The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(107)

She knew what needed to be done. She thought she would even know how to do it once she was there. But she didn’t want to. “I’m tired, and I’m sore, and I don’t want to be this person anymore.”

The admission was torn out of her, scraping her throat raw, making her cringe at the sound. She’d made a Bargain, she’d inked the pen with her own blood and bound herself to the boss, and once on the Road, she’d bound herself to the Territory somehow, and she didn’t regret it she truly didn’t but she was so tired.

She didn’t realize she was saying all of that out loud until too late. Horrified, she pulled away, opening her left hand?—wincing at the ache in her knuckles—as though afraid that the mark there would have disappeared, that her words would somehow be enough to break the binding.

It was still there: thick black lines looping twice, an open circle curling around it. The devil’s sigil, pressed into flesh, and she traced the cool lines with the forefinger of her other hand and let out a sigh that ended with a painful hiccup.

Black marks, not silver. She took some comfort from that. She could see the boss, rage at him. He was real.

“Here.” Gabriel dug awkwardly into his jacket pocket and pulled out a kerchief. It wasn’t the cleanest linen she’d ever seen, but she used it to wipe her eyes and then blow her nose.

“Keep it,” he said, and she was able to giggle, real humor this time, even as she scrambled out of his lap, trying to reclaim a few shreds of dignity.

“Better?”

“Yes. No.” She sniffed, but her nose was too clogged to smell anything. “Did dinner burn?”

He glanced at the fire. “It’s fine. Go walk it off. Take the mule. Mules are good for this sort of thing.”

“What?” He was making no sense.

He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Go, walk. With the mule. Trust me.”

Isobel wasn’t sure which one of them had gone mad, but she got up, brushing the dirt off her skirt, and went to gather the mule.

Flatfoot had been comfortably grazing, but when she slipped her fingers into its mane, tugging gently, it followed her without complaint.

Past the berry bushes, the ground was mostly rock and sagebrush. The sun was sinking but still high enough for Isobel to see clearly. The bugs zipped and sang around her, a stick-bug leaping nearly across her nose when she startled it. In the distance, she heard foxes yip, and she thought of the rabbits she had seen earlier, wishing them luck and fleet feet, to stay uneaten. A bird perched nearby and sang at them, liquid sounds broken by sudden chirps.

Another day’s travel and none of this would surround them; the land would slowly become empty, sorrow and anger turning it barren.

The mule made a deep groaning noise and pressed its weight against her side. She slung an arm over its neck and leaned back. It smelled terrible; dirt and dung and musk, but even the terribleness of it was familiar. Comforting. One long ear flicked backward at her, and he whuffled, this time more contentedly.

Gabriel had been right, as usual. This helped.

“Who knew you would be useful,” she said into one furred ear, and the mule snorted at her, then tried to eat the feathers in her braid. By the time she pulled them away, the longer one was slightly soggy, the edges badly ruffled.

She smoothed them as gently as she could, trying to reshape them flat, then held her braid up for consideration, letting the afternoon light catch glints and colors in them she’d either never seen or forgotten about.

They had been a gift, an acknowledgment that she was . . . what?

Touched, Lou had said. Touched by the Territory. Something shifted inside her at the thought. Trapped by the Territory, bound to it . . . but she hadn’t wanted to leave.

Her fingers brushed over the feathers, wondering if she had been doing the wrong thing wearing them every day, or if she should have left them in while she slept, or if she was meant to burn them when they became ragged, an offering back to the winds. . . .

“Would it be so much,” she said, as much to the world around her as to the mule accompanying her, “for things to be explained rather than feeling as though the world’s watching me try to figure it out?”

Flatfoot flicked his tail at her, as though warning her to watch what she asked for, and Isobel held her breath. She wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer or not, but when no snakes or hawks or deer dropped in with useless advice, she exhaled in relief.

“When I get back to Flood,” she told the mule, “the boss and I . . .” Her voice trailed off and they wandered on in silence. She might like the idea of demanding more information from the devil, but she wasn’t fool enough to think it would happen. She knew he cared for her, cared for all of them, but he was still Master of the Territory, and she was in his service.

And if he had not known, if this thing happening to her were none of his doing or planning . . .

She had agreed to whatever had been asked of her, even if she hadn’t known it at the time. Be careful what you ask for, because the devil will give it to you.

“Isobel.” She turned at the sound of her name being called, surprised to realize that they’d wandered so far from the camp. The sunlight was beginning to fade, the small flames of the fire rising above the grasses, casting the surrounding dusk a shade darker. The smell of cooked meat caught a tendril of breeze, wafting toward her, and suddenly, she was starving.