It likely did. Gabriel had spent only two days in Flood, but the devil had never shown a preference for truckling, and his sense of humor had been as dark as his coffee.
“Does it amuse you, knowing that he sent you here to die?” The beady golden eyes fixed on her, the head tilting to the other side, its neck stretching out, feathers ruffling as the sharp black beak came too close?—but still remained on the other side of the salt line. Gabriel thought that something held it back. His warding-skills were good but they were not that good, not with the salt line broken. Something else protected them.
“He didn’t . . .” But Isobel’s certainty faltered.
“He sent you out into the world without a hint of what you would need, what you would see, what you would be called upon to do. With a stubborn half-born as guide?” The bird shook out its feathers and its wings unfurled, displaying a span easily the length of a grown man. It was beautiful in a terrifying way, and if it was not intended as a threat, Gabriel would eat his hat and Isobel’s both.
“We have allowed your master his time, trusted the strength of his oath, watched him, waited. But there are those who do not abide, who will not listen.”
The bird did not look at him, did not so much as acknowledge his existence, but Gabriel felt the words as though they’d been delivered with talon and beak.
“Choose your sides now, little sister,” the Reaper told her, “and be prepared for the consequences.”
“Do not threaten her on this ground.”
There was no way a creature that size could have appeared without them noting it, even with the massive distraction in front of them. The Reaper lifted its wings, a full threat display, but the elk merely lowered its head until the points of its antlers were angled directly at the bird. Even covered in summer felt, they were capable of as much damage as the Reaper’s talons.
Isobel’s squeak was the only indication that she was still aware, that and the way her heart was beating too rapidly, so that he could feel it slamming against her rib cage, as though it were trying to escape both her hold and his grasp.
The two creatures stared at each other, then the Reaper launched itself into the air, talons outstretched as those massive wings flapped once, twice, and lifted the bird away from them before landing again, refusing to give ground.
“What?” Gabriel’s mouth was dry, and he couldn’t form the words without coughing. He took a sip of the canteen he’d brought to Isobel, and tried again. “What the?—”
Isobel’s hand on his knee stopped him, her grip too tight, her fingers trembling, but the message clear: Do not speak.
“I thank you for your help, before and now, elder cousin.” She reverted back to a cautious formality when speaking to the wapiti, as though aware that it had not given her permission for familiarity, aware that those antlers were close to their faces as well, sharp enough to gouge and tear the same as a Reaper’s claws.
“It does not aid you,” the Reaper said, its words a low screech. “It uses you, as your master uses you. As a toy would be used and then thrown away when it is broken.”
“They are not toys,” the massive elk responded, shifting its weight in clear threat, the antlers moving closer until the Reaper was forced to take an ungainly backward hop. “Weapons, perhaps.”
“And as easily discarded. I would counsel you better, little sister.”
“You would counsel selfishness and destruction,” the elk spat, its head lowering again to display its antlers to best effect, and that they were aimed at the Reaper, not them, was small comfort.
“I would counsel survival.” The great head tilted again, showing what Gabriel thought was either great bravery or abject stupidity in ignoring the rack of bone directed at it, to look at Isobel. “Walk away, little sister. Let the stones fall as the ground moves them. Let the power go where it will.”
“You speak as though she retains choice. What has been done cannot be undone.” The elk backed up, lifting its head, and Gabriel thought it less a retreat than it no longer deeming the hawk an immediate danger. “You bear the mark, and the weight of that obligation.” The elk wasn’t looking at Isobel now, but its words were plainly for her. “The Territory must be protected.”
“The quick knife,” Isobel said, her voice muted, as though echoing something else said long ago. “The cold eye and the final word. But—”
“The final word is yours,” the Reaper told her. “That will forever give you choice.”