Yet through the latch, linked by my blood, I saw into the interior of the coach.
With a hand open on Vai’s chest, the Master of the Wild Hunt pressed him against the opposite seat. Andevai’s eyes were open but he seemed paralyzed, both blind and deaf. The gold threads of his red-and-gold dash jacket shimmered under a weirdly glowing light that emanated from my sire. His blue-white mask of ice made my sire seem even more dreadful, for the mask hid his expression and the true color of his eyes.
For all I could tell, my sire had just flung me out a moment ago, as time flowed in the spirit world.
For the longest time—it seemed an eternity and yet maybe I took in only a single shocked breath—he kept himself propped at arm’s length, hand splayed open on Vai’s chest, while he examined Vai in the considering way an experienced cook examines produce to pick what is best out of the basket. He considered Vai’s dark eyes, kissable mouth, very short, trim beard, and shorn-short black hair. His scrutiny had such a disturbingly predatory focus that I opened my mouth to protest, thinking I could be heard through the door. A rough lick from the gremlin’s tongue silenced me. My lips went numb.
As if he had seen enough, my sire sat back. The mask of ice melted into the youthful face he had worn on the ballcourt the night he had taken Vai prisoner after the death of the cacica. His was the kind of face that drew the eye even if you could not warm to it. He had long straight black hair like the Taino, eyes with a slight fold like the Cathayans, a thin Celtic nose, and brown skin rather lighter than Vai’s deep brown Afric complexion. His golden eyes looked so like mine that anyone would know he and I were related.
Vai sucked in a breath. His gaze swept the confines of the coach, flickering as he noted my sire sitting opposite him. He paused to examine the grubby bundle of clothing and food I’d stolen on Salt Island. The shuttered doors and the rest of the interior had no ornamentation except loops to hold on to, a bracket for a lamp, and a filigree of gold-wire decoration around doors and joinings.
As Vai realized I was gone, his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, which had been forged of cold steel by the secret mage craft known to Four Moons House. I could almost see his thoughts running. I was pretty sure that much of his exceptional power as a cold mage arose from his patience. He analyzed his situation from all angles before he made a decision, just as he spun illusions out of cold magic and worked them over and over until they were seamless.
Vai’s lips pressed into a flat line, and his gaze fell away as if he were looking elsewhere.