Amaia saw more and more lights as she continued down the slope. Some lined the edges of the property, while others in the yard illuminated the front door and the drive where a number of cars were parked. The sight of all this in the driving rain was unreal. After the dark, the cold, the injuries, the fever, and the suffering, she was flooded with euphoria. She reproached herself. She’d been such a fool to get lost. She’d given up only a few minutes earlier and accepted the fact that she would die in the forest. And she’d been only about half a mile from the house all that time!
Amaia stepped onto the rough cement and took a couple of steps along the firm surface. She sobbed, overwhelmed to have survived and reached safety.
The rain stopped instantly, as if someone up there had turned off the faucet that was pouring torrents from the sky. That abrupt change was eerie and ominous. Ipar halted and so did Amaia. Water drained from the rough road surface into the ditches alongside it. Amaia sighed and was shocked at the sound of her own breath. The rain had deafened her throughout their descent.
A shrill whistle split the air and startled her. She whirled about, expecting to see someone. The piercing sound was so close and insistent that she expected the whistler to be on top of her.
“What’s happening, Ipar?” she exclaimed, expecting him to attack.
Ipar wasn’t bothered. He stood at ease, in the relaxed posture she liked so much. Alert, completely erect, his pointed ears and his eyes focused in front of them. Ipar wasn’t afraid of anything.
The girl wiped away the raindrops caught in her lashes. She walked toward the house.
There were many more cars than she’d thought when she first caught sight of it from the slope above. They must have had many guests. Large, shiny SUVs were beaded with rain. Amaia stopped in front of one, trying to recall what had made her feel so apprehensive. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. The world tilted. She leaned against the car to keep from falling.
Another powerful whistle split the air and made her jump. Again, it had come from behind her. She spun about so suddenly that she almost blacked out. She had to grab both Ipar and the handle of the car door to keep from tipping over.
No one was there.
Trembling all over, she secured her grip on her dog and lumbered painfully toward the front of the house.
The stout wooden door was smooth and unadorned. There was no knocker. An overhead light illuminated the entryway. The door was flanked by large earthenware pots holding elegant little trees with reddish leaves. Closely spaced stone slabs provided a path across the neatly cut lawn. Amaia got to the door, found a doorbell, and released Ipar so she could ring it. Suddenly uncertain, she realized she didn’t know how to present herself. What do you say when you appear at someone’s door after you’ve been lost in the woods?
She didn’t have time to think. The door flew open. She took three or four steps back. A shaft of warm yellow light threw a perfect triangle on the ground.
A young man looked out at her. He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. The golden light from the hall reflected in his long chestnut-colored hair. He pushed it out of his eyes with his left hand. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see her. He smiled warmly, sensually, waiting for her to speak.
“I got lost,” she stammered hoarsely, increasingly intimidated. Her fever was rising, and her nausea was intensifying, but she had to explain. “I need to telephone my aunt.”
The smile became even warmer. “What’s your name?”
Many years later, Amaia would learn this was a pick-up line, a question that was much more than a mere inquiry. It was the opening gambit of a subtle power game.
“Amaia Salazar Iturzueta,” she recited. She heard herself sounding like a talking parrot and felt ridiculous. Her cheeks quivered. She sighed, closed her eyes, and tried to calm down.
“Amaia,” he repeated, savoring the sounds.
Amaia was only twelve. She liked boys. She’d been attracted to two or three in her short lifetime, but she’d never experienced the sensuality, the tingling, or the accelerating heartbeat this man provoked in her merely by echoing her name. She involuntarily raised a hand to smooth her hair. It was wet, cold, rough, and tangled. She found herself wondering what her clothing looked like, which was a really odd thought at such a moment, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off that smile. His lips were thick but masculine. He had perfect white teeth; his eyes might have been brown or green or—no—blue! And something in his serene, worldly attitude held her spellbound.
Suddenly she knew what was odd: he hadn’t been surprised. He was acting as if it were perfectly normal for a little girl to appear at his front door late at night, soaking wet, feverish, hurting, and bruised. What he said next convinced her that he’d been expecting her somehow, that he’d been waiting forever for her.
“I didn’t think you’d look like this!” he exclaimed in delight.
Amaia shrugged, disconcerted, as a deep fatigue settled over her. She didn’t understand any of this. Was he supposed to know her? Had he imagined her somehow? Her fever kept her from thinking straight.
Ipar snarled and barked loud and hoarse in full-throated warning. His sudden change confused her even more.
A faraway lightning bolt backlit the mountain crags’ stark profile against the sky.
“Would you like to come inside?” the man asked, still with that inviting smile.
Ipar was furious. Amaia broke eye contact with the man to look at her dog. Ipar crouched in attack position at her side. His soaked fur was plastered down like a sheepskin, and the hair of his ruff stood up where she’d been clutching him. His head tilted and his distrusting eyes were fixed on the man in the doorway. Ipar’s broad, furry tail, so similar to that of a fox, curled under his body, and the hair along his back bristled. A ferocious warning growl surged from deep within him.
“Amaia?” the man summoned her.
How she liked the way he pronounced her name, as if no one had ever known how to say it correctly until now. In his mouth, her name was that of the woman she’d be someday, a knowledgeable, sensual lover . . .
She looked up at the enchanting, voluptuous smile that made him seem so eager to please. Then she saw that other figures were clustered behind him. The golden-yellow light upon the man left the others silhouetted and impossible to make out.
Of course he has people here. All those cars . . . they must be having a party.
She started to step forward, but Ipar moved in front of her, pressed her back, and redoubled his loud, fierce opposition.
What’s going on with you, Ipar?
Another deafening whistle split the air. A lightning bolt struck close by with a sharp crack. The instant crash of thunder shook the ground, jarred her bones, and made her teeth chatter.
Amaia backed off. The rain renewed and engulfed them.
“Amaia!” the man lured her from the doorway. The smile was still there, but something had changed in his voice. Was he beginning to lose patience?
Captivated by his smile, she kept watching him even as the immense new wash of rain blurred his features. She wanted to go to him. She was ill; she was freezing. His voice attracted her, soothed her. The pelting rain was icy cold.
The Lady is coming, she thought.
Ipar blocked her way. He refused to cede an inch.
Another deafening whistle split the air.