Not that there was any guarantee it wouldn't be worse elsewhere. In fact, it probably would. Unless he could find the safe haven he had seen in his dreams. Unless he could make the story of the boy and his children come true.
Cheney, Cheney.
He stroked Cheney's big head and watched his flanks rise and fall heavily.
He wanted so badly to help him, to do something— anything–that would make him well. But he didn't know what to do. He knew that if Owl couldn't do anything, there was little chance that he could. He had no medical skills. He had no experience with poisonings. But the fact of it didn't stop him from wanting to try. It didn't change the cold, empty feeling that had settled inside.
He thought of Tiger and Persia and the Cats–all dead because of the thing in the next room. It must have caught them sleeping. It must have been on top of them before they knew what was happening. Or perhaps they panicked. Whatever the case, they hadn't stood a chance, not even with Tiger's flechette to protect them. Maybe even Cheney couldn't have saved them.
His fingers touched the big dog's muzzle. It was hot and dry. Cheney never even blinked; he just stared straight ahead. Cheney was just a dog, but Hawk knew that in many ways he was his most loyal friend. Cheney would do anything for him–for any of them. He shouldn't have to die for that. He had thought that nothing could hurt Cheney, that the big dog was too tough and too experienced to be harmed. It was a foolish way to think, a stupid way. He should have known. He should have realized that Cheney was no less vulnerable than they were, even as big and strong as he was.
He sat in the darkness with his dog and wished he could change places with him.
Don't die.
His eyes filled with tears, and he was crying. He bent over Cheney and hugged him, held him as if by doing so he could keep him alive, could hold back his dying, could turn it aside as he would an evil thought. His fingers dug into the thick fur, and he whispered to Cheney, over and over.
Don't die. Please don't die.
He willed it not to happen. He prayed for it so hard that his mind locked down on the thought and his entire self went into making it so.
And something strange happened.
He was suddenly warm, heat spreading through him as if he had turned on a switch. He felt the heat fill his body and then his limbs. It should have frightened him, something so strange and unexpected, but it had the opposite effect. It reassured him. He lay pressed up against Cheney and let the warmth flow through and then out of him. It happened slowly, almost incrementally, so that he could feel it building by degrees and then exiting in tiny bursts. It went on for a long time, and he thought he must be having a reaction to his grief.
Then he tasted a sudden bitterness in his mouth, and deep down in his belly he felt a burning sensation. Both lasted only seconds, gone so quickly he barely had time to register their presence. But their passing left him unexpectedly drained of strength, as if he had expended a great effort.
He felt Cheney stir beneath him, a squirming coupled with a series of twitches. He almost let go of the big dog, and then decided not to. His own eyes were closed, so he couldn't see exactly what was happening. But he didn't want to open them for fear of breaking the spell.
"Cheney," he whispered.
The heat radiated out of him, and Cheney continued to squirm, then to shiver, and suddenly to whine. Now Hawk did open his eyes, and he saw that Cheney's were open, too. But they were no longer dull or glazed; they were bright and alert. The big dog's tongue licked out, wetting his dry nose. He was thirsty. Hawk felt Cheney's breathing change, turning stronger and steadier.
Then the heat pulsating through his body faded. He could feel the change happen, a slow diminishing of warmth, a gradual lessening of its passage out.
When he lifted away, no longer able to keep from doing so, Cheney lifted his head and looked at him. Hawk swallowed hard, and then stared at Cheney's damaged body.
The wounds were almost entirely healed.
Hawk could not understand what had just happened.
FAR TO THE south, somewhere along the California coast, surrounded by his army of once–men and demons, an old man with eyes as cold and empty as the deepest ice cave that nature had ever formed started in surprise as he felt the wave of magic wash over him. He recognized its source at once; there was no mistaking it. He had been searching for it unsuccessfully for almost a century.
A dark, hard smile creased his weathered features. Sometimes you just had to be patient.
TWENTY-THREE
ANGEL PEREZ SHIFTED her gaze from the winding ribbon of roadway that stretched ahead to the slowly darkening sky and frowned in frustration.
"How much farther do we have to go?" she asked Ailie.
The tatterdemalion, an ethereal figure in the fading light, looked back over her shoulder and blinked. "Not far."
"It's starting to get dark. It will be night before long." Angel glanced around at the trees and deep shadows bracketing the road. "I don't much want to be caught out here when that happens."
She had lived in the city all her life and had an instinctive dislike of the country. They had been walking for several hours and hadn't seen a single building that wasn't either a shed or a barn. There were broad hills, broken–topped mountains, deep woods, roads that seemed to lead nowhere and not much else. No houses. No stores. Certainly no high–rises. It wasn't Los Angeles, and it wasn't familiar or comfortable. She was pretty sure they were still in California, but for all she knew they might have walked all the way to Canada.
"You said we would find a quicker way to get wherever it is we're going than by taking one of the trucks. I believed you."
"We will." The tatterdemalion didn't even look back this time. "Be patient."
Be patient, Angel thought in disgust. She had been patient for almost four hours and look where she was. She should have been more trusting, but she hadn't stayed alive this long by relying on trust. She did not think that the creature she followed meant her any harm, but all too often good intentions coupled with poor judgment was all it took. She knew nothing of Ailie's capabilities. In point of fact, she knew nothing about her at all. She was a Faerie creature sent by the Lady, but she would have a life span of not much more than sixty days, so her experience couldn't amount to much. That, all by itself, was troubling.
What was more troubling, physically speaking, were the wounds she had received in her battle with the demon. The claw marks down her back and along her shoulder burned like fire, and she was battered and bruised from head to foot. She needed to bathe and rest. She was unlikely to get a chance to do either anytime soon.
She kicked at the dirt of the road they were following. What was she doing out here anyway, not only out of the city, but away from anything familiar? Dios mia! Hunting for Elves? She didn't even believe in Elves. Well, she supposed that maybe she did, knowing that there were so many other kinds of Faerie creatures in the world. But still. Hunting for Elves? She should have gone with Helen and the children. She should have told Ailie that this wasn't for her.
After all, how did she even know that the Lady had sent Ailie? She only had Ailie's word for it. She had no way of knowing what was going on, what sort of game she might be a pawn in. How could she know what to believe?