Then Gwen’s hands shook. She swiped an errant tear off the paper and held it out to Natalie. “Suppose you just tell me what this is all about. Because I never showed this to you.”
“I saw it,” Natalie said. “Baitlia saw it, too. Do you know what it is that you carry around?”
Gwen felt the stubbornness of her own chin. “My father gave it to me.”
“Did he?” Natalie studied her. “I don’t imagine he’s alive, then.” She held up a hand to fend off Gwen’s response. “Never mind. I won’t play this game with you. The information is yours to keep and study if you’d like, but this is what I know—the pendant is Demardel. Don’t ask me what that means—the language isn’t one I’m familiar with, and for the moment I’m cribbing off of other people’s notes. What I’ve gathered is this—that pendant started out as a medallion, and the medallion was made with power as much as it was with smelting—long enough ago that it should be copper or bronze or just some lump of star metal, because no one had the technology for that.” She nodded at the pendant, still hidden as it was. “There’s no indication that it binds a demon as the blades do, but there are hints of...well...something.”
Gwen resisted the urge to pull the pendant free and study it. She’d do that later...running her fingers over it, seeing it with new eyes...
If she had the chance.
Instead she said, “Just like that. You know so much.” And then made a face and waved away the rejoinder. “I know, I know. You have resources. I don’t suppose the resources know what this thing is all about, then. The why of it.”
“In fact,” Natalie said, “my resources are divided over whether it’s even real. But they agree on what it’s supposed to do.” She made a little bit of a face herself, then—skepticism escaping. “The bond between blade and wielder is lifelong. You learn to live with it, or you die. And then generally you die early anyway—although I hasten to add that I have no such intent. But that pendant of yours is supposed to provide an alternative.”
Gwen forgot to breathe for a moment—knowing what the pendant had done for Mac, even with their fumbling ignorance. Knowing that her connection with it had strengthened these past few days.
Natalie didn’t fail to notice. “Ahh,” she said. “More true than not, after all.”
Gwen nodded. “Maybe. Keep talking.”
Natalie shrugged. “That’s pretty much it. There’s a procedure, but I don’t know it.”
“No, I mean—” Gwen gestured impatience. “Is it for good? Can it be permanent?”
Natalie returned a blank look. “That’s the whole point. It severs the bond. It frees the wielder without allowing the blade to control the circumstances or transfer to a new wielder.”
Hell, yes. She could help Mac. She could give him just what he needed.
Had her father known what it was when he’d given it to her? When he’d let himself go too long, slipped so close to the wild road and then over? Had he simply miscalculated, trying to hang on to the blade long enough to...
To what?
What could possibly even have been so important? When he could have saved himself, saved her childhood, saved her world?
It hit her hard enough to hurt. To twist her heart and clamp down in her throat and take her breath away all over again.
Her mother had been killed, and her father had never been the same.
Right. It had been his version of Mac’s night outside the bar. He’d been unable to save her mother but he’d ended up with the blade...and then he’d spent his time seeking retribution. A personal crusade that had somehow become more important than anything else. Anyone else.
Including his daughter.
Wrong choice, Daddy.
“Gwen?”
Gwen sent her such a fierce and sudden look that Natalie took a step back. “Can you figure it out?” she asked. “What needs to be done?”
From her new distance, Natalie said, “You look like you already know.”
Gwen frowned. “Don’t get coy with me now. I’ve seen some...effects. They weren’t permanent. I need to do better.”
“It’s awake, you know,” Natalie told her, glancing at the slight ripple in Gwen’s shirt where the pendant fell. “Last night it wasn’t. What have you done?”
Gwen laughed, more loudly than she’d meant to. “What haven’t I done?” she said. She held out her hand, now bandaged in what was left of the stretchy pink first aid wrap. “I fed it blood, apparently. And I fed it—”
She couldn’t quite say it. But it seemed she didn’t need to.
“Ah,” Natalie said again. And then, thoughtfully, added, “Baitlia is aware of it in a way that it wasn’t before. And really doesn’t want me anywhere near it.”
“You can tell Baitlia that Demardel and I are no threat. I have no idea what I’m doing.” But I will.
Natalie lifted her head again. “There,” she said, and if she breathed a sigh of relief, her face had nonetheless found an expression that seemed bittersweet. “He’s made it, your unnamed one. For now. And he’s probably got a bit of a lull period to work with.” She glanced at Gwen. “The blades tend to lick their wounds quietly.”
Gwen jammed the folder in through the open Jeep window. “I still have questions—”
“As do I.”
“But they’ll have to wait. I’ve said what I’m going to say for now. Can you take the dog to the vet?”
“About that—”
“Yeah,” Gwen said, already heading for the door. “Questions. They have to wait. I still have your card. I’ll call you. The dog is this way.”
Natalie came right on her heels. “He won’t want me to see him—”
“Different room,” Gwen said, running now across that open space.
And of course then Natalie wanted to know what had happened to the dog and, upon seeing him, who the hell had done this thing. Of course she remembered what Gwen had said the evening before, the single throwaway line, the probe in the dark—kidnapping and torture and killing.
Gwen said only, “I’ll call you.” She held the door to the room open so Natalie could carry the dog out—his tail wagging nervously, his tongue looking for something to lick—handling his awkward weight with more ease than Gwen would have expected.
And Natalie turned back to say, “We need to know, Gwen. We need to be part of this.”
“Yada yada,” Gwen said, snapping the words. “Later.”
To her surprise, Natalie let it go. “Later,” she said. “Go be with him.”
Chapter 13
Mac sat on his knees, bent over cuffed hands, and felt the sullen retreat of the blade pounding through his body with every beat of his heart—a strong and wild pattern, settling to merely galloping. To mere trickles of feeling—concern and determination of an unfamiliar flavor, and turmoil with the taste of Gwen attached.
Not my turmoil. Not my concern.
And this time, it worked. As exhausted as he found himself, as much as the feelings danced around the edges, for now, the core of his soul was intact. All his.
The blade, he knew, would be back. And meanwhile it did what it had to in order to protect itself...it healed him. The burn of it spread through his body, dull and bearable and familiar. His wrists—small bones cracked, skin abraded raw—had already stopped bleeding.