MigTol: Nolo contendere. Check this out. And this.
Prophetess: Nasty looking circle What’s it made of.
Prophetess: That’s a demon huh. Ugly bstd
MigTol: Not arguing w u there. Don’t know. Black magic? Blood? Demon ooze? N cut through it. Demon got out. That could be not-good. Looks like demons & blk dgs don’t mix well
Prophetess: Oil and water?
MigTol: More like a spark under an O2 tent …
Prophetess: Oh good
MigTol: Another picture
Prophetess: That silver net thing is brilliant E doesn’t look too good tho
MigTol: Yeah
Prophetess: So u and N r with SF people and E is all tied up and out of it & other SF back w G and evbdy & demon is loose and witches got away?
MigTol...kind of sums it up YMMV but u may want to keep mum till u find out more. Maybe get better news l8r. Get news anyway. I’ll get these SF guys to keep me in the loop
Prophetess: Y
Prophetess: Ur right. I think I won’t pass this on immediately.
MigTol: Y
MigTol: Wait Evytng all right there? U all right?
MitTol: Cassie?
Prophetess: We’re good. It’s fine. A little busy.
MigTol: Really. Zup? Ethan a problem?
Prophetess: No no. Actually Ethan’s ok.
MigTol: Where is Cassie and what have you done with her?
Prophetess: *rolling my eyes*
MigTol: If there’s anything I can do lmk
Prophetess: U tend to ur knitting. We got this here.
Prophetess: U got other things to worry abt. U get those guys to listen to u. We can’t lose G. Not too keen on losing anybody.
MigTol: Y but still if there’s a problem u should tell me. Should I get in touch with Etienne?
Prophetess: Hell no we got this
MigTol: I better not find out ur BSing me
Prophetess: YYSSW
Prophetess: Keep me ITL. Don’t want to find out ur dead from somebody sometime u hear? U go down, u text me w your last breath.
MigTol: Ea cui oboediendum est
The helicopter didn’t actually land in Albuquerque, of course; it landed at the military base north of the city, a mostly-new complex of squat, square buildings and dusty roads. The largest building, a couple stories of ugly brick surrounded by a huge gravel lot and two high fences, had a helipad on the roof, so naturally that was where they landed. Miguel decided he could not have designed a less inviting place if he’d tried for an hour. Even the roof was ugly. And the building would be seriously difficult to get out of, that was obvious the moment Santibañez opened the roof door. Thick walls and metal doors, and code pads beside every door.
Natividad clearly didn’t like this. Miguel wasn’t too happy about it himself, but there was not a whole lot either of them could do about it.
“Maximum security,” Santibañez said, jerking his head illustratively toward Ezekiel. “Don’t worry, it’s not the Chateau d’If or anything. Pretty posh accommodations, in fact. This way.” He nodded firmly down the corridor in the other direction.
Natividad still didn’t look happy. But when Miguel nudged her, after one unhappy moment she nodded and let the Special Forces lieutenant lead them down the hall and to an elevator, just glancing over her shoulder to make sure the others were bringing Ezekiel along. Lot of buttons in the elevator; way more than Miguel would have guessed just from looking at these buildings from the air. Six floors that had numbers, and six unmarked buttons. You probably weren’t supposed to push those unless you knew what they were for.
Santibañez pressed one of those.
Down...hard to guess how far; elevators could move at pretty different speeds. The buttons didn’t light up, so no hint that way.
Then the elevator doors slid open, and they were in a place that seemed for all the world like some ordinary office building somewhere in the middle of an ordinary city. Even the air smelled boring: characterless and chilly, with no hint of the desert.
And busy. People were everywhere. Suits. Lots of suits. Not a black Special Forces uniform anywhere to be seen, no regular military uniforms either. That seemed odd. Santibañez paused. He’d set a hand on Miguel’s arm to guide him forward, but now his grip tightened. Miguel gave the lieutenant a questioning look. The lieutenant had never been exactly forthcoming, but he suddenly looked about expressive as a blank wall.
“Ah!” said a man in a suit, suddenly coming toward them, smiling as he examined the scene they made. He looked carefully at Ezekiel and then nodded, turning to Santibañez. “Very good, ah, Lieutenant, and what do we have here?”
This was a smooth, cool-voiced, soft-handed man with a slim briefcase in one hand and an air of authority very different from Santibañez’s or the colonel’s. Something about his attitude made it clear that he knew he was thoroughly superior to those he condescended to address. Definitely more important than a Special Forces lieutenant. Certainly vastly superior to a couple of grimy kids.
“Colonel Herrod—” began Lieutenant Santibañez.
“Seems to be absent,” interrupted the smooth-voiced man, still smiling. “Not that his presence or absence is of practical importance. Senator Connelly, as the Chairman of the Committee for the Management of Supernatural Threats, does hold authority over Special Forces units in the absence of military personnel under the rank of lieutenant general. As I’m sure you know, Lieutenant, though if you would care to peruse the relevant statute I can provide you with a copy immediately.” He lifted the briefcase an illustrative inch.
“I’m familiar with the statute in question,” Santibañez said, his tone flat.
“Good, good. Senator Connelly will be very interested in where Colonel Herrod is, and about what business. Your report will be most interesting, I’m sure. If you would care to come with me, Lieutenant? Our people will be quite capable of interviewing these...” he inspected Miguel and Natividad with fastidious interest, like a man presented with a couple of dirty stray dogs. “Young people,” he finished, in a tone that just missed disdainful by way of not being quite interested enough to get there.
Disdain was the kind of thing Miguel might be able to grab hold of. Which was good, because this situation was, he was pretty sure, pretty well jodido. If Santibañez had planned to object to this senator dude sweeping in and taking over, he seemed to have re-thought that. Which, yeah, Miguel recalled something about the Committee for Supernatural Shit, which was pretty important for a committee that had existed less than a decade. Yeah, civilian oversight of the Special Forces blah blah blah, naturally all the politicians had mostly agreed it’d be a great idea to give some senator authority over their brand-new sorta-kinda branch of the military. Yeah, this was just wonderful.
He kicked Natividad lightly on the ankle. She didn’t even look at him, but took a step toward Ezekiel, still bound and unconscious, and exclaimed, “Did he move? Did anybody see him move just then?”
Good job, that was perfect. During the heartbeat that everybody’s attention was focused on Ezekiel, Miguel sidled back behind Santibañez, whipped out his phone, triggered the password lock—for all the good it would do, but what else could he do?—and slid it into Santibañez’s back pocket.
The lieutenant didn’t turn around or say What the hell? or even twitch. So, yeah. Miguel was pretty sure he wasn’t wrong about what kind of thing this was.
It was a hijacking. And this smooth-voiced lawyerly dude who was so sure he was going to have everything his own way probably was.
Grayson needed to know. Hell, Colonel Herrod needed to know. Without his phone, Miguel had no way to warn either of them. But he figured that was Lieutenant Santibañez’s problem now.
-11-
Alejandro was glad when the Special Forces people took Natividad and Miguel out of the witches’ stronghold. More than almost anything else, he wanted his brother and sister clear of this place. Clear and out and away, a long way away, nowhere any place that this demon had e
ver touched.
But his satisfaction at his brother’s and sister’s escape was muted by his fury and horror at all the other things that were happening.
He was losing his shadow. He was losing control of it. It was all but free of him. He had never felt anything like this. Even when his sister had temporarily stripped his shadow out of him to stop Malvern Vonhausel, for some minutes leaving him something close to human, he had not felt like this.
He knew very well what was happening. Even if he hadn’t felt his black dog pull away from him, he would have figured it out when his shadow shook itself free and stood up on its own, looming, enormous, wavering halfway between smoky insubstantiality and shaggy black solidity. It was savagely pleased with itself. But afraid of the other demon, the smoke-bird-scorpion-demon thing with all the teeth. Alejandro felt both its pleasure and its fear.
The pleasure was stronger than the fear. The witch’s terrible demon pried at everyone, forcing all their shadows free of them, and Alejandro’s black dog was more pleased than afraid. It was a stupid thing. He had never really understood that, but he knew it now. Any thinking creature would have been terrified of the demon, would have realized anything the demon did to them would be horrible. But Alejandro’s black dog hadn’t figured that out. Yet. It would, eventually, but probably that would be too late.
It had never occurred to Alejandro that he might ever feel toward his own shadow anything like the exasperated protectiveness he often felt toward his brother and sister. But it was a little bit the same.
He was also terrified for himself, of course. That terror provided urgency to his struggle to roll his own shadow down and under.
It was almost like trying to force another black dog’s shadow under. It was a lot like that, actually. Except he used the weight of his own shadow to press someone else’s down, and here he was trying to use something else. The weight of his own soul, maybe, that was bound to his shadow...a prisoner, sometimes. Or more like a jailer. Or right now, something like an anchor. A weight. Heavy, dragging...he stared into his own fiery-eyed shadow and thought of his soul that way. Like an anchor. Like a heavy iron chain.
Alejandro had lost track of everything else, everything but himself and his black dog shadow and his own struggle, so the blow that knocked him sprawling took him completely by surprise. He hit the floor hard and skidded, struck one of the groaning torn-up machines with enough force to drive all the breath from his lungs, scrabbled awkwardly for a handhold among twisted metal debris, flung himself to his feet to tear apart whatever had attacked him—
Grayson was there, where Alejandro had been standing a second ago, glaring with hot-eyed intensity at the demon-thing that leaned down over him, surrounded him, reached for him with things that were like spines and things that were like claws and things that were like fangs. It reached down and then flinched back, reached down and flinched back. In one almost-human hand the Master held something little and shining, something obviously made by and of Pure magic—so Natividad had made something; that was good, muy bien. In his other hand, the Master held a silver net, which he sent striking upward like a whip to drive back the demon.
The Master’s shadow was his own. Of course it was. If anyone would fight off the demon’s attempt to pull his black dog free and make it ascendant, of course it would be Grayson Lanning. With or without some special thing Natividad had made for him. Grayson had recovered himself fast enough and thoroughly enough to see Alejandro’s danger, and had instantly snatched up a burning net of silver cord to use as a weapon, hurled Alejandro out of the way, and faced the threat himself. Of course he had. Alejandro was sure it wasn’t just Natividad’s little shining aparato or the silver cords keeping the demon off him. It was the Master’s fury and strength.
Just seeing that Grayson had mastered his own shadow somehow made it easier for Alejandro to force his own down and under, and then while he still struggled the Master threw him a whole bag of little cosas brillantes—more of these things Natividad had made, obviously. He spilled one out into his hand, fumbling a little in his haste. The thing was small and cold to the touch, like glass but colder. Only it was threaded right through with a tiny, vivid, burning trace of black dog shadow. Only Natividad could have made such a thing.
Despite its size, it was heavy. Heavy in a peculiar way. Heavy in a way that let it somehow serve as an anchor for Alejandro’s shadow, securing it solidly once more within his own soul—strange how in a way both the shadow and his own soul seemed to act as anchors, one for the other. However it was, he finally reclaimed his own ascendancy. He laughed, furious and triumphant, and thrust the little aparato into his pocket while he held human form. Only then did he let his shadow rise up through him, burning and furious and tightly bound, possessed and not possessing.
He wanted to attack the demon thing: how dare it threaten him, how dare it try to divide him from his own demonic shadow, to which he was accustomed and which he needed? How dare it strike against Dimilioc? Fury burned through him, hot and satisfying. He wanted to tear Dimilioc’s enemy to shreds, burn it to ash, consume its strength...he wanted that, his black dog wanted that, it was difficult to tell which was which when they agreed so closely. But when his shadow would have attacked blindly, Alejandro was the one with the sense to leave the demon to the Master and turn himself to help Dimilioc’s beleaguered wolves.
He found Théo Callot almost at once, in human form, standing rigid and intent above Stéphanie, fighting his own shadow with silent willpower. He was losing that battle, Alejandro thought. He put one of Natividad’s new shadow-threaded aparatos into Théo’s hand and turned to look for the next...the young one, Ian, had already lost his own struggle; his shadow stalked him like prey and now tore him down, shrieking first with satisfied hatred and then with shrill dismay as, without a human soul to use as an anchor, it shredded into the air. Stupid thing, but its stupidity had not helped Ian.
That was infuriating.
A little farther away, Carter still struggled. Alejandro could see that his shadow had torn almost entirely free of him. It was still wavering and insubstantial, but more solid with every second that passed. Alejandro flung the weight of his shadow across it, forcing it down. “¡Lo tenga! ¡Lo posea! Cómo se atreve a desafiarte?” he snarled at Carter—then realized he had spoken in Spanish, but he could not remember the English.
From his wild-eyed look, Carter might not remember English either. But it did not matter. He saw that Alejandro had mastered his shadow, he saw that Théo had mastered his, he saw that Grayson had not only achieved so much but also protected the rest of them while they fought. When Alejandro threw a glimmering bead to him, he was intelligent enough to snatch it out of the air. Anger or pride drove him to greater ferocity, and besides, his shadow could not rise, not while Alejandro held it down. With the anchor of the shadow-threaded bead, Carter finally shrugged into his black dog form—then forced it under again and turned, snarling, to look for other enemies.
There were few enemies now, except the demon. With an insubstantial sound like wind through dry grasses, the thing had drawn back from Grayson—and now struck toward someone else. Rip. It was Rip, who had once belonged to Carter’s own small pack. Backing away from his own shadow, Rip had not even realized his danger. Carter started that way. Alejandro followed, swiftly. There were more beads, surely enough for everyone. But just helping Rip regain control of his shadow was not enough, because there was still the demon. It did not seem tangible enough to rip apart with claws and teeth, and Alejandro feared to touch it anyway—feared to let it touch him. But he was too angry to let it strike at Rip without trying to drive it back. Rip’s shadow, suddenly realizing its peril, melted down and fled to hide within Rip’s human body, no longer seeking ascendance, cowed by the greater demon.
Then Grayson was there. He strode forward, slashing out with the silver cords at the insubstantial demon that stooped over Rip. It was satisfying, seeing the demon-thing draw back, evading Grayson’s attack. But it was
not satisfying enough. Whirling, Alejandro flung himself toward the net-wrapped black dog, the one whom he did not know. He had not recognized him during the short, savage battle. Her, he saw, now that the net had forced her into her human shape. She was a stranger. A girl, maybe not so much older or younger than his own age, but so gaunt it was hard to judge. Starvation had sharpened her bones and exaggerated the angles of her face; it was hard to guess what she would look like at a proper weight.
Her hair was light brown, hacked off short as with a blunt knife. Her skin was pale, shadowed by bruises along both her arms and by thin lines of blisters where the silver lay against her skin. The bruises were very visible because she wore a sleeveless t-shirt. The t-shirt had been white, a long time ago. Now, where it wasn’t sodden with blood it was gray, dingy with ash or dirt. Her jeans had both knees out, not in the artistic way girls sometimes liked but in a way that made it clear they were just worn and hard-used.
Alejandro started to tear the girl free of the net, but found it burned his hands. Nor could the strands be easily broken or cut through by shadow claws, even when he set himself to endure its touch. Silver drove his shadow deep and ruined its strength. Alejandro snarled furiously, but he put a shadow-threaded bead into her hand in case it might help. He folded her fingers around it and began the frustratingly slow work of untangling the girl from the net one little bit at a time, concentrating on that because if he allowed his attention to be drawn in six different directions he would never be able to get the net off her. He wanted the net, he wanted to use it as a weapon, because from the sounds of battle around him he knew the demon-thing had not yet fled or been destroyed
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