“Desolado,” Miguel said. He had, surprisingly, left the computer and now leaned in the doorway of his room, watching Alejandro’s face rather than looking out the window. His comment might well have been meant to apply to Alejandro and not the brittle winter forest.
Natividad, lying now on her back on the pink bed, one leg crooked casually over the other upraised knee, shook her head. “Espléndido,” she said. “But it’s not a friendly splendor, is it? This is a country that doesn’t care if you die. I mean, neither does the desert, but this isn’t the same.” She tilted her head, peering sideways and almost upside down at Alejandro. “Do you feel that also, even though you don’t feel the cold and can run on top of the snow?” Her tone dropped. “You’ll go for a run later, I guess.”
She meant, with Ethan Lanning and maybe one or another of the other Dimilioc lobos; she meant more than a run. And she was right. There would be a run, and a fight. Alejandro shrugged, meaning “Sí”. Knowing that Natividad couldn’t help but worry, he said, “The country out there may not care if anyone dies, but Grayson Lanning would be furious. Nobody wants that. I don’t, either.” Although he wouldn’t mind killing Ethan – well, that was his black dog shadow snarling. But he would not lower his gaze for Ethan Lanning. He would win.
“You’ll beat him,” Miguel said. “I don’t know him, but I know you. You’ll beat him.”
“I wish you didn’t have to fight, even if you do win!” Natividad rolled abruptly to her feet and came to stand beside Alejandro, looking out the window. Leaning forward, she breathed on the cold glass and then drew a circle on the misted surface with the tip of her finger. She fitted a five-pointed star into the circle and then watched it fade. But if she breathed on the glass again, it would reappear. Her pentagram was still there on the glass, even though it was invisible. Like light, in a way.
Alejandro shrugged again.
“Oh, yes, I know. Shut up. You black dogs…” Natividad made a face. “I don’t want to think about black dogs. Or Dimilioc wolves. Whatever.” She sighed, and the window misted from her breath, her pentagram glimmering briefly back into visibility.
Alejandro wanted to ask her which of the wolves she would choose, but how could she know yet? He wanted to ask what she thought about Ezekiel’s threat. But she probably did not know yet what she thought about that, either. Maybe she didn’t find Ezekiel as frightening and offensive as Alejandro did. She probably wouldn’t tell him if she did. She would talk to her twin about her fears, maybe. But then Miguel wouldn’t tell Alejandro what she said, either. Too good with secrets, both of them. Especially for fifteen.
“Well, children,” someone said behind them, and Alejandro only just stopped himself from whirling violently around. Instead, he made himself slowly unclench his hands from the windowsill and turn with something like control.
Natividad did spin about, but that was alright: girls never looked stupid even when they were surprised.
One ought never to flinch from a black dog. You never backed away, because if you ran, a black dog would chase you. Not so much someone Pure, like Natividad, but it would be worse for Alejandro to look surprised or wary. Worse still if Miguel flinched. Alejandro tipped his chin up and looked deliberately into Zachariah Korte’s face for a long moment, to focus the black wolf’s attention on himself before he lowered his gaze.
From the voice, he’d thought it was Ezekiel. The two were alike in more than voice. Like his nephew, Zachariah looked very American, all bony gringo height and pale coloring. His voice, too, was much the same. His eyes were the same cold blue, the color of the winter sky outside. They had even less expression, Alejandro thought, than that sky.
“Pup,” Zachariah said to Alejandro, with a scant nod of acknowledgement. He ignored Miguel entirely, but he offered Natividad a cool smile. “Natividad. That’s an unusual name: Natividad. Do they call you Nattie?”
In reply, Natividad picked up a pink frilly wastebasket from beside the nearest table and pretended to throw up in it. “Anyway,” she added, to Zachariah’s surprised laugh, “it is not unusual. It’s a good Catholic name, and besides it was Grandmamá’s name. Nattie would be silly. It wouldn’t mean anything. It just sounds strange to you because gringo names have no pizzazz.” She gave the Dimilioc wolf a sly, sidelong glance. “I guess they call you Zack?”
Zachariah Korte smiled, barely, as though expressions were meant to be horded, as though if he might use up his share and never be able to smile again. “Very seldom.”