody scared."
She shared his fear. She moved forward and put her good arm around him. He responded in kind, careful not to hurt her shoulder.
"You know what's really awful?" asked Chifley. "I mean--even more awful? I was dreaming about you last night. I was dreaming about that night on Madunai, about when we were... together."
"I know," she murmured. That night was often in her own thoughts as well.
"But while I was thinking that, dreaming of your face, your body... While I was dreaming the bloody demon was killing someone. Someone else to have on my conscience forever."
She winced, sharing the pain she could hear in his voice.
Then she heard footsteps on the stonework outside their cell. She stepped back from Chifley and faced the door. The cell door creaked open.
Two red-robed attendants entered first. Lara moved into a position where she could attack them, but saw more attendants in a corridor outside the cell and knew that any attempt to combat them would only involve further injury. Even now, her shoulder ached terribly with every move she made.
Then Amarzoc entered. His Machiavellian smile chilled her, though she managed to keep a defiant glare on her face.
"How are our guests?" asked Amarzoc. "Recovered from our last meeting Lara?"
"Well enough Amarzoc."
"Really? I was under the impression that your collarbone was broken. I thought that would be quite painful."
He reached out to touch her left shoulder and she winced in pain before slapping him away with her right hand.
"Yes, I'm sure that's painful," he said, his tone full of mock sympathy.
"You'd be wise to keep your hands to yourself Amarzoc," she snapped.
"A threat, Lara? What can you threaten me with? Perhaps you'll push me off a balcony?"
She frowned at the mention of this.
"That was so amateurish, Lara. Gayak had told me you were resourceful and clever."
She remained silent.
"My followers have disposed of the body in a far more efficient way, so no-one will be looking for you. Not the police, not your English friend. You are free to enjoy our hospitality."
"What are you planning Amarzoc?"
He studied her face, his smile devilish. "Are you sure you want to know? What is the English expression? Ignorance is bliss."
"Ignorance is over-rated. Answer my question."
He chuckled at her reply. "Defiant to the end, hmm? I hope so. I hope you can remain so brave."
The nervousness in Lara's stomach was churning, fermenting itself into terror. "Just tell me what you have planned," she insisted.
"It perhaps shouldn't be my task to tell you. No, I believe it would be better you hear it from your boyfriend here."
This statement perplexed Chifley. "Me? I don't know anything about..."
Then an awful grimace stole over his face. His body trembled and his eyes widened in terror. He screamed but it was stifled quickly, as a new expression revealed itself, an expression Lara had come to hate.
"Hello again, my dear," said Gayak.
She took an involuntary step back, then halted herself. "How can you...? Why are you able to rule Peter?"
"My new friend has some interesting enchantments and some fascinating potions. Not only did he heal my wounds; I can now control my host whenever I choose to. The best thing to arise from this is the fact that my host will remain aware during my dominance. He will hear all that I say, see all that I do, taste all that I taste."
Lara swallowed nervously. She had been wrong to believe things could not get any worse. "And what exactly do you hope to be tasting, you sick creature?"
"Need you really ask that, my dear? What you should be asking is when? How much longer until your grand appearance?"
"Enough riddles Gayak. What plan is it that you two have cobbled together?"
"Have you forgotten what is celebrated today?" asked Amarzoc.
"Inti Raymi," murmured Lara, her understanding growing, her fear escalating along with it.
"Yes, the festival of the sun. We celebrate the winter solstice somewhat differently, though our rite does include a traditional Inca element."
"Human sacrifice," muttered Lara, her voice cracking on the last syllable.
Amarzoc smiled, not failing to notice the stumble in her speech. "Yes. Do you now understand your role here?"
She did not trust herself to speak; her mouth was too dry.
"It is really a most wonderful confluence of motives," said Gayak. "Amarzoc wished me to join his circle and I demanded a simple price for my co-operation. You. And as it transpires, while I wish to feast upon you, they need to have blood for their ceremony, something I am happy to provide for them. Your blood, of course, not my host's."
He paused, giving her a few moments to digest his words, then spoke again.
"They may have hoped for virgin blood, but I know you too well to promise them that."
Lara licked her lips; her mind racing, searching for something she could use to help her. "If you're so keen to taste me, Gayak, why didn't you do so while I was unconscious?"
"I am learning the virtue of patience, my dear. And I wanted to give you and my host one last chance to... be together."
She shuddered; she could not stop herself. "I know what you hoped for Gayak. Not bloody likely."
"You're sure? I'll allow your Peter to be in control again. And it would not only be your last chance for intimacy with him, it will be your last chance, period. After a few minutes of my attentions, you'll no longer be attractive to anyone but me. And before morning, you'll appeal only to the worms where your body lies."
She knew that Gayak was trying to intimidate her and she continued to glare at him, but his efforts were succeeding. Images of Conchita Perez' mutilated body intruded in her mind, images that heightened her fear.
"You really are a perverted, disgusting creature," she snarled.
Gayak turned to Amarzoc, smiling Chifley's flashing smile. "You see Amarzoc? She has no respect, not even for a god," he complained.
The demon turned back to her. "If there are any gods that you do believe in I suggest you make your peace with them. Sundown is only an hour away."
Amarzoc nodded then moved toward the door. Gayak and his adherents followed him. Before closing the door Amarzoc said, "Try to enjoy your last hour of peace, Lara, though I doubt that your... anticipation will allow you to."
The door closed behind him, leaving her alone with her fear.

Chapter 11. Inti Raymi.

Lara had once boasted that she was not afraid of death. She could hear her voice now, echoing in her restless, fearful mind, saying, "If I was afraid of death, do you think I would choose the life I have?"
It wasn't true. It wasn't true then and it wasn't true now. She didn't want to die.
And to die in the way that her enemies had outlined, to die slowly, in agony, as a public spectacle to her enemies and their cronies, that was too much. She would not allow it.
But she couldn't see what she could do to prevent it. She no longer even had Chifley to assist her. And Amarzoc had said that Falshingham was not looking for her. They had neutralised him somehow, maybe only with their ruse that the police were questioning her.
Maybe Falshingham could help her without even being here. If she knew where she was, knew the lay of the land outside her cell, it might give her a chance to plan some action against her enemies.
She lay down on the stone tablet she'd woken on, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. She wasn't sure if she could achieve the necessary relaxation to move into astral form. She tried for many minutes to calm her thoughts, to put aside her terror, and finally managed to settle her breathing down to a slow rhythm. She used the words that Falshingham had used, she imagined him reciting them with her.
And she was able to separate mind from body.
Her success was short-lived. When she tried to drift through the ceiling of the cell she encountered a living barrier. She recognised the shimmering creatures that guarded her cell, allowing not even her consciousness to escape. They did not attack her; they must have been instructed not to harm her, but they imprisoned her spirit as surely as the stonework imprisoned her body.
She returned to that body and woke with her terror renewed. How could she combat such enemies as this? How could she hope to overcome Amarzoc's evil alliance with Gayak? Either one alone would be formidable; together they were more than she could hope to overcome.
The light in the cell was fading, even though the candles still burned. Night was falling and her time was rapidly approaching.
In the darkening cell her mind's eye recalled the images of Conchita Perez. She had stolen the girl's photo, but had received the poor girl's fate. It was going to be a terrible death.
She blinked back tears. She could not remember ever being so frightened.
The thought of them arriving to find her in tears stopped her despair. She would not allow them that satisfaction. She would fight them every step of the way. She would defy them in any way she could. She could see no way to avoid an awful death, but she would not let them break her spirit.
And with that decision made she heard footsteps approaching her cell.
She stood and tested her left arm to see if she could use it but it was too painful. She listened to the approaching footsteps and knew it was a large group of men. Nevertheless she prepared to fight for her life. She crouched into a battle-ready position, her good right arm turned toward the door.
The door opened and the roof vanished.
One moment there was solid stone above her head, then there was night sky. But not darkness. Torches blazed everywhere, along endless rows of stone steps. Ruined buildings stood above her, with a backdrop of jungle-clad mountains.
She was at Machu Picchu.
The disconcerting shift in her circumstances delayed her response to the four men who entered her roofless cell. They wore burgundy robes, like the ghouls in the car she'd encountered, and she could not tell their nature with their hoods drawn forward. She swung a kick at one, but too late. They grabbed her arms and pulled her forward, causing her to groan in pain as the ends of her broken collarbone grated against each other.
She struggled in their grip but quickly realised such struggles were only hurting her more. They tugged her forward and she stumbled as they dragged her from the cell. She fell forward, face down, and her shoulder screamed in pain as their firm grips halted her fall.
"Ah Lara!"
It was Amarzoc's mellifluous voice. One of the men holding her pushed her chin up so that she was forced to look at her captor. He was wearing an intricately woven ceremonial robe, with a glowing amulet draped around his neck. His golden headdress was styled as that of an Inca sapa. His smile was that of the devil himself.
"In a hurry to play your role are you?" he asked, the cruelty dripping from his tongue.
Her shoulder was throbbing from the rough treatment it had received but she was determined to conceal her pain. "My cell?" she asked through grated teeth.
"A clever glamour, yes? There are no intact cells here to hold you in, so I merely made you think there was one."
She understood now why she had been able to tell day from night without a window. She also understood, with a nauseating wrench, that she could have escaped, or at least attempted to, at any time since waking.
"Will you walk to the ceremony Lara, or would you prefer my men to drag you there?"
He asked the question as politely as if he was asking if she wanted tea. His arrogance and malice sickened her.
"I will walk," she demanded, lifting herself to her feet.
Her robed guards still held her arms but she was allowed to move forward at her own pace. She was staggered by the amount of people on the terraces of the Lost City. They all wore burgundy robes and all bore a flaming torch. There were hundreds of them. It would take an army to overcome the numbers Amarzoc had amassed here. Any small hope of rescue she might have harboured was lost as she scanned the sea of burgundy and flame. She struggled with a mounting despair.
"How is that you can have this site for your own use?" she asked Amarzoc, hoping for some knowledge she could use against him.
"It is often closed at night and all the guards are either my own men or under enchantment," replied Amarzoc.
She was led to a tall flight of stone steps. Robed figures stood on either side of the steps, lighting the ascent with their torches. Standing at the top of the stairs was a golden disc, like a gigantic gong, as tall as a house. She recognised it as a representation of the Golden Sun Disc of Mu, lost centuries ago during the conquest of the Incas. In front of the disc was a low pedestal, with a huge silver dish upon it. A tall figure, his robe as brightly coloured as Amarzoc's, stood beside the disc.
She was urged to climb the stairs and she moved up slowly, keeping her head high. She looked around at the congregation, unsure of how many of the hooded figures were human and how many were the result of Amarzoc's sorcery. One thing she knew; they were all her enemies. They had all come to watch her die.
She looked back up the steps, at her destination. She could see now that the disc had thongs attached to its upper edge, thongs to tie someone with. And the figure standing beside the disc was Gayak, smiling with evil glee.
Her steps faltered. She did not want to travel any closer to her gruesome fate.
Her guards tugged at her arms, firmly at first, then forcefully. She knew any resistance was pointless but she resisted anyway. She jabbed her right foot down on the shin of the man beside her. He cried in pain and released her right arm. She swung an open hand blow at the nose of the man to her left, who dropped like a stone. Her arms were free.
But only for a moment. Six other men closed on her from either side of the steps. She had time to swing one more punch then they were upon her, wrestling her down to the stonework of the steps. She struggled and cursed, ignoring the pain from her shoulder, but there were too many of them. They dragged her up the stairs, one man holding each arm, one holding each leg. She kicked and squirmed and raged at them but they did not release her.
They paused at the top of the steps and she was held still, facing Gayak. Her struggles had clearly amused him. "Hello my dear. You can't know how much I have been anticipating this moment."
"Peter!" she called, as if he was miles away. "Fight him Peter!"
"Oh, he is fighting, my dear. Fighting with everything he has. But it's no longer enough. He will be with me in all that I do, he will have the chance to learn about inflicting pain."
He gestured at the disc and Lara's guards pulled her toward it. She struggled again, without any benefit from her efforts. Her right arm was raised and tied to the disc. When her left arm was similarly raised she failed to stifle a harsh cry of pain.
She was obliged to place her feet on the rim of the silver dish, to take the weight off her arms. She then realised the purpose of the dish. Any bleeding wounds on her body would drip down into it. Her sense of horror escalated.
She looked down at the sea of torches, hoping for someone, anyone, who might object to what was about to happen. There were no protests, only a muffled murmur of anticipation.
She closed her eyes tight, trying to steel herself, but she felt like whimpering with fear.
"All ready then, my dear?" asked Gayak, moving to stand in front of her.
She glared at him.
"Just a little talk from Amarzoc and then we'll be under way," said Gayak, as pleasantly as if they were planning an excursion. "Let me know where you'd like me to start."
"You can start by biting your tongue," she snarled.
Gayak smiled. "Still got spirit, my girl! That's the ticket!"
She turned away from him. She could not bear to hear Peter's voice, Peter's accent, being used by the demon.
Amarzoc ascended the stone steps, moving to stand beside Gayak. "Does she look appetising enough Gayak?" he asked.
"Scrumptious," was the demon's reply.
"Good. I won't delay you very long."
Amarzoc turned to face his congregation and there was a sudden, awful hush. All heads turned to look at their leader.
He began to speak in Quechuan, his voice resonating around the stone amphitheatre.
"Today, the sons and daughters of Tawantinsuyu, the Inca Empire, gathered to celebrate Inti Raymi, the Festival of the Sun. Tonight, we gather under the moon to celebrate the night. We are the Dark Guardians, the Lords of the Night."
There was no applause for this pronouncement, instead a low rippling murmur of approval emanated from the throng. It reverberated across the torch-lit terraces, echoing into the Andes, chilling Lara to the bone.
"Tonight we celebrate the introduction of a new presence into our midst, the Ancient Cadachac God, Gayak! With his power added to our own, there is nothing we cannot achieve."
Gayak was bemused by Amaroc's words but he smiled when the congregation's murmur rose in volume. His eyes roamed over the hundreds of torches then returned to Lara. "Nice to have an audience, eh Lara?"
Lara's heart was hammering in her chest and she felt perilously close to retching.
"And tonight, as always, we celebrate with blood. Tonight we will taste the blood of the English aristocracy, the blood of celebrity. Lara Croft, El Huaquero, will be the fuel for our ceremony."
The throbbing murmur escalated further, like the ululations of a vast pack of wolves. The analogy rang true to Lara, who felt utterly alone and abandoned. Each of these robed figures had come to see her suffer, to see her die, to taste her blood.
And, if Amarzoc's words were to be believed, the Dark Guardians had done this before. Other people had died on this ancient stage. Others had screamed and bled and suffered.
In the past, when she had thought of her own death, she had imagined it to be swift. She'd envisaged a fall from a height or a shot from an enemy's gun. She had never imagined this. It was too much. Too much, dear God.
"And Gayak will honour our ceremony by conducting the blood-letting. Let the ceremony begin!"
Gayak stood in front of her, smiling like a madman. "No more delays Lara. Shall we begin?"
He knelt down in front of her, his head level with her groin.
"No!" she yelled. She moved her weight onto her right leg and tried to lift her knee into his face. Her shoulder screamed in pain with the move and she could not execute it swiftly enough. He grabbed her right leg, smiled again, then sank his teeth into her right thigh.
The pain was even worse than she had feared, as his teeth sank deep into her flesh. She tried to bring her left leg up to kick him away, but without her right leg to balance on she could gain no leverage. Her shoulder would not tolerate the full weight of her body and she rapidly replaced her left foot on the rim of the bowl.
Gayak tore into her thigh like a wild beast, then pulled back and stood up. He smiled at her, his teeth and lips stained with blood. Her blood.
"Even more delicious than I anticipated," he said.
She glared at him, trying to maintain her anger, hoping to subdue her terror with it. "You'd better make sure you kill me tonight, you vicious mongrel."
"Is that a threat or an invitation?" He exulted in his dominance over her. "If the latter, I intend to accept."
She glared at him but could not bear to see the wild, predatory gleam in his eyes. In Peter's eyes. She turned away and found no comfort in looking elsewhere. Hooded faces stared up at her and the expectant murmur of their voices called wordlessly for her exsanguination.
She could feel blood trickling down her right thigh to her knee, where it dripped into the silver dish below her feet.
Gayak moved behind her and, though she hated the malicious expression on his face, she found not being able to see him was even worse. She stiffened in anticipation of his next assault.
She felt him lift her skirt and then there was an awful pause. She shuddered involuntarily, then he bit deep into her left buttock.
She cried out in pain and outrage, a cry stifled only by biting her lip. The pain was terrible. She broke into a cold sweat.
The bite seemed to last for hours, but Gayak finally moved away. This new wound also bled freely and she could feel her blood trickling down the back of her left thigh.
"Delectable!" enthused Gayak as he moved back in front of her.
She looked at his face, knowing that somewhere behind that evil gaze was Peter, screaming at what was being done to her, done with his own mouth.
She bowed her head, wanting to hide the despair in her eyes. Looking down she could see two steady drips of blood landing in the bowl. There was already a shallow pool of blood in its base. She began to wonder how many bites it would take to fill the bowl and how many hours she would be made to endure this.
Gayak regained her attention by unzipping her jacket, exposing her chest. He leered at her breasts and she wished, idiotically, that she had not worn such a low-cut brassiere.
"And what shall we taste next?" teased the demon.
She eased her weight onto her left leg, worsening the pain in her buttock, then struck out as swiftly as she could with her right leg. Once again, Gayak was ready for her attack. He grabbed her leg at the ankle.
"Perhaps you're correct to object Lara," said Gayak casually. "We should save those succulent breasts for later."
Then he bit deep into the underside of her foot.
She screamed in pain; she could not muffle it. And with this new agony she sank into blissful unconsciousness.
She did not struggle against the fall from reality; she appreciated the escape from pain. She embraced the dark.
But she was not alone there.
"Lara! Lara! Do you hear me!"
It was Falshingham's voice and a more welcome sound she'd never heard.
"I hear you Falshingham. I'm in a spot of bother here."
"You haven't lost your gift for understatement, dear girl." His voice was relieved to hear her reply. "I may be able to aid you."
"I'm in no position to refuse any help."
"The amulet that Amarzoc wears is the Possession Totem--the one I told you about."
"Another amulet?" Lara was confused and drifting. Part of her mind wanted to abandon awareness altogether.
"Listen closely Lara. I may not have time to repeat this, and you must remember it verbatim."
Lara steeled herself for one last effort, knowing that she would have only this opportunity to survive her ordeal. She listened intently to what Falshingham's astral self had to say.

She woke into pain. She was hanging from her arms and her shoulder was throbbing like a curse. She moved her legs back to the sides of the bowl, easing the weight off her arms but finding that she could barely tolerate any pressure on her torn right sole. Blood trailed down both her legs and the crimson pool in the bowl beneath her was less shallow.
It was not a reality she wanted to return to.
"Welcome back, my dear," said Gayak with another infuriating smile.
"Amarzoc!" she called, her voice ragged. She swallowed hard and wet her lips with her tongue. "Amarzoc, I would make a deal with you!"
She tried to keep her voice steady but she sounded like the desperate soul she was.
Amarzoc replied to her however, moving towards her across the ruined stone temple. "And what would you deal with Lara? I fear you have little to offer that is not ours to take."
She took a few deep breaths, waiting for Amarzoc to come closer. Gayak was willing to wait; curious to see what foolish deal she tried to strike with her captor.
"This disc I am tied to," she said. "It represents the lost Golden Sun Disc of Mu, yes? What if I could tell you where the real disc was to be found?"
Amarzoc smiled a tolerant smile. "A nice try, Lara, but an offer I must refuse, for two reasons."
He came even closer to her, wanting to see the look in her eyes when he shattered her last hope. "First, if you had such knowledge you'd not have waited until now to barter with it. Second, the disc you are tied to is the real Golden Disc of Mu."
This revelation would, not long ago, have staggered her. Now she had other more pressing concerns. Amarzoc was close enough now, she fervently prayed. She began to recite the words Falshingham had taught her.
"Sor Alar Dom Arkh Petain."
Gayak grinned, puzzled by her words but unconcerned by them.
"Tauk Alar Dom Maglin Gayak."
Amarzoc was not smiling. "Silence her! She dooms us!"
"Ered Ou Nhim, Ysis Alar!" She continued, more in hope than expectation that Falshingham's chant would succeed. If Amarzoc knew the nature of the enchantment he would be aware of Chifley taking control of his body, so it was unlikely to help her.
Gayak reached up to her head and slapped his hand over her mouth, his face enraged.
She bit fiercely into his hand, aware of the bitter irony of her act. He pulled his hand away in an automatic response to the pain.
"Ka Estat Dan Qe Rie!"
The chant was complete and she waited to see its result.
Gayak and Amarzoc were both glaring at her, which was an encouraging start. Then Gayak began to shudder, his body shaking with coarse tremors. He groaned with frustration, snarled at her, then collapsed to the stones in front of her.
A fine grey mist gathered around the supine body. Chifley's body again, she hoped. The mist shimmered in front of her for a moment, in a shape she did not recognise and could not name, then flew through the air at the pendant around Amarzoc's neck.
Amarzoc took a few steps back, as if dealt a physical blow. His face was contorted by fear. He looked down at the pendant as if it was alive and threatening him.
It was. It throbbed and pulsed with arcane energy. Two colours swirled within it, grey and red. Amarzoc stared down at it, transfixed, as if he watched his own heart fibrillating.
Lara began to comprehend what she was seeing. Gayak was now imprisoned within the talisman, but it had not been unoccupied.
Red mist seeped out of the pendant with an obscene hissing noise. It hovered in the air, transparent initially but becoming thicker. It coalesced into a vaguely human shape...
Chifley groaned and stirred at Lara's feet. "Peter! Get up!" she urged him, more aware than ever of the cords that bound her wrists.
The red shape was solidifying and growing. Amarzoc had seen enough. He fled down the stone steps to the right.
"Peter!" she cried. "I need some help here!"
Chifley retched and spat blood from his mouth. He struggled to his feet then glanced up at the massive red shape that was forming only a few feet away. He shook his head then staggered over to Lara, reaching up to her bonds.
The shape grew more solid and more threatening with each passing second. Upon massive shoulders she could now discern a fearsome head, from which baleful eyes peered at them. Chifley did not seem to be making any progress with the cords.
"Hurry Peter!"
"I'll need something to cut them Lara," he muttered.
Lara glanced around the area, hoping to spot something to aid him. None of the Dark Guardians were carrying anything sharp. They were all standing still, in awe of what they were witnessing.
Then there was a collective gasp, when the congregation, as one, saw the creature complete its transformation.
Lara turned to see what they did and knew that she and Peter had run out of time.
The creature was brick red and stood about eight feet tall on taloned feet. Its legs were as thick as tree trunks, its body as solid as stone. It had no skin and cords of muscle rippled across its limbs and torso. Some of its muscle groups she recognised--it had pectorals as wide as paving stones--but some of its muscles had no place in human anatomy.
Its horned head was enormous, but in proportion to its gigantic frame. Its mouth had no lips and fangs could be seen within each time it inhaled. It had no nose, only slits for nostrils, and its jaundiced eyes gazed out at the world with unblinking hatred. She doubted that it had eyelids. She knew it had no mercy.
It roared one word, guttural but clearly heard, while glaring at the congregation. "Free!"
Then it turned toward Lara.
Chifley abandoned his attempts to untie her, but did not abandon her. He moved into the path of the creature, raising his arms in a pathetic imitation of a boxer's stance. The demon raised one taloned fist and slashed it down through his chest.
"Peter!" Lara screamed in anguish. "Peter!"
There was no reply, nor would there ever be. With one blow the demon had carved through Chifley's chest and diaphragm, eviscerating him and almost severing him in two. He was dead before his body dropped to the stones.
The demon stepped over his body and approached her helpless form.
"No! Peter!" She was wailing with despair, no longer trying to hold back tears. She had come all this way to save him, only to lose him in a moment's brutality.
The demon stood in front of her, running its yellow eyes over her body. She glared back with tear-filled eyes.
It raised its bloodied arm and she closed her eyes. At least her end would be mercifully swift.
She felt a rough jerk on her left arm, which reminded her of what shark victims often reported feeling when attacked. She opened her eyes, half-expecting to see her arm torn from her. Instead she saw that the cord that had tied her wrist had been severed.
Another swing of the demon's talons sliced through the cord at her right wrist. She dropped to the stones, upending the silver bowl as she fell. She found herself kneeling in a small pool of her own blood.
The demon stepped down to a lower step and squatted, surprisingly lithe for so powerful a creature. It placed a talon under Lara's jaw and carefully, almost gently, lifted her head.
"You freed me," it grunted, its voice as deep as the chest it emanated from. "I freed you. Debt is paid."
Then it turned its attention to the throng of Dark Guardians. There was a fearsome rage on its face.
Lara believed she understood. This demon had been imprisoned in the Possession Totem and had been Amarzoc's source of power. It was not a role the demon had enjoyed and now that Gayak had displaced it in the Totem, it was free to exact vengeance.
The burgundy-robed figures were, somewhat belatedly, starting to follow the example set by their leader. They ran down the stone steps, away from the Sun Temple ruins, away from the demon.
The demon watched their turmoil for a moment, then leaped from the elevated temple area down into their midst, a drop of fifty feet. Its taloned feet gouged the surface of the ancient stones as it landed and the whole city structure throbbed with the impact.
The robed figures milled about in panic, crashing into each other in their efforts to escape the demon. It swung its taloned hands to either side, killing ruthlessly with each blow. A dozen of Amarzoc's followers were dead within moments of the demon's arrival among them. As Lara had suspected, not all of them were human. One shattered like brittle bones when the demon attacked it and another bled something other than blood.
Some of the Guardians mounted a defence, weaving enchantments as their weapons. Elementals surged through the night air, but were waved aside by the demon. Some of the robed figures attacked it, presumably the ones that had been summoned from elsewhere, but the demon swept them aside.
Lara crawled over to Chifley's body and lifted his head into her lap. His face bore an expression of surprise, rather than fear. She was still weeping and found herself sobbing his name. She stroked his cheek, leaving trails of blood on his face.
'I have too much blood on my hands,' she thought. Her mind was whirling with confusion, with rage close to the surface. Chifley did not deserve to die like this. He should be avenged.
She looked down at the carnage below her. The Dark Guardians had now mounted an effective response. The demon was fighting through a wall of flame, its blood-red body blackening.
There was one noticeable absentee from the mayhem. Amarzoc was nowhere to be seen.
She remembered where he had run. He had been heading for the entrance to Machu Picchu from the Inca trail. He would avoid the battle below her completely.
'Not if I can help it', she thought, laying Chifley's head to rest on the stones and rising to her feet.
Even standing was difficult, with the wounds to her foot and legs, but she managed. She moved in the direction of Amarzoc's retreat, trying to run, but really only trotting awkwardly. She was in no condition to be planning to combat a dangerous foe, but she was in no mood to allow him to escape. And she needed to recover the amulet, to make sure Gayak remained imprisoned.
She moved down the stone steps to the right, wincing with each step onto her ravaged right foot. She could still feel blood trailing along both her legs. She left a trail of bloody footprints behind her.
She knew that she would not reach Amarzoc if he had continued to run but she hoped he would have paused to see what the outcome of the conflict was. She was proved correct. She saw him at the top of the steps leading to the Inca trail.
Amarzoc watched the battle below him with a strange indifference. Lara glanced back at the battle, just in time to witness the death of the enchanter who'd burned the demon. It crushed the man's skull between its gigantic hands.
"Quite a show, eh Lara?"
She had hoped that Amarzoc had not seen her, but his words denied any chance at stealth. The tone was conversational but there was a threat in every word.
"The end of your cult, I expect," she replied.
"Amarzoc will be disappointed. He had hoped to be more powerful after tonight, not less so."
"Amarzoc?" It took a few moments to understand. With comprehension came a tide of frustration and fear. "Is it Gayak I'm talking to?"
"I'm quite hard to be rid of, my dear. And I am not pleased by my new circumstances. You have been a constant irritation to me since first we met."
New circumstances? She wished she could consult Falshingham, but she guessed that her enemy could now only occupy someone who wore the amulet. She hoped that was true.
"Let's see if I can irritate you to death," she challenged him, beginning to move up the stone steps.
"I doubt that, young lady. My new host has some quite remarkable abilities."
She saw two shimmering shapes on either side of Gayak and recognised them with dread.
"I can see by your grim expression that you remember these creatures. And how could you forget? As I recall, last time you met, you died."
She paused for a moment, still a dozen steps below her foe. There was no point in trying to run from the elementals, even if she had been fit enough to. She continued her slow ascent.
"Determined to suffer aren't you?" mocked Gayak. "At last we are in agreement, Lara, because I am determined that you suffer also."
The elementals swooped through the air at her, moving like birds of prey.
One flew at the wound on her right thigh, raging through it like an electric current, making it hurt more than when Gayak had bitten her. Her right leg began to shake violently and she fell onto the steps.
The second elemental flew at her mouth where it caused an explosion of pain. It felt like an electrical storm in her mouth, as if every nerve was exposed and being scraped.
She cried out in pain, but the sound was garbled. Her jaw would not move properly.
"They really make wonderful pets," said Gayak with glee. "You should get some."
Lara writhed on the step, her leg and mouth in agony. The elementals remained with her.
"Oh, but you won't have the chance to get any will you? You're going to be dead soon."
She swore at him but her words were unintelligible.
She could not stand but she pushed herself up another step, using her better leg.
"Still hoping to hurt me are you? I must confess, I have always admired your spirit."
She was sweating and grunting with her efforts. The pain the elementals caused her was excruciating, but she tried to ignore it and managed to push herself up another three steps.
"You're not easily discouraged are you? Let's try something else."
The elemental in her mouth moved as swiftly as a snake to her eyes. Her vision misted, then there was a searing pain behind her eyes, piercing like a hot knife.
"Aaargh!"
She gritted her teeth against the pain in her head and pushed herself upward. Her eyes felt like they were on fire and she could no longer see clearly through them. Gayak kept mocking her efforts, so she knew where he was.
"You are most kind to offer me this opportunity to test out the various ways I can use the elementals. I can tell already they're going to have a hundred uses."
She reached the top of the steps. Gayak was only a few paces away.
"Congratulations Lara. You're here. You can't walk, you can't see, you are really only fit to suffer. What exactly to do you hope to achieve?"
"Your death, you bastard!"
She rose to her feet. She ignored the spasms in her right leg and she no longer felt the pain in her foot. She could barely see Gayak, but she could see enough.
If she clenched all the muscles in her thigh she could put weight on her right leg. She staggered toward Gayak, one awkward, lumbering step at a time.
"Oh dear, she's getting closer!" teased Gayak, in a mockery of fear. "We'll have to stop her before she hurts me!"
The elemental in her leg wound moved like a shaft of steel into her chest. The pain was terrible, and was soon accompanied by an awful fluttering of her heart.
Her vision, already dim, faded to nothingness. Her head swam and she knew she was moments away from passing out.
"Oh dear, Lara! You do look unwell. You should get more rest."
His voice was only a few metres away. She took the few staggering steps needed to reach him and threw her arms out to grab him, ignoring the pain in her shoulder.
Gayak was not alarmed; he was laughing. "Can't resist my manly charms, eh?"
Then her right hand closed over the amulet around his neck. She tugged fiercely at it and it came away in her hand.
The elementals separated from her, though they did not vanish. Her vision returned enough to see them shimmering nearby, awaiting commands.
Amarzoc looked dazed and confused. He was, for a moment at least, vulnerable.
She thrust her arms at him with all her strength, still holding the amulet in her clenched fist. Amarzoc stumbled backwards to the edge of the stonework, then tumbled over it, falling hundreds of metres down the face of the Andes.
Lara could not see enough to chart his fall but she could hear him screaming over the sounds of carnage in the Lost City. After a few seconds the scream abruptly stopped and the elementals disappeared, winking out of existence.
She turned back towards the sounds of carnage below her but could only make out vague shapes through her bloodied eyes. The demon was crying out, a horrible roar of rage and agony. There seemed to be smoke rising from its massive frame.
She did not much care who survived the battle and knew she could not influence its outcome in her current wounded condition. She moved away from the sounds of mayhem, searching her hazy surroundings for a place to hide herself, the amulet clutched fiercely in her hand.

Chapter 12. Counting Costs.

"There really aren't many career prospects for a blind archaeologist," complained Lara from her hospital bed.
Her eyes were padded and her wounds were sutured. Her left arm was in a sling. And, as had been the case for the past three days, Falshingham was at her bedside.
"Now don't be melodramatic Lara. The ophthalmologist said he expects the corneal ulcers to heal completely."
"Don't be melodramatic?" she growled. "I've been grabbed, tied up, bitten, bled and blinded! I think I have a perfect right to be melodramatic!"
He was glad she could not see his smile. After the last few days of sedatives and analgesics she was starting to sound like her old self again.
"I was in theatre with the surgeon who repaired your wounds and I can assure you he did an excellent job. The scars will fade over the next few months and will soon be hard to see."
Lara had been in hospital since being found in a small ruin near Machu Picchu, the morning after the Dark Guardians' rite. She had bled further during the night, having had nothing to bind her wounds with. The policia investigating the horrors of the Lost City had followed a trail of bloody footprints, a trail not visible the previous night, and had found Lara barely conscious. It was clear from her wounds that she had been involved in the carnage they were investigating. Every day since then she had been interviewed by them, but she had managed to keep the amulet out of sight, until entrusting it to Falshingham the previous night.
"What about that little task I gave you?" she asked him.
"That has been addressed. Gayak will never trouble anyone again."
"Tell me more Falshingham. On this point I need some reassurance."
"Of course. I used the construction site I saw near our hotel. The pendant is now inside the cement foundations. I'm afraid Gayak is going to have a rather boring millennia or two."
She smiled a sad smile. She is still beautiful, thought Falshingham, despite the bandages and the eye-patches. He knew that she was thinking of Chifley.
"What did you tell the police?"
She frowned. "I had little choice but to tell them the truth, at least, as much as they would be likely to believe. They would have matched my bites to Peter's mouth eventually, so I had to tell them that he'd been the one to hurt me. It's only a matter of time before they link him to Conchita Perez' death. I tried to paint the picture in his favour--I said that he'd been under some form of mind control from the Dark Guardians--but the fact remains that Peter Chifley will be remembered, in the press and around the world, as a psychotic killer."
She put her hands up to her eyes, pressing against her eyepads as if her eyes were hurting her.
"He died free of Gayak," said Falshingham quietly. "He died as himself."
"Don't! Don't try to comfort me! What bloody comfort is there in that?"
"Sorry," muttered Falshingham.
They sat in silence for several minutes.
"I've been replaying that scene in my mind several times," whispered Lara, almost too softly for him to hear. "He need not have died. The demon, the one that had been in the amulet already--Amarzoc's power source--had the simple intention of freeing me. Peter stood in his way and the demon would have viewed him as an enemy, as one of the Dark Guardians probably. If he had stepped aside, as any bloody normal man would have, he'd still be alive."
She was crying now, tears soaking into her eyepads.
"Would you like me to go?" asked Falshingham awkwardly.
She reached out with her right hand and found his arm. He gripped her hand with his own.
"He was a very brave young man," said Falshingham solemnly. "I'm sorry I didn't have time to know him better."
She nodded then sighed. "He'd have liked you."
"I hope so."
"This is infuriating! I can't even wipe my eyes!"
"Wait a moment." He grabbed a tissue from the bedside table then gently lifted one of her eyepads.
"I'll do it," she said brusquely, taking the tissue from his hand. She wiped her eye then cautiously opened it.
"Any better?"
"Definitely clearer," she said, peering out through her reddened eye. "You don't look any better though."
"At my age Lara, it is a struggle to look no worse."
There was a soft smile on her face as she replaced her eyepad.
"I appreciate your being here Falshingham, even if I'm sometimes hard on you."
"I thrive on abuse, my dear."
"That must be true. I don't exactly provide rewards for the men in my life."
He could see the shadows returning to her face. "You are not to blame for his death Lara."
"Define blame. He is dead because of me."
"He invited you to Madunai Island, where this sad adventure started. Gayak had already been released, before you got there. You didn't set this chain of events in motion Lara; you have dealt with the enemy as well as you could. As well as anyone could have, if you don't mind my saying so."
"Thank you Falshingham. Your help has been appreciated. Without it I'd now be another bloody corpse in a serial killer mystery."
She lifted her head on the pillows and stretched her neck. "Speaking of Madunai, I thought I might hold a reunion of the people there. I'd like to tell the real story of what happened here and they're the only ones likely to believe me. I'd like Peter's friends to know how he really died, to remember him as he should be remembered."
He nodded, then remembered she could not see him. "A good idea. And what about your immediate plans?"
"What do you mean? Are you suggesting something?"
"It seems likely that Amarzoc's demon survived the battle with the Guardians. None of the corpses were big enough to belong to the creature you described. And if the Dark Guardians were the victors, why did they not seek you out?"
"They left the Golden Disc behind, something they'd be unlikely to do voluntarily," added Lara. "I had a visit from the excited curator of the Museo de Historia Regional yesterday, making a pleasant change from the police."
She frowned at Falshingham, seeming to see him through her eyepads. "Do you think I'm about to pursue another demon?"
"I was worried that you might want to," he replied.
"The demon was terribly wounded and I doubt that it would have survived long, even if it didn't perish at Machu Picchu. And even if it were alive, I'll leave it to others to pursue. I've had enough of demon hunting, had enough of vengeance. I think I'll go back to the safe, stuffy world of archaeology."
"Hardly safe or stuffy where you're involved. So... you're going to be alright?"
She knew what he was concerned about. "Did you have another shrink lined up for me?"
"I would allow someone else to choose the therapist, but I was worried about how this awful affair had affected you."
"I've come out of this better than expected, especially since I expected to be dead. Last time..." She frowned, not sure if she wanted to tell this. "After Madunai I still felt scared when it was over. After that bloody altar, and Peter being inhabited by Gayak, being unsure of whether the demon was dead, whether Peter was dead... I was a mess.
"I can't say this affair has ended well, with the way Peter died, with having to betray him to the police..."
She paused for a moment to compose herself.
"But at least the affair is over. Amarzoc is dead, Gayak is eliminated, and Peter, God help him, at least I know his fate. If the other demon is still alive, it's not searching for me. And I won't be searching for it."
Falshingham nodded again. "Case closed."
"Another triumph for Falshingham's Investigations."
"Harrumph! I think I shall retire from my career as a criminal investigator, leaving my record unblemished."

The End.

I would appreciate any feedback on the story you have just read (my email link is at the start of the story). It is the best reward a fanfic writer can have, and the best way of honing our craft. Let me know which parts of the story, or which characters, you liked or disliked.
I would like to thank Damir Hrs for his helpful analysis of the story and Peter Thomas for his ongoing support.