Black Dog (20 page)

And, because he could not stop it, he let his black dog rise. But he did not let it come up through him – he
would
not. He set a determinedly human jaw and
refused
. He was
not
his
shadow. He
would not be
.
And instead of letting his black dog come out, he cast it forward across the boy's shadow, smothering the black pup with his greater strength, crushing the boy's shadow back and down, forcing him into human shape. It was exactly what Grayson Lanning had done to him, twice. He hadn't thought he understood what the Dimilioc Master had done until he needed to do it himself and found he actually could.

The boy was screaming in rage and twisting to get away, but he was fully back in his human form, and when he hit Alejandro, it was only with a human hand, clawless and ineffectual. Alejandro picked him up, leaned his head away from the boy's furious blows, and glared at his mother.

She stopped dead, holding her hands out in front of her body. After a second, realizing she still held the knife, she threw it down. “Don't…” she said to Alejandro. Her voice was husky with terror. She was a tall woman, big, with a strong-boned plain face, black eyes, short-cropped black hair, and skin the color of caramel. She said again, “Don't…”

“No,” Alejandro told her. His own voice was unfamiliar in his ears, harsher and deeper than it should have been, a sign of how hard his shadow pressed him. He was furious with reasonless black dog anger, hardly able to bring human words to his tongue. He was so close to the change. He knew it. But he did not change, he
would
not. He growled, “Come. Come,” and, still carrying the boy, caught the woman by the arm and dragged her with him back around the house.

In front of the trailer, the battle was less comic. Alejandro might have been injured by those silver knives, and never heard the last of it – a Pure woman and a little black dog pup, oh, such enemies! But Thaddeus was huge, powerful, and desperate. And he was
using
his black dog fury – his shadow was gathered around him, under tight control. He now did not look at all human, but he had still not fully changed, so he was able to grip his silver blade. He attacked Ezekiel, slashing.

Thaddeus was trying to kill Ezekiel, but, Alejandro realized, Ezekiel was still trying not to kill Thaddeus. He was fully changed, but he, no less than the other man, was still in full control of his shadow: even as they watched, he drew Thaddeus into a reckless attack that left him seriously overextended, but then pulled his return blow so that rather than ripping right through Thaddeus's belly and tearing out his spine, he only left a set of incisions that, though bloody, barely sliced through the skin.

And he made it look easy. Surrounded by the dense anger and pounding heat of battle, Ezekiel still somehow looked lazy, disdainful, barely involved even when he spun away from a backhanded sweep of the silver knife that might have taken off half his face. Black ichor dripped from his shoulder, so an earlier stroke of that blade must have cut him, but he was still unbelievably fast–

“Oh, God,” whispered the woman, seeing as well as Alejandro how the fight was going.

“Scream,” Alejandro growled at her urgently. When she only stared at him, terrified and defiant, he let claws slide out of his fingertips and held his hand up threateningly near her son's face. The boy squirmed and fought, tried to bite with blunt human teeth. Alejandro shook him hard, snarling, his shadow pressing at him as it tried to rise, and the child, at last frightened into submission, whimpered and shut his eyes.

“Con!” said the woman, half reaching toward her son, hesitating, afraid of Alejandro, terrified for her husband.

Alejandro thought his face was no longer exactly human. When he snarled, “Scream!” at the woman, he couldn't tell whether he spoke in English or Spanish or in any human language at all. If he frightened her enough, it wouldn't matter–

The woman threw her head back and screamed, a shriek they could probably hear both in Mexico and Vermont.

Thaddeus whirled around and saw his wife, his son, and Alejandro, with his black dog shadow thick around him and his claws threatening the boy. He made a guttural noise, half scream and half roar, gathered himself for a lunge–

“Thad, no!” cried the woman. “Oh, God, no!”

Thaddeus tried so urgently to stop that he slid sideways and nearly fell, a cloud of dust and ash pluming up around him. Ezekiel, in exactly the right position to tear out his throat and crush his spine, instead hit his arm to make him drop the silver knife and then backed away, folding himself upright, back into human shape, with his amazing smooth speed.

There was that sudden cessation of all action that sometimes happens in a fight, a frozen moment in which no one moved or spoke or sobbed, in which the whole world seemed to pause. Ezekiel stood poised and balanced despite the ugly cut across his shoulder from Thaddeus' silver knife. Thaddeus made no move to reclaim the knife, though it had fallen only a few feet away. He was panting heavily, head lowered, blood and ichor clotting his black pelt. He should change, let his shadow carry away his injuries, but it was clear to Alejandro that he couldn't, that he was too distraught. He tried, his black dog shadow shivered, but the moon's hard pull supported the shadow; it would not subside willingly, and Thaddeus clearly could not, at this moment, force it down.

Ezekiel moved forward a step, young and slim and arrogant, totally in control of the situation. “Enough!” he said, without a hint of the black dog growl. “Williams, that is enough! Get your shadow down, and keep it down! Where's your control? Well? Will you force me to kill you even now?”

Alejandro tried to imagine explaining to Grayson that they'd come this far, fought this powerful black dog to a standstill, and then had to kill him after all because he could not be controlled. It was all too easy to imagine what Grayson might say in return. Closing his eyes, he shoved his own shadow out and forward as he had done to stop the boy's attack. He used the weight of his own shadow to press Thaddeus Williams's shadow down and back, supporting Thaddeus's own efforts to force it down.

At last, Thaddeus shuddered and straightened as his black dog retreated. Then it was finally a man who crouched there in the dirt, on his hands and knees, in torn jeans and a plain black T-shirt. His gaze locked for one helpless moment with his wife's before he moved to stare at Alejandro and, still in his grip, the boy.

Ezekiel gave Alejandro an odd look, not quite pleased. “Picked up Grayson's little trick, have you?”

Alejandro had no idea how to answer that.

But Thaddeus turned at once toward Ezekiel. For an instant he looked into the Dimilioc
verdugo
's
face. Then, dropping his gaze, he said, his deep voice rough with terror and fury and the remnants of battle, “Please. Please. Whatever you do to me – damn you, you son of a bitch! Do anything you want to me, but don't hurt my wife or son!”

Ezekiel relaxed. He straightened his shoulders and smiled. Despite the blood oozing from the cut across his shoulder, he looked for all the world as though he'd just concluded a civilized conversation with the man, not fought a roaring battle with him that might well draw the more foolhardy neighbors and maybe the
policia
. He did not seem worried about either possibility. He said, “How kind of you to offer. Another time, you might try that first, do you think? However, this time I'm not hunting. I'm merely a messenger. Grayson wants to see you himself.”

“Oh, God,” said Thaddeus. He rubbed his big hands over his face and was silent for a moment. Then he looked up again, met Ezekiel's eyes for an instant, and bowed his head again, bowed his whole body down. It took an obvious effort. “I'll come. I'll come with you – I won't fight you. Just don't… Please. I don't know why Grayson Lanning gives a shit about me, all these years, all he's got to have on his plate right now, you'd think… but if it's me he wants, let them go. Please.”

“You know that's not the way it's going to be,” Ezekiel said, still smiling.

Sádico
son of a bitch, Alejandro did not say. All black dogs were more or less cruel, but a
man
tried to be decent despite the pressure from his shadow. He said sharply to Thaddeus, “Do you think the Dimilioc Master would hurt a Pure woman?”

The man laughed harshly, a sound almost like a snarl and almost like a sob. He did not try to get up, but the muscles of his back and shoulders bunched and his big hands closed into fists. “Fuck, kid. Oh, God. Do you think I don't know what
Grayson Lanning
will do with a Pure woman? He'll tell his little bastard of an executioner to pin me up as an example, and then he'll pass my DeAnn to one of his black wolves. He'll murder my son to clear the way for her to bear a pup from one of the Dimilioc bloodlines–”

“He will not!” snapped Alejandro – then stopped, surprised at the anger in his own voice.

Ezekiel, from the ironic lift of his eyebrows, had caught Alejandro's sudden uncertainty. But he only said, “Well, we'll all find out, won't we? Because we are all going to get in this SUV and drive back to the airport and get in my plane and fly back to Vermont. No one is going to fuss or cry…” He glanced at the silent boy in Alejandro's grip, who was now standing on his own feet. The child was shivering, but no longer struggling. He mostly kept his gaze on the ground, but flicked quick little glances at his father – black dog instinct kept him from looking at Alejandro, far less Ezekiel.

 “Or try to run away, or cause a scene,” Ezekiel continued, lifting an eyebrow at the woman, and then finished, straight to Thaddeus. “Or let his shadow up so we can enjoy another little tussle like this one. You've lost the fight, Thaddeus. Don't start another. Hear me?” Staring hard at the black man, he added in a much quieter tone, “Because Grayson told me to bring you and your wife, but he didn't say a word about your black pup here. Do you understand me?”

Everyone understood him. Only Alejandro doubted he would carry out that threat, and then only because he realized Ezekiel knew that Grayson would want the boy alive.

“Good, then,” Ezekiel said briskly. “We'll be moving quickly, but let's tie up a few loose ends first. You, woman. DeAnn. Get that silver knife and put it in the car. Alejandro, bring that pup here to me and then get my kit out of the car. The black bag,” he added impatiently when Alejandro hesitated.

That wasn't why Alejandro had hesitated, but he nodded and said quickly, “There are two more knives. They each had one, even the
niño
.”

Ezekiel clicked his tongue. “Of course they did,” he said, sounding annoyed. He looked Alejandro over quickly. “You cut?”

“No.”

“Good. Let me have the kid. You go get a blanket or something from the house, wrap up all the knives, stow them in the car. Then get me the black bag.”

Alejandro shoved the boy toward Ezekiel – the
verdugo
wouldn't hurt him, surely, not if he wanted to use the child as a
rehén
, a hostage. But even so, Alejandro hurried.

The interior of the trailer was surprisingly cheerful, very much a home made by a Pure woman, with none of the grim atmosphere of a black dog lair. The furniture was cheap, but covered with bright throws; there were equally bright rag rugs on the floor. The walls were lined with brick-and-board shelves, which were stuffed with paperbacks and the occasional hardcover – all kinds of books: mysteries and thrillers shoved in alongside romances and a battered copy of
Don Quixote
. Again, Alejandro felt an unexpected surge of homesickness: Mamá had loved books. He thrust it down, grabbed a red throw off a chair, and ran outside again to gather up the silver knives.

Ezekiel's black bag proved to contain, among other things, first aid supplies and half a dozen broad silver bracelets lined with black leather. Someone Pure must have blooded the bracelets for Ezekiel, because he handled them without hesitation, although Alejandro and the little boy both winced away from their bright, clear fire.

“You planning to fight me over this?” Ezekiel asked Thaddeus, holding up the bracelets. “Because if you fight, you'd better win, or I'll beat the hell out of you and then I'll gut your pup like a fish. And you won't win.”

Thaddeus looked at his wife. She shook her head, a swift, urgent gesture. He slumped, a subtle change, more of attitude than posture. “No,” he said to Ezekiel, not looking at him. “No, you bastard. I won't fight you.”

“Good.” Ezekiel dropped all but two of the silver bracelets back into his bag, and said over his shoulder to Alejandro, “If he starts to change, stop him.”

“Yes,” Alejandro agreed. He did not know whether he could do it again if he needed to. But he did not need to try, because Thaddeus, true to his word, did not fight. He held out one arm and then the other, allowing Ezekiel to bend a silver band tight around each of his thick wrists. The wide bracelets looked like the proper sort of jewelry for such a big man, showing bright against his dark skin. But, of course, they were not meant as jewelry.

Thaddeus did not even wince from the silver, which had to be pride – the silver was vivid enough in the evening to make Alejandro flinch, and no one was forcing him to
wear
it. At least the leather backing ought to keep the bracelets from burning Thaddeus. Probably. If he did not wear them for too long.

Ezekiel stepped back, not precisely relaxing, but seeming less edgy. “Alright,” he said to Alejandro, tossed him the first aid kit, and shrugged out of his shirt. The long cut from the silver knife gaped wide, deeper than Alejandro had guessed; blood ran sluggishly down Ezekiel's arm. The
verdugo
craned his neck to survey the damage, which, inflicted by a silver weapon, would heal almost human-slowly. Then he gave Thaddeus a cold look. The black dog turned his head away.