Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3) (34 page)

Two of them paced on one side of the master vampire and two on the other, all much closer to the vampire than any ordinary black dog would be willing to get. They didn’t look around at the blood kin, which were creeping out into the open now that their master had come. They didn’t look at the vampire itself. They didn’t look at anything.

“What are they?” Justin asked, his voice tight.

Natividad could not have answered to save her life. But Ezekiel said, expressionless, “They are the bodies of dead black dogs, possessed by their shadows. I think we know exactly which vampire this is. This is the one Vonhausel allied with. We knew he had learned to use vampire magic. Now it’s clear he taught this vampire something about black dog magic, too. Damn his soul to Hell. I thought we were
done
with these.”

Justin stared at him.

Natividad said, in a too-calm voice that didn’t sound exactly like her own, “I guess we know what happened to Christopher. And the others.”

“They should have run,” Keziah said, cool and disdainful. But behind the cool disdain was fear, not quite hidden.

Natividad shook her head. “I bet they couldn’t,” she said softly. “I bet they were trapped. I bet it took hold of their minds—even before Christopher called that first time, maybe. Before they knew it was there.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering again. She hadn’t ever even met them. Her cousin, Christopher Toland, she’d never even had a chance to
meet
him. Those Hammond black dogs, Nicholas and Carissa. The young Lanning, she couldn’t even remember his name—oh, Jonathan, of course. Jonathan Lanning. A young black dog who would have found it so hard to live up to the Lanning name, who would probably have been aggressive and difficult, but she would never know, he would never have a chance to grow up into someone like Grayson Lanning. The vampire had made him into one of those monsters instead. She thought of how Grayson would feel, learning what had happened, and that was almost worse than thinking about the young wolves themselves.

“You know, I don’t remember
anyone
saying
anything
about
zombie werewolves
,” Justin said through his teeth. But he also put his arm around Natividad. She tucked herself gratefully against his solid human warmth, saw Ezekiel looking at her, and flinched.

But Ezekiel only said, “We might have asked ourselves where Vonhausel learned his little trick. We might have guessed that a vampire who turned up to challenge us might be
his
vampire.”

Natividad knew immediately he was right. She should have guessed. She shook her head, not in denial, but in self-disgust and horror. “I couldn’t—I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking,” she said helplessly. “I don’t know—” She looked at the silver knife, streaked and clotted with vampire blood, that still lay on the coffee table. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I can do something with that. But I was thinking of vampires, not—” she could hear her own voice rising, but couldn’t stop it.

“Oh, hysterics, is it?” said Keziah, sounding disgusted, which was her way of hiding her own fear and horror, which Natividad understood perfectly well, but Ezekiel gave Keziah a deadly look. The black dog girl turned aside, a sharp, angry motion.

Natividad shook her head because she knew Keziah was right. She couldn’t just stop, she couldn’t
give up,
what kind of baby
was
she, everyone was
depending on her
. But she couldn’t make the kind of
aparato
she had used the other time, against Vonhausel’s undead shadow-possessed black dogs, the
aparato para parar las sombras,
because this time all she had was this one silver knife and it was already clotted with vampire blood rather than tangled with black dog magic. Even if she cleaned it off and used it to make the right kind of
aparato
to use against undead black dogs, what about the
vampire
?

Justin turned to take Natividad’s hands in his, turning his back on the black dogs and on that horror out the window. His hands was warm and firm. His touch made her feel better, more secure in herself, and he looked into her eyes with a direct, confident look and gave her a nod that said,
You can do this
. He had no idea what Pure magic was supposed to do and what was impossible, and so he trusted her to
do something
. She nodded back, shakily. He was right. She could. She had to, and so she could. But she didn’t know what.

“Make us something that will let us take care of that vampire,” Ezekiel said, quiet and confident. “And we will find a way to deal with the shadow-possessed black dogs.”

His confidence was . . . not
encantador
, exactly. It probably wasn’t even real. But it made Natividad feel better, all the same.

The silver knife was the base, of course. Natividad had already put her own blood and magic into it, and Ezekiel’s blood, and Alejandro’s, and now Keziah’s. She had made the knife tolerate their shadows, because that was what one did when one blooded silver.

That wasn’t exactly the same as what she had done when she’d made the
aparato para parar las sombras
, but the knife’s tolerance for black dog shadows was a start, in a way. Natividad wondered, in the back of her mind, whether maybe Mamá had also known that blooding silver was a way to begin tangling a thread of black dog magic into a Pure working, and that maybe that was a good thing to do, at least a useful thing.

Vampires weren’t the same as black dogs, though. Vampire magic wasn’t the same as black dog magic. This time she did not need an
aparato para parar las sombras.
For a vampire, she needed something else, a different kind of
aparato.
She knew what she needed: she needed a tool that would drive a vampire right out of the body it possessed and back into the fell dark, a tool that would bind it away from the world and not let it back to reclaim the body it had used.
Una
herramienta para unir las luz
, a tool for binding light and not shadow, because if she could bind light to the vampire’s mortal body, she was sure that would drive the vampire out of that body. And the binding would have to be permanent, because she sort of thought that if the light faded from the body, the vampire might be able to return. A permanent binding, then, or at least a binding that would hold until the body decayed so far not even a vampire could use it.

“That will work,” she muttered out loud. “I
think
it will work, only I don’t . . .” She looked at Ezekiel. “It will just work against the vampire. Not the others.

“Make something we can use against the vampire,” Ezekiel told her, his voice smooth and confident. “and we’ll take care of the . . .” he hesitated.

“Hell hounds?” suggested Justin.

“The
pets
of the vampire,” said Keziah. “That is what they are. The vampire’s soulless hounds.”

Ezekiel said, with considerable force, “We don’t need a name for them, because we’re going to destroy that vampire and after that we will
never see creatures like this again
.”

Natividad hoped he was right. She reached out, not quite touching the blood-clotted knife. She didn’t dare touch it. The vampire blood smoked against the silver, pitting the metal, wearing it away. If she touched it, the blood would burn her, too. She knew what she needed to do. She needed to make that knife tolerate the blood, though how she could do that she had no idea; the two kinds of magic were utterly opposed. But she had to do it somehow. Maybe she could make some kind of veil that would keep them apart? Maybe she could use threads of a black dog shadow for that? But even then she would need to teach the silver in that knife how to reach
through
any shadowy veil and corrupted blood to capture vampire magic. Not just vampire magic, but also the . . . soul of the vampire. Though
soul
wasn’t the right word, because vampires didn’t have souls. The
esencia
of the vampire, then. Yes. She needed to teach the knife to capture that essence, and she needed the knife to force it out of the world and back into the fell dark where it belonged.

She drew a circle around the coffee table with herself inside, to keep any strange magic from bleeding out and harming anyone else. Then she down cross-legged on the floor and looked steadily at the silver knife. And lifted her hands, palm up, and summoned light.

Justin tried to understand what Natividad was doing with the blood-slicked knife. He wondered if he was supposed to be able to understand, since he was Pure. He could see that Ezekiel was watching him, that Keziah was watching him as well, and supposed they both probably wanted to ask if he understood what she was doing. Unfortunately, he had no idea.

He could see that the silver in the knife hated the vampire’s blood. No wonder the blood was smoking: the knife was inimical to it, almost actively hostile, if you could impute feelings to a knife. Or the magic in the knife. Over and around the knife, clinging to it, he could see a crimson-shot clotted blackness that wasn’t the blood, exactly, but more a shadow cast by the blood—not like the shadows of the black dogs, but not completely unlike, either. He could see how that congealing blackness flinched away from the light that coalescing around Natividad’s hands and especially around the tips of her fingers.

But none of that told him anything about what Natividad was trying to do. Or whether she was succeeding. Or what that knife would do, if she successfully made it into whatever kind of weapon she was trying to create.

Edging sideways, he glanced out the window. The master vampire was
right there
, not skulking in the shadows or whatever, but right there in the middle of the deserted street. It was not at all like a man. He could hardly believe any part of it had ever been a man, though he knew vampires were supposed to be made when a contaminated body rose from its grave. And yes, he could sort of see the corpse behind the corrupting horror of the vampire’s presence that wrapped around it and looked out through its dead eyes, but mostly he flinched from looking that closely.

The zombie black dogs weren’t as bad. They were bad enough, but not
that
bad. Nothing about them looked like it had ever been human. He hadn’t realized that something of the human soul remained visible in an ordinary black dog, even after it had shifted completely into its black dog form. He realized that now, because these zombie black dogs, these hell hound pets of the vampire, showed no trace of that human soul.

The vampire turned its head and stared straight at him, then, and Justin flinched and shuddered, feeling contaminated just by its attention. He moved quickly away from the window. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be . . . actually to be . . . they
bit
people, that was how they passed on the contamination. Even the mere thought of it made him want to throw up.

“Powerful, isn’t it? I have no idea how we missed this one,” Ezekiel said. He was still watching Natividad, but plainly he had also been keeping an eye on Justin.

“Yeah, not good,” said Justin, at random, because he had no idea what to say and was actually surprised he could get even one coherent word out against the nausea that pressed at him.

Ezekiel spared him a brief glance and went on, with no trace of his normal light mockery, “Except plainly this particular vampire has learned quite a lot about black dogs. I do wonder whether Vonhausel taught it enough about us that it learned how to hide behind our magic? We weren’t looking for black dogs, after all. Not during the war. If Vonhausel . . . I wonder whether he actually understood what he might have done, allying with a vampire?”

“You think Malvern Vonhausel
allied
with this monstrosity?” said Keziah, her eyebrows rising. “So, yes, maybe you are right. Yes, maybe. Then in a way, it is a pity he is dead,” she added dispassionately. “I would like to kill him again, several times.”

She and Ezekiel shared a look of perfect understanding, which Justin found fairly disturbing. He asked, “Is that why it’s come after Natividad? Because . . . this Vonhausel, he was her enemy, hers in particular, wasn’t he? I sort of got that idea,” he added, as both black dogs turned their attention to him.

“I have no idea why it should care for Malvern Vonhausel’s personal enmities,” Ezekiel said. “But Natividad . . .”

Justin stared at him, then at Natividad, still sitting by the coffee table, her hands held out over the knife, her face blank and intent. Then he looked back at Ezekiel. “What?”

“She’s been shadow-touched,” Ezekiel said. His voice was very quiet, and he was not quite looking at either Natividad or at Justin. He stared out the window instead. If it bothered him to look at the vampire, his distaste did not show. He said, “She wrapped her magic up with Alejandro’s shadow. And then disentangled herself, but . . . you can see traces of the black dog shadow around the edges of her own magic, now.”

“I thought you could not see that,” Keziah said, faintly surprised. “I thought you would not see what you did not want to see.”

Ezekiel gave the black dog girl a look. “I’m not
blind
. Of course I saw it. I didn’t care. I even thought it might be an asset: make her stronger, more powerful.”

Justin cleared his throat. “What exactly does that mean, for one of the Pure? To be . . . shadow touched?” He looked carefully at Natividad, then looked again, sideways, out of the corner of his eye, trying to glimpse the magic that she possessed. He could see only the magic she was using: the light she gathered in her hands and spilled out in a net around the bloody knife. The net looked to him like it was trying to cling to the knife, but couldn’t get too close without curling back on itself and withering.

“I have no idea,” Ezekiel said. “Natividad seems to have invented the concept all by herself. But I wonder whether it might make her more susceptible to a vampire. Or just more visible to it. Or, hell, maybe she’s actually
valuable
, to a vampire that’s dabbling in black dog magic.”

“Right,” said Justin, half listening, distracted by Natividad’s net, which wove itself inward a second time, then once again twisted back and away. “You know . . . that looks . . . really
wrong
.”

Keziah made a wordless little sound that nevertheless conveyed a world of sarcasm and stalked across the room to stare out the window. “Why is it only waiting?” she asked aloud, though in a tone that made it plain she did not expect an answer. Then she said, “Ah.” This time her tone made Justin look up sharply and brought Ezekiel to her side. “Ah,” said Ezekiel. He glanced over his shoulder at Natividad, frowning.

“What?” said Justin.

“She’s not finished, I gather,” said Ezekiel, and lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Justin.

“I . . .” Justin looked at Natividad, but too directly. He looked again, sidelong. Then he spread his hands in a small shrug. “She’s having trouble getting it to work, I think. I’m not sure, but . . .”

Ezekiel gave Keziah an unreadable look and vaulted neatly through the window. Justin’s breath caught; he did not even realize he had leaped forward until he found himself right at the window staring out and down in shock and horror. The black dogs, the zombies, had reared up, two on either side of their master, and now pressed slowly forward against Natividad’s outer mandala. Justin could actually
see
the line of the mandala, a silvery curve along the earth and through the air, dripping with fiery drops of light where the claws of the black dogs raked and pressed. Ezekiel, unmistakable even in his black dog form, stalked slowly along the inner curve of that burning line of light, waiting and watching for the first breach in its protection.

Keziah said dispassionately, “Those black dogs, their master has set them to break the mandala. They will break it. Then Ezekiel will fight them. But not even he can destroy creatures that cannot be injured, cannot be hurt, cannot be frightened. I have seen this before.” She paused, then asked, “You say Natividad has encountered difficulty with her magic. Do you think she will finish this work? Soon? Before—”

Ezekiel did not wait for the mandala to break.
He
could cross its line, which Justin had almost forgotten, or at least Justin had not thought through what that meant, until Ezekiel lunged with silken speed across the mandala, ripped with claws and savage black fangs at the legs and belly of the nearest of the undead black dogs, and slid effortlessly back across the mandala’s line before it could even attempt to return his blow.

“Hot damn,” Justin muttered. “He really can fight all four of them all by himself . . .”

“Fool,” Keziah said, though without heat. “Watch.”

Justin stared at her, then looked again. For a long moment, he didn’t understand what she meant. Then he realized that though Ezekiel could attack and tear up the enemy black dogs almost at will, they could not really be injured. He saw terrible wounds across the belly of one close up while he watched; saw another, its head all but torn completely off its body, shudder and become smoky and indistinct, then re-form unharmed. He understood why Keziah had called him a fool: because Ezekiel might slow them down, but he was not going to be able to actually destroy them. Which made sense. Because they were already dead. That was hard to remember, hard to wrap his mind around, but it was the truth and it mattered. “He can slow them down, though—” he began, trying to convince himself, and the vampire was suddenly a dozen feet away from where it had been, tucked into an aggressive crouch.

It had struck Ezekiel. He had been flung violently into the air, black ichor spraying, then suddenly red blood as he shifted to his human form before he even hit the ground. Justin leaned far forward, holding his breath, as Ezekiel hit the pavement, instantly tucking himself down and rolling under a parked car to avoid the surging attack of two of the undead black dogs. The black dogs tore the car up and flung it over on its side—Justin hadn’t realized just how strong they were until that moment—Ezekiel exploded back into black dog form, and Justin heard the heavy
thud
of bone against bone as he blocked the crushing blow of one of his enemies. Another closed in from the side, and on the other side, the vampire itself straightened from its crouch, tilting its head in a horrible, inhuman gesture, like a predatory insect.

“Help him!” he shouted at Keziah. “Can’t you help him?”

“How?” the girl snapped back. She snapped her hand out in a violent gesture toward Natividad, who hadn’t moved. “You know I must wait for
her
! It is
her
weapon that we must have, or we will have nothing! You think
you
could use that weapon if both he and I are dead?”

She was right. Justin knew she was right. He couldn’t see Natividad’s work, not now, not anymore; he was too upset or too scared or just not Pure enough. He could see nothing but the filth-streaked knife and Natividad’s face turned down toward it, intent and blank, as though hypnotized. For all he knew, she
was
hypnotized; she didn’t seem to be aware of anything that was happening outside of her own magic. He made a sharp, inarticulate gesture and spun back to the window.

Ezekiel flickered from human to black dog and back to human, never closing with any of his enemies, but he was being pushed away from the house and safety, Justin saw him try to get around one of the undead black dogs only to be blocked by half a dozen blood kin. He tore into them, plainly glad to face enemies he could destroy, but just then the vampire moved again with that terrifying abrupt speed. Its claws, blunt and yellow, tore through his shaggy pelt and carved four broad lines across his chest and stomach, and Ezekiel screamed and wrenched away from it, suddenly in human shape, staggering, half falling, regaining his feet with a hard, desperate movement, flinging himself toward the house and safety. He nearly made it across the line, and then at the last moment one of the undead black dogs flung itself against him, shouldering him back, snapping its black fangs at his face. It didn’t kill him, though plainly it could have. Justin didn’t understand that.

Then he did, as the vampire turned, swift and angular as a praying mantis, and took several mincing steps toward Ezekiel. He didn’t know what the vampire wanted Ezekiel for. But he could see it wanted him for something. Wanted him alive. The horror of that spread through him, cold as the heart of a northern winter.

Ezekiel tried to get past the black dog, which cuffed him—a careful blow, clearly not meant to injure, but enough to knock a human off his feet. Ezekiel fell, caught himself, came up to his hands and knees. He still did not shift, but looked up, measuring the distance between him and the undead black dog, the vampire, the glimmering line of Natividad’s mandala. Justin could see him gather himself, but he also saw that if Ezekiel didn’t shift, couldn’t shift, he would never make it past the black dog to safety. Beside Justin, Keziah made a low sound of dismay and disbelief.

The vampire took another mincing step, delicate as a praying mantis. It hissed, a vicious sound that went right through Justin’s head. He clenched his teeth against it, which did not help. The vampire hissed again, holding up its hands. Ragged streaks of shadow trailed from its claws, dense, writhing, frayed at the edges.

Keziah shoved past Justin and flung herself out the window. Justin, his breath catching in shock, gripped the windowsill and watched her fall to the ground outside with the strange weightless grace of a black dog. She shifted as she fell and was nearly in her black dog form when she hit the ground; she hurled herself forward even before she had entirely completed the change.

Justin held his breath, feeling intensely useless and stupid, knowing that she could not possibly face that vampire or even the zombie black dog, she couldn’t possibly, but she didn’t slow or turn aside—he wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t bear not to see, even though he flinched from what he knew was going to happen—