“Inviting a demon into your soul. It is a little like making yourself into a black dog,” Alejandro observed.
“It’s a lot like making yourself into a black dog. And it can be seriously dangerous. That’s exactly how black dogs got created in the first place. Alistair said,” she added quickly, as the Master raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He liked to brag, I said. He liked to be important. That’d make witches pretty seriously important, if they made themselves into black dogs, even if they did it by accident. The girl I saw try it would have made a terrible black dog. Sniveling little cowardly thing. She didn’t have any control at all once the demon was in her. More like a moon-bound shifter than a black dog.”
“What happened to her?” Alejandro was both disgusted and interested in this whole idea. He had never for a moment wondered where black dogs might have originally come from, how they might have first been created. Maybe it wasn’t true. Carissa did say this witch would lie to make himself seem more important. But it sounded like it might be true, if this weak human girl had made herself into a shifter, even just one of the moon-bound.
“Alistair got it out of her. It was just a little demon. A black dog would have eaten her for lunch. She wasn’t like—” Carissa gestured up and down, meaning the kind of huge, shaggy, fire-ridden creature they themselves turned into. “She was smaller, weaker. Like I said, more like a shifter, only maybe not moon-bound, I don’t know.” Her lip curled. “You know why the stupid little thing made herself into a shifter? She wanted to change into an animal to scare her boyfriend after he dumped her for another girl. She said she’d make him sorry.” She smiled, a tight savage smile of contempt, as the Master raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I told you, they’re petty. Selfish, small...I think she killed her boyfriend, but she didn’t say so. I think Alistair goaded her into it on purpose so he’d have something to hold over her. Then he got the demon out of her so he’d have a sniveling little coward to follow him around and beg him to teach her how to do it for herself. That’s how he is. Was. He liked awed disciples who followed him like puppies, not anybody who might be a rival.”
“Disciples,” said Grayson, his heavy voice thoughtful. “Is that the term he used himself?”
Carissa nodded. “Yes, one of the words. Disciples, acolytes, students...maybe there’s some reason it’s easier to teach young people, but I think a master witch just likes to be admired and doesn’t want anybody who might challenge him. The master teaches them...but not everything.” She paused, shrugging. “He used us to keep them afraid.”
“You and Enrique Rubio?” asked Carter, but in a surprisingly quiet and undemanding manner so that Carissa would not take the question as an attempt to wound. Alejandro was surprised again. He had not thought the other black dog capable of such subtlety.
Carissa glanced at Carter and nodded again. “He was so proud of us. Or maybe he was proud of getting black dogs of his very own before Kristoff did. He showed us off. And then Kristoff got Ezekiel Korte, so you can see how well that worked out.”
“Korte is supposed to be so strong,” murmured Carter. “But Kristoff had no trouble taking him, did he?” He was careful not to glance at Grayson.
Carissa shrugged. “I think they can do it to any black dog. But I think black dogs that have undergone the Calming are especially vulnerable.”
Grayson said thoughtfully, “I believe Natividad should be able to find a way to ameliorate that particular weakness. We shall certainly see that she, and our other Pure, make the attempt.” With a flicker of attention toward the liaison, who had been listening silently to all this.
Josiah Brown nodded soberly and agreed, “Yes, sir, just as soon as we’re done here.”
Carissa paused for a second in case either of them wanted to say something else. Then she shrugged again. “Maybe. I don’t know. Black witches can kind of muffle the Pure, cripple them, steal power from them. But they can’t enspell them or control them, and I don’t think they can even curse them, not the way they curse other people. Which makes sense, you know, because the Pure are immune to everything demonic. I mean, that’s kind of the definition, right? But maybe the other way around works too. Maybe black magic is immune to Pure magic. I never heard Alistair say anything about, like, being worried about the Pure. I don’t know if the Pure can break a witch’s grip on a black dog. I never...I never saw anyone have a chance to try.”
“A priest can break a black witch’s spell on someone,” Grayson said thoughtfully. “Priests aren’t magic and don’t appear to be muffled like the Pure. We may be able to use that.”
Carissa shrugged. “Maybe. They kill priests, too. But they don’t use their bones in rituals.”
Grayson asked, his tone matter of fact, “Did your Alistair Burton use black dogs in his rituals?”
The girl flinched. “Not exactly. He caught another black dog after Enrique and me. A young untrained cur stray, useless to anyone. He didn’t use him in a ritual. But he fed him to his demon. He did that to keep everyone afraid, too.” She was silent for a moment before she added, “It worked.”
“He summoned the demon how long ago?”
“The big one? I think Kristoff did that because he figured you would be coming, Master.” She shrugged at Grayson’s expression. “He knew he’d caught someone important when he snagged Ezekiel. He knows about Dimilioc.” A pause. Then, “Ezekiel told him.”
Grayson merely nodded, but under his hand, the edge of the metal bench crumpled.
“Kristoff has ambitions. That’s what I think. We got rid of the vampires, but the war left us weaker than we’ve ever been and he knows that. He says men like him created the first black dogs and the first vampires. I think, now the vampires are gone, he wants to rule black dogs and be first again.”
The Master growled, “He did not rid the world of vampires.”
“But he’s the one who’s going to benefit from their destruction. Especially now he’s killed Alistair. Those disciples, they’re nothing. The real witches offer them power, but only teach them a little. But they must be useful for something or why would Kristoff have cared when he lost that one recently? This loser who called himself Crowley. No loss there, believe me.”
Her lip curled again. Alejandro was pleased this so-unpleasant disciple was dead.
Carissa hadn’t paused. She said, “Kristoff came back spitting mad. Then almost immediately he caught Ezekiel. That cheered him right up, you bet. I figure he knew from the first second exactly what he wanted to use him for. Get rid of Alistair, take everything for himself. All the grimoires, all the disciples...Enrique and me. Everything. I figure that was the plan.”
Everyone was listening to Carissa’s bitter words. The black dogs were mostly not looking directly at her, though Grayson was. He was frowning. Not at her, probably. She was being respectful enough now. At something in his own thoughts. There seemed many possible things that would make him scowl.
Grayson leaned back against the wall of the van. “Finish that sandwich. Have another. Everyone should eat something now. Lieutenant Brown.”
The human man jerked slightly as the Master spoke his name. Alejandro had nearly forgotten about him, or at least had come to disregard him. Everyone had been paying close attention to Carissa and hardly any to him. Now the combined weight of their attention fell on him. No wonder he flinched. But he said, politely for a human, “Sir?”
“What do your people know about these black witches? Alistair Burton. Gregor Kristoff. Do you know those names?”
The man shook his head. “You can bet I’ll be passing them along to our intel crew, but I’ve never heard either. This black witchcraft stuff, this is new to us. At least, it’s new to me. I couldn’t answer one way or the other for the Colonel.” He paused, then took advantage of the opportunity to ask, “Your Pure, do you consider them, like, white witches?”
Grayson said with finality, “The Pure have nothing in common with the black witches Carissa describes. Nothing.”
This did not
seem exactly true to Alejandro. Murdering people and drawing a circle with their blood, that was something Natividad would find revolting. Any of the Pure would recoil. But they did draw circles, and other shapes. Sometimes they used their own blood. The circles black witches drew might be some kind of perversion of Pure magic. If Natividad were only here, they could ask her.
Carissa clearly didn’t think there was anything to ask about. “Witches use the bones of the Pure,” she said, biting off each word. She stared directly at the Special Forces liaison.
Josiah Brown did not recognize this as a threat or he would not have looked back so steadily. Alejandro tried to think of some way to break the moment, but he didn’t have to, because Carter asked smoothly, “Finger bones?”
Carissa’s gaze slide sideways to him and away again. Her shoulders, drawn up and tense, relaxed a little. “Yeah, finger bones. Other bones, too. Not just from the Pure. Not even just human bones. Alistair used to use the bones of children and dogs to do some kinds of magic.”
“Murdered children?” Grayson asked grimly.
“I don’t think necessarily. They rob graves, I know that. They collect graveyard dust—they call it dust.” She tossed her head, contemptuous. “It’s just dirt. But they like the dirt that was actually lying right on the coffin, and I know once they dig down that deep, sometimes they open coffins and steal...parts. But I think the bones of the Pure are used for...special kinds of magic.”
Special kinds of magic she did not want to describe in front of the Special Forces man, Alejandro guessed. Or maybe she did not want to explain more clearly to black dogs she did not know. Or maybe she just did not know as much about the witches’ magic as she pretended.
But he thought otherwise. He thought Carissa Hammond knew far more about black magic than any decent person ought to. Far more than any decent person would want to.
He was right, too. She glanced around uneasily at everyone and then settled on looking steadily at her hands. “They pour magic into finger bones. Black magic. There’s a ritual...maybe more than one. Witches’ magic is all about ritual. They use rituals to get a demon to do what they want, to shape the magic they get from a demon, to keep themselves safe from the demons they summon.”
“Ah. Yes. That is a weakness,” observed Grayson, his deep voice soft. “Disrupt or prevent these rituals and presumably the witch will be rendered vulnerable to the demon he has summoned.”
“Yeah, along with everybody else for, like, miles around,” Carissa shot back. “Letting demons loose might not be the best way to deal with witches.” The corners of her mouth crooked upward, though. “Might be worth it though, if you get to watch the demon eat the witch.”
“This is what you mean by demon-struck,” said Grayson. “Can you explain this term a little more fully? You have explained what happens to a demon-struck black dog. What happens to a human?”
Carissa shrugged, pretending an insouciance Alejandro was sure she did not really feel. “Mostly they die. Usually not right at once. The soul is gone, so they...just stop living. Same with disciples I think. I think disciples are ordinary humans. Alistair talked about recruiting—he always sounded like he could recruit anybody he wanted, like anybody could become a witch.” She spread her hands, the fingers just a little shorter than human fingers would have been, the hands just a little distorted. But all she said was, “He lied a lot. Maybe he was lying about that, too.” She paused and then went on, “This Stéphanie, she’s Pure, right? I don’t know what will happen to her. I don’t think a witch would ever let a demon strike one of the Pure. They’d say it was a waste. You’d think a Pure woman would be immune to being demon-struck. But obviously it hurt her. I don’t know.”
“And a demon-struck black dog is reduced to a moon-bound shifter,” murmured Grayson. “Or worse? You said they do not recover themselves when the moon wanes?”
Carissa met his eyes for a moment before she looked away. She said steadily, “The human part dies, I think. The human soul. The shadow is still there, so the—the body lives. They can’t change form until the moon pulls their shadows up, and then their shadows are ascendant. But, yeah, they aren’t like moon-bound shifters because they don’t change back as the moon wanes.”
This sounded even worse than Alejandro had expected. He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think about this at all.
Now they meant to face this powerful black witch and very likely another demon. Or the same one, perhaps, which had already proven strong and unpredictable and difficult to handle. And they would face witch and demon without Natividad’s protective magic, only what she had already made. Well, her little shadow-threaded beads were clever, and useful. But still. He felt certain they would need something else. And she would not be there to make anything. Impatient though he was to tear Dimilioc’s enemies to pieces, Alejandro nearly suggested reconsidering this plan of close pursuit.
From the front of the van, a light rap caught everyone’s attention. James said in a tense, wary tone, “Heads up, people. I think we’re going to get wherever we’re going pretty damn soon.”
-14-
Five minutes later, as the van came over one last ridge and around the curve of one of the endless bends in the rutted road, they all had a chance to see the place their enemies had gone to earth. They were in the Arapaho National Forest west of Denver, not too far west. Near a place called Copper Mountain, the Special Forces man said. This was not a town, but something called a ski resort. Alejandro had not heard the term before. He gathered it meant the place was small, with few people, more like a village than a town. That was probably good. Fewer human people meant fewer people to get in the way. Though they had not actually gone to this Copper Mountain, but only near it, off on a rutted, gravelly road that threw the van about roughly and sometimes felt very steep.
The rear part of the van did not have normal windows, but it had high, narrow viewing ports along both sides. The glass in those was shaded, gray, half opaque. It must be impossible to see into the van through them; it was difficult enough to see out. But after a moment the idling motor cut off, and a moment after that Grayson gestured impatiently for Alejandro, near the rear of the van, to open the doors.
Alejandro was on his feet immediately, flinging the door wide, jumping out and down with swift, decisive aggression in case enemies might be waiting. But there was no one. And nothing. He moved a few steps farther from the van, scanning the landscape with slow disquiet as everyone else emerged into the high desert sunlight.
It had snowed here: a few inches of clean white snow lay over everything. This was marked by a few different sets of tire tracks besides their own, so it was very plain where their enemies had gone, and that the Special Forces people, following, had come here before them.
Here was no deserted clutter of ugly, boxy buildings surrounded by gritty leveled parking areas. It was just as ugly, though, and somehow a lot more disturbing. The surrounding mountains were fine: lots of wild country, good for hunting deer or wild pigs. Or enemies. But the land just here was...torn. Broken.
Alejandro neither knew nor cared what kind of mining or industry had left these great gouges cut back into the steep, exposed hillside. The whole region looked a little like a quarry and a little like it had been strip mined and a lot like it had been ruined for living things. Here in this high country, forests rolled out where there was enough water, pines clung to the poor soils above the forests, and despite the season, even the poorest land in this country possessed tough wiry grasses and scrubby trees. But there was nothing here in this place. Only rocky land roughly leveled and the torn mountainside, as though great claws had ripped through the stone.
The whole area had been closed off behind a high chain-link fence. The fence hardly seemed necessary. He couldn’t imagine anyone actually wanting to go farther. No black dog would have trusted the land on the other side of the fence even without the a warning signs posted along its length. He did not necessarily believe the signs. Nuc
lear waste, one said. Radiation danger, said another. Perhaps such things might be found beyond that fence, but Alejandro suspected not. He thought it unlikely that those sorts of dangers would be merely fenced and abandoned.
The fence turned into a sturdy-looking gate right across the road. The gate had once been chained shut. Now the ends of the chain dangled, cut through, and the gate stood open. Alejandro didn’t trust the apparent vulnerability. He looked with misgiving through the fence and up at the barren, scraped-clean mountainside.
No buildings were in sight. Maybe they were back farther, or hidden inside the gouged-out regions. The road itself ran straight back into one deeply shadowed crevice. Despite the absence of obvious buildings, the air was tainted faintly by the scent of smoke. Not woodsmoke. Or not woodsmoke alone. This was something else, or something more. Burning plastic, maybe. Or burning paint.
The liaison, Josiah Brown, had swung himself down from the van with the rest of them and now raised a hand to his earbud and looked at Grayson, a request for attention. He said, sounding faintly apologetic, “The colonel suggests you all come in on foot from here.”
The Master tilted his head consideringly. “And his van? And Ms. Raichlen’s?”
“We’ll pass them a bit farther on, sir, I think, and find everyone waiting for us.
Josiah Brown was only partly right. They found the vans, but deserted. Both vans, the first parked neatly only a little way farther along the...it wasn’t truly a road any longer. The flattish cut they followed. It was hardly out of sight from the gate. The liaison didn’t spare it a glance. “Raichlen’s team,” he told them in a low voice. “The colonel’s waiting up ahead.” He spoke in a low voice, for a human. Probably he did not realize how acute black dog hearing was.
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