Ezekiel’s hand was warm and firm, his grip strong. He met her gaze as he lifted her to her feet. He was not smiling now. She could not read the expression in his eyes.
Alejandro put a hand under her elbow, easing her back, away from the Dimilioc executioner. “You’re tired…”
Natividad let go of Ezekiel’s hand, allowing her brother to draw her back. She knew Alejandro had been pushed far enough already, so she agreed cheerfully, “Tired and stiff! I think every muscle I own is going to be stiff.” But then she looked straight up into Ezekiel’s eyes, not smiling, and asked, because she thought he might answer, “What’s downstairs?”
“Nothing too alarming,” Ezekiel said, still dry. “You can relax.” She could tell he was telling the truth, though there was a slight emphasis on the you that she wasn’t sure she liked. But when he stepped back, waving them all up the porch stairs so they had to go past him and let him come at their backs, she went. Especially because, under the circumstances, she didn’t think they had much choice.
3
Alejandro found “downstairs” more than a little alarming. The term turned out to refer to a big, half-finished basement, with brick walls, tiles on the floor, exposed pipes reaching across the unpainted ceiling, and – this was the part he didn’t like – a huge, heavily barred cage taking up fully two-thirds of the available room. The cage bars were wrapped top to bottom with silver wire. The lock itself didn’t have silver on it, but Alejandro could see it would be out of reach from inside the cage. There were plumbing attachments in the cage, as well as a single cheap plastic chair and a narrow cot. Outside the cage was a small table.
Ezekiel tipped his head toward the cage. “It’s plain, I know, but amenities tend to get destroyed.” He looked thoughtfully at Natividad. “You’ll leave your little knife on that table.”
Alejandro didn’t like that either, and his black dog liked it less. Losing that silver knife, stepping into that silver cage… His black dog pressed at him, wanting to fight now, while fighting was still possible. He closed his eyes, breathing carefully. Natividad’s attention was on him, not Ezekiel. She had the knife in her hand, waiting for his nod. He couldn’t make himself give it, but he took the knife out of her hand himself and, without looking at the verdugo set it carefully on the table outside the cage.
The young verdugo, evidently satisfied, gestured toward the cage door. Alejandro lowered his gaze, put one hand on Miguel’s shoulder and the other on Natividad’s, and guided the twins into the cage, because whatever his black dog thought, there were no other options.
“Good,” said Ezekiel. But he made no move to shove the door closed. He said instead, “Of course, the cage is for black dogs. A nice little Pure girl could have a room upstairs.”
Alejandro stiffened. He set his hands protectively on Natividad’s shoulders, glaring a warning at the young Dimilioc verdugo. The cage door was still open. He wanted to explode out of the cage, fight the verdugo, kill him. He longed to tear that mocking expression off his face, rip through his spine, send his shadow screaming into the fell dark, leave his body bleeding on the concrete floor. Impossible, stupid urges. Papá would have said, “Is that what you want to do, or is that your black dog?” He would have said, “You call up your shadow and you put it down, don’t let it start going the other way.” Alejandro took one slow breath after another and did not move. Natividad would be safe here. Alejandro clung to that conviction, blocking his shadow’s longing for blood and violence with the solid refusal of a lifetime’s practice.
But he would not let anyone take his sister away from his protection, either. They would have to kill him first. He stared at the young verdugo, letting him see that.
Ezekiel Korte met his eyes, smiling.
“No, thank you,” Natividad said, in her meekest tone, the one she used on Alejandro when he was angry. It was all show, that tone, but it helped calm his black dog.
Ezekiel shifted his gaze to her, and his smile changed, the mockery in it giving way to genuine appreciation. “A private room,” he told her.
“Thank you,” Natividad repeated. “But no. I’ll stay with my brothers.” She patted one of Alejandro’s hands, where he gripped her shoulder. But she also smiled at the verdugo and added, “Some extra blankets would be nice, though. And a cord. So we can hang blankets across the middle,” she added, when the young man lifted an eyebrow.
“Of course,” Ezekiel murmured. He shoved the door closed behind them with his foot. It swung against its iron frame with an echoing crash, a disturbingly final sort of sound. When he walked away up the stairs and closed the door on the landing as well, the silence that folded down around them was even more disturbing.