Page 24 of The Familiar

Garavito shifted uneasily as the quiet stretched, then he tossed the squirrel’s body onto the overturned bench. He wiped the blade of his knife on his breeches. His hands were still stained red.

“Well?” he demanded. “What do you want? I have work to do.”

“Since you like to talk, I thought I’d let you talk.”

Now Garavito’s eyes skittered away. “Don Víctor knows I can be trusted.”

“You were late bringing us word of the olive farmer.”

“I explained all that. There were rumors, nothing more.”

“Rumors of a milagrero. A milagrero who now belongs to Beatriz Hortolano.”

Garavito spat. “If Don Víctor has a problem with—”

“It would be wise to stop saying his name. You’ve spoken it too freely already. He forgave the loss of Donadei, but he cannot tolerate being the subject of gossip. You’ve been talking about my inquiries into the olive farmer and our acquaintance in Toledo. You brought our employer’s name into the conversation. So, no, he doesn’t trust you, and that’s a very bad thing.”

Garavito lunged. Santángel knew he would. He’d seen the way the big man’s stance shifted, the grip he adjusted on his knife. He stepped aside and let Garavito stumble past.

Garavito whirled and struck out again. Santángel could have dodged the blow, but his morning lesson with the scullion must have ruffled his mood. He let the strike land.

The knife lodged in Santángel’s gut, its dirty handle jutting from his torso like a mysterious growth.

A surprised laugh burbled from Garavito’s throat, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d accomplished. “Don Víctor’s scorpion doesn’t have much of a sting!”

He sounded so proud, so triumphant. Santángel almost felt guilty. Even so, he took some satisfaction in watching that triumph turn to bafflement when he yanked the knife from beneath his sternum.

He offered the hilt back to Garavito courteously. “Would you like to try again?”

Garavito stared at the knife in Santángel’s hand with the same suspicion his son had shown the stack of coins. Then he grabbed the hilt and stabbed again and again and again, driving Santángel back against the wall.

Santángel let himself be shoved about. He knew he was being silly, theatrical. He should have crept into Garavito’s house and slit his throat. Now he was bleeding and he’d probably have to suffer through some kind of fever tonight. Maybe he thought Garavito, who called his son half-moon and liked to skin the creatures in his keeping while they were still alive to feel it, didn’t deserve a quick death. Maybe he was bored. His mind had moved ahead to the walk home and what he would choose for tomorrow’s lesson.

Again he pulled the knife from his gut.

“Devil,” Garavito said, backing away. He crossed himself, eyes locked on the blood seeping through Santángel’s doublet. “God help me. Jesus save me.”

“It does hurt,” Santángel said. “If that makes you feel any better.”

It was time to bring this scene to an end. He turned the knife on Garavito: quick jabs to the stomach—an echo of the attack he’d just endured, another bit of theater—one strike after another until his opponent crumpled, then a slash behind each knee to make sure he couldn’t get up.

Santángel opened the cages, releasing coney, genet cats, weasels, ermines that had not yet sloughed off their brown coats for winter white, a single fox. Some fled. Others rose on back legs, scenting the blood on the air, their hunger making them bold.

He watched them creep tentatively toward where Garavito lay moaning, trying to cover the enticement of his wound. Maybe his neighbors would hear the screaming and come help him. Maybe they’d remember the shove he’d given them in the street or the clout across the face and they’d close their windows against the sound.

As Santángel passed through the cramped apartment, he saw Manuel hadn’t left. He was lurking by the window, watching his father die.

“I needed to know,” Manuel said. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Make sure you’re gone before the authorities arrive,” Santángel replied, and slipped back onto the street. Víctor would tell him to murder the boy too, but Víctor wasn’t here.

It took him less than half an hour to traverse the city, his cloak drawn tight over his ruined clothing, the distraction of the crowded streets welcome as he made his way past the houses built over the old garrison walls. He hadn’t lied to Garavito. His injuries were painful, but pain held no real interest for him. He knew it would stop. He knew death wasn’t coming. Pain without fear was easy to bear. He would wash his hands and change his clothes, and forget Garavito’s name the way he’d forgotten so many others.

Too soon he saw the Casa de los Estudios, the women calling to one another from the grocers’ stalls in the Plaza del Arrabal, the acrobats performing in the square that fronted the Alcázar, and there, Víctor’s new palace—a great slab of achievement. This was the third De Paredes palace Santángel had lived in. There had been rented rooms, then humble houses, then grand ones as the family’s wealth grew. This palace had been built in the Italianate style, all stone instead of brick, a testimony to the De Paredes fortune. It was the newest of his many properties, built when rumors began that Philip would move his court to Madrid.

Víctor’s massive bodyguard was outside his library. El Peñaco, he was called, a wrestler and fighter from somewhere near Sigüenza. Víctor always kept him near when Santángel wasn’t in his presence.

“Garavito?” Víctor asked when he glimpsed Santángel in the doorway.