Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3)

by Rachel Neumeier

  “Enough,” Grayson repeated, and stood up, going to the window to draw the sheer curtains across the light. His deep voice held . . . not anger. But something like anger. A kind of tension. He was worried about something. Natividad wondered what might be wrong.

  “Let go of the light,” he told her, his tone edged with exasperation. “Let go of the magic, Natividad. Immediately.”

  Natividad turned her frown on the light she still held cupped in her hand, half surprised. She hadn’t exactly realized she was still holding it, though gathering light wasn’t something she usually did accidentally or without knowing what she meant to use it for. She opened her fingers now, letting the light pour away. “What—?” she asked, and was surprised to find her voice hesitant, thin as the light, as though she had been ill. Had she been ill?

  “You don’t remember? You made something new. Three of your shadow-touched things, which I trust our people will find useful, because making them seems to have . . .” the faintest pause. “Exhausted you.”

  “What?” But, yes, she realized in a dreamy way that she had felt like this before, when she had first gotten black dog shadows tangled up with Pure magic. Had she . . . ? Yes, she remembered that now. Ezekiel’s shadow, and blood to carry it, and moonlight, and silver . . . she frowned. “It was a kind of teleraña,” she said at last. “But different.”

  “So I gather.” A dry amusement had come into Grayson’s voice now. That was better than the worry.

  Natividad tried to sit up. It was more difficult than it should have been. Grayson set one broad hand behind her shoulder, supporting her while he rearranged the pillows. Then he sank back into his chair, set his hands on the chair’s arms, and looked at her steadily. “No more magic, Natividad. Nothing that mingles black dog magic with Pure. Not until you understand far better the consequences of such mingling.” He didn’t say Understand me, young lady? That was implicit in his tone.

  “Yes, sir,” Natividad answered meekly, because that was how you handled black dogs: meek agreement. Later you could decide what you wanted to do, whether you wanted to obey that kind of command or get around it somehow or just ignore it completely.

  Grayson grunted and settled deeper into his chair. Natividad guessed he knew exactly what she was thinking. She concentrated on looking meek. Then a thought rose up out of the vagueness that weighed her down, and she looked up again. “Ezekiel? Alejandro?” But as soon as she thought of Alejandro, she knew he was fine. Far away, though. Somewhere . . . she turned her head toward the southeast. Somewhere that way. Yes, because he and Ezekiel and Ethan had meant to go back to Boston. She remembered that now.

  “They left some time ago,” Grayson said, his tone curt but not actually angry. “You made your webs for both of them and for Ethan as well. Very unusual . . . items. Very difficult for a black dog to anticipate. Armed with such concealment, I doubt very much they will meet anything in Boston they cannot overcome.”

  Natividad leaned her head back against her pillows and tried to remember exactly what she had made.

  “You, however . . .” Grayson began, but stopped, uncharacteristically irresolute. He said at last, “You collapsed, Natividad. I am told that for some moments Ezekiel could not determine whether you were breathing.”

  Natividad lifted her head off the pillows again, astonished.

  “A mirror confirmed you breathed. But you have been unconscious for some time, though lately your rest has appeared more natural. It is,” he added, seeing the disbelief in her eyes, “Thursday morning.”

  Thursday. She had been asleep for a full day and another full night? It seemed impossible.

  Grayson, plainly seeing her disbelief, gave her a stern little nod. “In the future, you will work no such magic save under careful supervision and with my explicit permission.”

  Natividad nodded. She would think about that later, but resting . . . actually sounded like a very good idea. Though . . . she said, hearing the plaintiveness in her own voice, “But I’m starving.”

  “Rest,” Grayson ordered, uncompromising. “Do not get out of your bed. I shall send Miguel up with your breakfast.”

  That sounded like an even better idea. Natividad leaned her head back again and shut her eyes. “Bueno. Good. But will you stay with me until Miguel comes? You make me feel safe.” She fell asleep again before she heard Grayson’s answer, but even asleep she somehow knew he was there.

  The smell of eggs scrambled with onions and poblano peppers and cheese woke Natividad.

  And biscuits, she thought, blinking fuzzily at the strong wash of light across the ceiling. Biscuits with honey. She moved vaguely, pushing at the sheets and coverlet, and Miguel took the plate away. She made a small noise of protest.

  “Sit up and you can have it back,” her twin told her. “Can you sit up?” He offered her a mug of cocoa, strong and bittersweet, fragrant with cinnamon. “The things some people will do to get breakfast in bed. Or supper.”

  “Supper?” Natividad still felt fuzzy. But the light gilding her room was ruddy amber, the light of late afternoon. “What time is it?”

  “Almost five. In the evening.”

  “Oh.” Natividad rubbed her face with her hands and took the chocolate. “I slept all day? All another day? Wow. I’m sorry. Did you get any rest?”

  “Un poco,” said Miguel. His tone was unusually neutral.

  “I’m fine,” Natividad assured him. “Except I’m really hungry!” She took a scalding gulp of the cocoa, which made her wake up the rest of the way. She looked hopefully at the tray, set on a small table Miguel had placed near the bed. “I can sit in a chair.”

  “No, you can’t. That’s why God made bed trays. No te muevas.” Miguel put the tray carefully across her lap, taking the mug of chocolate away from her before she could spill it.

  The eggs were good. Miguel hadn’t cooked much until . . . she shied from thinking, until Mamá was gone and changed it in her mind to until we came here to Dimilioc. Somehow here it had seemed natural to show her twin some of the things Mamá had taught her, about roasting poblanos, about the right way to cook black beans, about how to grind cumin seeds with a mortar and pestle. Now Miguel made breakfast for them all as often as she did. He was a morning person, anyway. Though Natividad suspected that wasn’t the only reason he’d taken over some of the cooking: it was probably part of a clever campaign to become indispensable or something.

  “Justin?” she asked, remembering suddenly. “You’ve been on babysitting duty all this time? Poor you! But he’s settled in, he’s not upset anymore?” Then she blinked, remembering that she’d woken earlier and Grayson had told her—she shook her head. “Was I really—” unconscious— “asleep for two whole days? Or did I dream that?”

  “Thirty-eight hours, more or less,” her twin assured her. He searched her face, nudged the honey closer to her hand, and, seeming at last to believe she was better, dropped with a whoof of breath into the big chair Grayson had left drawn up near her bed. “Could have been worse,” he said, with slightly forced cheer. “Instead of Justin, I could have been stuck babysitting your little Pure girl for two days, but she won’t let go of Amira.”

  Natividad was surprised. “Still?”

  “Yep. Amira tries to put her down, she starts screaming. Don’t ask me! She doesn’t talk, but it sure isn’t because there’s anything wrong with her lungs. You’d think she’d would be scared of Conway at least, but she doesn’t seem to be. And Con seems to like her. At least, he hasn’t tried to kill her or anything.”

  “That’s a low bar,” Natividad commented. Conway was the six-year-old black dog son of Thaddeus and DeAnn.

  Miguel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but black dog puppies, you know! Thank God for Amira, or I’d have been the one keeping an eye on Conway. That’d have been dire. Amira doesn’t seem to mind, though. She keeps Con right in line, but I think she really likes having a little Pure sister. Or something.”

  “I think maybe the little one had a black dog sister,
” Natividad said.

  “Oh, yeah, that could be. Yeah, I could see that. Have another biscuit while it’s hot. No, don’t worry, the kids are fine. Considering. And Justin’s fine, too, considering. You don’t have to worry. Everyone’s being nice to him. Everyone else is okay, too. Alejandro and everyone haven’t run into any trouble, not yet. They’re looking for the black dogs, but they hadn’t found them last I heard. I mean, a couple of callejeros, but just ordinary callejeros so far.” He shrugged, meaning he knew Natividad could have found their real enemy immediately if she had been there. “They’ll find the right black dogs eventually.”

  Natividad nodded, swallowed, and asked, “Thaddeus?”

  “They’re on their way back, I heard.”

  “Bueno. I wanted to talk to DeAnn about Justin.” Natividad swung her feet out of her bed and reached for her robe.

  “You sure you should be getting up?” Miguel asked, standing up quickly as though afraid he might have to catch her.

  Natividad rolled her eyes. “Sí. Deja la pataleta. I’m fine.”

  “Estás siendo un estúpido. You’re not fine until Grayson says you’re fine. You want to get me in trouble?”

  Natividad paused, because that was a point. “I need a shower,” she insisted after a moment.

  “Sure. I’ll wait till you’re done. Yell if you need something.”

  Yell if you fall and can’t get up, he meant. That seemed fair, the way Natividad felt, now that she was on her feet—not exactly dizzy, but sort of heavy, and uncertain in her body. Maybe that was just hunger. She could feel the food was helping, though. “After I get dressed, I will go down to the kitchen. Are there any more eggs?”

  “No, but I made beans and rice. It’ll heat up fine. And I can make some more biscuits.” He gave her a narrow look, of, Natividad could tell, genuine concern. “I’ll bring you another tray up here, and you can sit at that nice table by the window so you don’t have to go down the stairs—”

  Natividad gave her twin a warning look. “I can walk down to the kitchen. You won’t even have to hold my hand.”

  “You are a bold, bold creature,” said Miguel. “But—”

  “I’ll let you walk a step below me,” Natividad conceded. “But only so you don’t get in trouble with Grayson.”

  Miguel made a wordless sound, which probably meant he was going to call Grayson the minute Natividad was in the shower. She almost didn’t blame him.

  She’d never reacted to magic like this, and now two whole days and the night between were just gone, and besides that she only had the foggiest memory of what she’d made for Ezekiel and Alejandro. Though she knew what sort of thing she would have made, and could almost sort of remember deciding to make it. Them. Three. One for Ethan, too. She didn’t remember making that one at all. Maybe that was all it was: making too many aparatos too fast. She turned the water in the shower on hot, hot, hot, leaned against the shower wall, and thought about nets made of light and the way such a net might cast a lacework of shadows that would hide a black dog from his enemies.

  And she’d thought she could teach Justin magic. She was not at all sure she would dare teach him anything. What if she taught him all wrong and messed him up somehow? DeAnn was older anyway. Justin might like an older woman better as a teacher. Natividad tried not to think, But I know more than DeAnn, though she knew this was true. Mamá had known so much about magic, about how it worked, and why . . . and then Malvern Vonhausel had tracked her down because of that, and killed her and Papá, and if Natividad thought too much about that, she would only get upset, and that was no use to anybody.

  And the water was starting to get cooler, anyway.

  But she did feel better. More grounded. More like she was solidly in her body.

  Still starving, though.

  “I checked with Grayson, and he says, if you really feel up to it, you can have your second supper in the kitchen,” Miguel told her, once she was dressed and ready and back out in her bedroom. “If you let me help you on the stairs, and if you promise to tell me immediately if you feel, you know, weird.”

  Like you’re going to faint, Natividad interpreted this. She had to admit this seemed fair enough.

  “But you’re to be in bed at nine, no later, he says. Don’t look at me. He’s the one who said it; I’m just telling you. Nine sharp and you better believe it. I bet he comes to tuck you in personally.”

  That made Natividad laugh, which was probably the point.

  “Great, then. Forward!” said Miguel, and opened the door with a flourish.

  Miguel had developed a taste for American biscuits. He had learned to cut in the butter just right so they were very rich and flaky. He made pizza, too, and was trying to learn to hand-throw the dough, though then he turned right around and claimed tortillas were too much trouble, which was ridiculous, at least if you had a proper tortilla press. They alternated in the kitchen, Miguel making mostly American food and Natividad mostly Mexican. So she knew he’d made the beans and rice especially for her, because he thought she needed the comfort of Mexican cooking. Sometimes her twin was pretty clever.

  Miguel plainly wanted to do something, and didn’t want to look like he was hovering. So he made biscuits.

  Justin was in the kitchen, too. His eyes no longer had that stunned, bruised look, Natividad was glad to see. He looked, if not at home, at least more comfortable than he had yesterday. No. Two days ago. That was so strange, having days just vanish like that.

  But the kitchen was soothing. She felt better now that she was here, watching Miguel make biscuits.

  Justin was perched on a high kitchen stool, one elbow propped on the granite counter, his feet hooked around the rungs of the stool. He swept unruly bangs out of his eyes and gave Natividad a shy look. He, too, had been worried about her, which was sweet of him, since after all he didn’t even know her yet. Really, he was very nice. She could surely do a lot worse than to forget about Ezekiel and see if she could catch Justin’s eye. Justin would never pretend to like her, really like her, when really he just wanted her for her magic. He wouldn’t try to take over her life, either.

  Even so, Natividad was uneasily aware that she really didn’t want Justin to think about her like that.

  “Biscuits will be up in ten minutes,” Miguel announced, sliding the tray into the hot oven. “Butter’s in the fridge. Honey’s over there.” He pointed with his elbow, since his hands were full, and Justin slid off his stool to get it, quickly, before Natividad could even think of moving.

  “I could get used to this,” Natividad told him, shaking off her unease. “Minions to cook for me and fetch and carry . . .”

  Justin smiled, but plainly wasn’t sure he knew her well enough to tease her back. But Miguel warned her, “You are so not going to get used to this,” even as he dished beans and rice onto a plate for her and put the plate in the microwave. American kitchens really were filled with handy devices, Natividad had to admit, even if they lacked character.

  The beans were good. Natividad would have put in more cumin, but they were good. Justin seemed to think so, too. At least, he ate his share and didn’t complain or say he wanted a burger. Natividad ate three biscuits dripping with melted butter and warm honey, and worried about magic, and Grayson. And about Alejandro and Ezekiel and even Ethan, off in Boston, all of them depending on aparatos she’d made when she didn’t even know herself exactly how she’d made them or what they would do.

  Grayson was going to want to know all about those aparatos. Natividad’s heart sank, contemplating the deeply caustic attitude he was likely to take, now that she was properly awake to be scolded. Grayson could take caustic to stratospheric heights. She was not supposed to work dangerous magic she didn’t fully understand. She was emphatically not supposed to do that without getting his approval first. She hoped Ezekiel hadn’t gotten in trouble over letting her do that. It had all seemed to make sense at the time, and things had been moving so fast, somehow. And she hadn’t exactly known what sh
e was going to do until she did it . . .

  Miguel was eyeing her thoughtfully, but he only said, “Thaddeus and DeAnn and that team ought to be back tonight or tomorrow, which will be a relief to us all, but mostly to me, since I doubt Amira’s going to keep herself on babysitter duty forever. And then you and DeAnn can teach Justin all about magic.”

  Natividad slanted a questioning look toward Justin, who had twitched slightly at that last, and she didn’t blame him. “People don’t usually collapse for days after working magic, you know! We’ll teach you simple, easy things.”

  “Miguel’s been explaining Pure magic to me,” Justin said quietly.

  “He always paid attention to the theory,” Natividad agreed, just a little tartly because she still wasn’t sure her twin had told her about all the things Mamá had taught him and not her. She’d never known, when she was growing up, that Mamá was explaining the theory of magic to her human brother at the same time she was teaching Natividad the practical application. She knew it was childish to resent Miguel for that, she knew it didn’t mean Mamá had loved her any less or anything ridiculous like that, she knew Mamá had thought Natividad needed to feel the magic instead of think about it. But . . . sometimes she still didn’t like to think about Mamá talking to Miguel about the magic she’d believed only they shared.