The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(98)

Her hesitation disappeared. Isobel placed both hands palm-down on the ground, stretching so that she lay flat on the ground, her face pressed into the dirt, nails digging past the crust, the smell of it in her nose, the taste of it in her mouth; she was the ground, she was the stone, she was the water trickling deep within. And then, faint, soft, the brush of wind, there and gone.

There was no Isobel. The flesh becomes dust, the bones become stone, the blood becomes wind. The touch of the devil on her palm spreading into every speck, curdling her, thickening and softening, hardening and changing. An instant of dropping dropping too far and rising too fast until a sharp wrenching sensation and there was nothing but a narrow pinprick, nothing but a single intent, sharp-edged silver coin turning and turning as it spun through the air, landing in the shadow of a crossroads filled with rage and despair.

Not enough. She was not enough, not against this.

Open, Hand.

She opened, unthinking. And then, agony, her body seizing, sinews contracting, bones crunching, blood steaming from skin, skin burning, lungs collapsing, and the rush of rain-wet wind wrapped around her, the hot agony of molten silver shoved into her, welcomed into her veins as though it’d been formed there, then the taste of mud and sulphur coating her tongue, and slowly, slowly, Isobel returned, curled on the ground outside the shack, and when she opened her eyes, a man sat next to her, sharp nose and red-rimmed eyes and grizzled grey hair loose and tangled.

“That’s done, then,” he said, patting her shoulder awkwardly, as though to offer comfort. “It’s done with ya, for now, and he’s done with the bath and looking for you. Go. I’ll deal with this here.”

She had no idea who he was or what he meant, but she had no strength left to ask or argue.





PART SIX


WAKE THE BONES


Gabriel dreamed of death.

He stood in the middle of a creek bed, dry and mud-cracked, the sun cold and heavy on his bare shoulders, and knew that he should not turn around, that the night bird waited for him.

Not for you.

“That doesn’t make it better.” His dream-voice was higher, lighter, the voice of a child, not a man. That was how the dreamspace saw him, Old Woman Who Never Dies had said. Foolish but teachable.

Be careful, Two Voices.

He was always careful. Too careful, Old Woman had said that, too, in a tone that said it wasn’t a good thing, not like a hunter was careful but like a coward.

Gabriel had never denied it.

“Do you have a message, or is this a thing I needs must learn on my own?”

He was alone in the middle of a dry creek bed, the water and fish long since fled, the sky blue-white and sunless, and then he was awake, a too-soft bed cradling him, and Isobel’s soft snoring across the cabin the only noise he heard.



Sleep never returned. Gabriel finally gave up, pushing aside the covers and reaching for his boots.

Isobel was curled up with the covers pulled to her nose, her head shoved half under the pillow. He suspected he hadn’t looked much better: after weeks on the road, sleeping on bedrolls and using their packs as pillows, even lumpy, musty beds were a gift. But the sticky remnants of his dream, coupled with the events of the previous day, left him feeling too restless to remain.

When he stepped outside of the cabin, stretching the creaks and aches from his back and shoulders, the morning air was cool enough to make his eyes water. Traveling the plains had made him soft, unused to the bite of mountain air even in early summer.

They’d been given a cabin toward the center, near the common green. The air smelled of pine and sap and meat cooking somewhere, making his stomach grumble. He needed coffee. And breakfast. With luck, Missus Pike would be willing to feed another mouth, since the town had no saloon or dining hall.

Walking back toward the back of town, where the judge and his missus lived, Gabriel realized that unlike any other town he’d ever been in, there was no hammer of anvils or clatter of wheels breaking the morning’s silence, no voices raised in argument or muttering against chores. Of itself, that was nothing to be concerned about: Andreas was, as they’d said, a half-empty town during planting. But as he came closer to the judge’s home, he heard the quiet buzz of voices, the unmistakable tone of panic.

That was enough to warn him, even before he saw the small crowd gathered outside the bench, the judge in the middle, already dressed and looking stern.

Yesterday had been bad enough; Gabriel didn’t want to consider what could have happened overnight. He thought about waking Isobel up, then decided that if nobody had come to roust them, this wasn’t their problem. Let the girl sleep.

But he was here, and it didn’t seem as though he’d get breakfast until this was settled.

“Judge.” He cut through the crowd with an apologetic nod and a tip of his hat, but for the most part, they gave way without complaint. “There a problem?”

It was obvious there was, but Gabriel was simply a guest here now. All the judge need do was say that was handled, or nothing was amiss, and he would be able to turn away with a clear conscience.

“The magicians,” the judge said, turning a sour look his way, and Gabriel’s soul went cold for an instant, before realizing that if they’d broken the wards, the judge would have woken them, violently and with a great deal of noise.

A flickering memory of his dream, be careful, and he braced himself for what might come. “What happened?”