“Grayson Lanning? Lose control?”
Natividad bounced around in her seat to face Sheriff Pearson more directly. “No?”
“No,” said the sheriff with finality. “He won’t lose his temper and kill me, and he won’t hurt my daughter to punish me. Grayson doesn’t scare me: I dealt with Thos Korte for years, and Grayson’s no Thos Korte. Thank God.” He negotiated a sharp curve; the vehicle lurched and swayed, thumped over an unseen obstacle, and eased onto a part of the road that was thankfully both straight and nearly level. There was more light now, but the snow whirling through the air made it hard to see. That didn’t seem to bother the sheriff. He said, “He will help Cass–”
“Nothing can keep her from the change, if her shadow’s been corrupted,” Natividad said. She said it apologetically, because she knew it wasn’t what the sheriff wanted to hear. He must already know that, but he probably didn’t want to believe it. “But Grayson or any Dimilioc wolf can control her even when she’s in her other form, and when the moon wanes she’ll change back.”
“She’ll still be herself…”
This was kind of a question. Natividad wished she could just say, “Oh, yes, just like she used to be.” She said, “Pretty much. Way more than if she had to deal with shadow memories of, well. Of hunting.” She didn’t want to say killing, or think about what kind of prey the girl might have hunted if the sheriff hadn’t brought her to Dimilioc. The bitten ones almost always went after their own kin first.
“I see,” said the sheriff. “Yes, I see.”
Natividad had an idea he understood a lot of what she hadn’t said. He was shrewd, and he obviously knew at least something about black dogs and moon-bound shifters and the Pure. His voice was nice when he wasn’t so upset. His accent was interesting. Stronger, or at least different, than the accent of the black wolves.
She said, “Grayson Lanning didn’t find us. We came here on purpose.” She didn’t explain why, or what they had brought with them, but added instead, “My brothers and me.”
“Black dog brothers,” the sheriff guessed.
“One,” Natividad corrected. “The other is human.” She looked out at the whirling snowflakes. They were coming down even more densely now, and the clouds had thickened so that they still needed their headlights even though it should have been full daylight.
“I’ll get you back safe,” Sheriff Pearson promised her. He patted the steering wheel. “This girl can go up and over anything that doesn’t need a plow – and we can mount a plow on her, if the snow gets that deep.”
One plowed snow, like a field in the spring? Natividad tried to visualize this. It was a strange image. It didn’t make sense to cut furrows in the snow, so she supposed he meant something else. Shoving it out of the way, maybe. How deep would snow have to get, before one had to plow it? Natividad had thought that the knee-high snow they’d hiked through on their way to Dimilioc was deep enough. She wondered how deep it could get. Hip high, chest high, head high? Higher? That was hard to imagine, but what if it kept snowing and didn’t stop? Would Ezekiel and Alejandro be able to get back?
She said impulsively, “Stop, stop for a moment?” And, to Pearson’s startled, wary glance, “It’s nothing, there’s nothing, only stop just for a moment, will you?”
The sheriff eased off on the gas pedal, letting his big vehicle coast to a halt at the top of a hill. He killed the engine. Silence immediately pressed in around them. It was not a welcoming silence. Natividad peered into the dim light under the trees, barely able to see through the falling snow. She wished the sheriff had silver bullets. She wished she’d thought to stop in her room and get her maraña mágica. A way to confuse the steps of her enemies would be better than nothing – if there were enemies. She was sure there weren’t. She told herself that, very firmly. She said, “Watch the woods, OK? If you see anything, yell, right?”
“You–”
“I’ll only be a minute,” Natividad said. She opened her door and slid down into the snow before she could change her mind. It was shockingly cold. She had a hard time remembering between one venture outside and the next how cold it really was here. The air felt like ice in her throat. She ought to have remembered her coat – a lot of good it did her, back in her room – well, the cold was another reason to hurry, if she needed one.
Stooping, she ran her hand through the snow on the surface of the road. Then, shivering, she knelt, scooped as much snow as possible out of the way, and drew a line on the packed ice below. Another line, parallel to the first. Straight, clean lines of light, showing the way the road ran, reinforcing its road-ness. Roads were for people to come and go. She said, “Que esta carretera escoga a los viajeros.” She drew a pentagram between her two lines, stood up straight, and lifted her hands, palm up, toward the sky. She repeated, only this time in English, “May this road welcome travelers who come with good will in their hearts. May they find their way safely to their journey’s end.” Light, pale and cold, filled her hands. The snow still fell all around, but somehow seemed to blow sideways and away from the road.