Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3) (32 page)

Bodies were sprawled across the warehouse floor, black dog and human, all appearing equally human in the ruin of death. Several lay clustered together, dead in the first moment of battle, hardy a step from where they had been when Grayson had sprung his trap. Another of the Russians lay half across a crate, a harpoon gun abandoned near his limp hand. But the body near the Cadillac, that was surely one of the men Grayson had brought in; and there was another body near the open door.

He did not see either Zinaida or Valentin. But two of the human Russians were kneeling on the concrete floor of the warehouse, their fingers laced on top of their heads, with other men pointing guns at them. Those men wore black body armor, each with the American eagle badge on his shoulder, and Alejandro recognized them at last as American special forces—the unit formed during the past few years specifically to deal with all the creatures of the fell dark.

Alejandro had known that Grayson Lanning had allied with the American special forces during the last year of the war, feeding them information so that they could destroy the vampires Dimilioc could not reach. He had
known
that. But he had not even begun to guess that Grayson might call on them for something like this.

Then he saw that three of the special forces men were pointing their weapons at Grayson instead of at the Russians, and realized that this was not exactly an alliance after all. Or not any simple kind of alliance.

The Master of Dimilioc was standing very still. He was not kneeling, and he did not have his hands on the top of his head. He looked perfectly calm. He was not looking at the men who were pointing guns at him. He was looking past them, at another man, a black man, an ordinary human, but with uncommon confidence for a man surrounded by furious black dogs. The man was elegant, in a suit rather than body armor, with intelligent eyes set deep beneath iron-gray brows.

The black man met Grayson’s eyes without flinching. He walked forward, stepped fastidiously over a rivulet of blood, glanced around the warehouse, and shook his head minutely. “A waste,” he said. Though he was not a big man, his voice was smooth and deep. He looked around again, his attention lingering on spatters of smoking ichor that had not yet burned entirely away, and on the cluster of dead black dogs who had not managed to move even a step before his people had gunned them down, and at last on Alejandro and Ethan, injured and vulnerable. Alejandro did not ordinarily care what ordinary humans thought, but he found himself flinching from this man’s gaze.

Then the man turned his attention back to Grayson. “A waste,” he repeated. “Don’t compound it. Your young people are injured. I give you my word I will see their injuries treated. They won’t be harmed. You know you haven’t a chance of getting them clear now. I propose a policy of cooperation.”

“Colonel,” said Grayson, and looked past him, at the door.

The man raised his eyebrows, and turned. Alejandro looked also, and grinned with fierce satisfaction despite the radiating pain in his back.

Thaddeus stood in the wide doorway of the warehouse, in the half-shifted form he alone could hold for as long as he chose. Huge even in his fully human shape, the largest black dog Alejandro had ever seen in that form, in this in-between shape he seemed to take up the entire truck-wide doorway. He took one step forward, muscles rolling beneath his dense pelt. His face, short-muzzled and narrow-eyed, looked like nothing that had ever been human. Black lips were drawn back in a grin or a snarl; jet-black fangs gleamed like obsidian in his jaw. In one clawed hand, he held a knife nearly large enough to be a sword. His other hand was wrapped entirely around the neck of a special forces man. The man stood pale and very still beneath that grip, not looking at anyone and most especially not looking at his commanding officer.

Several of the special forces men shifted their aim to Thaddeus, but the colonel put up a hand and everyone stopped. Thaddeus grinned more widely. Or maybe that really was a snarl. It definitely showed a lot of teeth. If it bothered him at all to have a lot of guns pointed at his face, Alejandro couldn’t tell.

“Colonel Herrod,” Grayson said in a level voice, “Even a head shot won’t be quick enough to save your man. Even if the bullet is silver. You know you haven’t the faintest chance of getting your man back alive. Unless I let you have him. I propose a simple trade. I will take my young men and go, and yours will be released the moment we are clear. I give you my word that he will not be harmed in any way.”

The colonel’s expression did not change. “Two of your people for one of mine hardly seems a fair trade to me.”

Grayson inclined his head. “It’s the offer on the table. In your place, I would trade. But perhaps I value my people more than you value yours.”

Colonel Herrod’s mouth crooked in reluctant appreciation. He gave a small nod.

“Also, you should know that several of my wolves are still outside. If they hear shooting now, they won’t hesitate. You don’t want this battle. Not between your people and mine. I am certain you agree that, at the moment, we both have more urgent matters to which we should attend.”

There was a pause. Then Colonel Herrod shrugged. “True. Very well. Another day, then,” he said, and signaled. All the guns lifted, not quite in unison, to point at the ceiling. The man Thaddeus was holding let out a breath. Thaddeus only grinned more widely. Unless that was a snarl. His fangs glinted.

Grayson turned his head to inspect Alejandro and Ethan. Alejandro bowed his head, flushing. He knew what they must look like: injured and bloody, still bound with silver so they could not shift. Helpless.
Patético
.

“Can you get up?” Grayson asked, his tone completely neutral.

“If I have to,” Ethan said, his voice gritty with pain, and Alejandro answered at the same time, “
Sí,
yes, I think so,” though he was not sure.

“Take your time,” said Colonel Herrod. “No need to rush.” He clasped his hands behind his back and regarded them all with an expression of reserved disapproval.

Ignoring the human, Grayson strode over, gripped Alejandro by the arm, and hauled him up. Alejandro bit down on a scream and closed his own hand hard on Grayson’s wrist. He managed to get his feet under him, with an effort that seemed to tear every muscle in his back.

“That boy needs medical attention,” said Colonel Herrod. “Silver injuries are serious for your people, I know. Let me have him. I promise you, he’ll receive the best of care. You know I’m a man of my word, Lanning.”

“I know you’re a man under authority,” Grayson said, not turning. He picked Alejandro up bodily, carried him to the Cadillac, and put him in the back seat, more carefully and gently than Alejandro thought he deserved. Then he waited while Ethan eased himself in, and while Thaddeus folded himself into the front seat with the special forces man half beside him and half on his lap. They would never have fit in a smaller vehicle, and Alejandro wondered if Grayson had had even that detail in mind when he had chosen it.

But before he got into the car himself, Grayson turned back toward the Colonel. “As it happens, I have people in the south, attempting to deal with the vampire there.”

“On the spot, as always, Lanning?”

“Perhaps too much so, this time.”

“I see.”

“If it comes to that, Colonel, I would rather have my people in your hands than those of Zinaida Alexandrovna Kologrivov. Far less the vampire. You understand that whatever Zinaida Alexandrovna believes, no bargain is possible with that vampire.”

The colonel’s mouth twisted slightly. “You’re preaching to the choir on that one, Lanning.”

“Good,” said Grayson. He fixed the man with a steady stare. “Perhaps I will hear from you, then. A word of advice, if you will permit me. I’m not your enemy. Don’t make me into one. It’s not necessary. And not wise.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the colonel said, his tone utterly neutral.

Grayson got behind the wheel. Alejandro was sure the car would not start, that some stray bullet had damaged something important. Or a special forces sniper would shoot Thaddeus and then Grayson, and he and Ethan would be left, helpless, to find out what Colonel Herrod wanted with captive black dogs.

But the car did start, and no one opened fire. Colonel Herrod walked to the middle of the doorway and watched, expressionless, as the Cadillac backed smoothly down the drive. He was not holding a gun. No one shot after them. Grayson turned the wheel, and the car swung ponderously in a long curve and rolled out of the lot and onto the street.

The special forces man cleared his throat.

Grayson spared him a glance. “In a moment. When we are well away.”

“Right,” said the man. His voice hardly shook at all. He stared straight ahead, not turning his head to look up at Thaddeus. He cleared his throat again and said, “Might be kinder if you just tore my head off and pissed down my neck yourself.”

Thaddeus gave a growling laugh.

Grayson did not even smile. He said, “You may tell Colonel Herrod that I appreciate his assistance and look forward to working with him again, possibly quite soon, though preferably not at such close range.”

“I’ll tell him,” said the man. “Those exact words.”

“Yes.” The warehouse was well behind them, now. The night seemed perfectly empty. Grayson took his foot off the accelerator, allowing the Cadillac to coast to a halt. He gave a small jerk of his head, and Thaddeus opened the passenger side door and clambered out, then held the door for the human man.

The man slid over on the seat and caught the edge of the door to pull himself out. But then he paused.

Grayson turned his head, giving him a long, steady look.

The man nodded. He said, “You know . . . the colonel really is a man of his word. And I think he’s only under authority when he wants to be.”

“I shall remember,” Grayson said, his tone flat.

The man nodded once more. He got out of the car and walked away, not looking back.

Thaddeus shook his head and grimaced, trying to take his human shape. Alejandro could see the bones move in his face. Clearly he was having difficulty—too angry, maybe, or too caught up in black dog bloodlust. Grayson sighed and looked at him, a single powerful look, and Thaddeus shook himself all over and got back into the car, once more fully in his human shape. He fit better, but he still took up a lot of room.

“Amira?” Ethan asked, and Alejandro realized hazily that he had forgotten about her and that this was inexcusable, but he could not seem to track anything that was happening.

“She will arrive momentarily, I believe,” Grayson said, and got out of the car, standing with one hand on the frame of the open door, gazing back toward the warehouse. Alejandro looked that way as well, squinting. Though they had come only a short distance from the warehouse, it seemed infinitely far away. Russian black dogs and the battle seemed like things that had happened to someone else a long time ago. The night was quiet. Gentle waves lapped against the stone pilings at the edge of the harbor, and the sky stretched overhead, cloudless and filled with stars.

Amira came softly out of the shadows between two buildings, in her black dog form. Though she was not large in that form, she was big enough to carry Miguel, who was perched on her back, gripping her shaggy pelt with both hands.

For a moment, Miguel’s presence with Amira seemed to make perfect sense. Then Alejandro blinked and tried to lift his head, realizing that his brother’s presence here made no sense at all. He tried to speak, to ask what Miguel was doing here—had Grayson meant to offer him to the Black Wolf because Natividad was not here? No, that made less sense still, and he would not believe it of Grayson anyway . . .

“Colonel Herrod reacted exactly as you suggested,” Grayson said to Miguel. “
I
thought he might sacrifice his man to take my wolves. Or at least demand I trade one for one.”

Miguel nodded matter-of-factly. “Right, no, he wouldn’t’ve have done that, not even if he could’ve, which he couldn’t anyway, with all his people watching. No, Herrod’s not a bad guy, I’m pretty sure.
I
was afraid Zinaida would win. I did
not
want to try Plan B. Not even with Russell and Andrew to back me up.”

Ah. That made sense after all. A plan. Of course Miguel would have had a plan. Miguel always had a plan. With Andrew and Russell Meade to help him. Yes. That should have worked. Those two were used to listening to their human sister. They would probably listen to Miguel, if Grayson insisted. Alejandro leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, wondering vaguely what Plan B might have involved. It was hard to think. Though he was not in much pain. He thought he should hurt more. His wrists burned from the silver that still ringed them; his back burned and ached, worse every time he tried to shift position. But mostly he just felt tired and numb. And afraid for Natividad. He needed to tell Miguel and Grayson about Natividad. About her fear, her terror—she was in such danger—he knew she was still alive and not hurt, but she was so afraid. Her fear hurt him more than the silver. He said, “Master—Natividad—” but then darkness rose up around him, and he never heard Grayson’s answer.

Natividad knew perfectly well that there were too many blood kin for one black dog to fight, even if there hadn’t been the vampire.

It was hard to remember how horrible blood kin actually were. You saw one and it was dreadful and then you forgot how dreadful it was until the next time you had to face one. She knew blood kin had once been human, until a vampire made them into monsters. That was part of what made them so horrible. She knew that until a few years ago, they had been able to pass for human, that even when they were far away from any vampire, ordinary human people had simply looked right past their blood-red eyes and pointed black teeth and vicious yellow claws. She knew that up until just a couple years ago a lot of them had been mayors or politicians, judges or school principals; that they had lived right in among normal people and done their best to ruin human society, and no one had noticed a thing. Except the Pure. And the Pure had not been able to interfere, because that would mean war between the vampires and the civilized black dog houses.

Then Grayson had decided the war was inevitable, and started it. And at last the vampires were gone. Except, after all, not quite.

Watching those blood kin fight Keziah, Natividad could hardly believe anybody could ever have failed to see the blood kin for what they were, no matter how powerful the vampire magic that had disguised them.

They moved like machines, with a stilted, angular motion, as though their joints were no more human than their eyes, as though every bone in their bodies articulated in some strange way with the next bone. They moved like praying mantises or spiders, perfectly still until they moved and then shockingly fast and abrupt. They moved like nothing that had ever been human.

Keziah flowed around and past the blood kin, fluid and graceful in her black dog shape. She wasn’t Ezekiel; she couldn’t shift and shift again in the space of a breath, but she was cat-graceful and fast, and when she struck one of the blood kin, she didn’t just tear it up, but crushed it, too. She had killed several already, leaving their broken bodies crumpled across the street or the yard. One hung impaled across the decorative spikes of the neighbor’s wrought iron fence.

But the blood kin were fast, too, and more of them kept coming, and when one of them raked Keziah’s side or flank with vicious claws, black ichor spattered. And unlike Ezekiel, she could not shift to human shape and back quickly enough to shed her injuries; if she tried, they would be on her, rending her fragile human body into pieces.

They were trying to drive her toward the vampire, or pin her so the vampire could come to her. Natividad could see that. Keziah needed to close with the vampire eventually, of course, to blood Natividad’s knife, but she needed to be sure she could get away again, and that was going to be hard. She was faster than the blood kin, though, and she could leap back and forth across the mandalas, which they couldn’t even touch. Natividad saw her toss one of the blood kin all the way across the street and against the line of the outer mandala, and it burst at once into bright white flames. It screamed as it burned, high, piercing inhuman shrieking that went right through Natividad’s head and made her teeth hurt.

The vampire was a little like one of the blood kin, but different. Faster, stronger, darker, more horrifying. Harder to see, because you just could not bear to look at it. Natividad stood tucked against Justin’s side, her arm around his waist, taking a very human comfort from his closeness. She was sorry he was here, but at the same time she was so glad he was with her. She would have been so scared to be alone. She was scared enough now. She was shaking: a continuous slight tremor. Justin was shaking, too. She didn’t blame him at all. She wanted to say something to make him feel better, something reassuring. But anything reassuring she said would be a lie.

In the street below, Keziah flinched as the vampire rushed toward her, leaping away from it, retreating around the circle of Natividad’s mandala. Natividad couldn’t see the silver knife anywhere. She couldn’t believe Keziah had lost the knife or forgotten the plan, but then where was the knife and when was Keziah going to close with the vampire?

It followed Keziah, stalking with that strange inhuman movement, as though it had been put together out of bones and wire, as though it were manipulated by an unseen puppeteer—no natural creature moved like that. She retreated again. And again.

Keziah was surprisingly beautiful in her black dog form, smaller and more graceful and faster than most other black dogs. Ichor ran smoking down her neck and shoulder and sides. The wounds across her side looked bad, deep, but even so, she moved like Ezekiel, fluid and powerful as a river in flood. But retreating, always retreating, never meeting the vampire. Her eyes blazed brilliant gold with rage, Natividad could see no fear in her, but she turned suddenly and fled across the mandala.

Justin flinched and ducked his head.

“I don’t know,” Natividad breathed. “I don’t know—”

And then Keziah tucked herself down, her body diminishing. She was taking her human shape—no, not quite; her limbs were still thick, her bones twisted and heavy, her shoulders heavy with muscle. But now she had hands and arms, almost like human hands and arms. She rolled and snatched up the knife from its hiding place inside the mandala, and came to her feet and lunged back through the line of the mandala, and when she threw herself at the vampire, the silver knife was in her hands like a white flame.

It was the vampire’s turn to recoil, but Keziah followed. She had lost some of her speed and a lot of her fluid grace, but she ripped the knife through the vampire’s attenuated flesh and screamed with triumph, her savage not-quite-human voice blending horribly with its insectile shriek.

Then one of the blood kin struck her from behind, a slashing blow across her side and back, flinging Keziah’s small half-human form into the air and away from the safety of the mandalas. Natividad gasped, a small breathless sound, and clenched her teeth against a sob. The knife spun away, flashing silver and black in the moonlight, metal ringing like a bell when it struck the road, far outside the line of the outermost mandala. The nearest of the blood kin leaped back from it, hissing.

Keziah rolled and sprawled, helplessly contorting into her human form, driven to shift by the severity of her injuries. The blood that coated her back and side was red, red, red even in the dim light. Natividad thought for a horrifying instant that she must be dead, but then she saw that Keziah was trying to get her arms underneath herself, lever herself up to her knees—she was never going to get up in time, she plainly couldn’t shift again, not fast enough, Natividad had lost track of the vampire, but the blood kin were closing in, a dozen of them, more, far too many—she turned her face desperately against Justin’s chest, unable to watch Keziah be torn down, torn apart.

Justin made a stifled, inarticulate sound, his arm tightening around her shoulders, and Natividad held her breath, waiting for him to tell her it was over. He would ask her what to do, and she had no idea. The knife had fallen much too far outside her wards for either of them to dream of reaching it; the blood kin wouldn’t be able to touch it, but they would kill anyone who stepped across the mandala. Keziah’s death had been for nothing—

“Look,” Justin said urgently. “Look!”

Caught by a unexpected note in his voice, Natividad opened her eyes and twisted around to see.

The black dog cutting a clean swath through the blood kin was not Keziah, though for an instant Natividad thought it was. It was hardly larger than Keziah’s black dog form and just as fast, but it had a concentrated intensity all its own, and it tore through the blood kin like a terrier killing rats.

“Ezekiel,” Natividad whispered.

“You think—” Justin began, and then the black dog leaped clear over one of the blood kin, ripping through its chest and throat in passing. The black dog hit the ground, shifted instantly to human form to let a savage blow pass way over his head, rolled out, caught himself on one hand, swung himself up with consummate grace, surged up and into his black dog form, and tore another of the blood kin entirely in half.

Keziah got to her feet, shook herself, ran her hands over her hair—for once she didn’t look immaculate, but she no longer looked near death either. She had had enough time now to recover herself, and she tossed her head and shrugged herself back into her black dog form. She stretched, insolent and disdainful of her enemies, and then crouched low to stalk one of them. It stepped backward with awkward speed, then fled, skittering insect-like. Natividad didn’t blame it. Keziah snarled, a blood-curdling sound that started low and scaled rapidly up to ear piercing.

Ezekiel cut across the emaciated belly of one of the blood kin that hadn’t been fast enough to flee, spilling its insides to the ground in glistening gray lumps. Before it even fell, he pivoted and flung himself unerringly for the vampire. Natividad hadn’t even seen it until he attacked it. Silver-poisoned by her knife, crippled, it had wrapped itself in shadows and crept beneath some kind of thorny bushes. Ezekiel tore the bushes aside and ripped into it, though Natividad couldn’t understand how he could even bear to touch it. It shrieked, dying—of course it wasn’t really alive anyway, but it shrieked, an awful sound of terror and hatred, as Ezekiel tore its stolen body apart and cast it back into the fell dark.

After that, silence closed in: a strange stretched stillness, as though the night was waiting for something else to fill it. The rest of the blood kin had retreated. At first Natividad thought they were actually gone, but then she saw the bloody gleam of their eyes in the dark and knew they were still there. But quiet, now. Waiting, like the night itself. She took a deep breath. The air smelled of dry earth and ashes, of burnt clay and rot, of blood and terror.

In human form, Ezekiel bent to collect Natividad’s knife. He was careful to touch it only by the hilt, she saw. The vampire’s blood was all over it, she knew, and took a deep breath, and let it out again, because the first step of her plan had worked after all. She had been so sure they had failed, and now Ezekiel had gained them this new chance of success. She wasn’t even exactly surprised.

And Keziah was fine. She was perfectly fine. She moved with easy grace in her black dog form, just as though she had never been injured. She turned her back contemptuously on the remaining blood kin, but Natividad saw how her ears stayed flat and wary until she crossed the first mandala and then the second, and how she did not pause to take her human shape until she was across that second warding line.

Ezekiel stepped across the mandalas only after Keziah was through. He carried the silver knife even more gingerly as he crossed the lines of the mandalas, especially as he crossed the second one. Natividad flinched, realizing that the mandalas were probably reacting to the vampire blood on the knife. She hoped Ezekiel wasn’t burning himself—and she hoped the blood wasn’t burned away, either. “Don’t want to have to do
that
again,” she said aloud, and shook her head at Justin’s inquiring look.

She pulled away from his support, finding herself actually stiff, as though
she
had been running and fighting, and she wasn’t after all exactly sure her knees would hold her up. She had meant to go down and meet Ezekiel, but thought now maybe she might just sit right here on this nice couch instead and wait for him to come to her.

Ezekiel looked exactly as always: relaxed, faintly amused, perfectly self-contained. Except for a tightness around his eyes when he looked at her, which Natividad was fairly certain no one saw but her.
She
sure saw it. She blushed. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said humbly. “I’m so glad Grayson sent you.”

“I should certainly hope you didn’t intend to get yourself surrounded by vampires and blood kin,” Ezekiel said drily. “And as it happens, Grayson didn’t exactly send me. But I think he’ll forgive me, given the circumstances.”

Ezekiel set the silver knife very carefully on the coffee table and rubbed his fingers on his jeans, distastefully, like a cat disgusted by something sticky it had gotten on its foot. The vampire’s blood had clotted on the knife’s blade: neither ordinary human blood nor black ichor, but an ugly thick brownish-black streaked with crimson, like old blood and infection. Natividad could smell it from where she sat. It made her stomach turn over. She swallowed hard and looked away from it. At Ezekiel.

He looked just like himself. Despite everything, he made her feel safe, even now. She could feel the terror of the last few hours melting out of her muscles, just looking at him. Which was ridiculous. But she couldn’t help it.

She thought maybe Ezekiel would come over to her. She thought he would. She could almost feel the firm grip of his hands on hers, maybe on her shoulders; she could almost feel the touch of his fingertips on her cheek. The imagined touch was so clear to her she felt an almost physical shock when he turned away instead and crossed to the window. He studied the view for a moment, then half turned to lean his hip on the sill, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave Justin a quick, summing glance and her a long look. He said, with no amusement at all, “Under the circumstances, I’m glad I came. You couldn’t wait to get away from me, could you? The instant you find someone I can’t touch, the moment I’m out of the picture, is that it? But what I don’t understand is why you took him and ran. Didn’t you know you’d run straight into danger? Did you really think
I
was a greater danger than vampires and blood kin and stray black dogs?”