Natividad sat on the cot and sighed, then groaned dismally as she looked at her boots. “I don’t think I can bend down that far!”
Without a word, Alejandro knelt and began to unlace the boots for her.
“I think that went well,” Miguel said tentatively. “Didn’t you think that went well?”
“Compared to what?” Alejandro asked, managing to keep most of the growl out of his tone. He pulled Natividad’s first boot off, then the second, set them aside and helped his sister swing her legs up on the cot.
Natividad lay down slowly, groaning, and closed her eyes. “Oh, I’m going to be stiff tomorrow.”
“Your coat,” Alejandro reminded her.
“Cold down here,” she said, not opening her eyes.
Of course. He should have realized. Alejandro took off his jacket and draped it across his sister’s feet. She wiggled her toes in weary gratitude. Alejandro dropped down to the floor beside the cot, leaning back against its edge. He looked at his brother with lifted eyebrows, then shook his head. “How did you talk us into this?”
“You did well,” Miguel told him, ignoring this question. “It did go well. Grayson listened to you. No wonder, with so few black wolves left here. Maybe some we haven’t seen yet, though.” Since Alejandro was sitting on the floor next to the cot, Miguel sat gingerly in the single chair. It didn’t collapse, so he leaned back and sighed.
“Or maybe not. You think six black dogs are enough to face Vonhausel, if he comes?” Natividad asked. “You think so, really?”
“Better than one,” growled Alejandro. But he hated to think how slender a protection Dimilioc might prove, weakened as it clearly was.
“Lots better! Remember what Papá said about the Dimilioc executioner,” added Miguel. “And I bet Grayson is one tough hombre.” He pretended to shudder, then added more seriously, “No, Natividad, I still think this was the best place to come. I really do.”
Alejandro said absolutely nothing.
Natividad, no doubt aware of his temper, said quickly, “Lots of silver on those bars. How long do you think we’ll be left alone? Do you think it’d be long enough for me to–” She stopped as the door at the head of the stairs opened.
Alejandro immediately got to his feet, taking an aggressive stance between his siblings and the door – then caught himself. Stupid, stupid, he knew better – stupid to challenge when you could not fight. He could not bring himself to sit down or even step back, but he forced himself to look at the floor.
Ezekiel came down the stairs with a stack of blankets. He surveyed them all for a moment, then unlocked the door and toed it open. He tossed the blankets to Miguel, said, “Someone will bring food,” to Natividad, and added, “You come with me,” to Alejandro.
Alejandro’s stomach clenched. Natividad had come up to one elbow. Her eyes were wide, but she was trying to smile. “That was fast. We’ll leave you the crumbs, if there are any.”
“Bueno,” Alejandro said, and in English, “Right, you do that.” He stepped out of the cage, not looking at the verdugo’s face. He knew Ezekiel Korte must be aware of his anger and fear and he hated that, but there was nothing he could do about it, either – along with so many other things he could do nothing about. But the verdugo offered no insult, only stepped aside and gestured Alejandro up the stairs before him.
The room to which Ezekiel brought him was much larger, much warmer, and much more richly furnished than the basement. A massive granite fireplace occupied most of one wall, huge logs burning within it. A wide window took up most of another wall. The sunset was already streaking the sky over the mountains with carmine; below the mountains, the forest was shadowed with lavender and indigo.
Before the window, on a thick wool rug, stood a grouping of chairs with heavy carved frames and thick cushions. Grayson Lanning occupied one of the chairs, Zachariah Korte another. Their shadows stretched across the floor, flickering around the edges in the uncertain light, but palpably dark.
Harrison Lanning, his shadow not quite so dense, was leaning on the back of another chair on the other side of his brother. Ethan Lanning stood behind Harrison, his arms crossed, frowning, nakedly hostile. But at least his shadow was no darker than that of any ordinary black dog. Alejandro was not afraid of him. It was nice to have one Dimilioc black dog he did not have to be afraid of.
Ezekiel Korte drifted across the room, trailing, despite his youth, a shadow almost as heavy as Grayson’s. He perched with negligent grace on the broad arm of a chair. Even that was a threat, in a way, because he was so ostentatiously poised to move fast from that position.