The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(57)

—slipped past them, coming out the other side, shaking as though she’d run the full distance of the Territory, sick and wheezing.

Too much. Too much for her, too much for still-mortal blood and bone; she could contain power, but she was not power, not yet, only the sigil keeping her intact, only the sigil keeping her whole. She touched her skin and felt it crackle and slip off, black scale flakes shedding off her bone.

The world shook underneath her, around her. Rage. Fear. Sorrow. Betrayal.



Gabriel had never minded waiting. As a boy, he’d learned to wait his turn; as an advocate, he’d earned to wait for witnesses to say the important thing, the accused to say the wrong thing, the judge to make a decision. As a rider, he’d learned to let the miles wash over him, settling in each moment without demanding the next.

Waiting on Isobel tested that, the need to do something, to act, gnawing at him. Instead, he reached for the water, bypassing the smaller rivulets, the tiny pools, to touch the river he’d sensed before. Running water, not the panacea that silver was, but anyone born to the Territory knew that there were things that did not, could not cross running water intact.

If he could have diverted a stream, as he had suggested, he would have. It wouldn’t have been enough. The river itself, summer-low, wouldn’t have been enough.

“I knew you were trouble the minute I saw you. But such interesting trouble.” He pulled his water-sense back, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, the just-polished quarter-and half-coins tucked there, smooth and cool to the touch. He suspected that they were now black with tarnish but felt no need to check.

“Stand pat,” he told Flatfoot, the mule’s head upright, watching the shadows, while the horses grazed. “If I need you, I’ll call.”

He walked circuit of the salt circles, making sure that the horses hadn’t disturbed the delicate white lines, and the skin on his arms prickled half a heartbeat before the mule let out an unhappy moan. Two heartbeats later, the ground under them undulated, reminding Gabriel of the times he’d ever been on a boat, the sickening, swaying sensation that had unnerved him so much, he’d sworn never to leave solid ground again.

Quake. Stronger than the one he’d felt before, by a magnitude.

The horses, hobbled, were unable to run away, but he forced himself to move between them, a hand on each neck, calming and soothing. The mule’s eyes were rolling, and its skin shuddered as though a swarm of flies had landed on it, but it stayed put, as though its stillness would calm the ground below.

Within her own warding, Isobel had slumped forward, her upper body bent over, her legs tucked underneath her, and she wasn’t moving. He didn’t know what was happening, had no way to check what was happening, not unless he broke his own warding and hers.

As though warning against that, the ground trembled again, hard enough to rock him sideways. Had there been two tremors before, close together? Fool that he was, he hadn’t asked.

Steady let out an unhappy whinny, and Uvnee snorted and pressed closer against him, nearly pushing him over. “Easy, girl. Easy. It’ll be over soon.”

He hoped it would. Before, the trembling had faded nearly as soon as it began; this had gone on far longer than that. He thought it had, anyway. The swaying sensation made it difficult for him to judge time passing; he couldn’t quite focus on anything, but eventually, the unnerving shivering of the world ceased and the animals calmed. He waited a while longer until he was reasonably certain that the quakes had ceased, then broke his wards and ran to where Isobel was still slumped, unmoving.

The urge to reach through, to pick her up the way he had before, was like a physical pain, but he dropped to his own knees just outside her circle instead. Unlike before, she had created this warding: even if he were able, his breaking it would lead to nothing good.

He waited, aware of an ache in his foot where he thought one of the horses had stepped on him in their distress, the discomfort of sweat drying on his skin, and the warm ache of his ribs where he’d likely torn open a scab, but did not move, as though afraid movement might cause some new trouble, afraid to miss even the slightest change in Isobel’s position.

When she did shift, the faintest exhale and a sideways slump of her body, he risked calling to her. “Iz? Izzy.” He had not called her that in weeks, months. Isobel was the cool, collected girl he’d met in the saloon. Isobel was the Devil’s Hand. But this girl, slumped sideways, her hands and face dirty, he could only see as Izzy.

“Izzy, let me in.”

He felt the wards fade, and risked moving across, knee-walking to her side, careful hands lifting her, brushing hair out of her sweat-streaked face.

“Welcome back,” he said, placing two fingers under her chin and lifting her face enough that he could check her eyes. They were clear, if a little dazed-looking. “You had me worried.”

“So . . . So much . . .” Her voice was faint, and he could see the instant she wandered away from him again.

“Iz, no. Look at me, Iz. Isobel.”

Her eyes were too dark, the pupils blown wide, but she was there, trying to focus.

“Look at me, Isobel. Listen to my voice. Can you do that? Come on, come back.”

He had her cradled in his arms now, draped over his lap, and kept his voice steady and calm, despite the panic trying to shove its way through. Once had been foolish enough. Allowing her to do this a second time . . . But only she could have. When he touched the Road or used his water-sense, he went so far and no further. He could go no further.