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Connected—especially to kids. The fact that he’d ever seen such an atrocity, that he’d been taken himself for several harrowing hours before we’d run his captors to ground, was something I didn’t think Father Jerome would ever forgive himself for.
    Now, Michel should be recovering, but his nightmares and the pain racking his body stymied the most gifted of normal doctors and frightened those docs who were Connected. No one wanted to draw the attention of the dark practitioners who’d done these terrible things.
    Which meant that all we could do was wait to see if the little boy would come back on his own.
    Either way, it had become clear that Father Jerome couldn’t watch the children every day. There were too many—and he was only one man. Another facility, outside of Paris, was being identified. But facilities took money to run. So did morphine drips.
    “I’ll be home soon,” I said firmly. “With enough seed money to start the home in Bencançon. You’ll see.”
    “It is more important that you come back safely, Sara. Promise me that you will.”
    I smiled into the phone. The old man had become the father I never had, a fact I suspected he knew, since he was so skillful at manipulating guilt. “I will, Father. Give Michel my love. Tell him I will teach him how to samba when I see him next, but he must be well enough to stand.”
    “I will do that.” We talked for a few minutes more, going over the plans for the halfway house, the latest gossip he’d heard about the antiquities black market. I told him in the briefest of terms about the jade amulet that had brought me to Rio. He listened without speaking, and when I was finished, he startled me with his response.
    “This amulet you have found, have you touched it? Worn it?”
    I frowned into the phone. “Well, yes. But it’s not like it was under glass. It was being, um, worn by someone else when I first saw it.”
    “And how long did you wear it?”
    I blew out a long breath. “For about ten minutes the first time, sadly. Then maybe four hours the second? Something like that. Why?”
    Father Jerome’s voice grew animated. “How did you feel when wearing it? Did it become unusually cold or hot, or create any sort of reaction?”
    I thought about the sparking flames shooting from my headdress. “Ummm… Why would you think that?”
    “Oh, a journal article I recall. Given its relation to the Icamiabas, there’s a superstition about the amulet’s reaction to strong women. They’re a female warrior tribe, you know that, right?”
    “Hence the name ‘Amazon,’ yeah.” Fatigue was beginning to scratch at my eyelids, and I fought back a yawn. “Is this reaction anything like hives? Because I don’t have time for hives.”
    He chuckled. “Not exactly. It merely leaves its mark, it’s said. For use in time of need.”
    I glanced down at the frog-shaped welt on my chest, one of easily a dozen injuries I needed to address. “I’ll let you know if something like that turns up.” My yawn cracked my jaw. “Okay, I’m crashing for the night. Tomorrow I’ll get the amulet again and finish my transaction with the client. I’ll be back before either you or Michel know it.”
    “Good night, Sara. And be careful. The Icamiabas are also known for taking the hands and feet of those who cross them.”
    “Ahhh…good to know.”
    I waited while the priest said a benediction in Latin, feeling better for it. I might not agree with all aspects of Father Jerome’s faith, but I had faith in him . It was all I needed.
    Well, almost all, anyway.

Chapter Eight
    After I hung up the phone, I sagged for a moment in my chair. I needed to do some personal recon before I passed out, but passing out sounded like the far better option. Gritting my teeth, I hauled myself up and trudged to the bathroom, then flipped on a light so bright, it made my eyes water. What did they plan to do in here, surgery?
    Wincing with effort, I pulled my shirt over my head, then