to erase the strain etched in the deep lines beside his mouth and the dark circles beneath his eyes. “The neurosurgeons relieved the pressure and repaired what they could, but . . .” When he trailed off, Leah reached over and took his hand; their fingers interlaced, caught, and held. “If Sasha hadn’t been there, I don’t think she would’ve made it through surgery. She and Michael stayed behind to keep an eye on things.” His lips twitched. “Rabbit did a little mind-bending on Anna’s husband, retroactively intro-ing him to the family. He thinks he’s known Sasha and me for years.” The smile drained. “He was psyched to leave Sasha with waiting-room duty and bugger off.”
“Dick.” The word came from Lucius, and was both the man’s name and a comment on his character.
Oh, Anna. Sometimes Patience had envied the other woman for having an outside life, a choice to make, and the guts to make it. Sometimes she had resented her for it. But she had never, even in the deepest depths of her blackest moods, wished for something like this. “The etznab spell helped me bring Brandt around. It might be worth trying on Anna.”
Strike shook his head. “We can’t do anything until she’s medically stable. Magic can only go so far . . . at least within our tenets.” His lips twisted in a bitter smile as he quoted from one of the codices Lucius had recently finished translating. “‘A Nightkeeper shall not raise the dead, lest the barrier rift asunder.’”
Leah tightened her grip on him. “She’s not going to die. Sasha’s going to help her find her way back.”
“Gods, I hope so.” Strike nodded to Carlos as the stocky ex-wrangler winikin slid him a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. While the others dug into their breakfasts, he continued: “As for Mendez, Nate and Alexis found him unconscious in his flop. They’re bringing him back now. There’s still no sign of his winikin .”
“So the Triad spell not only didn’t give us any Triad magi—it hurt Anna and is forcing us to bring Mendez into the compound,” Brandt said sourly. “If that was the will of the gods, then the gods are—”
“Sit your butt down and eat,” Carlos interrupted, fixing Brandt with a look.
Brandt exhaled and sat. After a moment, Patience took her place beside him. The breakfast bar wasn’t designed for so many people, which meant that the two of them had to sit very close together, bumping at hip and thigh.
Seeming unaware of the warmth that gathered at those points of contact, Brandt said, “After the firebird’s ghost nailed me and the nahwal did its overlapping thing, I blacked out. When I woke up, I was eighteen years old, and I was trapped inside a crashed BMW with a busted leg, screaming my fucking head off as the car sank in Pine Bend River.”
Patience frowned at him. “When I asked you about the scars on your leg, and why you limp when you’re really tired, you said you were in an accident in college, that it was no big deal.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “I might’ve downplayed it. Wasn’t something I liked remembering.”
Another lie, she thought. There had been so many of them back then, when they had both been playing human. “Go on.”
“It was my freshman year at Dartmouth. Joe and I stayed with Dewey and his parents during winter break, because they were local and we could get back to campus from his house. Joe and Dewey were both on the football team and wanted to get in some extra workouts, play a little hockey, and I . . .” He paused. “I guess I just wasn’t ready to go home yet. College was . . . different.”
That part Patience got. She remembered the freedom of being on her own for a change, with no winikin telling her to be better, to try harder, that her parents had died saving the world.
Brandt continued: “Dewey’s dad let us use his Beemer—it was sweet, borderline vintage, and could go like hell on the straightaways. Dewey was a good driver, though. The
“Dick.” The word came from Lucius, and was both the man’s name and a comment on his character.
Oh, Anna. Sometimes Patience had envied the other woman for having an outside life, a choice to make, and the guts to make it. Sometimes she had resented her for it. But she had never, even in the deepest depths of her blackest moods, wished for something like this. “The etznab spell helped me bring Brandt around. It might be worth trying on Anna.”
Strike shook his head. “We can’t do anything until she’s medically stable. Magic can only go so far . . . at least within our tenets.” His lips twisted in a bitter smile as he quoted from one of the codices Lucius had recently finished translating. “‘A Nightkeeper shall not raise the dead, lest the barrier rift asunder.’”
Leah tightened her grip on him. “She’s not going to die. Sasha’s going to help her find her way back.”
“Gods, I hope so.” Strike nodded to Carlos as the stocky ex-wrangler winikin slid him a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. While the others dug into their breakfasts, he continued: “As for Mendez, Nate and Alexis found him unconscious in his flop. They’re bringing him back now. There’s still no sign of his winikin .”
“So the Triad spell not only didn’t give us any Triad magi—it hurt Anna and is forcing us to bring Mendez into the compound,” Brandt said sourly. “If that was the will of the gods, then the gods are—”
“Sit your butt down and eat,” Carlos interrupted, fixing Brandt with a look.
Brandt exhaled and sat. After a moment, Patience took her place beside him. The breakfast bar wasn’t designed for so many people, which meant that the two of them had to sit very close together, bumping at hip and thigh.
Seeming unaware of the warmth that gathered at those points of contact, Brandt said, “After the firebird’s ghost nailed me and the nahwal did its overlapping thing, I blacked out. When I woke up, I was eighteen years old, and I was trapped inside a crashed BMW with a busted leg, screaming my fucking head off as the car sank in Pine Bend River.”
Patience frowned at him. “When I asked you about the scars on your leg, and why you limp when you’re really tired, you said you were in an accident in college, that it was no big deal.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “I might’ve downplayed it. Wasn’t something I liked remembering.”
Another lie, she thought. There had been so many of them back then, when they had both been playing human. “Go on.”
“It was my freshman year at Dartmouth. Joe and I stayed with Dewey and his parents during winter break, because they were local and we could get back to campus from his house. Joe and Dewey were both on the football team and wanted to get in some extra workouts, play a little hockey, and I . . .” He paused. “I guess I just wasn’t ready to go home yet. College was . . . different.”
That part Patience got. She remembered the freedom of being on her own for a change, with no winikin telling her to be better, to try harder, that her parents had died saving the world.
Brandt continued: “Dewey’s dad let us use his Beemer—it was sweet, borderline vintage, and could go like hell on the straightaways. Dewey was a good driver, though. The
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