Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3)

by Rachel Neumeier

  “The master vampire will hide its creatures,” Keziah said flatly. “So long as they stay close enough to their master, no one will see what they are. Twenty miles is close enough. Natividad is right. Some will be here already, in this town.”

  Natividad nodded. “They’ll be looking for us—” she whispered.

  Keziah raised her hand sharply, a threat, and Natividad flinched, but the black dog girl only said, “You are Pure. What should we do?”

  Natividad stared at her. She took one breath. Another. She looked at Justin, who stared back, scared but steady. He had no idea. But that meant he could be like that, steady, a rock on which to brace herself. She looked at Keziah, slim and beautiful and deadly as a knife blade. Keziah wasn’t frozen with terror.

  Natividad swallowed. Then she straightened her shoulders. “We’ll tell those women they have to run. They can warn people.” Everyone would listen. People had learned to take warnings seriously, during the war. Which had been over, until tonight. She blinked back tears of self-pity and fear and said, “Hiding won’t work. It knows we’re here. We need to finish putting crosses all along the foundation. I need to lay another mandala. We’ll find something to anchor it. The ladies here might have crucifixes or something. We should ask.” She took a deep breath, blinked, and added, “And we’ll call Grayson. He won’t be able to do anything—” not in time. “But we can warn him. If we—if—at least Dimilioc can kill this vampire. It won’t have time to build up its power or make too many more vampires or anything.”

  It did help, to know that. She thought, looking at the other two, that Keziah also found comfort in the knowledge that the vampire would not long survive them, but that Justin did not. She understood them both. She began, “At least—” But then she stopped, staring blankly at nothing.

  “What?” said Justin. He took a step forward and touched her arm. “Natividad, what?”

  “There is something else wrong?” Keziah said, her tone disgusted as well as exasperated, hiding her fear behind anger.

  Natividad shook her head, not in denial, but trying to sort out the stab of fear and fury that had suddenly flashed in jagged lightning across the back of her mind and flamed up in her heart. “Alejandro,” she said, understanding at last. “Something is wrong at home—something is wrong with Alejandro.” She took a step toward the window, peering out into the dark as though she might see her brother across all the miles that separated them.

  “Of course,” said Keziah, sounding even more disgusted. But this time the fear showed, as well. “Of course, something is also wrong at home.”

  “Can we do anything about that?” asked Justin, his own attitude matter-of-fact.

  “No,” whispered Natividad.

  Justin nodded. He said, not without sympathy, “Then probably we had better focus on what we can do for ourselves, don’t you think? Another mandala. Crosses.”

  Natividad took a deep breath. The air tasted of ash and fear. In the hollows of her heart her brother’s rage and terror echoed. But he was still alive. She knew that, at least. She would know if he died. She would know.

  And if he lived, he would know if she died. That thought steadied her. Because she would do anything she had to, to spare her brother that pain. “Yes,” she said to Justin. She took another breath, and straightened her shoulders. “The foundation. And another mandala. Yes. I’ll show you.”

  -11-

  When the other black dog leaped, Alejandro dropped the phone and reached desperately after his own shadow. But he was only half shifted when the black dog hit him. He was borne down immediately by the other black dog’s weight. He heard, distantly, Ethan’s ripping snarl, and felt the impact of another black dog thudding down on the balcony, and he heard when Ethan’s snarl cut off short. He was distantly astonished the whole balcony did not collapse, and wished it would because that would get him clear of his enemy. He bucked hard, twisting, trying to shift, but he had no time. His enemy closed powerful jaws around his shoulder and neck, but did not immediately tear him apart. Alejandro didn’t understand that, but couldn’t think about it now—his shadow was rising, his bones warping and thickening, but the other black dog pinned him. He couldn’t get away, couldn’t fight, even mostly shifted, he was outmatched, and both he and his shadow knew it. He tried to roll the other black dog’s shadow back and down, but the effort was like trying to push an old oak over with his bare hands: he did not begin to have the strength to do it.

  Then a second black dog’s shadow rolled across his, heavy, irresistible, and he found himself in his human form, fighting to breathe, trapped beneath the massive weight of the one that pinned him. That black dog was very large. Immenso. Even for a black dog. His breath was hot against Alejandro’s skin, his deadly jaws ready to crush his bones, tear out his throat, and Alejandro couldn’t change, he was trapped. He struggled, fought to get away, a muscle-tearing effort that made no difference at all to the immense strength that held him down.

  “Be quiet,” said a woman’s voice above him.

  He recognized her immediately. She was the Black Wolf of Russia—he could not remember her name, nor how to say Black Wolf in Russian. But he knew her. She was tall and strong boned, with a proud nose and steel-gray hair pulled back taut and smooth behind her head. Her lips were pressed thin with impatience and ruthless control. Her eyes were the gray of the winter sky, cold and hard as metal, but the eyes of her shadow burned. Her shadow, gathered close and tight, lay beneath her, as dark and dense as Grayson Lanning’s.

  Her accent was harsh, choppy. He only understood her words after a long moment. He was furiously angry and desperately afraid, and he had to struggle to remember the whole concept of language. And then beyond that there was the accent.

  But the black dog woman repeated herself, coldly patient. “Be quiet. Be quiet. Be still. Stop all that nonsense. What a child you are. Be quiet.”

  At last he understood her. And understood, too, that the first black dog had not killed him and plainly was not going to kill him. That was terrifying in a different way, but once he understood it was true, his shadow stopped pressing him so hard and he began to recover himself. He panted for breath, smothered by weight both physical and otherwise.

  The big black dog stared down at Alejandro. His eyes, set far apart in his broad head, were a smoldering black-crimson, like the coals at the very heart of a fire. He was old—older than he’d seemed, in that first instant. Old and very, very strong. Alejandro knew he could not have fought this one even if he could have shifted to his other form.

  But he could have made this black dog kill him. Instead, he was helpless. A captive. From the beginning, they had understood that their enemies wanted to take captives rather than just kill them all. Plainly, Alejandro was now going to find out why that was. He was furious. He was also very, very frightened. He wanted to shut his eyes, look away, but he refused to behave like the child the woman black dog had called him. He made himself lie still.

  “Better,” allowed the woman. “A strange shadow you have there, boy.” She sounded curiously pleased about this, and asked with an intensity that Alejandro did not understand, “Your Pure sister with the shadow-touched magic: is she also here?”

  Alejandro stared up at her, wordless. He would not have answered her even if had be able to speak, but he was too angry to find the words anyway. He tried to break free of her, but her shadow pinned his as effortlessly as the other black dog pinned his human body.

  The woman shook her head when he did not speak, the narrow line of her mouth tightening. “You, young one, you understand you are not strong enough to fight us? Do not fight, or Valentin Nikitich will hurt you. You understand me? You have language? Tell me you understand. Tell me out loud.”

  It took Alejandro some time to frame the words in Spanish, longer still to think of them in English. The black dog woman waited, starkly patient, and the black dog—Valentin, Valentin Nikitich—waited also, and at last Alejandro was able to say, carefully, “I understan
d. I understand you.”

  “Good,” said the woman. “You are the young Toland, of course. The son of Edward Toland. The girl, the eretich, she is your sister. If she is not here, where is she?” She paused, waiting. When Alejandro did not answer, she made an impatient gesture and snapped, “Let him up, uncle.”

  Zinaida. Zinaida something. Alejandro remembered that. And this Valentin was her uncle and her ally. And he took her orders. That said a lot about this woman, that a strong black dog like Valentin took her orders.

  Valentin eased his weight slowly back and away. He was amused and pleased and satisfied, and Alejandro was afraid of him. He moved very carefully, to sit up and then, to show he understood how impossible his position was, to kneel. He kept his head down, watching them carefully through his lashes, glancing covertly sideways. There were two other black dogs here, both as old as Valentin. He felt their strength, the density of their shadows. Ethan was kneeling between them, as helpless as Alejandro himself. Anger beat through him: of course Ethan had not gotten clear. No. He was here, a prisoner, a captive, just like Alejandro himself. Useless. They were both useless.

  The woman, the Black Wolf, gestured, a lifted hand. Another of her people came out onto the balcony. From their own adjoining room, the one Alejandro and Ethan had shared with Ezekiel, so they had forced the door. Alejandro suppressed a surge of territorial fury, because what did that matter now?

  This newcomer was a man, a human, but all Alejandro noticed about him beside that basic fact was that his hands were full of silver chains. Alejandro could feel the bright, cold burn of the silver from all the way across the balcony. He tensed, looking warily for a chance to get away even though he knew it was impossible.

  “Be quiet.” The woman sounded merely exasperated. “You know you cannot fight. Accept it and be still.” Valentin set a heavy forefoot on Alejandro’s shoulder, forcing him face down on the balcony. He had blunted his claws, which would not stop him from ripping off Alejandro’s head the instant he chose to do it. Alejandro still could not shift. The cambio de cuerpo was impossible. The woman held his shadow. The Black Wolf. Zinaida Alexandrovna Kologrivova. That was her name. He remembered that now. And her uncle was Valentin Nikitich Kologrivov. It did not help, to know that. It was good to regain language, but Alejandro had never depended on words to defend himself or fight his enemies. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, forcing himself to a furious stillness.

  The woman took the chains from the human herself. Plainly they had been blooded for her, because she handled them casually. Alejandro wondered who had blooded the chains, whether Zinaida had forced the Pure woman to do it, the dead woman, before she had killed her. He wanted to tear out the black dog woman’s throat, wash the night with her blood. As this was impossible at the moment, he did not move. He let her put the chains on him. He could not believe he let her put the chains on his wrists, except if he fought, Valentin would rip his head off, but he still could not believe he let her do it. But he did not move, and then it was too late. Though silver cuffs were lined with leather, they still burned. The pain made him angry. If he became too angry, he would once more lose the ability to speak or understand human language. He took little, shallow breaths through his mouth, fighting to be calm, to be still, to wait.

  “So,” said the woman, relaxing once both he and Ethan were bound. She looked around, narrow-eyed, and gave a little nod of satisfaction. She looked at Valentin, gave him another little nod, and he huffed out a breath, then reared up, dwindling and straightening, shaking away his shadow, until a broad-shouldered man stood there, white haired, his face seamed with age. He had the same bony cast of features as the woman, the same winter-gray eyes, the same arrogant way of standing. Alejandro would have known they were of the same bloodline even if he had not known their names.

  The other black dogs were shifting also, three of them, Alejandro saw now. Another had come out of the hotel room, shaking his head in a clear Nothing there gesture. All the black dogs were male, all old, all straight-backed and strong, all with cold, bitter gray eyes and tight, wary expressions. He thought these must all be cousins, Kologrivov connections. They would know one another very well. They would fight as a team, they would guard one another’s backs. Even if Ezekiel had been here, Alejandro did not know if they could have fought these Dacha wolves. He was intensely aware that he and Ethan alone would have no chance at all against them. He did not understand why the Black Dog of Russia had sent younger, weaker black dogs against them in the earlier trap, in both the earlier traps, but she had clearly brought her strongest allies with her tonight.

  Zinaida Alexandrovna Kologrivova studied Alejandro for a long moment. “Your sister?” she asked again.

  Alejandro shook his head. This woman knew his name and bloodline, she knew about Natividad, she had deliberately sought them both. He had no idea why she should want them, or want them alive. He did not know the word she had used, eretich. But understanding that she might have attacked Dimilioc solely to capture Natividad and himself terrified him. He tried to frame words in his mind, but could not. He shook his head again.

  “She’s not here,” Ethan said sharply. “She’s nowhere near here. She didn’t come. You think we’d risk her near enemies we knew sought her?”

  The woman walked across the balcony and looked Ethan up and down. She gripped his chin in one long, bony hand and tipped his face up. “You are a Lanning, yes?” she said to him. “You have the look of that line. I know Ezekiel Korte was with you this time. Where is he now?”

  Ethan jerked his head away from her and spat on the floor. The nearest black dog hit him, a swift backhanded blow that snapped his head to the side and would have sent him sprawling except another of the Russian black dogs caught his shoulder and held him upright.

  “Ezekiel Korte?” said the woman again, patiently.

  Ethan looked aside and down. Alejandro thought he would not answer. But he muttered at last, “Gone. I don’t know. Looking for you, probably.”

  The woman curled her lip. “He may find us, now.” She sent one swift, comprehensive look around at the night. Then she stooped and picked up the phone Alejandro had dropped. He had forgotten it. But he could see it had not been crushed or knocked off the balcony in the fight. And he could see that the green Talk button was still lit.

  Zinaida Kologrivova saw that, too. She smiled thinly, lifted the phone, and said, in her heavily accented English, “Well? Who is this? Is this Ezekiel Korte?”

  “No,” said Grayson, his voice flat.

  “Ah,” said the woman, looking enlightened. “Shall I presume this is the Dimilioc Master himself? Do I speak now to Grayson Lanning?”

  Grayson said harshly, clearly audible to black dog hearing, “Chernaya Volchitza. You are most unwise to make yourself Dimilioc’s enemy.”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose. “But you have too many other enemies to spend your strength against me, Grayson Lanning. I have been wiser: I have made alliances instead. You should yield your territory to me now. I would make a place for you and yours in my new house. I give you my word I will make a place for you. That would be best. For the remnants of Dimilioc as well as for me.”

  There was a pause. Then Grayson said, his tone grim, “With whom have you made alliance, Zinaida Alexandrovna Kologrivov? Are you sure you have been wise?”

  The Black Wolf asked patiently, “Where is your eretich, your Pure girl with the corrupted shadow?”

  “You think I would give any of the Pure over to your hand?”

  “You may give her to me now and thus gain my tolerance and patience, or you may refuse and I will burn your house and take her from you anyway. Where is your executioner, the young Korte?”

  “I will not give you any of my Pure, but if you want Ezekiel so badly, perhaps I shall send him to you,” Grayson said.

  “Yes,” said the woman. “Yes. Send him to me, if he is not afraid.” She rolled each word across her tongue as though she enjoyed the feel of the English language. Or
perhaps she enjoyed making threats. She said, “Send him to me, and we will see how he fares against my Russian wolves.”

  “He will tear them soul from body and fling them into the fell dark,” Grayson said flatly. “With whom have you made alliance? Or with what? Why do you want Natividad Toland?”

  The woman’s lip curled. She glared at the phone in her hand. “You try my patience, Grayson Lanning. Bring me this girl. You can spare her now. After all, you have the little one you took from me. Keep that one; I do not mind. And bring your young Korte executioner, if you will, and we shall see whether he is as terrible as you say. But I will not promise his safety. Nor the safety of these young wolves of yours, if you do not come. With the Pure girl.”

  “I shall take harm done my young wolves out of your skin, Zinaida Alexandrovna.”

  “I will look forward to our meeting, Grayson Lanning. Come, and we will speak to one another, you and I. Bring me this girl. Then maybe you and I will find things to speak of. But here, and not upon Dimilioc territory.”

  “You are standing upon Dimilioc territory. But I’ll come,” said Grayson, in that same flat tone, and then there was the tone that meant he had disconnected at the other end.

  The Black Wolf of Russia tossed the phone to one of the other wolves, who caught it, expressionless, and slipped it away. She looked around the balcony one more time, thoughtfully. Then she jerked her head at Valentin and strode away, into the hotel.

  Valentin closed a hard hand on Alejandro’s arm, hauling him up to his feet and shoving him after her. Alejandro went where the shove directed him and did not look the Russian wolf in the face.

  The Russian wolves had established themselves in a long boxy warehouse by the harbor, smelling of salt and seaweed, of wet stone and mildewed wood and machine oil and some astringent chemical. The warehouse had had offices at one end, on the upper floor, and the Russian wolves had made those into a series of ugly but functional apartments. The lower floor held stacks of crates and shipping containers, and two vans, and eyebolts set directly into the cement floor. Alejandro was chained to one of those eyebolts, and Ethan to another, about six feet away. The chains were short, too short to allow either of them to stand. They must kneel or sit or lie down. The cement floor was hard and cold; it was going to get very uncomfortable if they were left here very long. Probably being left alone was the very best either of them could hope for. The silver chains were much harder to bear than the cement floor, a slow and constant drain on their strength, and dangerous to any careless touch.