Black Dog Short Stories

by Rachel Neumeier

  Natividad certainly understood just how Keziah must feel and what she must be afraid of, because she felt angry and outraged and scared herself and she wasn’t even a black dog.

  She stepped warily out of the remnants of her mandala. It really hadn’t been a very good mandala; just being hit one time by the torn-off head of the blood kin had all but ruined it, but even so Natividad hated to leave its protection. But Keziah was pacing and snarling and staring around, looking for more blood kin and scaring all the human people absolutely out of their minds. Natividad would have put her arms around Alejandro’s neck, but all she dared with Keziah was a touch. But she did dare that, and whispered that it was all right, there weren’t any more blood kin, she would know—she wasn’t sure she would, actually—but she told Keziah firmly that she could change back, that she ought to change back, that everything was fine.

  Keziah actually listened. Maybe not to her words, because black dogs often lost language when they changed. But at least to Natividad’s tone. She turned her head toward Natividad and then finally straightened and dwindled, letting her shadow sink away, reclaiming her human form. She didn’t look quite her normal cool, scornful self, but she gave a little shiver and ran her hands through her hair and came very close.

  Across the street, the man whose daughter Keziah had saved took a step forward.

  “We’d better not stay,” Natividad said urgently.

  “No,” Keziah said vaguely.

  “You’re a werewolf,” said the man. He didn’t come closer, but he didn’t run away, either.

  Keziah gave him a haughty stare, but Natividad said, “Yes, but the good kind!”

  More than a little to her surprise the man laughed a little and answered, “Yes, I can see she must be, and is there anything I can do to help? She’s your sister, isn’t she? Is she all right? That monster hit her—and the car was on fire when she picked it up—”

  Keziah turned around. She was so surprised she actually looked surprised instead of sarcastic or offended. She opened her mouth and closed it again and said finally, “I am not hurt.”

  “Werewolves heal fast!” Natividad said quickly. “She’s fine. But thanks, though. Is your little girl all right?”

  “I think so,” said the man. “Yeah, I think so, thanks to you.” He was speaking to Keziah now, sounding a little hesitant but not afraid. “You got her out—and you killed that monster. So fast! I saw one of those things kill a dozen people once, the news showed it, armed cops tried to take it down but it tore them up. But you ripped its head right off!” He was looking at Keziah in admiration that didn’t anything to do with Keziah’s beauty or style.

  Keziah shook her head, looking confused.

  “She was glad to help. But I think we better go,” said Natividad. “Um, Keziah, are those sirens?”

  Keziah blinked and seemed to come back to herself. Then she said sharply, “Yes. Come,” and caught Natividad’s wrist and dragged her away toward their car, which wasn’t fair since Natividad certainly hadn’t been trying to dawdle, but she didn’t protest. It was better not to argue with black dogs. Especially when they were already doing what you wanted.

  Keziah was very silent on the drive home. Eventually she said, “You did not find a gift for your brothers. I am sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault!” said Natividad.

  “No. But I am sorry for it.”

  There was another little silence, and then Natividad said, “You didn’t get anything for Amira, either.”

  “No,” said Keziah. Then she said, her gaze on the road, not glancing at Natividad, “I know what I wish to give Amira for a Christmas gift. No one has ever given her a Christmas present before, but this is America. Christmas is important here. Amira should have a Christmas present. I thought of one I would like to give her.”

  “You did?” Natividad asked, cautiously, because Keziah’s tone seemed a little strange.

  Yes,” said Keziah, and paused again. Then she said at last, “Amira does not wish to have a book. She is a black dog, after all. But I think . . . I think she would like to be told stories. At bedtime. The way you said your mother used to tell you stories.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea—” Natividad began.

  “I think she would like you to tell her stories at bedtime,” said Keziah. She still was not looking at Natividad.

  “Oh,” said Natividad. Then she said, “Not you?”

  “She would like you to tell her stories, I think,” Keziah said firmly. And then added more softly, “If you will. I know it is another thing to do. And Amira is not your sister.”

  “I would love to read her stories!” Natividad declared. She was starting to smile. “I would love to be Amira’s Christmas present. And you’ve given me the perfect idea for what to give Miguel, too. I’m going to ask Grayson to give him a job!”

  “A . . . job?”

  “Yes! You know we’re all supposed to earn our Dimilioc allowances! Miguel may be just my age, but he knows a lot, he knows everything, really! He could do—” she hesitated, then finished more softly, “He could do the same exact job Harrison used to do. Collecting and collating information from all over the country, using news reports to track black dogs and—and blood kin, because that one we found can’t have been the only one left. Maybe there are even a few vampires left and we don’t even know it!” Horrifying as the idea was, she could see now that it must be possible. She said, “If somebody had been tracking the news like we’re supposed to, like Harrison used to, if Miguel had been doing that, I bet that blood kin wouldn’t have been able to take us by surprise. Because there’s no way it’s from Vermont originally, and there’s no way it hasn’t left a trail! Blood kin, you know!”

  Keziah made a skeptical noise, but Natividad was pretty sure it was just habit. Her frown was only thoughtful, not scornful. “And your brother would like this gift?”

  “Oh, yes! He would love it!” Natividad hesitated. “I still don’t know what I could give Alejandro, though.”

  “You will think of the right gift,” Keziah said confidently. “Not a book.”

  “No,” said Natividad. Then she bounced in her seat in sudden excitement and said, “Or maybe the right kind of book! Oh! That is a good idea! One of those blank ones that you said was for pictures and memories? Because I bet Dimilioc has lots of old pictures and—and things, I don’t know, but things that would go in a book like that.”

  “And your brother would like this?”

  “Well,” said Natividad. “I was thinking . . .” she looked cautiously at the other girl. “I was thinking, pictures of our papá. That kind of memory.”

  “Ah,” said Keziah.

  “If . . .” said Natividad. “If he would like a handful of memories.” She hesitated, uncertain now. “Maybe not. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, now that . . .” she couldn’t bring herself to complete that sentence.

  Keziah glanced at Natividad, an unreadable glance. “No,” she said. “Your father was a black dog of the Dimilioc house, yes? He cared for your brother. They were allies, your brother and your father? Then your brother would like that kind of book very much, I think. Even if he is sad. It is good for a black dog to remember to be sad. If you had someone who taught you and protected you, it is good to remember that person.” She added after a second, more tentatively, “I will give you something, if you wish. I will teach you to drive a car.”

  “Oh!” Natividad stared at her. “Oh, would you? That would be perfect!”

  “You would like this?”

  “It would be perfect! No one else will want to—Alejandro, you know how protective he is, and Grayson is worse! And Ezekiel is too busy. But you’re busy, too,” she added in sudden doubt. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “This I would like to do,” Keziah said firmly. “Yes. I will teach you to drive a car, and you will tell stories to Amira. This will be better than books and puzzles and soaps that smell of chocolate.” She gave Natividad a sidelong gla
nce. “Then, when we come back to Burlington to shop for bracelets and pink coats stuffed with feathers, you can drive. But I will come with you, though I am sure we will never again see blood kin anywhere in the world.”

  “Perfect!” Natividad said happily. And it was. Keziah was right about everything. They would never, ever run into blood kin again; they couldn’t be that unlucky twice. So that would be perfect—except maybe not a pink coat. Maybe something elegant. Something nice, something grown up. Something not for a little girl, but for the kind of girl who might learn to drive and maybe, in the spring, go boating on the lake with Ezekiel Korte

  2 -- Library Work

  Étienne Lumondiere really was a bastard. Miguel had figured that one out in just about no time, which did nothing to help when he happened to run into the man at the wrong moment. Which was any moment, actually.

  Étienne Lumondiere thought that ordinary humans were just about fit to wipe the mud off black dog boots. That was the basic issue. It said a lot about Lumondiere attitudes. Or maybe it was just Étienne. Scrub the floors, polish the crystal, inventory the pantries and freezers, sweep cobwebs out of the corners. Dust the books in the library.

  There were a lot of books in the library. Miguel had the impression that none of them had even been picked up for at least a year, much less dusted. Maybe for a decade. He slid one leather-covered volume—Donne, which seemed a weird choice for a black dog library—off its shelf, blew a cloud of dust off its upper edge, swept a dampish cloth across its gold-embossed cover, and set it aside. About twenty books per shelf, poetry on this one and the two below, Donne to Swinburne. Swinburne seemed a more black dog kind of poet. All that about death lying dead, wasn’t that Swinburne? Miguel could stop when he got that far and flip through the book and find out, but if he took a break, that would probably be the moment Étienne Lumondiere happened to come around to check up on him. Miguel wasn’t afraid of Étienne, exactly. But that would lead to an uncomfortable moment at best. At worst, it would mean another couple of days of ridiculous makework chores.

  Eight shelves per block, about four blocks along each wall, except the wall with the windows. Miguel tried to estimate about how many vacuum cleaner bags that much dust would fill, if a vacuum cleaner would get the books really clean. Which, unfortunately it wouldn’t. He had tried that. There was just no substitute for taking each book off its shelf and dusting it by hand.

  He should have tried harder to stay out of Étienne Lumondiere’s way. But even in a house as big as this one, it wasn’t so easy, staying out of some particular person’s way, and unfortunately Étienne seemed unreasonably fond of books and libraries, for a black dog who ought to have been all about running around out of doors killing things. Though only deer and bunnies and so on. Nothing worse, at least one might say that for Étienne, because Lumondiere had always been one of the civilized houses.

  In the spring, Dimilioc was supposed to hire more people to help with the housework. Miguel didn’t see why they should wait for spring. But apparently after all that vicious business before Christmas, there was some kind of black dog insecurity or territoriality or something that made Grayson Lanning put off hiring staff. Trust black dogs to make everything a huge emotional deal.

  Or maybe, after all that, everyone from Lewis and wherever else Dimilioc usually hired staff was simply tired of monsters. Maybe it would take a few more months just to get anyone to even think about working in this house. That, at least, Miguel could certainly understand.

  “Ah, Miguel!” Étienne had said that morning, finding Miguel carefully stretching from the top of a stepladder to lift one of the massive Dimilioc histories down off the highest shelf. “You have nothing to do today but read a little in the personal histories?” And he had smiled, the kind of smile that made it clear what he thought of some outbred human looking through Dimilioc’s private histories. Because Étienne Lumondiere might be civilized, but in his case that meant he was a snobbish, stuck-up, condescending cabrón.

  Unfortunately, he was the kind of snobbish, stuck-up, condescending cabrón that an ordinary human couldn’t very well tell to go take a flying leap. Étienne had been somebody, in the Lumondiere house, Miguel knew that, though not exactly what Étienne’s precise rank or position had been. And he never let you forget he was French, either. He was a tall, lean man with long, narrow hands and sharp-cut elegant features, and he thought he was far too good to be just another Dimilioc wolf. Also, far, far better than any of Dimilioc’s mere human kin.

  Dealing with him was going to take subtlety, and patience, and plausible deniability every step of the way. Just at the moment, Miguel had only the most bare-bones outline of an idea in that direction. At least dusting all the books in the entire world was giving him a lot of time to think about it. Not to mention a strong incentive to work out an actual plan.

  On the other side of the room, Cassie opened the door and came in with a light, quick step, and paused, catching sight of Miguel kneeling beside a stack of books nearly as tall as he was, with the dust cloth in his hand. Probably with dust streaked across his face, too. He suppressed an urge to rub his face, since he definitely had dust on his hands. Looking stupid was bad enough any time, but looking stupid in front of Cassie Pearson would be worse.

  Cassie Pearson was a pretty girl, fine boned and delicate. She was a few months older than Miguel, but looked younger. She had blond hair, cut very short and feathery around her head. Also high cheekbones, tiny ears, a long graceful neck, and big eyes an ambiguous shade between blue and gray. She looked exactly like the kind of winter fairy that ought to flit through the forest here in this cold country, a spirit of the woodlands and winter, darting across the snow without leaving a trace, her fingertips trailing frost through the air with every movement. She dressed the part, too; right now she was wearing an artistically ragged dress of blue and silver and pewter-gray, and silver leggings tucked into low-heeled gray boots. Miguel could just see her flitting through the woods in that.

  Luckily for Cassie, she was not nearly as delicate as she looked, because she might not be any kind of fairy or elf or spirit, but she wasn’t just an ordinary girl anymore, either. One of Vonhausel’s black dogs had bitten her, had made her a cambiador, a moon-bound shifter. That was nothing Miguel would wish on his worst enemy. He certainly wouldn’t wish it for himself, and took half a minute to quickly review the stage of the moon.

  He hadn’t thought he’d recoiled visibly, but he could see Cassie knew exactly what he was thinking. Her mouth twisted. “Relax. Not till tomorrow,” she told him. “I came up early because of the snow.”

  “Ah—right. Good idea.” Yes, there was supposed to be a lot of snow tonight. There never seemed to be anything but snow in this country; way more than any sensible winter ought to be able to hold. “Sensible” was not any way to describe a Vermont winter, that was for sure.

  “Yeah,” said Cassie. Her mouth twisted slightly. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be snowed in here till spring. I don’t dare go home unless I’m sure I can get back here—or unless I can start holding it off better. Grayson’s going to help me.” Her voice was the kind that ought to belong to a woodland spirit: light and pretty and slightly breathless.

  “Um,” said Miguel. “Right. Good luck with that. So, uh, you want something to read?” He couldn’t quite keep the incredulity out of his tone.

  “No,” said Cassie. “I just came to the library to get a dozen cream cakes and a raw steak. Of course something to read, what do you think?”

  “. . . right.”

  “For afterward, of course,” Cassie said impatiently. “You know they won’t let me out till the moon’s two nights past full. That last day is totally boring. If I change back earlier, it’ll be even more boring.”

  “Oh! Right! Of course.” Miguel felt ridiculous. He rubbed his face and got to his feet, looking around uncertainly. “Um, what do you like to read?” There weren’t a lot of modern novels in this library, though he knew some people had a shelf or t
wo of personal favorites in their private rooms. He started to say that he thought he’d seen a couple shelves of romances in one of the rooms along the hall past the suite he shared with his brother and twin sister.

  Before he could, Cassie said briskly, “I thought I’d go on with The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Gibbon, you know,” she added, at Miguel’s astonished stare. “It’s up there.” She pointed helpfully to a high shelf.

  “Um,” said Miguel.

  “So I need the stepladder to get it. The very same stepladder you’ve got all those books piled on?” She looked critically at the stacks of books on the ladder and floor, then even more critically at Miguel. “Dusting? You couldn’t think of anything better to do this morning?”

  Miguel cleared his throat. “Étienne thought I looked like I needed something to do.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes, gratifyingly sympathetic. “Oh, him. He’s useful, I guess, but honestly it’s almost too bad no one tore his throat out when we had the chance. I guess it’s too late now.”

  Miguel blinked. He hadn’t thought that cambiadors were especially bloodthirsty until the full moon drew up their corrupted shadows, but she sounded perfectly serious.

  “Ladder?” she reminded him. “Oh, never mind, I’ll just stand on one of those chairs.”

  Miguel had a strong suspicion that if she scuffed the cushion on that chair, he’d somehow be the one who wound up explaining why to Étienne. Or, worse, Grayson. He hastily began clearing books off the stepladder. “Gibbon, huh?”