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?&quo