A rap on the door made Natividad turn quickly. Ethan shoved the door open and put his head through, scowling. “Bullets,” he said shortly to Miguel.
Miguel jumped to his feet. “Right! Coming.”
“What should I do?” asked Natividad, since even though it was still dark outside, the day was apparently officially starting.
“What do I care?” Ethan said, and withdrew again.
“Bastardo,” Natividad said under her breath.
Miguel grinned. “I can handle Ethan. But the Master’s the key. You need to work your magic on Grayson. Or if you see Keziah, you might put in a good word for me, huh?” He waved, jaunty and irrepressible, and dashed out.
Boys were idiots. Miguel was right about one thing, though, Natividad knew: the Master really was the key to Dimilioc.
Natividad found Grayson Lanning in the room with the fireplace and the great view, seated in one of the chairs closest to the window. There was no fire in the massive fireplace now, only ashes and a few dully smoldering coals. The room was cold for a human, though of course a black dog would not care.
The Dimilioc Master’s hands were steepled in front of him, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. He was staring out into the dark, frowning, mouth set in a grim line, heavy brows pulled down in thought.
There was nothing Natividad could do about the grief and loss Dimilioc had suffered or the danger it now faced. But the Pure could do other things, sometimes. She slipped quietly into the room and crossed to the big window.
Grayson turned his head, awareness coming into his eyes. In a moment he would ask her what she wanted.
Natividad didn’t wait for him to speak. She walked across the room to the window and drew a pentagram on the glass, a big one, flanking it with two smaller ones. Then, tracing the lines of the pentagrams, she called light into them and said softly, “Let there be peace in this room. Let this room be a refuge for the weary heart.”
Grayson lowered his hands to the arms of his chair and shut his eyes. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, and opened his eyes again.
“Por nada,” Natividad said. “It’s not much. I know somebody else already put her wish on this house. I found her stars. A Jewish woman? Because they’re the other kind of star – Stars of David.”
Dark grief had come into the Master’s eyes. He stared at Natividad, a hard direct stare, until she belatedly remembered her manners and turned her face away. Then he asked, his voice deep but not angry, “Can you add to what has already been done?”
“I can reinforce it, but I can’t do better.” Natividad wanted to look Grayson in the face, but was pretty sure she shouldn’t. She stared out the window instead, at the rose-and-pearl light gleaming through the trees. She said gently, “No one could have put any better protection on the Dimilioc house than she did. She was strong and loving, that woman.” She glanced toward the Master and then away again. She knew that the unknown Pure woman who had woven her protection around the Dimilioc house had been someone important to the Dimilioc Master: sister, lover, cousin… Trying to break the moment, Natividad perched casually on the broad arm of one of the other chairs, not too close to Grayson. It was a sturdy chair and gave no quivering warning that her weight might tip it over. She said, “We’ve added to Dimilioc’s trouble, bringing our enemies here. I’m sorry.”
Grayson Lanning lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head. “You have, in one way. In another, you…” He stopped, his attention directed past Natividad, out the window.
A car was approaching. It was a heavy blunt-nosed vehicle, neither truck nor car but like a cross between the two, with tires that looked about twice as big as normal. No wonder Miguel hadn’t been able to get their car all the way along the road, if you needed a car like that one. But it slowed as it came into the cleared area before the house, where its headlights picked out streaks and spatters of frozen blood and ichor from the battle, visible against the white of the trampled snow.
“Pearson,” said the Master. “We’ll go down and meet him.” He didn’t sound exactly angry, but there was a dangerous growl in his voice.
Sheriff Pearson was a slight, slim man, probably in his forties. He was nothing like Natividad had expected from a small-town American sheriff. She suppressed a smile, thinking about sheriffs in American movies – at least, the good-guy sheriffs: tall and rugged, with tanned faces and wide-brimmed cowboy hats. Sheriff Pearson wasn’t like that. He wasn’t much taller than she was and actually kind of… elegant, Natividad decided, was the only accurate word. But there was a tension in him that prevented him from looking delicate. His eyes were almost the color of the pearl-gray sky. The tracery of fine lines at the corners of those pale eyes had been made by smiling, but he wasn’t smiling now, nor did he look like he planned to smile any time soon.