Since they had known their car might not be able to get all the way to Dimilioc, they had brought the things she and Miguel might need if the cold got too bad. More than that, they had not wanted to abandon every last trace of their past. Buried in the middle of Miguel’s pack, Natividad knew, was Mamá’s special wooden flute, wrapped up in Natividad’s favorite dress, the one with all the ruffles.
They hadn’t had to argue who would carry the pack. Last year, when she and Miguel had been only fourteen, he might have argued. Even Natividad herself might have argued. She might have thought Alejandro should carry the pack because he was the biggest and had the black dog strength. But this year, they all understood that Alejandro could not carry any burden because he needed his hands free.
Alejandro carried only a knife: the silver one she had blooded for him. If worse came to worst, he would fight. If he fought well enough, if Natividad had time to use her maraña, then maybe she and Miguel would be able to get away. Lewis was not so far behind them, and if they could get another car, maybe they would be able to get all the way off Dimilioc territory.
The truth was, if worse came to worst, probably they would all die. But that had been so since the day Mamá and Papá had been killed. Even before that, in fact, though they had not known that when they were younger. So short a time ago, when they had all been children, before the war between black dogs and the blood kin had weakened Dimilioc, and Vonhausel had renewed his own war with Papá… Natividad shut those memories away with a sharp effort.
“I’m not too tired,” she said. “I can go on.” She looked at her watch, a cheap one with a black plastic strap and a pink face, and a white kitten to point out the hours and minutes. She put back the hood of her coat and looked at the sky, where the sun lay already low above the horizon. So comfortless and distant, that sun. She could almost believe cold radiated from it, and not warmth at all.
Alejandro said, “No. You two should eat something. Is that not what you said, Natividad? People need to eat more in the cold. You told us that.”
“You did say that,” said Miguel, so placidly that Natividad could not argue. Her twin was very hard to argue with. “Of course you should eat something. Some jerky, maybe. I’ll take one of those nut bars with the chocolate, if you’ve got any more. And we should drink some water.”
Natividad shrugged. “Matón,” she said, but without heat. Then, remembering her rule about English, she corrected herself: “Bully.” Tucking back several wisps of hair that had worked out of her careful pins, she began to search through her light pack for something to eat. Miguel walked a little aside from the trail they’d been following, kicking knee-high snow out of his way, and swept more snow off a fallen tree so she could sit down. “I really don’t need to rest,” Natividad protested, but then shrugged. “But I suppose I wouldn’t mind coffee.” She followed him, peeling the wrapping away from one of her nut bars and handing her twin another.
“Well, look at this,” said a new voice, sharp and quick and nasally American. “Black pups trespassing. Do you know, when we got the call, I walked out in the middle of breakfast? If I’d realized it was a pack of puppies, I’d not have troubled myself.”
Natividad jumped and spun around fast. Miguel caught her arm to steady her and Alejandro took several quick steps to put himself between them and the newcomer. Natividad touched her pocket, but didn’t grab her maraña mágica, not yet: she didn’t want the newcomer to guess she had it. If they did have to run, she wanted it to take him by surprise.
Alejandro moved a step forward, toward the threat. He stared directly into the newcomer’s face for a breath, which between black dogs was a challenge. Then, with an effort Natividad could see, that she thought she could almost feel in her own body, he lowered his eyes.
The American was taller than Alejandro, but seemed hardly older at all. Surely he couldn’t be as young as he appeared, but the way he stood and moved and looked, no one would have dismissed him as a boy anyway. He stood with his weight forward, relaxed, but holding himself with the kind of balance that meant he could move fast in any direction.
His was a very American face: bony and narrow, with a thin, unsmiling mouth crooked now with disdain, as though nothing he looked at pleased him and he didn’t expect it to. His hard stare implied arrogance; the set of his mouth suggested impatience and an inflexible temper. Despite his youth, it was the face of someone already long experienced with killing and death, someone who would not be easily touched by anger or fear or grief. It was the face of the Dimilioc executioner, who killed without mercy or regret.