Silver on the Road (The Devil's West Book 1) (7 page)

“Yes, boss?” She relaxed her fingers and waited; now he would tell her what her duties would be, what she had to learn, what responsibilities she would have.

“Come with me.”

Gabriel had spent much of the day with the devil’s right-hand woman, a terrifyingly efficient woman named Marie who would have put the dean of the College of William and Mary to shame. If your plans were suddenly rucked off course, he could think of no better soul to straighten it again.

“Ah, about that,” he had said when she handed him the route they were to take. “I do have . . .”

“Obligations, yes. We have taken those into consideration as well.”

Of course they had.

She had deposited him at the bar an hour before, but the glass in front of him was the same pour he’d started with, never mind that it smelled much the same quality he’d been drinking the night before. There were days you wanted to numb your thinking, and others you wanted it keen, and there was no doubting which sort of days he’d be having going forward. Behind him he could hear the hum of conversation, the sound of cards being dealt and drinks served, and his spine itched with the need to turn around, keep an eye on all corners of the room, note who was where and doing what, as though he were caught in a crossroads.

He should have been on the road already. He’d had a schedule, an agenda. . . .

“Mister Kasun.”

He hadn’t heard the man come up alongside him. Of course he hadn’t. Gabriel gave his drink one last, final swirl, then turned to face the man who’d tossed his entire life into chaos.

“Sir.” If the man had a surname, he’d never heard it used. “Boss,” most called him in public. Or “sir.” The girl was with him, dressed more soberly in a plain brown dress, her hair pulled back in a single braid. She had a plain enough face, he’d noted before, but the bones were strong, her mouth full and well drawn, and her eyes dark-lashed and expressive. Right now, they showed nothing but a faint curiosity and a flicker of apprehension.

“Isobel, you’ve met Mister Kasun.”

“Briefly, yes.” She offered him her hand, and he took it. She had a firm grip, with soft calluses at the fingertips and along the heel. No stranger to regular work, then. Good.

“I’ve decided to take him up on his offer to mentor you. You’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

Gabriel would’ve rather run backward onto a saguaro than say a damned thing just then. Those expressive eyes were expressing something more than apprehension, the sort that a single bit of tinder could spark into something ugly for man and beast.

“You . . . what?” Her voice was soft. She didn’t shriek or yell or bring any attention to herself, and yet there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she was somewhere past shocked and well into hopping mad. Suddenly, that rye in his glass seemed like an excellent idea.

“Izzy.” Just that one word was enough to close her down. Gabriel cast his gaze back down into his now-empty glass, damned himself for a coward, and looked back at the pair.

“You will ride circuit for me, be my ears and eyes beyond Flood,” the devil said. “Mister Kasun will teach you what you need to know. You seemed open to his suggestion the night before; has something changed?”

Gabriel would’ve rather run
forward
into a saguaro, with his
face
, than say a damned thing at that moment.

The girl—Isobel—looked as though she were more foolhardy than he, then she closed her mouth, swallowed, and shook her head. “No, boss.”

A brief, too-white smile, deeply unnerving, flashed across his face and was gone. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted, then. Get a good night’s sleep, Isobel. You’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

And then the bastard left him with Isobel, who still looked as though someone had drowned her kitten rather than given her the chance of a lifetime.

Izzy heard the boss’s words, but it was fuzzy, like there were a dozen people yelling at her all at once, until she couldn’t hear anything at all. And then he was gone, and she’d agreed to leave. Agreed to go away.

“Buy you a drink?”

“What?” She looked blankly at the man, as though she’d never seen him before, then the words settled into something comprehensible. “Yes. All right. Tea, please, Iktan?” The boss never forbade them anything stronger, but Marie frowned on the girls drinking while they were working, saying men could make themselves foolish, but a woman never should. She slid onto the chair next to the stranger—not a stranger, Gabriel his name was, Gabriel Kasun—and accepted the glass the bartender slid toward her. The dark, astringent liquid was familiar on her tongue, pushing away the noise, the odd sensations, and leaving her firmly seated and utterly flummoxed.

And, she admitted, tasting it on the edge of her tongue, like a pepper in her tea, angry. Incredibly, unutterably angry.

“So.” Mister Kasun looked uncomfortable, but she couldn’t find it in herself to feel sorry for him. “This was a surprise to you.”

“Yes.” All of it, a surprise. Being tossed out of her home, told to go away . . . when she chose to stay, she’d thought that she would be
staying
. “I mean, I . . .” She took a deep breath, sipped her tea, then
started again. “The boss has his reasons. And I do appreciate your willingness to mentor me.”

Nobody did anything without a reason, and nobody did anything without exchange. And the way the boss had spoken to him . . . No, whatever Bargain had been made, it was between him and the boss; Izzy wasn’t fool enough to ask. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t deadly curious.

“Your boss took care of the details—including, apparently, where we’re to go.” His voice was lacking the humor she’d heard in it before, his gaze somehow harder. “You know how to pack for the road?”

“No. I . . . No.”

“Light, and dense,” he told her. “If it’s purely sentimental and won’t fit in your pocket, leave it here. If it serves no purpose, leave it here. No fripperies, nothing breakable. Boots, not shoes. Durable. No fancy dresses.”

Izzy thought of the remade dress Molly had just given her, pale pink with lace at the trim, and nodded.

“Bring only the extras that’re important. A book. A memento you can’t be without. The things that’ll get you through a long cold night, or a day where all you see is mud and rain.”

“You’re talking from experience?” The question slipped out despite her sulk.

He laughed. She liked this laugh; it wasn’t mean or even really amused. More thoughtful, remembering. “You get out on the trail, a gullywasher comes through and you’re up to your hocks in water. If you can’t find shelter, you’re either sleeping in the mud or you climb a rock or a tree and shiver until it all blows through. And then the next morning, everything you own is sodden and mud-covered, including you and the horse.”

“It sounds delightful.” She was borrowing Molly’s tone again, sass and vinegar.

“It’s a hard thing, taking the road,” he said. “But if you’re meant for it, then yes. It can be.”

Izzy didn’t know if she was meant for it. She hadn’t chosen it; this wasn’t what she’d wanted, not what she’d expected. But it was what the boss wanted her to do. So she’d do it.

The first morning of her new Bargain, Izzy woke all at once, not the panic of the day before, but her body braced as though expecting something to happen. The morning light was clouded, the shadows darker than ghosts, and she lay still a moment longer, breathing in the air, feeling the linens cool under her skin. Distantly, she heard the floor clock downstairs chime, too muffled to count the hour, and she slid out of bed, each movement uncertain, as though she had a fever, or was moving in a dream. There were no sounds outside, as though the entire Territory slept, even the morning birds. It must be before even dawn.

Mister Kasun—Gabriel, he had told her to call him Gabriel—had said they would leave with the sunrise.

She lit the lamp and bathed quickly at the washbasin, then dressed in one of the three new outfits that had been laid out on her bed when she returned to her room the night before: a plain brown skirt falling to her ankles and buttoned halfway up the back to allow her to ride astride, the bodice a looser fit that she was accustomed to, with plain cuffs and no embroidery or ribbons anywhere. The stockings were a thicker knit than she was used to and dyed brown to match her dress. Over all that, a jacket made of a rough waxed cloth that was overlarge in the shoulders, as though it had been sewn for a larger body, or one wearing multiple layers underneath. The boots, too, were new: oxblood leather rising to her calf, with a slight heel, and laced on the outside rather than in front.

Dressed, she felt awkward, uncertain, her body unfamiliar in unfamiliar garb.

The sky outside her window was beginning to brighten. She brushed out her hair and then braided it again, a single plait hanging against
her back. Her face in the mirror didn’t seem quite hers anymore. She made a face, mouth drawn down, eyes wide, like a frog, to see if that helped. It didn’t.

Her bags were waiting by the door, the rest of her clothing already packed, but as she went to place her necessities into the saddlebag that had also appeared on her bed, she noted something on the dresser that hadn’t been there the night before: a plain hammered-silver band and a small leather journal with a pencil tied to it by a leather thong.

Izzy picked the ring up and slid it onto the littlest finger of her left hand. It fit perfectly, the cool silver warming against her skin, and felt right, as though she’d been wearing it since forever.

Silver was for cleansing and protection. Inside Flood, there was no need, but on the road . . . She wasn’t sure if such a thin slip could do anything, but wearing it made her feel better.

She picked up the notebook next, feeling the smoothness of the cover, the careful stitching of the binding, the double-looped swirl-within-a-circle of the devil’s sigil burnt into the front. There was no note, no clue as to who had left it there. Izzy frowned at it and then slid it into her saddlebag before leaving the room, closing the door behind her one final time.

Marie was the only one awake in time to see her go. The Right Hand was leaning against the bar, a mug of coffee in her hands, watching as she came down the stairs. Izzy reached the main floor and let her bags drop to the ground, bending down to check the tie of her pack again, even though she knew that it was secure. The canvas was scratchy against her fingers, the leather smooth, and she was afraid that she packed too much, that he was going to make her empty it out and leave more behind.

Just as she began to think that she should go upstairs and pack again, the Right Hand stepped forward. The swish of silk under her skirts only emphasized Izzy’s awareness of the strange feel of her unmentionables, the fabric rubbing oddly against her skin, and the hard sole and stiff leather of her boots laced too loosely against her calves. Everything felt
wrong, awkward, immodest somehow despite her skin being decently covered.

“Isobel.”

Izzy’s hands stilled and her shoulders stiffened, years of obedience forcing her to look up at the older woman. Did she know that Izzy had wished for her position? But Marie didn’t look angry or even upset. “It’s all right,” she said, one hand touching her shoulder, urging Izzy to stand. “It’s all right to be scared.” And she didn’t allow time or space for Izzy to deny it. “You’re leaving the only home you’ve ever known, and if you weren’t scared, you’d be a fool, and we don’t raise fools here, do we?”