Dark Alchemy (16 page)

But what captured her attention the most was the scar around his neck. It was white, raised, and as thick as two of her fingers. An old scar. What the hell had happened to him? Had he survived a suicide attempt? Had someone done this to him?

Wherever Gabriel had been, he'd had a long road.

She turned on the light overhead. In the artificial brightness, his blood was red and ordinary. Less disconcerting. She opened the windows to give her more light, cranking open the blinds and letting the thin breeze trickle into the Airstream.

Resolutely, she began to clean the wounds at his shoulder, wiping at them with the cotton and the alcohol. Gabriel's eyelids fluttered, but he didn't so much as hiss as she tried to clean that blood from the holes in his body where the swelling had split flesh. She probed as deeply as she dared before her stomach turned. It seemed as if one of the wounds had just missed what she guessed was his axillary artery.

The next most serious wound was the one that split his ribs. Petra could see the swelling and feel the unevenness of bone. A large chunk seemed to be missing. She pressed an ear to his chest. It seemed the right side of his chest rose evenly, but not the left. When she listened to his breath, it gurgled in his throat. A collapsed lung. Shit.

“Why do this to you?” she murmured. She was certain that Gabriel was not a good, upstanding citizen. Upstanding citizens did not attempt to make loudmouthed ranch hands disappear. But she thought she saw a glint of something else in him. She couldn't identify what that was.

And she likely would never learn, if he bled out on her bed. With renewed determination, she reached for the aluminum tape. If she could drag him upright, maybe she could tape the ribs so that they didn't move further.

She worked in silence, swallowing her squeamishness. When she removed his boots, she found that one of them was entirely empty, that his foot didn't exist beyond the ankle bone. His body felt curiously hollow, and his face remained slack and unconscious. She knew that she should be wary of him. Every scar and wound on his body screamed a warning that he was dangerous. But there was something about him that piqued her curiosity. He was handsome enough, in a somewhat cold and remote way. He wasn't pretty the way that the ridiculously shaven and airbrushed men in magazines were. He wasn't shiny. He was solid, real. His jaw was strong, nose a bit too large, hands callused—­well, the one that remained, anyway. She granted herself the small thrill of physical attraction, the first awakening of that dormant sense since Des had died. It was normal to feel that way around an attractive man, she told herself—­purely a physical reaction. Gabe reminded her of stone: flawed and opaque, with scars veining his skin.

And not fragile. Her eyes traced the wounds. Poor Des had been fragile.

She blinked away a sudden blurriness in her vision.

She reached out shakily and laid the flat of her hand on his chest. It was cool under her palm as it rose and fell. She held her hand there until it stopped shaking.

She
should
be afraid of him. Everyone else in this town seemed to be.

But it seemed safe to feel a twinge of fascination for a man who was as close to indestructible as she'd ever encountered. This puzzle.

She leaned over him, a tendril of her hair brushing his chin. She wondered what would happen if she kissed him. He would never know, locked away in his unconsciousness. But she wondered what it would feel like, if his lips would feel like Des's mouth. Or if it would summon that terrible heat of grief again.

Her lips brushed his. His mouth was cool, and tasting him was like tasting frost. The chill prickled against her lips. Something melted. Whether it was his mouth or something in Petra, she couldn't tell.

She drew back, her heart hammering. Des always smiled when she kissed him, even in his sleep. Gabriel was smooth and unyielding. She felt immediately ashamed at what she'd done, knowing that she'd crossed a boundary without permission.

Selfish. It was selfish.

She slid down to sit on the warm linoleum floor and rested her head next to his shoulder to keep watch.

P
etra dreamed of sunshine and ravens.

The dream felt like sitting in a car, drenched in late afternoon light, the gold of it pressed against her closed eyelids and warming her face. The shadows of ravens flitted over her, their wings rustling over a low hum. Or it might have been the low hum of an engine.

But it was the hum of blood, of Gabriel's body.

A raven screamed.

Petra jerked awake. She rubbed her warm cheek, pressed against the futon. She reached up to make sure Gabriel was still breathing, but he wasn't in bed. Her fingers clawed empty blankets.

The sound of wings flapping washed over her, some residue from the dream come flaring back. She spun toward the source of the sound. Sig pressed against her hip, growling, his hair standing up.

Gabe stood in the middle of the floor, a black silhouette against the gloaming western light from the windows. He held his arms outstretched, and a battery of wings flowed to him—­
into him.
Ravens flew through the open windows, slamming into his body.

Petra scrambled away until her back hit the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest. She wanted to shriek, but her voice was choked off, as if she'd swallowed some of that terrible darkness gathering before her.

 

Chapter Fifteen

Venificus Locus

T
he ravens melted into Gabriel, splitting the setting sunlight and dust motes with the knife-­edges of their feathers. He turned to face her. His eyes glowed with reflected sunshine. His bare chest and hands and feet were whole, no deep dents or missing limbs.

Petra shrank back from the unnatural shadows and brilliance.

Gabriel stumbled.

Automatically, Petra jumped up to steady him. She lowered him to the futon, blinking her light-­dazzled eyes. It seemed he weighed a great deal more now than he had a few hours ago—­as if he had changed from aluminum to lead and promptly passed out. She reached for his throat to take his pulse. Her fingers quaked as she struggled to feel something.

Gabriel's hand reached up and grabbed her wrist with his whole right hand, stilling it. His eyes twitched open. “Don't.”

“You need treatment of some kind—­” She stared at his hand. It was entirely unmarked, smooth and whole.

“
Don't.
”

Anger rose in Petra, and she could feel the heat of it in her face. That, and the metallic fear under her tongue. It was easier to cover the fear with anger. “I don't want a dead man in my house.”

Gabriel started to laugh, laughed so hard that the movement summoned a smear of blood to his lips. “Too late.”

Petra wrenched her hand free and started daubing at the wound on his ribs. To her amazement, she could feel that the swelling had decreased. The fracture wasn't immediately apparent, and the bleeding had stopped entirely.

She let her hands fall. “What are you?”

Gabriel turned his head to the window, refusing to answer. “Where are we?”

“My trailer.”

He closed his eyes. “You shouldn't have taken me from the barn.”

“You would have died.” She was beginning to think that maybe she should have left him, that she'd allowed something very dangerous across her threshold. And once invited in, it might not be so easily convinced to leave.

“Unlikely. My kind is usually quite . . . hardy.”

Petra dug into her jacket pocket for the mourning brooch. “Your kind?” She held the brooch in her fist, shoved it under his nose. Her curiosity warred with terror, and she clutched the brooch hard to keep her hand from shaking. “What the fuck are you?”

“Where did you get that?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“So you know what it is.”

He turned his head away.

She flipped it open, jammed it into his face. “Is this a relative of yours? Or is that you?” Her heart hammered with the accusation. It was the most irrational thing she'd ever said.

He stared at the mourning brooch and reached up to touch it, but his hand fell. He turned his amber gaze on Petra. It seemed that he was weighing her, how much to tell her.

“Are you some kind of fucking vampire?” The question was ridiculous. Vampires existed only in books for preteen girls. They were about as believable as unicorns and the Tooth Fairy. Her fascination had driven her to the edge of reason. She took a step back, trying to physically reel herself in.

He licked his lips, eyes dilated black in pain. Pain and something else. Amusement?

“No. Not a vampire. A Hanged Man.”

Then he turned his face toward the wall and passed out. She poked him, but he gave no response. She slid her fingers up to his neck and traced the raised scar there.

“A Hanged Man,” she repeated. That would explain the mark. But no one really survived a hanging . . .

She chewed her lip. Maybe he had survived it, somehow, with the help of these ravens. But what could he have done to invite such an attack? Or did he have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

And the ravens—­she had no explanation. No explanation for what could cause him to heal and to regrow limbs before her eyes.

Sig pressed his cold nose against her face, and she put her arms around him. He, at least, was real.

P
etra awoke to a pounding on the trailer door. She groaned and scrambled to her feet. She'd been sleeping on the floor—­not well—­and had developed a crick in her neck where Sig had jammed his foot in his sleep.

She peered at Gabriel. Still breathing. Good.

He talked in his sleep. Much of it made no sense. He muttered about Lascaris, about alchemy, trees, and ravens. His meanderings reminded Petra of Frankie's cryptic predictions and her father's old postcards. He'd finally stopped muttering after the moon had set, when it seemed that he slept deeply enough to ward off dreams and allow Petra some sleep of her own. Until now.

Petra padded to the door and peered through the glass. It was Maria Yellowrose, holding a shotgun. And she did not look happy.

Petra opened the door and tried to slide down the steps to talk with her outdoors, but Maria strong-­armed her way into the trailer.

“What the fuck did you do?” Maria demanded.

“What are you talking about?” Petra tried to block her view of the rest of the trailer interior. It was still dark, and only dim predawn light filtered through the blinds.

“Sal Rutherford and his men came to my house, looking for you. I spent the night unconscious on my porch,” she snarled. Petra noticed that the left side of her face was covered in a brilliant magenta bruise. Her swollen lower lip quivered. “And they took Frankie.”

“What?” Petra's hand flew to her mouth. “What happened?”

“Sal saw the Bronco at his ranch. Said you'd taken something of his.” Maria brandished the shotgun. “I don't give a shit what it is, but I want it back to trade for Frankie's life.”

Sig slithered between the two women, whining piteously at Maria. He was laying the “good dog” routine on thick, trying to make peace.

“Give me back what you stole from Rutherford.”

“I didn't steal anything from him. I—­” Petra pressed the heel of her hand to her brow. “Shit. You're just gonna have to trust me. I didn't steal from him. I found a body on his property. A fucked-­up body that looked like it'd been doctored in a special-­effects workshop.”

“I don't trust you.” Maria shoved the barrel of the shotgun into Petra's shoulder. “If you won't tell me, you're coming with me. And then Sal can get it out of you.” Her eyes were wide with fear, and Petra could see that it wasn't a selfish fear, but fear for her uncle.

Something glowed in Petra's periphery, and she saw Maria blanch and point the shotgun past Petra. “What the hell—­?”

Gabriel sighed. “It's not her fault. It's mine.” He flipped on the kitchen light.

Maria seemed to take in his torn and battered appearance. And his shirtlessness. His chest was smooth and unharmed, but spattered in bits of blood. “What the hell happened to you? You look like you got your ass kicked playing paintball.”

“Sal wants me. Petra thought she was rescuing me.” Gabe gave her an annoyed sidelong glance.

“I need to get Frankie back.” Maria's mouth was pressed into a hard slash. There was no way that she was going to budge.

“We'll do a trade. I'm pretty certain that Sal will let Frankie go once he has me.” As if that ended the discussion, Gabriel searched the floor for the remains of his tattered shirt and began to shrug into it.

“But what will he do to you?” Petra asked softly. “Will he turn you into one of those calcinated bodies, like in the back field?”

Gabe looked at her neutrally, as if they were discussing whether to have a ham sandwich or chicken salad for lunch. He sat on the edge of the futon to put his boots on. “That's not your concern.”

Maria lowered the shotgun uneasily. “All right.” She flicked her gaze at Petra. “I'm sorry, but I'm still pissed at you.” It seemed that she said it more to convince herself.

“You have a right to be.”

Maria looked down at the coyote. Sig sniffed her shoes, sat back on his haunches. He cocked his head, trying to be cute. Petra rolled her eyes.
Flirt.

Gabriel stood, his balance wavering from foot to foot. “Let's go get Frankie.”

A car crunched down the gravel road and stopped before the trailer. Maria squinted through the blinds. “You expecting company?”

“No.”

Petra shouldered up to the window, half-­expecting it to be Mike's Jeep. But it was a red Monte Carlo.

“Piss,” she muttered.

“Who is it?” Gabriel demanded. “Is it Sal?”

“No. Meth heads.” Petra hoped that Cal wasn't in the car. A middle-­aged man in a long black coat got out, holding a silver pistol. That must be the one Cal called “the Alchemist.” Stroud. A young man clambered out of the passenger seat, brandishing a machine gun. She recognized him: the kid who had tried to chase her along the road, Justin. And out climbed Cal, blinking in the daylight.

“Shit.” She sighed.

“You're a popular girl. What do
they
want with you?” Maria peered through the blinds.

“They want an artifact I found.”

“Artifact?” Gabriel echoed.

“Yeah. Some kind of compass Sig dug up in the dirt.”

Maria ratcheted the shotgun. “We can stick 'em back in the dirt.”

“Wait.” Gabriel's hand fell on her shoulder. “Stroud's more dangerous than you think.”

Maria's lip curled in a snarl. “What the hell do you want us to do, then?”

“Keep the door locked. And wait quietly.”

Before Petra could protest, Gabriel was at the far side of the trailer and had slipped noiselessly out the back window. She did as she was told, turning the flimsy lock on the door.

Maria growled. “That motherfucker better not be running. If he is, I promise that I
will
perforate his ass with birdshot.”

A knock rattled the front door, the silver gun barrel on the glass. Petra instinctively stepped away, fumbling to reach for her gun belt slung on the kitchen chair. Sig stood before her, teeth bared, head down in a fighting posture.

“Petra Dee. You know what I want.” The Alchemist's voice leaked under the door. It sounded like the rustle of dry leaves, a man who had smoked everything on Earth.

Petra swallowed. Cal had apparently spilled his guts.

Maria shook her head, laid a finger to her lips. She lifted the shotgun to chest level. Her intention was clear: If the men came through the door, their asses were grass.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Stroud said.

He tried the door, found it locked. A bullet cracked through the lockset, showering sparks. Then the door burst open, and Stroud barreled in.

Maria pulled the trigger. The shotgun bucked upward in a deafening roar in the small space. Petra's ears rang, but she didn't know if it was from the thunder or the pounding of her heart as she watched Stroud fall backward from the steps onto the ground outside.

Petra squeaked. It burned her throat, but she couldn't hear it.

Maria chucked the next shell into the chamber, advanced on the door. Sig was at her heels, and Petra drew up the rear with a pistol in each hand. She was in awe at the coldness with which Maria moved. No hesitation. No fear. Nothing like the terror that was uncoiling in Petra's stomach.

Stroud lay sprawled on the ground, twitching. The pistol glittered beyond his reach. Maria carefully picked her way down the steps. There was no sign of Justin. Petra followed, guns in her sweat-­slick, quavering hands. Maria kicked Stroud over and gasped.

Cal started toward the trailer, but Petra trained one of the guns on him.

“Don't move.” Her voice sounded a helluva lot more confident than she felt. Cal slowly raised his hands. He was unarmed.

“Get down,” she told him.

Cal obediently got on his knees in the dust, but his gaze was fixed on Stroud.

Stroud's shredded coat was not red with blood. Instead, tiny drops of quicksilver retracted through the holes in the coat, sliding away from view like dozens of tiny fingers. His eyes remained closed. Petra could see the rise and fall of his chest, which seemed to be coated in some kind of liquid armor.

“What the fuck?” Maria murmured. She knelt to take his pulse.

“Drop it, bitches.” Justin's voice oozed from the side of the car. He'd popped the driver's side door open as a shield before his body, a gun braced on the open window like a detective on a bad cop show. It was a big gun—­an MP-­5 submachine gun. Petra hadn't seen one of those outside the hands of military personnel. It looked like an absurd toy in the hands of the young man, like it should have an orange painted safety tip.

Petra was the only one remaining on her feet with guns. She kept one on Cal, who was cringing close to the dirt and aimed the other toward Justin. They were peashooters compared to the MP-­5. But she thought that if she was in a cop show, she should bluff. “We've got three guns. You have one. How's your math?”

His pupils were dilated. He was clearly hopped up on something. Awesome.

“I don't think you've got the balls to blow me away, lady.”

Petra's jaw twitched. He was right. But maybe he didn't know it.

Sig slowly advanced on Justin. He was between them, skulking low and moving to the car. He emitted a throaty growl that sounded like a terrible engine winding up.

Justin aimed his gun toward Sig. “Call your fucking dog off.”

“Sig, come here!” Petra shouted. Panic welled in her voice.

She saw Justin's finger flex on the trigger.

And she fired.

The shot shattered the side mirror, causing Justin to flinch. Satisfaction stung her. She glimpsed a blur moving from the corner of the trailer, rushing up behind Justin—­Gabriel. He tackled Justin against the open car door, as Sig slithered under and began to tear into him with gusto.

Something scraped the dirt at her feet. Petra looked down to find that Stroud's eyes were open, and he was pointing his pistol at Maria's face. The shotgun lay two inches from her hand in the dust.