Silver on the Road (The Devil's West Book 1) (44 page)

Reach down and sense the
sense
of the road itself, he meant. Touch the presence that made a road a road instead of a trail or a path or . . . well, an ordinary road, the way she’d always thought of it before. She hesitated, remembering the exhaustion of the day before, then firmed her courage. A rider’s trick, Gabriel called it. He could do it, Devorah could do it, therefore she could do it. This was nothing compared to what she had already done.

She closed her eyes, trusting Uvnee to keep them steady, and let herself slip down, from neck to shoulders, down to hips, knees, into her heels, and then pouring from her soles, toes tipping forward in the stirrups as though to reach for the ground beneath them, aware of the round warmth of Uvnee’s belly under her legs, the warm sun overhead, the delicate, crisp breath of the air on her skin, the distant
thumpthumpthump
pulse of the road neither welcoming nor warning but simply being, endless rolling miles coiling in and out, a pattern on the Territory she could only barely begin to see.

This wasn’t like tracking the storm or searching for their lurker. The air pressed against her skin, and the stone drew her in, and underneath the pleasure those sensations brought, she vaguely remembered she was meant to do something, see something, understand . . . The high plains. She was supposed to be finding the high plains from where they were, see the map . . .

Oh. There.
Suddenly, Izzy understood why Gabriel refused to explain so much: there was no way to describe the sensation. It didn’t happen, it had already happened; the knowledge didn’t arrive, it had always been in her, waiting for her to understand.

Was this how he found water, too? Was it simply a matter of knowing to find?

The
thumpthumpthump
drew her in, a sensation of slipping, falling forward but not falling at all, being
drawn
neither swiftly nor slowly but as though one heartbeat lasted forever. She was in Uvnee’s saddle, her legs pressed against the horse’s bulk, the air on her cheeks and sweat on her scalp under the brim of her hat, the low sound of Gabriel’s voice saying something, and she was leagues away, running straight and flat, the air thin and brittle, hoofbeats and wings, the low sound of a man chanting and women speaking in languages she did not know, the softness of clay and the brittle taste of snow still on the mountains.

She could follow it further, she knew. Instead, she drew back, cautious of wandering too far, losing her way back. She followed Gabriel’s voice, the smell of leather and horse, the feel of the reins sliding through her fingers. She opened her eyes and looked up,
felt
the road continue on under Uvnee’s hooves, felt herself drawn forward without conscious design, the
thumpthump
in her veins. Something was on the road ahead of them, something that should not be there, something that
offended
.

And then she was snagged with knifepoint talons, dragging down her arm, yanking her to the side. A snake’s hiss in the wind, the shift of rocks and the high amused howl of a coyote under the scream of a Reaper hawk, and under it all the soft
shhhplash
of water over rocks, the low chant of words she didn’t understand, the smell of the boss’s cigar, and the
flickerthwack
of cards laid down on the felt.

Who is your boss, Isobel?

She almost understood, almost, and the scream of the Reaper became a man’s voice, high and pained, and the connection broke as Uvnee started under her and Gabriel swore. They both pushed their horses into a forward trot, Gabriel in the lead this time, Steady guided by his legs while both hands were busy loading his carbine with skill Izzy would have admired some other time. She was too busy now, pulling the longer knife from its saddle sheath, feeling the handle warm in her grip and wishing they’d had more than a handful of
lessons in how to fight from saddleback. Strike away, not in. Keep the blade and the battle as far from Uvnee’s head as possible.
If threatened, Uvnee will kick,
he’d said;
do not let her kick at you.

And then they were on the scene, the source of the sense of offense, the
should not be.

Five men dressed in rough brown homespun. One down on the ground, curled in on himself—the one who had screamed?—and three others in ready position around him, wooden staffs held in a two-handed grip, while the fifth man grappled with their attacker.

It should not have been a contest. The attacker was slender and pale, bare of any clothing save a clout around its nethers, hair the red of sunrise, long and loose like a girl’s, near to its waist and braided with white feathers that fluttered as it moved, limbs twisting in ways more like a snake than a man, impossible to contain.

Izzy gasped, pulling Uvnee up too hard. That pale skin
glittered
, like icicles melting. Her knife would do no good here, nor Gabriel’s gun. But Gabriel was out of the saddle, flinging himself on the combatants, and she felt herself slip from her saddle as well, not to join the battle but to circle around, going to her knees next to the wounded man. He did not seem to be bleeding but gasped as though someone had knocked him in an unfortunate place. Izzy sat back on her heels, one hand on his shoulder, uncertain how to proceed.

“Vade foedae rei, quaro monstrante spiritu malum!” the fifth man called, his voice low and frightened, shaking, his hand lifted to show something dangling from his fist. “Quo egressus es ex inferno, et vade ad excutiendam!”

“That’s not going to work,” Farron told him dryly. The magician had caught up with them and now stood there, arms crossed, lips pressed together to stop a wolfish smile. The mule peeked from behind him, brown nose twitching as though it, too, wanted to laugh.

Gabriel finally got his hands around the demon, then slapped the heel of his hand against the creature’s forehead, hissing something in its ear. The demon let out a cry, bitterness and outrage wrapped around
an ululation, before collapsing in a thick cloud of white dust that left both Gabriel and the brown-garbed stranger coughing, covering their eyes and mouth.

“Silver and threats,” Farron said. “Now,
that
works.”

The demon gone, Izzy tried to check the injured man, to see if he’d taken any actual damage. But the moment she reached for him again, he scrambled out of the way, scooting on his backside as though she’d come after him with a heated poker.

“You’re more terrifying to him than the demon,” Farron said, coming to stand next to her. He showed his teeth to the man next to her. “Ella no va a dañar su alma inmaculada,” he said. “Crecer un par ya. Oh wait,” he said, switching back to English. “You gave up your pair already, didn’t you?”

“You’re no one to talk,” Gabriel said, tying the horses’ reins up and turning to look over the five men. “¿Quiénes soy y por qué estáis en el camino?”

Spanish, Izzy recognized belatedly. He was asking them who they were and why they were on the road. But why . . . She looked over the men more carefully. They were staring back, eyes flicking from Farron to Gabriel, their eyes slipping over her oddly. They did not wear trousers but rather coarse brown coats belted at the waist, with hoods that could be pulled forward or—in at least one case—cowled around the neck. To the side, clearly cast there when they were attacked, were shoulder packs as long as a man’s back and braced with willow lattice where they hooked over the shoulder. They had no visible weapons save the staffs they still held at the ready, but Izzy could see they were tipped with iron at either end, and kept her hands visible, her body still, in case one of them should suddenly decide she too was a threat. Her gaze slid upward to the leather thongs around their necks, clearly visible against their cloaks. Not the devil’s double-loop nor the marshal’s tree, but— Her eyes widened. “They’re priests?”

The boss was tolerant of folk crossing borders, but not so tolerant that he’d allow
this
.

“Friars,” Gabriel said. “Not Jesuits—Spain’s not overfond of them these days. Too tolerant of the heresies, too well liked by the natives.” He pushed his hat back on his head and studied the men, his eyes narrowed. “Dominicans? Franciscans?”

Izzy had no idea what Gabriel was asking, and a glance at Farron was no help: he’d gone back to folding his arms across his chest and leaning against some invisible support, smirking unbecomingly. “Does it matter?” he asked. “They’re no friends of yours nor mine. We should have let the demon eat them.”

The friar who had been doing the actual fighting took a step forward at that, raising his staff, and Gabriel stepped between them, arms outstretched. “Pax, pax. Farron, close your mouth.” Then he turned to glare at the men in robes. “Not that I’ve any love for your kind, Spaniard or Church. Tell me why we shouldn’t call that demon back and let it finish you.”

The men gathered together in a defensive clump as though convinced that Gabriel could, in fact, summon demon, and their leader glared back at Gabriel, although the way he swallowed told Izzy he was not as confident as he wished to appear.

“You have no authority. You may not keep us from going where we will.” His English was oddly accented but fluent, his hair silvering but still full over a round face. His hands, where they gripped the staff, were weathered, his wrists thickly muscled.

“No, but we can keep you from getting your necks torn out,” Gabriel said. “Do you know how demon feed? They reach into your innards with talons made of stone and carve your stomach, then your heart, and leave your face for an after-meal sweet.”

Izzy blinked in shock at that barefaced lie. Demon did no such thing. Oh, they would kill—they did so regularly enough to be wary—but out of temper or mischief and not in such a way. But Gabriel doubtless had a reason for scaring them; she would not interfere. Not yet, at least.

Why had the demon gone after them? She was quite sure demon didn’t care about politics or borders any more than they did anything manmade.

Izzy’s palm itched, and she curled her fingers around it, thinking. When she had looked behind them, she had seen nothing. Ahead, the road had sung out of something wrong, something unwanted. But which of them was it, demon or Spaniards?

She stood up, gathering the attention of her companions, although the friars still refused to look in her direction. She still had no idea what to do about the storm, no thought as to how she might stop it, but Devorah had said there was unease in the south, and southwest was where the ill wind had blown from. South and west, where Nueva España’s borders ran along the Territory. And now Spaniards—Spanish Churchmen—walked the same road?

She had been raised to see what people wanted, what they needed, even if they would not speak it. And these men wanted something they would not admit to. Something that gave offense.

“He has no authority over you,” she agreed. She thought of the boss, who never raised his voice, and of Miz Margaret, who ruled her household by sheer force of will, and shaped her tone after them. “But I do. Your safety depends on me.”

Their leader looked her up and down then and scoffed, a low-in-his-throat noise. Because she was female or because she was young and—Izzy acknowledged to herself—road-worn, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She knew, and they knew, that she had the better hand.

“You?” one of the friars, a young one, burst out. “Una niña? Ja!”

The mockery burned, but she pretended the boss was standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder, that familiar, comforting scent wrapped around her, and kept her gaze focused on the clear leader of their group. “You are in a place you do not belong, facing dangers you know nothing of and cannot defend yourself against. I may be female and young to your eyes, but I hold the authority to determine your fate.”

Her words carried in the thin air, hanging there for all to hear, and she thought maybe Marie would be proud.

“Why are you here?” she asked more quietly. “That is what we wish to know.”

“I thank you for your assistance,” the friar said, and she could see that he was trying to be polite, even though he couldn’t seem to look at her face, instead directing his words into the ground at her feet. “But we owe you nothing save our thanks.”

She glanced at Gabriel. He was staring at them with a grim look on his face, his unhappiness loud as a shout. Farron was nowhere to be seen: he had either left or made himself invisible, either equally possible.

“That is your creed, no?” the friar asked, near mockingly. “That no man owes a thing not willingly given?”

“It is,” she said. She could force them to stay; she suspected Gabriel and Farron both knew ways to get words from unwilling mouths. But they had given no offense that she could prove, and taken no agreement, that the devil had claim on them.

“Then we will be on our way.” He gestured to his men, who scurried for their packs as though suddenly released from chains. The injured man moved more slowly, skirting around Izzy as though she carried the plague, and hid behind their leader as they turned to go.

“It will only attack you again,” she warned them.