He thought Natividad was funny, Alejandro could tell. The Dimilioc wolf thought she was cute. Zachariah looked at her the way he might look at a precocious four year-old baby, not the way a man looked at a pretty girl. Alejandro exchanged a glance with Miguel as a tension he hadn’t exactly known he’d felt suddenly eased. Zachariah thought Natividad was too young for him. Or maybe he just didn’t mean to set himself up to oppose his nephew. Either way, Alejandro thought that was fine. He could tell by Miguel’s crooked smile that they agreed Zachariah was definitely much too old for Natividad.
“I don’t suppose they call you Alex?” Zachariah said to Alejandro, with another of those faint smiles.
“No,” said Alejandro shortly.
“‘Jandro, sometimes,” Natividad said cheerfully. She put the wastebasket back where she’d got it and bounced over to sit cross-legged on the bed, coquettish as a kitten. She did not seem, this morning, to be afraid at all of the Dimilioc wolf. She gave him another sly look. “I could call you Zack. I bet everybody really calls you Zack when you’re not trying to be scary. And everybody probably calls Ezekiel Zeke, too, and Harrison, Harry. What is it for Ethan? Eth? Than?” She did not suggest that anybody called Grayson by any nickname, Alejandro noticed.
Zachariah laughed. “No, indeed – though I’d enjoy watching you call my nephew ‘Zeke’. But, in the interests of a convivial breakfast, it might be best if we all agree to refrain from any nicknames whatsoever.” He turned to Alejandro. “After breakfast, I think you’ll find Ethan invites you for a run. Among other things.”
Meaning he, too, expected Ethan and Alejandro to fight. Alejandro didn’t allow himself to smile, but the thought of violence and blood prickled pleasurably down his spine. His shadow flexed, wanting to rise. Later, Alejandro told it silently. Later. Patience was not a black dog quality, but after a momentary struggle his shadow subsided.
“You like the idea, do you?” Zachariah had missed nothing. “Good. But breakfast first.” He turned to lead the way, gesturing them to go in front of him.
The kitchen was big. Actually, it seemed a little overdone to Alejandro. Nothing like their mother’s kitchen, where they had all used to gather. Natividad had helped Mamá make tortillas every day, and at Christmas everyone had helped her make tamales. Mamá’s kitchen had always smelled of chilies and cumin and cinnamon and hot oil and, to a black dog, vividly of blood from cleaned chickens and meat.
This room was not like a real kitchen. It was too big and too shiny and artificial. It smelled more of soap than of food or cooking. The sink and refrigerator and oven were all steel, and the counters were lined with gray granite almost as shiny as the steel. And the kitchen was cluttered with tools he did not recognize; all those things looked big and shiny and artificial as well. Pans hung suspended from the ceiling, but there were no strings of garlic or dried chilies. Mamá’s kitchen had been the heart of their home. It was hard to think of this kitchen as the heart of anything.
To Alejandro’s silent astonishment, Zachariah made breakfast as though he was accustomed to the task. Maybe he cooked all the time. In Monterrey, where people were rich, a house like this one would employ twenty servants. Here there didn’t seem to be any, but after all somebody had to cook. Natividad perched on the edge of a tall stool drawn up to one of the stone-topped counters, uncomfortable until Zachariah gave her two dozen eggs to beat with cream and salt.
Miguel touched Alejandro’s shoulder, tipping his head toward the door, and the two of them wandered out into an immense, ornate dining room. The room held a polished table with space to seat at least twenty people – black dogs, who needed plenty of space – and two matching sideboards, and glass-fronted cabinets in which were displayed crystal glasses and silver platters and fragile-looking dishes painted with intricate designs in blue and red and black.
Harrison and Ethan Lanning were already seated at the table. Ethan gave Alejandro a direct stare, curling his lip. Alejandro deliberately glanced away, as though he merely happened to be interested in the display cabinets.
“Quit your nonsense,” Harrison growled at both of them. He said to Miguel, “A few ordinary humans around the place are exactly what we need. Black-pup posturing makes me tired.” He waved a broad hand. “Sit, sit. Anywhere.”
Anywhere not at the head of the table; Alejandro and Miguel both understood that. Alejandro wanted to put Miguel at the end, with himself between his brother and the next nearest black dog, but Miguel slid around him and instead took the seat directly next to Harrison.