Signaling the others, Pedro strode outside and circled the shack. A man. On his stomach in a crawling position, as if he had died trying to escape. Flies swarmed the corpse, leaving no patch of skin sacred. His spine and legs had been punctured several times, and a bull spear protruded from his shoulder blade. Blood had leaked into the white sand, congealing into crimson rivulets.
"Ulrich," Cris said with disgust. "The man is the worst kind of sick."
Dante crossed himself. "Dio ti abbia."
Pedro had heard about Ulrich's games. How he enjoyed staging bullfights with his prey. While he acted as the matador, the victim played the bull part, unarmed. Crouching near the body, Pedro closed the glassy brown eyes. The bodyguard's face would forever be frozen in terror.
Cris looked away, his arms crossed over his chest. "I have this nightmare... Ulrich chases me in an arena, his spear hidden by his red cape, waiting for a chance to strike."
Pedro planted a hand over his brother's shoulder.
Cris shuddered. "Who the hell put him on our paths? If we could find who sold us in Mozambique…"
Pedro's gaze lingered on his brother, and the image came unbidden. The Chikunda's death grip on Cris’s neck, the dagger flashing below his brother's chin. With Ulrich's return, it became nearly impossible to shut them out. They clawed to the surface, the memories. Pedro struggled to push them away. He could not go through Mozambique again. Not now. Not ever.
The bullfighter had employed another winning strategy. But if Ulrich was in Aveiro...
Pedro stilled, a wave of acid swamping his stomach. Anne was unprotected on the yacht.
Heart pounding in his ears and throat, Pedro bolted to his feet, brushing sand from his hands as he strode toward the horses. "Bury him."
"Where are you going?" Cris raised his voice.
"I'm returning to the boat. Anne is vulnerable."
Cris frowned, his always cheerful facade somber. "Se cuida, irmão."
Pedro nodded and vaulted atop the saddle. The dunes and bogs of the Ria lagoon stretched endlessly. If Ulrich had reached her, Pedro wouldn’t get to them in time. Pushing Erebus to a canter, he trusted the steed to step true over the treacherous terrain. Sand rose in powdery waves to stick in his throat. He avoided looking at the Atlantic. The color of her eyes. If he kept staring at the horizon, he would not lose her.
They clattered over a wooden bridge. The flashes returned, but this time, Anne stood in Cris’s place, Ulrich's dagger cutting her skin, tears of pain and horror trailing down her cheeks. The madman quenching the brightness of her spirit.
Pedro shook his head, fisting his hands on the reins. She was safe on the yacht. She was safe on the yacht. She must be safe, damn it. Why couldn't he breathe? If only he could claw his chest open and extricate this madness.
The dunes gave way to a shallow rise, and Pedro leaned over Erebus's neck, urging the horse to a gallop. Atop the crest, the view opened to show both the coast and the road leading to the city. Below, crossing the Ria lagoon pass, a flash of red. Soldiers. Aveiro had become a hornet’s nest, no longer a safe harbor for the yacht. As soon as Cris returned, they would have to set sail.
Pressing his heels on Erebus’s flanks, he guided the horse down the path. The seaside Marina came into view, and Pedro cantered over the wooden boards to his yacht's bridge. He glimpsed the captain's gray head on the main deck. An aura of normalcy clung to theDawn Chaser. Still, this vise crushing his chest would only recede when he saw her with his own eyes.
He reined in, and Dario took Erebus’s reins as Pedro vaulted from the saddle, his breaths coming in short bursts. "Where is Miss Maxwell? I must speak with her this instant." He might lure her into invisibility again to feel the pleasing pain of her hands on his skin.
The deckhand would not meet his eyes. "She left, Your Excellency."
A roar erupted from Pedro's throat. The crew watched, no doubt shocked at his unusual loss of restraint. He was aware the captain had disembarked and was moving closer.
Pedro took great gulps of air but couldn't fill his lungs. "What happened?"
The captain wrang his hands. His ruddy skin was blotched and deep lines marred his forehead. "She wanted to visit the city, Your Excellency, but I told her you had forbidden her to leave the yacht. Miss Maxwell must have left through the stable port. We found it open. They—"
Pedro advanced over the older man. "They?"
The captain gulped. "She took Beatriz with her. I'm sure they are both fine. Why, the city is quite safe, and— "
"Enough." Pedro jabbed his finger at the captain's face. "I ordered you to guard her in my absence."
The sun glared at him, and Pedro shut his eyes, pressing his fists to the sides of his head. What had the little fool expected to gain by ignoring his commands? Putting herself in danger? Bile burned his throat. By Saint George, the devilish angel had torn him in two, taking with her a part of him that was vulnerable, unprotected, leaving behind this battle-hardened hide. She had no right.
He clenched and unclenched his fists. Think. "When?"
"Not forty minutes ago— "
