The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(88)

But it would explain why Possum wouldn’t show him what he’d done, why nobody here seemed interested in news from the rest of the Territory, and maybe why Isobel’s poking at the wards had caused them to strike back—the devil’s mark on her might have been seen as an attack or insult.

Or it could be something else entirely; he didn’t know. Couldn’t know until Isobel woke up.

“Iz?” He patted her cheek gently, brushed a fingertip across her neck, testing the heat of her skin, the throb of her pulse, then lightly touched her closed eyelids to see if there was any reaction at all.

She stirred restlessly under his hand, then sneezed, turning her head away from him.

“Hey, there.” He sat back on his heels in relief, slipping his hat off and placing it on the floor next to him. The trickle of blood from her nose was only a drop now, and he cupped the side of her face, turning her head gently to look at him.

Her eyes were half slitted, as though the dim light from the lamps hurt them, but she seemed to be tracking and aware.

“Welcome back.”

“The wards . . .”

“Yah. Do you know what happened? You fell . . .”

“Bones.” The word seemed to exhaust her. “Their wards . . .”

“Tribal warding. So I heard. Is there a problem?”

Was there a problem that the Devil’s Hand needed to deal with, he meant.

She closed her eyes, then nodded once.

“Blast and tarnish.” Magicians and American interference, shaking ground and unhappy natives, a vicious haint, and now this . . . He was remembering why he rarely rode this far north, beyond civilized behaviors. “Is it on fire?”

A hesitation, then a single shake of her head. They had time to deal with it. He combed his fingers through her hair, loosened from its braid, and said the very last thing he wanted to tell her just then.

“Iz. I think one of the magicians woke up.”

Her eyes opened, that forthright stare filled with such exhaustion, he almost told her not to bother, that they could deal with this without her.

But they couldn’t.



There was nothing, then faint, muted noises, like listening from under a heavy blanket, voices from far away and downstairs. Then Isobel was vaguely aware of the flurry of activity around her, the voices clearer, urgent, and she was being moved, being lifted, a blanket over her shoulders she didn’t need, and a mug in her fingers that she didn’t want.

The liquid in the mug was warm, though, and when she sipped the broth, she found that she was starving.

“Slowly,” Gabriel warned her when she would have drained the mug. “A sip at a time.”

She nodded and took another sip, blinking as her vision cleared. Plank floors, worn smooth underfoot. Four walls around them, also plank; a large room, almost a hall, unfamiliar and yet—

She realized with a sudden shock that the room reminded her of the main room back in Flood, early in the morning before the tables were set up, the floors swept clean: that same sense of a space waiting to be used. The sensation was so strong, she found herself looking for the boss, flaring her nostrils to catch the warm, familiar smell of spice and whiskey and smoke that always accompanied him.

Gabriel’s scent filled her nose instead, and an odd, acrid tang of something metallic. She raised the hand that wasn’t holding the mug and touched under her nostrils. Her fingertips came away stained pink.

“Nosebleed,” Gabriel told her. “It’s stopped now.”

His voice sounded strained, and she worried that he had hurt himself again, wanted to tell him to take off his jacket and shirt so she could check his bandaging. It had only been . . . how long since he was injured? Her thoughts wouldn’t focus; she couldn’t remember. Days . . . weeks?

“My head hurts.” It came out as a whimper, and Isobel cringed in embarrassment.

“The broth will help,” Gabriel said. “It will be all right.”

She couldn’t remember what had happened. Where were they? What had?—

A voice caught at her, and she looked across the hall. Two men sat on a bench, enough space between them to tell her they did not want to be there, took no comfort from the other, making her aware of how close Gabriel sat to her, his arm draped over her shoulder, and how much comfort she took from that.

The shorter of the two men looked up, scowled at her, and a click click click of bootheels coming down stairs was her memory and she knew who they were: the strangers who had provoked the magicians, then called false insult against them. They were here in Andreas and?—

“The magicians!” She tried to stand, but Gabriel’s arm turned into an immovable weight, keeping her still.

“Easy, Iz.”

“You said they were waking.” She could feel her blood rushing, skin prickling, urgency driving her, but was unable to slide free from his hold.

“One. But the lockhouse can hold them for a little while longer. Drink the broth; you’re going to need to stand up and be presentable soon.”

Isobel knew that voice, knew it would be useless to protest. Despite his warnings, she drained what remained of the broth in one gulp, grimacing at the silty, overly salted dregs at the bottom. Broth for blood, Molly used to say when one of them had their cycles. She thought about telling Gabriel that, then decided against it. He was skittish enough when she bled; no need to remind him of it. Men were awkward that way.