The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(50)

She lifted a hand to her face, and her fingertips came away grimy and wet, her eyes sticky and sore. “I am Isobel née Lacoyo Távora,” she said, barely able to speak, her throat thick and swollen. “I am the Devil’s Hand, the strength of the Territory, and you will not have me.”

Gabriel made a motion as though to reach for her, then checked it. “What happened?” His voice was cracked, as though he’d been yelling.

“It . . .” Pity and despair and grief chewed on her, understanding what she had seen burned into her bones like a brand. “They trapped a spirit, something old and powerful.” Something beautiful. “They pulled it from the air and trapped it, reshaped it the way we carve wood to make a boat that they would ride. . . .” Great, choking sobs wracked her, pulling the dust from within to scatter on the trampled-down grass in front of her. Gabriel reached across his wardings then, breaking them without ceremony, and pulled her into his arms, his body sheltering her as she wept, the infinitas under their knees glowing with a faint green light.



Gabriel felt as though someone had dragged him through a berry bramble?—the price for breaking his ward-line so roughly—but that was the least of his concerns. Once Isobel cried herself out, he’d reached back for his canteen and rinsed her mouth, her spittle laced with a greyish-blue foam that he didn’t want to think about. After her first flood of words, she’d gone silent, shaking and shivering, her skin cold to the touch, then flaring too warm before going cold again.

He had no idea what to do, so he left her there, within what remained of the wards and the fading green glow, and fetched blankets and another canteen of water, and came back to her, draping her in the blankets and letting her rest against his shoulder until the worst seemed to pass and her shivering calmed.

This was Isobel, he told himself. Izzy.

The sun dropped lower in the sky, turning it a pale red along the ragged edge of the horizon. The horses shuffled closer to the circle, the mule going so far as to push his black-and-brown muzzle over the salt line where he had broken it, to sniff at the humans within before drawing back. But there were no other sounds: no howl of a coyote or wolf pack, no chittering of insects, no cry of birds overhead, not even the slough of wind down from the hills to rustle the grass. It was uncanny, as the girl next to him was uncanny, and the urge to saddle up and ride away, alone, shivered through his own body, even as he held her to him.

There were things simply accepted in the Territory. Spirit-talkers and dust-walkers, the danger of crossroads and the power contained within the bones. The power of the Devil to make his end of a bargain come through. Medicine that filled this land, even as those beyond its borders had forgotten it, or burned it to the ground. But an ancient spirit was something else entire. Near every tribe had a story of things that had hunted before man was shaped from dust and water; Gabriel could retell half a dozen himself, and he was certain there were more he hadn’t heard, ranging from the all-powerful to merely dangerous. . . .

Stories. Legend. Myth.

How many magicians had it taken to bind it? And why? And what had happened to them after? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers to those questions, save to the most important one: how did they—how did Isobel—release it without it killing them, too?

“I can’t.”

Isobel’s response was so soft, her face turned against his shoulder, he barely heard it. He hadn’t realized he’d asked the question out loud, then wondered if he, in fact, had.

“What they did, they changed it. It can’t go back, can’t . . .” She hiccupped again and stopped speaking. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, willing his own body heat to calm her again.

“It killed them,” she said finally. “The ones who did this. Not all, I don’t think. But some. Most. They’re . . . they’re trapped too.”

He didn’t want to know more. He suspected they would both be having night terrors for months to come, even now.

“So, what can we do?” He rested his chin on the top of her head, reassured when she shrugged him off, glaring up at him. Her eyes were still red-rimmed and glassy, but the spark that had first drawn his attention had returned.

“Find them,” she said. “The ones that escaped. Find those bastards and?—”

Anything she was going to suggest was cut off when her jaw snapped shut and her eyes went wide. He followed her gaze and felt his own jaw unhinge partially in shock. Not a pace away, just outside the trail of salt, a massive bird folded its wings and cocked its head at them.

A Reaper.

Gabriel had only ever seen them from below, soaring far overhead. The thing was as monstrous on the ground as it seemed in the air, even with its wings folded back, the talons long as fingers and covered with scales, digging restlessly into the ground below, flexing and releasing in a way that was near mesmerizing. Its breast was dun-colored, the wings banded brown and cream, and the massive, bald head boasted a dark, heavily hooked beak, and a ruff of brown feathers folded back over wide-set eyes that held a distressing intelligence.

Gabriel forced his gaze away, then flicked back to it, refusing to be cowed or intimidated.

That hooked beak opened and a shrill cry emerged, making his bowels vibrate in sympathy, and a shiver of fear broke his bravado like kindling.

“Little sister.”

It took Gabriel a heartbeat to realize that the sound had come from the bird, carried under a second harsh cry. Beneath his arm, Isobel shuddered as though ice had touched her skin or someone had told her bad news. But when she responded, her voice sounded as composed as though the bird had just asked her if she wanted another cup of tea.