Shadow Twin

by Rachel Neumeier

  “Good. Good. I gather even Étienne thinks your brother should be an asset in dealing with demons of mysterious capabilities.”

  Pleased, Alejandro inclined his head. “He will be.”

  “Good,” Frédéric said again. And to Herrod, “I hope you and your people are also planning to make yourselves useful. Have you heard what happened at Copper Mountain?”

  “Yes,” the human said quietly. “Word of that...event...reached me just as I arrived at Albuquerque. It’s what persuaded me of the absolute necessity of our alliance.”

  Miguel came out of the bathroom just in time to catch this, wearing pants but no shirt and with his hair still dripping, a towel around his shoulders. He said lightly, “Well, it was a great time to arrive at that particular conviction. But what happened at Copper Mountain?”

  “Your brother saw it. He will tell you,” Frédéric said gravely. He gave Alejandro a slight, respectful nod, and went out, shutting the door gently behind him.

  “I like him,” said Miguel. “Grayson should pull that one into the Vermont sept. We could use another calm, mature black dog. Give Étienne, I don’t know, Don Jacobs. Étienne could probably use a black dog who can roll somebody’s shadow, and if Grayson kept Rip Jacobs in Vermont, he wouldn’t have to worry about Don getting coopted into Étienne’s crowd. Especially if he had Frédéric under his eye. That’d keep Étienne polite, I bet.”

  “So clever,” Alejandro said drily. “You should explain all this to Grayson.”

  Miguel laughed and threw the towel back through the bathroom door. “Coffee, chido,” he said fervently, picking up one of the mugs and inhaling the steam. He nodded to Herrod, who had listened with interest to this exchange. “Bathroom’s all yours,” he told him. “You’ll want to clean up, get rid of those clothes. Shoes, too. Dried blood is not a good look when you’re chatting with black dogs. Especially black dogs who are already pissed off. Makes ’em want to spill more blood. You don’t want that. I’ll find you something else to wear.” He added in exactly the same casual tone, “If you’re wearing some kind of tracker, don’t worry about it. Any signal it puts out will be totally scrambled here. Magic, you know.” He picked up one of the little rolls and took a bite. “Mm. Way better than those stale plastic sandwiches in the helicopter. You should have one.”

  After a slight pause, the colonel said, “Thank you, Miguel. A shower and fresh clothing would be welcome.” He got to his feet, collected a couple of rolls, went into the bathroom, and shut the door gently behind him.

  “Rip’s about his size. Maybe he’d be willing to find the colonel a change of clothes,” Miguel said to Alejandro in a clear, loud voice, as though he had no other concern in the world. But the moment the shower started, he added much more quietly, “Listen, ’Jandro, I do want to know about this event thing, whatever that was, but I really do think Grayson’s going to send for me soon, and truly, it’s very important that no one touch or, you know, interfere with Colonel Herrod. ¿Me entiendes?”

  Alejandro raised his eyebrows. “Menos mal que me lo dijiste. If you had not said so, I would certainly have let Frédéric walk away with him and hand him over to Étienne. No, of course I will keep him safe for you and for Grayson. I think perhaps Grayson will kill him, no matter his talk of an alliance. But I will make certain no one else does so first.” He eyed his human brother. Miguel was nodding, but to Alejandro’s experienced eye, he still looked worried. He added, “Lo prometo.”

  Miguel let his breath out. “Right. Right. Great. Thanks.”

  Alejandro shook his head, picked up one of the other mugs of coffee. “Is it true he saved your lives? What is this about el helicóptero?”

  “Yeah, that was a stroke of luck. We might have pulled it off anyway, but as a getaway vehicle, honestly, a helicopter has it all over a car. Way over a pickup with a mierda gearshift sticking up between the seats. And there would’ve been no way to keep Ezekiel tearing up Senator Sonofabitch, so God knows who we could have used as a really high-powered hostage if Herrod hadn’t kind of offered.” Miguel sat down cross-legged on the bed and stared at Alejandro over the rim of his mug, looking tired and worried and young. “Ezekiel had a rough time.”

  Alejandro sketched astonishment. “¡Voítelas! Really?”

  “Yeah, I guess it kind of shows.” Miguel drank some coffee, looked down at the mug, and made a face—Frédéric had brought it black, and Miguel liked his with plenty of sugar.

  “We must trade stories, Miguel.”

  Alejandro’s brother nodded, drank some more coffee, and asked, “Is there aspirin?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “Ah. All right.” Miguel glanced at the bathroom door. “I’ll get some later, I guess. Okay, what happened to your lot?”

  “We freed too many demons from that Kristoff. It seems one consumed the other and became a very big demon. It killed a lot of people.”

  “Copper Mountain?”

  “This was a place like a rich estate. Everyone was dead there.”

  “Ah. Yeah. I bet hearing about that would be, like, a come-to-Jesus moment for a stupider man than Herrod.” Miguel paused, probably thinking about demons that ate each other and turned into bigger demons.

  He could think about things for a long time, so Alejandro said firmly, “And you? What happened to Ezekiel?”

  “All kinds of scary-bad crap, I guess.” Miguel paused again. Then he went on in a lower voice, “He wasn’t there, see. Herrod, I mean. That was the problem. What I think happened is, this total cabrón walked in almost the minute Herrod was gone and took over. This politico. A senator. Chairman of this important committee, that’s the trouble, because they put that position directly over the Special Forces something like five, six years ago. So. Not sure that was just a wonderful idea, but that’s how they set it up, so this guy had a lot of weight to throw around. That’s what happened to us. Without Herrod there, no one else had the authority to stop him. It wasn’t so bad for me, I guess not so bad for Natividad, but plenty bad for Ezekiel.”

  It had been plenty bad for Miguel, too. He thought he was hiding that under his despreocupación, but Alejandro had seen him like this before. After Papá and Mamá had been killed, he had seen his human brother act just like this: a layer of nonchalance over lingering shock and terror. He held out one hand. “Ven aqui.”

  Miguel hardly hesitated before gulping the rest of the coffee, putting the mug down, and coming over to drop onto the couch beside his brother.

  Alejandro put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him in gently, the way Papá would have done when both brothers had been little. It was difficult to keep his touch gentle, but he set himself against his shadow and did not allow his hand to tighten. Miguel leaned against him, his head against Alejandro’s chest. Let his breath out, relaxing trustfully.

  It was a rare moment, and Alejandro had to suppress a growl when his phone buzzed.

  It was Grayson, just as Miguel had said.

  “Sí,” Miguel. “Sí. I will come there. Tell him I am coming.” He was a little pale, a little slow to get to his feet. “I do want twelve hours sleep,” he muttered, and then added hastily, “No, I’m joking, I’m fine.”

  “I will come with you—”

  “That might irritate Grayson, do you think? Anyway, I don’t know who else I could trust to keep an eye on the colonel. Please, ’Jandro. Get him to believe you about black dogs, we don’t want Grayson tearing his head off, not now. Make him understand it could still happen—”

  “I think you explained this already.”

  “He thinks I’m just a kid—”

  “I think this is not likely. Estás preocupado—you are worrying. Stop. Todo está bien.”

  Miguel closed his mouth, looking surprised. “All right,” he said at last, meekly. He hesitated one more moment, but then only ran a hand through his still-damp hair, straightened his shoulders, and went out.

  Alejandro, suppressing an urge to follow him, instead called Rip Jacobs and orde
red the other black dog to bring clothing and shoes. He could not quite imagine Colonel Herrod wearing ordinary clothing like an ordinary person. But Miguel was right about the blood. He was usually right, of course. Not always, though he thought so. But often enough.

  In an ordinary shirt and blue jeans and boots, Colonel Herrod looked exactly like himself. No less self-possessed. Perhaps not so entirely authoritative, which might be as well.

  He did look older. Tired. One could guess he had been battling witches and flying helicopters and all such things.

  Alejandro asked him abruptly, “Do you wish to live?”

  A slight pause. Then the colonel met Alejandro’s eyes, let out a breath and lifted his shoulders. “That would be better for all of us, I believe.”

  “I do not care whether the Master kills you.” This was not quite true, but Alejandro made sure it sounded true. He wanted the man to understand he was in danger so he would listen to advice. He said, “But my brother cares. He thinks it would be better for you to live. For his sake, I will help you if I can. But I cannot if you will be stupid. Do not look at me. Did Miguel not explain this? Should I hit you so that you will remember?”

  One long breath, and another, and the colonel dropped his gaze.

  “Está bien. Better. It is not so important for you to remember with me. But the Master is very angry. Practice with me so you survive his anger. Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Not fluently. A little.”

  Alejandro had suspected it. “Learn to speak to black dogs. Think of it so. Except if you make a mistake with the Master, I think he will not forgive it. Later, perhaps. Not now. ¿Me entiendes?”

  “I understand.”

  A slight hesitation, a lift of the gaze, halted by an evident effort of will. This was not a man accustomed to lowering his eyes before anyone. Alejandro had known that. He said softly, “You are not among your own kind. Learn that now. It is more different than Mexico and norteamerica. I am not human. Not merely human. The black dog presses me. It is angry. It wishes to kill you. Perhaps I wish this also. Perhaps I should wish it. What did your people do to my brother? He says nothing important. I think this is not wholly true.”

  The colonel looked up, considered Alejandro for a second, and remembered again to look down. “Very little happened to Miguel, in fact. I watched part of that interview before I moved to regain control. He’s an accomplished actor. Especially for someone his age. He played Senator Connelly exactly right, on roughly five minutes acquaintance.”

  “Sí. I’m sure he did. And you, are you a good actor, Colonel Herrod?”

  No answer to that. A stillness that was patience, owing nothing to genuine submission. Patience would do, if the man could play a role. Alejandro had severe doubts about that. He said, “Miguel asked me to protect you. I will do that. I will give you advice: be a good actor. Do not challenge the Master. He will not tolerate this, not now, not from you. Be polite. Do not be the first to speak, and when you must speak, speak quietly. Lower your eyes. This is good advice, Colonel.”

  Herrod said calmly, “Then I’m grateful for it.”

  “You should be. Sí, you should be. You should be recatada. You should be quiet. I will give you more good advice. Do not lie to Grayson Lanning. He will know.”

  The colonel’s gaze rose sharply. “I saw him question Kristoff’s student. I thought then...very well. I believe you. Is this because he’s a black dog? This is something black dogs can do?”

  “Sí, sometimes. Not always. Sometimes. But Grayson Lanning will know because he is the Master of Dimilioc. No one can lie to him. He always knows. Sometimes he is patient. But he will not be patient with you. Not today.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” the colonel admitted, a touch ruefully. He added with more intensity, “He needs to listen to me. He needs to understand, it would not be helpful for Dimilioc if he killed me. That’s not why I came here.”

  “You came here because of Copper Mountain. I know. The witch is bad, but worse for us than for you. But this big demon, that is a problem for us all. Grayson will know this. He is speaking with Miguel now. I think my brother is saying to him, it would not help Dimilioc to kill you. I think he is saying, we must still be allies. I think he is saying the Master would be wise to listen to you.”

  “Grayson Lanning does in fact care for your brother’s opinion? How old is Miguel?”

  Alejandro nearly smiled. “Seventeen, soon. In the spring. Our father taught him, our mother taught him. Miguel understands black dogs and he understands human people. Grayson is wise to care for my brother’s opinion.”

  The colonel nodded thoughtfully.

  Alejandro said softly, “You wish to win back the Master’s good opinion. That will be dificil. My advice is, be swift to offer an apology. You promised him our people would come to no harm with yours. Apologize. That is my advice. Sincerely, if this is possible.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  He seemed to mean it. Alejandro nodded. “Good. You are in a very bad position here. Very bad. The Master is very angry and you can do nothing to protect yourself. Show that you understand this. Be modest. Call the Master by his title—he is the Master of Dimilioc. Forget your hesitation. To call him so does not mean he is your master. When he calls you colonel, he does not mean you are his colonel, yes? Forget your hesitation. Call him by his title. This is good advice.”

  Herrod said nothing.

  Alejandro shrugged. He added, “Do not put yourself forward. Trust Miguel to explain about this helicopter. Do not make much of that. Acknowledge where you were wrong. If you seek a way to ask for alliance, remind the Master of Absolon Lumondière.”

  “Absolon Lumondière,” Herrod repeated. He paused, then asked, “The young black dog who was taken by Kristoff?”

  The man was quick. Alejandro nearly smiled. “Yes. Grayson will want to recover him, more than almost anything else. For several very good reasons. He will care more about Absolon than about Copper Mountain, I think. There is my advice, Colonel Herrod. Frame this alliance as a means by which your people will aid Dimilioc against this enemy that has done harm to us; a means by which we may recover the one who is lost. That will carry weight with the Master.”

  “It’s good advice,” the colonel acknowledged. “Thank you.”

  Alejandro nodded. “Bueno. You are tired. You will not wish to be so tired when Grayson sends for you. You should rest.” He nodded toward the bedroom door. Then, considering the colonel’s reserved expression, he added, “You will be safe. I will be attentive. You will be quite safe.” But, as the colonel began to turn, he said suddenly, “Colonel Herrod—”

  The colonel turned back, one eyebrow rising. He had forgotten that he was speaking to a black dog. Alejandro felt an urge to reprimand the human’s insolence, remind him sharply. He set aside this urge and asked, though he was not quite certain why he wanted to know. “What is your first name?”

  After a moment, the colonel smiled faintly. “Jemison. Jemison Abednego Herrod. Jemison is a family name. Very few people call me that.”

  Alejandro was sure this was true. It helped him understand why he had asked in the first place. He said, “You should tell your name to Miguel. Though probably he already knows it.”

  “Probablemente,” the colonel said gravely, and went into the bedroom.

  Miguel returned hardly an hour later. It was not yet dusk, but he looked utterly exhausted. Alejandro did not ask any questions or demand any explanations. He said, “The colonel took your bed. You may take mine. Where is Natividad?”

  Miguel glanced around as though he might expect to find their sister hovering at his elbow. “With Ezekiel,” he said vaguely. “Grayson gave them some of those rolls—are there any left?—and put them both to bed in his room. I don’t think he wants to let Ezekiel out from under his eye. At least, not until he’s back up on his feet.”

  “He was on his feet when he came here,” Alejandro pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Miguel said
, and rubbed his face. “Right. Sort of. When he’s really and truly back on his feet, I think that’s when Grayson’s going to want to talk to Colonel Herrod.” Lowering his hands, he looked around the room and then blinked at Alejandro. “Where did you say he is?”

  “In your bed.”

  “Oh. Good.” Miguel blinked at Alejandro. “I’m going to take your bed? Where are you going to sleep?”

  “I will not sleep now,” Alejandro told his brother patiently. “However, you will sleep. I think you are nearly asleep now.” He handed Miguel a roll. “Eat this and go to bed.”

  -18-

  Natividad woke slowly and comfortably, feeling warm and safe and happy. She felt warm and safe and happy long before she remembered where she was, or what terrible events had brought them to this place. But she knew whom she was with as soon as she stirred into the first drowsy murmurs of wakefulness.

  She was tucked against Ezekiel, her head against his chest. He smelled of pine-scented soap and mint toothpaste, and of himself. He was putting out heat like an iron stove. Natividad couldn’t help but smile. No wonder she was so warm.

  For some moments she only watched Ezekiel sleep. His skin was so pale next to hers. She was so close she could make out the tracery of bluish veins in his eyelids. His lips were slightly parted. She liked how young that made him look. She liked the angle of his cheekbones...not so much the sharpness of those bones. He needed to gain a lot of weight. As thin as he was, deeply asleep, he looked almost ethereal. Like when he shifted, it would not be to a black dog, but to a creature of fire and air, something with hollow bones and great sweeping feathery wings.

  She smiled at her fancy and traced the line of one cheekbone with the merest tip of her finger. Not quite a touch. Almost a touch, a whisper of air along his skin. He did not wake, even then. She knew he wouldn’t have let himself fall so far asleep except that she was here, in his arms, tucked against him.

  One of his hands curled around her waist. His other hand was tucked under her cheek. Even in his sleep he was possessive. That made her smile. He was so vulnerable, and he didn’t even know it...or he knew it and he didn’t care. He let himself be vulnerable to her as he was to no one else. Not even Grayson.