Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3) (36 page)

“Vampire magic just is,” Natividad said. “But, Justin—”

“
You
will not get anywhere near that vampire,” Ezekiel said flatly. “Justin is perfectly correct.” He added to Justin, “Keziah and I will ensure you succeed in reaching it. It will despise you because you are Pure, but it may see your Pure magic and miss seeing
that
—” he jerked his hand at the weapon— “until it is too late.” He turned again to Natividad, “I assume that thing
is
simple to use?”

Justin could see Natividad hesitate and knew she was tempted to claim that using her stake against that vampire would require some complex ritual of Pure magic that only she knew. He said, “Don’t try it. I won’t believe it.”

Natividad looked at him and said at last, reluctantly, “No, you just shove it in. Anywhere. Either end first.”

“It’s not very pointy.”

“It doesn’t have to be. It’s magic. But I—”

“No,” snapped Ezekiel and Justin at once, and traded a glance. “Right,” Justin said. He took a deep breath, stepped forward, and touched two fingertips to the stake. It felt . . . horrible. Cold and . . . just horrible. The tactile awareness of it crept up his whole arm. His muscles twitched with a visceral desire to jerk away. He wanted to snatch his hand back, pick the thing up with tongs, and bury it six feet deep in hallowed ground. Maybe chop it up first, into about a thousand little tiny pieces. And burn the pieces. Bury the ashes . . .

The house shook. No. Not the house. The protective wards drawn upon the house’s stone and wood and glass. Those wards were shaking, a soundless trembling that set Justin’s teeth on edge. He’d drawn half those crosses himself. He suspected he knew whose part of the wards would crumble first, under this assault.

Clenching his teeth, he picked up the magic-wrapped rod. Stake. It was a stake, for all it wasn’t pointy. You killed vampires with a stake through the heart. Or, apparently, just by shoving it in anywhere, if you had the right kind of stake. Like this one, which felt as though it were trying to crawl across his skin. He shuddered, and turned to look at Ezekiel, and the door blew in, shattering, and Keziah picked him up and hurtled with him through the window, smashing the window frame and half the wall as she crashed through it. Justin held the stake in both hands, as far from her as he could, fighting his instinct to drop it and cling to her shaggy pelt

Keziah landed heavily, cushioning his fall with her powerful body, set him on his feet, and whirled to snarl upward at the house with furious loathing. Ezekiel crashed down beside her, not quite in his black dog form, but nearly. Natividad clung to him, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her eyes, wide with terror, met Justin’s. She called out to him, but Justin couldn’t hear her: above them, the vampire shrieked, and shrieked again, the sound cutting thin and awful through the night, and he couldn’t hear anything else. He flinched back toward Keziah’s massive form, though he was still careful to keep the stake away from her. She snarled again, hot and powerful at his back, and he wondered how he could ever have thought black dogs were frightening.

The vampire dropped down from the shattered window, half falling and half climbing, moving not like a person or even a primate, but head down and scuttering, like a movie special effect. Justin hardly believed in it, though it was coming right toward them. Keziah shoved him hard and he fell, sprawling, unable to catch himself because he couldn’t, wouldn’t let go of the stake. He half saw Keziah hurl herself toward an opponent bigger and more terrible that she was, one of the zombie black dogs—he was tangentially aware of the rapid, sidelong approach of blood kin, at least a dozen, gaunt and savage, red eyes gleaming. He couldn’t see Ezekiel anywhere, but heard a guttural roar somewhere not far away and guessed Ezekiel would not be able to help, not right away. And the vampire was on the ground, now—skittering forward with abrupt little dashes punctuated by strange reasonless pauses. He thought he could see the shreds of Ezekiel’s shadow tangled in its own magic, which was not dense and heavy like a black dog’s shadow, but made of a horrible clotted emptiness, a kind of violent absence of self or soul.

Natividad dropped to her knees and swept her hands across the grass of the yard, dug her fingers into the grass and earth, cried out words in sharp, rapid Spanish, and threw a double handful of soil at the closest of the blood kin. They sheered away, hissing. Even the vampire hesitated, unless that was just one of its inexplicable pauses.

Justin thought he could make a mandala
now
, only if he did that, how would the vampire get close to him? He wanted more than anything for it to get farther away, not closer but
he
was the one with the stake. He got to his feet. His legs felt shaky; his knees wanted to fold up; he wanted to fall to the ground and sob like a baby. More than that, he wanted to throw the stake away, or at least hold it out at arm’s length, as far from his body as he could. Instead he held it down, hiding it along his leg.

Behind him, Keziah screamed. Justin didn’t look. He took a step toward the vampire.

Which darted suddenly sideways and forward and right past him, avoiding him by so much he couldn’t even lunge after it with the stake. It was so fast, horribly fast, and it snatched at Natividad with its horrible yellow claws, hissing and sidling as she threw soil at it, but unlike the blood kin, it wasn’t stopping, it wasn’t going to stop, it was going to shake off her magic and
touch
her. Justin couldn’t bear to think of its corruption touching her but he knew he couldn’t reach her in time to stop it.

The vampire closed its hands around her neck and arm and picked her up, its jaws gaping wide, long fangs gleaming like obsidian in its mouth. It did not bite her, though, but only dragged her away—away from the fight, away from her friends, away from allies and friends and family and everyone who loved her. Justin could see how hopelessly fast the vampire was; he could measure its strength from the way it jerked Natividad along. He looked desperately for Ezekiel, but Ezekiel, still only partly in black dog form, was battling two of the zombie black dogs, and obviously losing.

Justin shouted, wordlessly, and threw the stake—not at the vampire, exactly, but to Natividad, who put out both hands and caught it without even looking, and shut her eyes, and drove the stake into its chest.

The earth and air cracked open with a sound like the world breaking.

Behind and below the vampire, a narrow, endless abyss of empty darkness gaped. A sharp, cold wind sighed out of the emptiness—not really a wind, for it had neither force nor motion, but it was
like
a wind.

The vampire crouched, half turning, its crimson eyes mad with hatred and loss. But it did not let go of Natividad, even when it crumbled to dust and blew away, into the abyss. Its horrible magic, empty and bodiless, crumbled with it, but the shreds of dense black dog shadow it had stolen were caught by the wind and carried with it into the dark. Natividad cried out and reached after those tatters of shadow—they tangled around her hands. The stake fell, cracking and shattering before it hit the ground, all its light and shadow unraveling. At the last moment Justin thought Natividad tried to pull back, but the wind pressed her forward and the light poured past her and the shadows dragged at her, and she fell somehow into and through the narrow crack that slashed through the world, and disappeared.

Alejandro was always aware of the pain, of the burn of silver poisoning across his back and around his wrists, of pain that followed him when he shifted and clung to him no matter which form he took. The silver bullet had scored a thin line across his left side, directly across his left shoulder blade, then lodged itself beneath his right shoulder blade. At least one of his ribs had been broken, but worse, the silver had not been removed immediately. That was the cause of this lingering weakness and pain. Alejandro had never been seriously hurt before—at least, never by silver, which dealt wounds that resisted healing. He discovered he hated being injured, and suddenly respected the endurance of ordinary human people, who always had to bear their own injuries. He found that the pain was always in the forefront of his thoughts, distracting and infuriating. Though he tried and tried to reach after his awareness of his sister, the pain got in the way. He was almost sure she was still alive, but that was all.

At least by this time—nearing dawn at last—he could shift. He could stand, and move, and perhaps even fight, if he had no other choice. He knew the necessity might arise. They all knew that. Everyone knew that the Black Wolf of Russia would come here, if she had not been killed or captured. And no one thought she had been killed or captured. That would be too convenient.

Before Alejandro had been able to manage the
cambio de cuerpo
on his own, Grayson had forced him into black dog form and then back into human shape. Alejandro had not even known it was possible to do that. Roll another black dog’s shadow down and under: that, yes. But to first drag his shadow up and then force it down again: he had not known that was possible. Over and over, the Master had done that. It had not been pleasant. But it was a way of forcing healing, when the injury was too serious for the shadow to carry it away all at once. And any silver-poisoned wound was serious.

There was still this lingering pain and weakness. Alejandro knew it would pass, eventually. But too slowly, far too slowly, for him to go after Natividad and save her from the vampires and blood kin in the south. He had no choice but to leave that to Ezekiel. Nor would he soon be equal to battle with the Russian black dogs, if Zinaida Kologrivova did indeed lead her people against Dimilioc. He knew that, too, and hated his own weakness with bitter fury.

He still could hardly believe his sister had set herself against a vampire, though he had known she was afraid. Even knowing her fear, he had not expected the terrible messages that had been waiting for them at the house, once they finally reached Dimilioc. Plain and brief and terrifying. Natividad had tried so hard to call for help, and no one had heard her, and he had not been able to do anything to help her. And now it was too late.

Alejandro had been so furious with Ezekiel for leaving. He was so glad now that the
verdugo
had gone after her. Only he did not know whether Ezekiel had got to Natividad in time to help. Except that she was still alive.

But even Ezekiel himself might not be able to protect Natividad against a master vampire. Not well enough to get her away. No doubt it had made many blood kin. Maybe even one or two lesser vampires. Master vampires did not always make lesser vampires, which might someday become rivals or enemies, but they always made blood kin, slaves to protect them during the day and serve them during the night. How many blood kin could Ezekiel alone kill, never mind the vampire itself? Maybe Keziah was also there. But Keziah disliked Natividad. Alejandro did not trust her.

But there was nothing he could do. Whatever was happening in the south would happen. None of them could do anything to help. They could do nothing but wait to see who survived.

If anyone survived.

“She’ll be fine,” Miguel said from the doorway. “They all will.”

Miguel could not know that, and Alejandro felt a flash of anger that his brother would say something so childish and stupid. But Miguel’s eyes were dark with exhaustion, and Alejandro saw that he only hoped it was true and hoped Alejandro would agree with him. He bit back a sharp response. He said instead, his own statement of faith, “Ezekiel will protect her.”

“Right,” said Miguel.

Miguel had been helping Grayson get ready for the Chernaya Volchitza. Alejandro did not know exactly what Grayson planned. He only knew what everyone knew: that the woman would come here, seeking Natividad, and perhaps himself as well. Alejandro wondered what Zinaida Alexandrovna Kologrivova would think if she knew her vampire ally had encountered Natividad, not handed over as a gift, but come of her own will to fight it.

Probably the Russian woman would hope the vampire and Natividad would destroy each other. Probably she would think that the very best of outcomes.

The Chernaya Volchitza was strong, and ambitious, and she did not respect Dimilioc or Grayson Lanning. Alejandro would have liked to know how many black dogs she still owned, after Grayson and his human allies had sprung their trap. He would very much have liked to believe that Valentin was dead, but he doubted it. Probably Valentin still lived. And too many of the other Russian black dogs, as well. He did not want to think of such an enemy coming against Dimilioc now.

That was the other reason Grayson had not gone south himself, of course. Nor sent anyone else. He could not go, first because he would not get there in time to help and then also because he must guard Dimilioc against enemies closer to home. He could not send Thaddeus for exactly the same reason. Nor would Thaddeus have gone, leaving his wife and son here so little protected, nor would DeAnn lightly leave Natividad’s little Paloma, no more than she would her own son.

And Alejandro was not yet strong enough to defy Grayson and go himself. Nor could he have gotten there in time to help her, either.

“She’ll be fine,” Miguel said again, like a child asking for reassurance.

“
Sí
,” Alejandro answered. “Of course she will
.
Ven acá
.” He held his hand out to his brother, offering comfort as though Miguel was a child. But he turned his head sharply before his younger brother had taken more than a single step.

Miguel stopped, his head coming up alertly.

“She is here,” Alejandro said. He shut his eyes and braced himself against a table, reaching after the
cambio de cuerpo
. His shadow was slow to rise, reluctant. Alejandro’s rage called it and made it come, but it was slow, slow. Miguel was gone long before Alejandro had managed the full change. To get to a rifle and find a high vantage point, Alejandro hoped, but he did not know; he had not even seen which direction his brother had gone.

But he knew where to find Zinaida Kologrivov. That was easy to determine. Alejandro leaped forward and loped down the hall toward the shouting. He moved stiffly, not able to fully use his right forelimb, but he would have to do. There was no more time.

The Chernaya Volchitza had come, indeed. And in force. The Russian black dogs outnumbered the Dimilioc wolves nearly two to one, and most of them were much older and more powerful than the younger wolves Grayson had recruited for Dimilioc. Thaddeus was there, and he was very strong, but still only half Valentin’s age; James Mallory was there, and Andrew and Russell Meade, and Grayson himself. And little Amira. And that was all, besides Alejandro himself. Besides Valentin, Zinaida Kologrivova had brought
ten
Dacha wolves.

Miguel and probably others in the house had rifles loaded with silver bullets, but then several human men with rifles or those big harpoon guns also accompanied Zinaida Kologrivov. Alejandro could see them back in the trees. But as yet, no one was shooting. Alejandro doubted that would last.

No one was shouting anymore, either. The Black Wolf and Grayson Lanning had approached one another, out there in the open between the house and the forest. The Black Wolf had Valentin at her shoulder, but Grayson was alone. That made Alejandro uneasy and rubbed at his temper. He stared at Valentin with hatred, wishing his stare alone was enough to burn the other black dog to ash. Valentin looked back at him with a curled lip and then away again, dismissively.

Alejandro was too far away to hear what they were saying. He did not understand why no one was fighting. Probably Grayson had made some clever plan, but Alejandro did not know what it was and could not guess. Watching for any sign of violence or treachery, he limped slowly forward to join the other Dimilioc wolves. Turning slightly, Zinaida Kologrivova pointed to him and said something to Grayson. Alejandro, closer now, heard her harsh voice and saw the satisfaction in her cold, flat eyes, but the pain that had followed him through the change pulled at his attention and made it even harder than usual to understand human language. But he knew he did not like her to point at him, and did not like the contemptuous, superior tone with which she spoke to Grayson.

Grayson, with a patient, unimpressed air, half turned as well and beckoned to Alejandro.

Alejandro hesitated, thinking he might have misunderstood. Then he decided he did not care, he wanted to go there anyway, so he strode forward, trying to disguise his lame forelimb. He thought maybe he should shift back to his human form; he wanted to know what Zinaida Kologrivova said and what Grayson said in reply. And his shadow pressed at him, wanting to fight—wanting especially to fight
Valentin
, even more than Zinaida, even though he was still a little bit injured and Valentin was strong. But Grayson was here, Grayson would help. So Alejandro did not reach after the
cambio de cuerpo
. He stared at Valentin, curling his own lip back from black fangs.

Grayson began to speak. Alejandro did not understand him, and half turned his head, determined to listen harder, to understand. But the words meant nothing. And then Valentin said something, and in his hatred of the other black dog, Alejandro forgot even to listen.

Grayson lifted a hand and took one step forward, and the world cracked open with a sound like the sky breaking in half, and a bodiless wind that was not an ordinary wind whipped through the air. Strands of dense shadow exploded out of the abyss. The threads were part of Alejandro’s shadow, and they tangled with the greater part, and pulled at him, violently.

For a time that seemed to stretch out endlessly and yet to pass in an eyeblink, Alejandro fought the pull. Then, when he knew he must lose that battle, he leaped forward instead. He struck Grayson hard with his shoulder, throwing him clear, but leaped with determination straight for Valentin. His right limb gave beneath him, but he carried his weight in his shadow for that stride and the next and did not falter. Valentin, shouting, was actually backing away in obvious fear. Alejandro was afraid, too, but if he could only seize Valentin, he did not even care.

Someone was shouting—someone was screaming—Alejandro heard the flat
crack
of rifle fire, and frozen silver fire lashed across his face —but he crashed into Valentin, and grappled with him, and when his shadow wrenched him down and out and away from the world, he took the other black dog with him.

He thought he screamed, but he did not know; he could not hear his own voice. If the Russian wolf cried out, he could not hear him. He clenched his enemy to him and plummeted into the dark, and his last glimpse of the world was of Grayson Lanning, grim and furious, dwindling with a kind of distance that had nothing to do with ordinary space.

Natividad, reaching out of nothingness, caught him.

Horrified at the thought that he might have brought her enemy directly to her, Alejandro cast Valentin forcefully away. This time the Russian black dog was the one who tried to cling, but Alejandro tore him free and threw him aside and away, wrapped himself around Natividad instead, and held fast.

Through all of this first moment, Natividad’s presence in the dark actually seemed almost reasonable, and then Alejandro remembered she was Pure. Even if she had been killed, she should not have fallen away from the world into the fell dark. Yet she was here, with him, real and almost solid. Or not precisely real or exactly solid, but it was Natividad and she was here.

She was falling, too—they were both falling, a motionless crashing fall through the endless dark. They did not fall through actual darkness; they were not actually falling. It was worse than darkness, worse than falling; it was nothing, a blank emptiness. It was the dark that waited for black dogs, that claimed their shadows when they died and which sometimes took them entire, though no one ever spoke of that—they were like children, refusing to name their fear in case it rose up about them and swallowed them alive. As it had swallowed Alejandro.

But no misstep should have brought Natividad here. That, he did not understand. Yet she
was
here: he knew her; she glimmered with light, or with something like light, even here, where there was no light nor hope of light. She clung to his shadow; she held strands of it wrapped around her hands; though she was no more substantial than his shadow, she would not let him go. He wrapped himself around her and held on, voiceless here in this place where there was no sound—but he was accustomed to losing language, accustomed to be patient with silence and confusion.

Something else fell past them, reached for them, for Natividad—something cold and hungry, trying to steal her light and life. It might have been Valentin, but he thought the Russian black dog would have been hot, burning, and this thing was cold. His own shadow roared with furious heat, slashing back at that grasping thing, driving it away. It fell past and away, shrieking without sound or life.