Shadow Twin

by Rachel Neumeier

  No one suggested getting out of the van to make a closer inspection of this place. No black dog minded violent death or murder. This was different. No one wanted to get out here, or look more closely at the bloodless slaughter.

  “Kristoff?” Grayson asked Carissa as James re-started the van and swung it in an unhurried turn toward the road.

  The girl was frowning, uneasy more than angry. “Maybe. Probably. I guess it must have been. I mean, what else? Except I don’t think even Kristoff would have done all that on purpose. I think...”

  “We released two demons from Kristoff’s control and they combined into one greater demon,” Grayson said flatly. “Just as the acolyte said.”

  The Master’s tone had been matter-of-fact, but Alejandro winced. Death and murder were one thing. But he could just imagine how Natividad would feel if she found out the demons she had helped free had dealt out all this death and murder.

  She had seen whole villages torn apart before. She had seen everyone she knew killed, murdered by her own family’s enemies, right down to the dogs and the goats and the chickens. That was what she would think of when she heard about this. Even though she could never have guessed what demons might do if they slipped a witch’s control. How could any of them have guessed?

  He wanted Natividad so badly it was nearly a physical pain, though at the same time he was very glad she had not seen the dead resort.

  Grayson probably thought the same thing. He was putting his phone away again—once more he had tried to call Herrod. Once more there had been no answer. No one made any comment about this. The Master’s expression was forbidding. Probably Colonel Herrod was still on his way to deal with this political problem of his. Or still in the process of dealing with it. But he had better deal with it. Very soon.

  The sun had gone down behind the mountains now, so they drove down and down in the dark. James had not yet turned on the van’s headlights; black dog eyes had no difficulty seeing by the light of the blood-streaked moon. The road turned and turned again, snaking down out of the mountains, heading east toward Denver. Alejandro wished he thought they would be safe there. He did not know which he feared and hated more, the witch or this demon. Though if he guessed right, encyst meant something like sleep. Perhaps the demon had been sated and would sleep.

  He was very certain Gregor Kristoff would not be sleeping. He would be in that safe and hidden place of his, planning vengeance and a decisive blow against Dimilioc. He had no choice, now. He must know that unless he were very stupid. Unfortunately Alejandro did not think that very likely.

  If Stéphanie could not recover herself, or if she died, they would need Natividad. Even if Stéphanie recovered, Alejandro did not trust her as he trusted his sister. Without Natividad, he had no idea how would they ever find a way to guard themselves against the witch or find a way to destroy the demon.

  They needed Natividad. And Colonel Herrod was not answering his phone.

  -16-

  They left Miguel handcuffed to that damned chair even after the senator left the room. He couldn’t really judge the time. He just sat there getting madder and madder, his butt getting sore from the hard plastic and his neck getting sore because the back of chair was too straight. He stood up sometimes, but he couldn’t pace because of the damned handcuff. No one brought a sandwich or coke or anything. He was getting pretty hungry, but what he really wanted was that coke. Or coffee would be fine. Or plain water. Anything. Except he already needed a toilet, and a coke or coffee or water would only have made that worse.

  You’re not important. That was the message, either intentional or otherwise: You don’t matter. Basically that was fine, even if it was also uncomfortable. Except that he knew that those cabrones must think Natividad was important, and he was afraid of what a bunch of politicos and who knows what lab types might do with her, or to her, trying to figure her out. Though surely if they believed she was their key to controlling Ezekiel, controlling black dogs generally, they’d want to treat her with kid gloves. Senator Connelly would probably try to get her on his side, persuade her he was a good guy. He’d think she was stupid, the kind of girl who’d fall in love with a black dog bad boy who batted his seductive eyelashes at her. Miguel sure hoped the senator would think so. Surely he’d read the senator more or less right, set him up just right. This would definitely not be a good time to be wrong.

  The senator would probably be a lot rougher with Ezekiel. That wasn’t great, but Dimilioc’s executioner could handle whatever that pedazo de basura dished out.

  Miguel could handle the senator, too. He could get the damned politico to dish out just the right stuff, if he was careful, and if could only get the senator thinking that Miguel himself was their best source of information about black dogs and about the Pure. Natividad would understand that she shouldn’t admit anything or explain anything, or actually say anything at all. The senator would have to come back to Miguel if he wanted to get anything coherent out of Natividad. He’d surely think of using Miguel that way. Of course he would, that was exactly the kind of guy he was. Miguel could handle him.

  Or if he couldn’t, surely Colonel Herrod would come back eventually. Miguel was sure Herrod would be seriously pissed off when he found out the senator had taken custody of...what had the colonel meant them to be? Special prisoners, hostages, hard to say. Lab specimens. But important. The colonel’s people would have been polite. Miguel was sure about that.

  He wished he could be as sure that Senator Connelly cared about Colonel Herrod’s opinion. The senator was probably so arrogant it hadn’t crossed his mind he ought to care about a mere colonel. That was sure to be a mistake. Miguel wouldn’t mind watching the two of them clash. Like the proverbial immovable force and irresistible object. Except he was pretty sure the senator would turn out to be a lot more movable than he expected. Not that any of that would help if Senator Connelly had already dissected Ezekiel or whatever.

  Anyway, Herrod still hadn’t come back as far as Miguel knew, and that meant he and Natividad and Ezekiel were on their own. Miguel wished there was a clock in this place. Or that he had his phone. Or even a watch. Anything. It was just impossible to guess how much time had passed. A couple hours probably seemed like forever when you were bored and hungry and irritated and, he had no problem admitting, scared.

  And there was no way for Miguel to find out what was happening. He couldn’t even pound on the door and shout, because he was still handcuffed to this stupid plastic chair. Jerking to his feet again, he kicked the chair hard. At least tantrums were perfectly in character.

  It didn’t make any difference, though. The chair was still bolted to the floor, he was still handcuffed to it, the door was still shut and presumably locked, and that damned senator and all his flunkies were still out there doing God knew what. Miguel glared at the door. “Pedazo de basura,” he muttered. That was in character, too, if anybody was listening.

  But nothing happened, and then more nothing, and he threw himself back into the chair, rubbing his face and wishing for aspirina.

  A lot of handcuffs were supposed to open for the same key, hadn’t he read that somewhere? If he had a paperclip, maybe he could pick the lock, if he knew how to pick locks. If he were Pure, he could wish really hard for the lock to spring open, if the Pure could open locks, which he’d have at least tried to do if he’d been Pure. He’d have to get with Natividad, figure out if there were ways for her to open locks, most particularly figure out if she could make him something that would let him do it.

  He carefully didn’t allow himself to think, If I ever get the chance to ask her.

  He really wished for aspirin. That didn’t do any good, either.

  Folding his arms on the table, he rested his head on the backs of his hands and closed his eyes. It wasn’t comfortable. Not at all. But he could at least rest his eyes for a few minutes. Just a few minutes, maybe. And then he’d think about the senator and the lab guys and just how to work things so the next steps in the dance c
ame out the way he wanted them to...have to be quick about it. He was more and more afraid that if they didn’t escape pretty soon, Dimilioc would show up, Alejandro in the front, pointing the way to Natividad, and who knew what would happen then. Anybody might get shot if it came to that...he had to make sure it didn’t come to that...

  Though the sound wasn’t loud, Miguel jerked awake as the door clicked open. His back and neck hurt as he straightened, and his tail bone. And the headache was worse. And he really needed to get to a toilet.

  But it was Lieutenant Santibañez, with a large, steaming Styrofoam cup in his hand. The cup instantly captured Miguel’s full attention.

  “Tell me that’s coffee,” he said, before remembering the kid he was supposed to be probably wouldn’t say something like that to a Special Forces man, at least not in that tone. He’d forgotten to sound like a smart-ass; that had come out more like they were kind of on the same side. He rubbed his face hard, trying to wake up, trying to remember what exactly he’d had in his head last night. Or whenever. “Look, Lieutenant, I really need to piss,” he added, and that didn’t come out quite as whiny as he’d meant it to, either. The back of his brain really didn’t seem to think playacting was necessary with Santibañez. Probably the back of his brain was an idiot.

  “I bet you do. Down the hall,” said Santibañez, and produced a key, which he tossed across the several feet between him and Miguel.

  Miguel snagged the key out of the air. “Oh, yeah.” It took him a couple of tries to get the handcuff unlocked; that was how tired and out of it he was. Coffee, yeah. Maybe the caffeine would even help with the damn headache. He grabbed the cup as Santibañez handed it over, popped off the lid, and slugged half of it down like medicine. It was just about hot enough to burn the lining off the back of his throat, but he didn’t even care.

  “Senator Connelly wants you to talk sense into your sister,” volunteered Santibañez. “He’s been trying to talk to her himself. Yesterday evening and again this morning—it’s eight, by the way—but he’s not getting very far. She’s kind of...upset.”

  Miguel gave the lieutenant a sharp look, pretty sure that this was way more than he’d been supposed to say. He bet if Colonel Herrod ever said Go get the other prisoner, Santibañez would just go get the other prisoner, not get all chatty. “Yeah, she gets like that,” he said, figuring that could mean anything. He wondered just how Natividad had been acting, to get Santibañez to put that kind of super-neutral tone on upset. Crying, maybe. Crying might be a good excuse for being incoherent. Maybe she’d worked herself right up into hysteria. He couldn’t quite imagine Natividad hysterical, but maybe she’d found new acting ability, under the circumstances.

  Or maybe she really was just that upset. Miguel flinched from imagining what that damned cabrón senator might have done to his sister, tossed the empty cup into a trashcan, and said, “Okay, let’s go, right?”

  Natividad didn’t exactly look hysterical, when Santibañez conducted Miguel down the hall—first to the toilet, thank God—and around a corner and up a flight of stairs. Then down another hall and finally he opened another metal security door, and waved Miguel through. And there was Natividad. At last. She wasn’t even crying, at least not at the moment. But she sure didn’t look happy.

  This was a bigger room than the one Miguel had been stuck in all night. One whole wall was a black mirror—one-way glass, obviously, and no telling how many men might behind it, or whether they were Special Forces men or belonged to the senator, or whether they were armed.

  You could tell this room was for way more important prisoners than Miguel. Besides the mirrored wall, this room had nicer chairs, with cushions. They weren’t even bolted to the floor. Senator Connelly sat in one, which at least meant he wasn’t behind the one-way glass. Probably better to know where he was, like keeping a snake under your eye.

  The senator was leaning back comfortably in his nice chair, his legs crossed and his hands folded on his knee. Though he was a big man, his hands were surprisingly graceful, with the long fingers of an artist. They didn’t quite seem to go with his broad shoulders or heavy-boned features. When he looked at Miguel and raised an eyebrow, he smiled patiently, but his lips were pressed just a little bit tight. Miguel thought behind the pose of patience and tolerance, he was furious. Two of his flunkies hovered near at hand, on their feet, looking ineffectual and nervous. Igor and someone else—Igor Two, Miguel decided. They looked a lot alike, actually. Maybe the senator ordered them in pairs from some kind of flunky supply company. There was probably a market for flunkies, among politicos who thought they were supervillains.

  Natividad wasn’t in any of the chairs. She was tucked into a tight little knot in one of the corners, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up legs and her face hidden against her knees. Her wrists were handcuffed together with what looked an awful lot like silver handcuffs, which sure suggested Senator Connelly and his people knew a lot less about the Pure than they thought they did. That might be useful, though it took Miguel a heartbeat to realize this because he was seriously distracted by how bad his sister looked.

  Besides the handcuffs, Natividad’s hair was tangled and one sleeve of her blouse was torn. She looked little and scared and helpless, and Miguel had to breathe carefully against the rush of anger and dread that had surged through him at the sight of her, that made his hands tremble and his heart race. Maybe he wasn’t a black dog, but for this one moment he thought he understood what it must be like, to have fury burning behind your conscious thoughts every moment. Or maybe this was different, because it cleared his head even better than the coffee. He’d never noticed that anger helped black dogs think better.

  Then Natividad peeked up at him, blinking her long lashes, and even though her eyes were swollen and her face tear-streaked, he was suddenly sure that she was, after all, putting on a show. She was very convincing. He didn’t know how he could tell. But he was positive. The relief was almost as staggering as the rage had been. Though actually, he was still really angry. But the dismay mostly drained away, replaced by satisfaction. Good for Natividad. His sister was brave. And she knew him really, really well.

  “Get her talking,” Senator Connelly ordered Miguel. “Get her talking, or I will. Make her understand that, you hear me?”

  Miguel nodded, trying to look sullen and submissive at the same time. It wasn’t an attitude he had practiced much. He thought of punks and gang kids from tv shows and tried to look like those kids. The senator was even more out of patience than he had guessed, obviously. How long could the man have been trying to coax Natividad into speaking? A while, apparently, even if it was only eight in the morning right now. Miguel looked around, trying to make it look like a helpless search for inspiration for how to deal with a hysterical girl instead of a careful survey of possibilities.

  Off to one side stood a big, heavy table instead of one of those flimsy folding things. A plate of individually wrapped sandwiches and a pitcher of water were on the table, along with a couple of glasses. Also Natividad’s pink handbag and a scattering of her things: a little palm-sized mirror and a little bag of glass beads, a couple short silver chains. Their mother’s small wooden flute. Miguel hadn’t realized Natividad had brought so much. Good for her, but none of it was any use now that the senator’s people had taken everything—and rage shook him again at the thought of a bunch of nasty politicos handling Mamá’s flute.

  He didn’t show his anger. He tried not to.

  Those sandwiches weren’t what Americans thought of as breakfast food; probably they’d been sitting there since last night. It looked like they hadn’t been touched, which was quite an act, if Natividad was as hungry as he was. Which Miguel was positive she was. Stepping away from Santibañez, he collected a couple of the sandwiches. He unwrapped one and took a bite. The bread was squashed and tasteless, and he wasn’t sure whether the meat was supposed to be turkey or chicken or what, and the cheese was that horrible plastic-y American kind, but at the moment Miguel wa
sn’t disposed to complain about any food, no matter how bad.

  He unwrapped the other sandwich, crossed the room, and knelt by Natividad. “Tienes que comer,” he said in Spanish, and then repeated it in English, “You have to eat.” He wanted Senator Connelly used to him speaking in Spanish, not suspecting anything much when he did, not guessing he might say something less innocent than You have to eat. Though he supposed it wouldn’t be safe to assume none of their enemies spoke Spanish. Lieutenant Santibañez might, for one thing, though whether he’d volunteer to translate for the senator was, Miguel thought, kind of an open question.

  Probably safest to act like there was no hope of help from Santibañez, though. And like everybody spoke Spanish. “Come on,” he coaxed his sister. “You must be starving.” He took another bite of his own sandwich by way of demonstration.

  Natividad took the sandwich, but she whispered, “They’re not feeding Ezekiel.” She whispered it in English, and Miguel knew even though this might be true—probably was, considering no one had brought him anything to eat—the statement was also part of the act Natividad was putting on.

  “Does it help him if you starve?” Miguel asked reasonably. “Don’t be a silly girl.” Naturally Natividad would know he meant Do act like a silly little idiot, so he didn’t have to give her a significant look that might signal the senator or his people. He patted her on the shoulder, awkwardly, like a brother who wasn’t comfortable with a weepy sister and didn’t really know how to cope with her. “Come on, get up and sit in a chair and eat that. Come on. Be good for the senator and he’ll be good to you. Take off those handcuffs, treat you nice. Look, eat the sandwich. You’ll feel a lot better.” He held out his hand, urging her to her feet.