Black Dog Short Stories (15 page)

     Now the whole scene revolted him, though he hardly understood why.

     Everything was the same. Grayson wouldn’t challenge Thos, no one would challenge Ezekiel, even Melanie would obey the Dimilioc Master.

     And yet everything had changed. Ezekiel stood perfectly still, waiting for the silent waves of fury and grief and shock to crest and ebb. He was used to fury; but he did not understand the grief or the shock, and he was distantly aware there was no time now to sort out what he felt or why.

     Melanie flung open his door without knocking, stalked in, saw the supper table, and glared at Ezekiel. “I suppose you think—”

     Ezekiel took the few necessary steps, caught her arm, and pulled her hard against his chest. He set his other hand behind her neck, stopping her attempt to wrench herself away. Her heart leaped and raced. Ezekiel met her eyes from a distance of mere inches. She seemed so small. Vulnerable.

     Ezekiel smiled, his lazy executioner’s smile, the way he smiled when he wanted to terrify someone. Then he kissed her, brutally hard, and the intoxicating scent of fear suddenly filled the room, far more vivid than the scents of food and hot candlewax.

     Her eyes were wide with disbelief as well as fear. The fear was what he needed; the disbelief was dangerous.  When she tried to speak, he put a hand hard over her mouth, refusing to allow it. Leaning forward, he whispered to her what he wanted to do to her. He told her explicitly what he intended to do to her, how much he hoped she would not get pregnant right away, how much he planned to enjoy the weeks before a pregnancy could be confirmed. She believed him. She fought, twisting to get away . . . utterly hopeless; she could not possibly match his strength. She knew it, but she fought anyway. She was panting, short hard breaths like an animal run to exhaustion. Like prey. Utterly seductive.

     “I want you forever,” he told her. He held her still, met her eyes, and smiled with black-dog savagery and with the special savagery that was all his own. “I won’t give you up to Daniel,” he whispered. “And you’ll smile for me no matter what I do, or I’ll make Daniel an example for the ages. Thos won’t object. Shall we make sure?” He caught her wrist again and hauled her toward the door.

     She was weeping by the time they had reached Thos Korte’s private apartment. She was trying not to, but she was terrified and couldn’t hide it. Ezekiel had left bruises on her arms, on her throat. He had let his shadow claws tear bloody tracks in her wrist; he had hit her once when she had persisted in trying to fight him, a slap that had bloodied her lip as well. She was no longer trying to fight him. The scents of blood and terror were intense, provocative.

     Thos opened his door. He surveyed the scene. One pale eyebrow rose, and he stepped back, inviting Ezekiel to enter with a brief tip of his head.

     “She went to Grayson,” Ezekiel told him, with savage scorn. “Grayson and his brother and Zachariah. I overheard part of their little chat. Why don’t you send for them, ask them about the rest of it?” He shoved Melanie hard, so that she stumbled across the room, catching at a heavy chair to stop herself falling to the floor.

     The other eyebrow rose. Thos picked up a house phone and murmured into it.

     “I want her without strings,” Ezekiel told the Master. “I don’t care about Daniel, he could even be useful, but I’m not having him touch her. That’s the order I want you to give.”

     Thos was beginning to look amused. “We can discuss it.”

     “I’ve earned her,” Ezekiel began, but stopped, swinging around aggressively, as Grayson appeared in the doorway. Harrison and Zachariah were at his back.

     Grayson’s eyes flicked from Melanie, still clinging to the chair, to Ezekiel, to Thos. The expression in his eyes went bleak and hard. A lesser black wolf might have broken and run, however hopeless that flight. Grayson had far too much control for that. When Thos beckoned to him, he came, grimly. Harrison and Zachariah glanced at each other. Harrison’s expression was as grim as his brother’s. Zachariah showed nothing at all. Both of them followed Grayson, one on his left and the other on his right, making no attempt to disguise their allegiance. Not that any such attempt could have succeeded.

     “And I’ll earn her again tonight,” Ezekiel said to Thos. He added to Zachariah, smiling his savage, deadly smile, “Well, uncle, do you think you might slow me down? Do you think I might hesitate to kill you?”

     Zachariah’s mouth tightened. He said nothing.

     “Grayson’s the cornerstone,” Ezekiel said to Thos. “Kill him, and the other two will fall into line.”

     “Yes,” the Master said, in that faintly impatient tone that was sometimes the only warning he gave of rising temper.

     “Well, then?” Ezekiel shifted forward half a step, his attention on Grayson, watching with predatory alertness for any sign that the other man might try to fight, might try to run. Grayson might even attack Thos. If he did, things might get very complicated and very dangerous.

     Grayson shifted his weight, measuring both Ezekiel and Thos—his face and hands began to distort with the change as his shadow rose—everyone balanced for that instant on the knife-edge of violence—

     Then Thos Korte lifted a hand. His shadow rose, heavy, so dense it seemed to have actual physical heft. It  rolled forward with irresistible power, pressing Grayson’s shadow down and back. Grayson tried to fight that smothering weight, but he had told Melanie he did not have the Master’s strength and he had been right. He lowered his eyes suddenly, like a fencer casting down his weapon, and went heavily to his knees.

     “Well?” said Thos.

     “Ezekiel’s right,” Grayson said, his tone flat. “Without me, neither Harrison nor Zachariah will threaten you.”

     “With or without you, neither of them can threaten me. But it’s clear enough one treacherous conspiracy after another is going to form around you, if you live.” There was still nothing stronger in the Master’s tone than that trace of impatience. He glanced at Ezekiel. “Do it,” he ordered. “Don’t draw it out.”

     Ezekiel smiled. He let his black-dog shadow burn through his body like fire. His bones twisted and thickened. Black claws extended from his fingertips. He stepped toward Grayson. Harrison turned his head away; Melanie sank to her knees, pressing her hands to her mouth. No one else moved. Grayson met Ezekiel’s eyes. He did not move or speak.

     Ezekiel stared back at Grayson. He didn’t glance aside. But, as he passed close to Thos, he drove his claws straight across the Master’s back, tearing through his spine in one swift blow.      Ezekiel did not wait to see what violent defense Thos might wring out of the last second of his life, but instantly following the first blow with another slashing cut across the Master’s belly and side, and then, almost before his body twisted around and began to fall, a third across his neck, a brutal blow that again tore across the spine.

     Thos did not even have time to look surprised. His dense shadow roiled and twisted, abruptly freed, and his body hit the floor almost before the blood sprayed across the room.

     Ezekiel took two precise steps back, away from Grayson, shifting from human to black dog and back again as he moved, letting his shadow carry away both the drenching blood and the hot rage between one step and the next—a blatant display of control no other Dimilioc wolf could match. He turned his shoulder to the three older Dimilioc wolves, holding a hand down toward Melanie instead. He was not smiling now. He was not trying to frighten anyone: he had let that go. He let everything go. He looked into Melanie’s face. She stared back, appearing stunned.

     He said quietly, ignoring the other black wolves, “I’m sorry. I needed your fear and anger and blood. As a distraction, do you understand? I couldn’t let Thos realize
I
was afraid. But I am sorry.”

     Melanie continued to stare at him, her eyes wide. Her gaze slid toward Thos’ body and jerked away as though the sight burned her.

     “You saved yourself,” Ezekiel told her. “You said Thos was a terrible Master. I heard you. I asked myself, was that true? I had never . . . do you understand, I had never wondered that before?”

     Melanie said nothing. She shook her head a little, not in denial, Ezekiel thought, but in disbelief of . . . just everything.

     “You said people would follow Grayson. I could see that was true. I asked myself, would Dimilioc be different if Grayson was Master? And I could see it would be different. Better.”

     Still no response.

     Ezekiel backed away a step to give her a little more room. He said, even more quietly, “I saw there was this chance, tonight, if I chose to take it. So I did. But it was cruel for you. I am truly sorry.”

     After another moment, Melanie uncurled slowly from her tucked-down self-protective posture. Reaching out, she let Ezekiel take her hand and lift her to her feet. He put a hand under her elbow to steady her. She seemed to need the support. “You’re all right,” he told her, hoping it was true.

     “I . . .”

     “Go let Daniel out. He’ll be glad to see you. Tell him—” he stopped. Then he said, and heard the weariness in his own voice, “Tell him no one will step between you and him now.”

     The mention of Daniel gave her new strength and assurance, and a new direction, as he had intended. She nodded firmly, pressed his arm once in wordless gratitude—he thought it was gratitude, though she might have just needed to catch her balance. Then she was gone.

     Ezekiel turned to face Grayson. Zachariah and Harrison had spread out, one to either side, aware, as Melanie had not been, that the evening was not over. They were ready to attack or defend. So was Grayson. He had gotten to his feet at some point after Thos’ death and now stood regarding Ezekiel, his expression unreadable.

     “Do you think you can take me?” Ezekiel asked him. “Even all of you together? Shall we find out?” He shifted his weight forward in subtle threat. Harrison immediately eased around to get behind him on the left, Zachariah moving to the right. Ezekiel’s shadow wanted to answer that implicit threat. It wanted the change and then the fight, blood and fire and death. It did not care who died as long as it wasn’t him.

     Grayson’s eyes narrowed. His shadow rose, dark and powerful. As Thos had done, he let his shadow roll forward to flatten and smother Ezekiel’s shadow. Except, as they had both known, Grayson was not as strong as Thos Korte had been.

     Ezekiel took a step forward. Another. His black-dog shadow rose around him. Not as smoothly or as fast as usual. But it rose. Grayson might hobble it, but he could not force it down. Ezekiel said softly, “It’s like walking through molasses. But I think I could still take you, even now, one on one. Possibly even all of you together.”

     Grayson tilted his head. “What does that mean to you?”

     Ezekiel met his eyes. “It means I’m too dangerous. You can’t trust me at your back.”

     Heavy brows rose. “
Thos
certainly couldn’t trust you at his back, and he was much stronger than I. But I am not Thos.”

     Ezekiel nodded slightly, acknowledging this. He said slowly, “I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to kill you.”

     “Then don’t.”

     Grayson made it sound simple. There was nothing simple about it. Ezekiel glanced over his shoulder at his uncle. Zachariah met his gaze, wordless. Waiting. For a signal from Grayson, for a sign from Ezekiel himself? Ezekiel couldn’t tell. He said, though he didn’t know why it seemed important that he say it, “You were right, you know. I don’t want to kill you, either, uncle. If it came to a fight, you could slow me down.”

     “That’s good to know,” said Zachariah, without detectable irony.

     Ezekiel turned back to Grayson, took a step forward. Another. His black-dog shadow pressed him hard, wanting to rise, wanting to force the change. It drove him more fiercely than usual because the moment was so stiff with tension and the threat of violence. But Ezekiel held his shadow flat almost without effort, although Grayson was no longer trying to use his own power to smother it. He had learned to do that from Grayson, of course.

     He dropped to his knees.

     Showing no surprise, Grayson came forward the remaining small distance and set a hand on Ezekiel’s shoulder, closing his other hand around Ezekiel’s throat. His hands were nearly human, but blunter and broader than human hands, every finger tipped with a curved black claw.

     Ezekiel did not move to evade Grayson’s grip. His heartbeat had picked up: he couldn’t help that, though he knew they could all hear it. Yet, though he was afraid of what Grayson would do, he found himself oddly unafraid of Grayson himself. He realized now—he had not understood it before—that he had
always
been afraid of Thos Korte.

     He said, “Melanie was right. You’ll be a good Master for Dimilioc.” Then he waited.

     But the pause lengthened, and Grayson did not tear out Ezekiel’s throat. He said, his deep voice unreadable, “I don’t want to kill you. Can I trust you at my back? I think I can. I think I might.”

     “I
killed
Thos.”

     Grayson’s heavy eyebrows rose. “I’m not Thos. Besides, Melanie trusts you.”

     “Not anymore—”