The monster was coming on steadily, but not too fast. It didn’t honestly look like it needed to move all that fast, since so far it seemed pretty unstoppable. Miguel took a picture, sent it to Cassie. Got one of the tortured pine tree and sent that as well. Maybe she’d suddenly figure out a link to something she’d read a year ago. It could happen. He took a second to take another quick picture and sent it with a text: So screwed gtg. Tucked the phone away safe and said to Santibañez, “You’ve got a pretty good throwing arm, I guess? Grew up playing baseball, maybe?”
“Sure, now and then. Fair, I guess. You don’t figure throwing baseballs or rocks or stuff at the thing would help, right? Sorry to tell you, I don’t have any grenades.”
“No, no. I mean, too bad, but I was thinking of—wait right here, don’t let anything happen, be right back!”
He ran. Powdered sugar in the kitchen, he knew exactly where that was after spending the whole morning cooking. Citronella oil, also in the kitchen, he’d just happened to notice that because powdered sugar, citronella, not like he’d ever once figured on using it, but there you go, you never could tell. Empty jar, no shortage of those, lots of jars, well, depending on how much sugar he could lay his hands on.
Moving too fast to stop, Miguel grabbed the doorframe and swung into the kitchen. “Powdered sugar, powdered sugar...” he muttered. Right in this drawer with the flour and stuff, exactly where it should be. Citronella oil, over there in the cabinet above the desk, practically a full quart, what in the world had anybody planned to do with that much citronella? Jars, yeah, the pantry had rows of empty canning jars with flats and lids, no problem. Mostly pint jars. That was fine, a pint jar probably had about the same heft as a baseball, give or take. He tore open the bag of sugar. Not quite a half and half mixture, was it? More sugar than oil, not too much more. A wooden spoon to stir. Ought to look like whipped cream. Well, this one was a little thick but it would probably do.
The next jar, a little less sugar. Yeah, that looked about right. And the next. Two more, that was all the oil and anyway all he dared take time for. He slung the jars into several plastic bags to make a manageable load and ran again.
Down the hall and up the stairs and down the other hall, and he skidded back onto the balcony and caught himself on the railing, panting. “Anything happen?”
“Yeah, the monster killed everybody, and where were you?” Santibañez peered with interest at the bags Miguel was clutching. “Shaving cream? Crème fraîche?”
“Poor man’s napalm,” Miguel told him, peering out at the action below. He’d sort of hoped everything would just wait for him to get ready, but of course Grayson hadn’t gotten the memo. The Master had changed form—all the black dogs had shifted. Grayson and Ezekiel had circled the monster one way, Étienne and Frédéric the other; they had the monster bracketed, which wouldn’t do much good if they couldn’t touch it. Théo and Steven had cut in between the monster and Herrod’s people, getting the humans out of the way—that was good. Carter and Rip were moving out in a long curving path that would take them along a forty-foot arc, avoiding the monster entirely. Going to find Kristoff, Miguel figured. Maybe their special black dog senses told them he was somewhere along the monster’s backtrail. Or maybe that was just a reasonable guess.
“Don’t touch that thing,” Miguel muttered under his breath, more to relieve his feelings than because he thought Grayson or Ezekiel or anybody would be stupid enough to take that kind of risk. Nor did they. But he was totally relieved for more than one reason when the fires started, the nearest young pines going up like torches, big whooshes of flame. Oh, yeah.
“This stuff burns hot, huh?” Santibañez took one of the bags and pulled out the jar, hefting it thoughtfully. “Not bad. I might be able to throw it...just about that far. Maybe. What if it doesn’t hit anything that’s already burning?”
“I’ll see if I can shoot it in the air.” He had his gun in his hand now. Well, Colonel Herrod’s gun, but hey. It was a good weapon. Smallish, but not bad. Probably kicked pretty hard. He wished he’d had a chance to practice with it, but he figured any gun the colonel carried was probably in great condition.
“You that good a shot?”
“Fair,” Miguel told him. “Wait, though. Let that thing get a little closer.” He added, watching the action below, “You never know, maybe the black dogs’ll be able to stop it.”
The monster hadn’t even seem to notice the pines going up in flames, that was disappointing. But now Grayson braced himself, tore at the base of one fifteen-foot-tall blazing pine, broke it off and picked it up in one half-shifted hand, pivoted, and whipped it around to slam into the main bulk of the monster’s body just as Ezekiel did the same from the other side.
“Yay, team,” muttered Miguel, leaning forward as the horrible misshapen thing came completely apart under that attack. Maybe they wouldn’t need improvised pseudo-napalm after all. He was perfectly willing to give up the chance to use his clever jars if it meant they could all spend a boring afternoon telling each other monster stories.
The other two black dogs, Étienne and Frédéric, called up more fire from the creature itself, which exploded into flames and great billows of greasy black smoke. It ought to have been so very dead, but it made a horrible sound as it burned, nothing that could have come out of a human throat. The screaming of a monster that had maybe once been human and knew what it had become and yet still fought against death.
Miguel grimaced. “Ay, eso es repugnante.” Then he leaned farther forward. “Huh. Um.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” said Santibañez.
A cloud of black dust had exploded out of the monster, half hidden at first by the flames and smoke, but spreading rapidly, flung out by the force of the explosion. Black dust, black ash, lots of it. Miguel was pretty sure that was not good. Yeah, he was pretty sure it was really, really bad. Beside him, Lieutenant Santibañez took a deep breath, plainly on exactly the same page.
Miguel whispered, “Get back. Get back.” He tried to reach out with sheer willpower and pull the black dogs out of the way. They were already leaping back, thank God. Ezekiel had moved first and fastest, but slower than he might have been because he took time to hit Grayson, a full-body tackle that flung the Master back twenty feet. Then they both ran. Étienne and Frédéric headed the other way, fast.
It wasn’t enough. It just wasn’t going to be enough, and Miguel watched, horrified, as the spreading cloud of dust overtook all four black dogs and kept going. The leading edge had already reached the retreating humans, and seconds later spattered across Théo and Steven. It seemed harmless to the humans, but the black dogs snarled, brutal and furious and, Miguel feared, totally unprepared for what it would do to them.
Out of the circle of pines, across the distorted earth, past the deformed pines, walked Gregor Kristoff. With Absolon by his side. Poor Absolon, qué lastima. Not great for the rest of them either.
Absolon was in black dog form. But he didn’t have anything like the strength it would take to stop Carter and Rip. Except Absolon didn’t have to fight them, because Carter turned suddenly on Rip—Carter, who of course had been exposed to that damn dust days ago. Well, now they could see what that meant. Absolon just went right on past, not even breaking stride, totally unconcerned.
Miguel couldn’t see the leading edge of the dust released from the monster anymore, certainly not that far away. He didn’t have to see the dust, though. No one could have missed the effects as Carter suddenly broke away from Rip, and then both black dogs crouched down, and waited, their eyes fixed on Kristoff. Like dogs waiting for a command from their master. That was just exactly what it looked like.
Kristoff was walking toward them, talking. Impossible to hear what he said, but Miguel figured it was probably something like Obey me, defend me, kill all your friends for me. When the black dogs—all three of them, pivoted and started back, their goal was clearly Herrod’s people. Who were all clumped together, unable to retreat
into the house because now Théo and Steven blocked that way out. At first Miguel didn’t understand that. But, right, black dog hearing was really good. Yeah, if Kristoff gave them orders, even from way back there, they could probably hear him.
Well, they could definitely hear him, considering they had plainly set themselves against the Special Forces. So had the others, Grayson and Ezekiel and everyone—all eight of the black dogs out here were now obviously under Kristoff’s control. And he obviously knew it. The bastard was smiling so wide Miguel could see it from here. The Special Forces guys were shooting at him. Careful, aimed fire. They couldn’t possibly be missing. But nothing much was happening, either. Kristoff’s hair wasn’t even mussed.
“Oh, this is so not good,” breathed Santibañez. “Sus armas están atascando—their guns are jamming. Is he doing that? I mean, mierda, obviously he’s doing that. Somos tan jodidos.”
“Yeah, what was your first clue?” Miguel heard his own voice rise and made himself stop to take a deep breath. The air even this far probably contained traces of dust and ash. He thought he could taste it, bitter on the tongue. Probably that was his imagination. He felt nothing. But then he wouldn’t. He had never in his whole life been happier to have been born human and not black dog.
He said finally, “The good thing is, he obviously hasn’t ordered the Dimilioc wolves to kill your guys.” Yet, but he didn’t say that. He said instead, “And Herrod’s keeping your guys from shooting the black dogs. I guess he realizes it’s pretty likely that the second someone shoots one of them, everyone dies.” More than likely everyone would include some or all of the black dogs. Maybe not Ezekiel. But probably Grayson.
He really didn’t want to imagine a world where Grayson was dead and Dimilioc fell to pieces or disappeared. Actually he wasn’t all that thrilled at the idea of an immediate future where Grayson got killed and Ezekiel didn’t.
Though even that would be better than having them both enslaved by a black witch with delusions of grandeur. If you could call it delusions when he was obviously mondo tough.
He didn’t say any of that, either. He said, “Figuring he keeps on straight, I figure maybe a guy with a decent throwing arm might hit him with a jar of napalm in about ninety seconds.”
“That’s damn optimistic.” Santibañez paused, studying the scene. “Yeah,” he allowed at last. “All right. I can probably do that” He turned a searching, serious look on Miguel. “This stuff is really, truly some kind of napalm?”
“It really is,” Miguel promised him just as seriously. “It’s not as good as the stuff you make with gasoline and Styrofoam. But it’s quick, it’s easy, it’s fairly sticky and it burns pretty damn hot. It was the best I could think of right off—since you don’t have any grenades.”
“Yeah, next time I’ll come loaded for bear,” muttered Santibañez.
“That’d be better, yeah. Okay, you ready?”
Santibañez took a couple steps back from the balcony railing, hefting the jar. He glanced at Miguel—Ready?—then took two fast steps forward and threw.
Miguel didn’t watch him. He watched the arc the jar ought to follow, especially the end of that arc, right at Kristoff’s chest. His gaze was steady and slightly unfocused, and when the jar passed through that point—a little higher than he’d anticipated, but not bad—he fired twice.
The jar exploded, white cream blazing into yellow-white flames, but too far away, spattering Kristoff with only little dollops of incandescent fire. The witch staggered back, his shout muffled and incoherent.
Santibañez threw another jar. This one Miguel missed—stupid, he hadn’t been ready, he’d been watching Kristoff, totally stupid—the jar hit Kristoff in the chest and shattered, but not much of it caught and all the white goo in the world wouldn’t help if it wasn’t on fire. Miguel swore viciously in Spanish.
“Ready?” asked Santibañez, his voice rock steady, not a shred of blame. He waited half a second to be sure and threw the third jar. This time Miguel hit it high up at the top of its arc and had all the time in the world to watch the incandescent clot of burning sugar fall. But this time Kristoff was also expecting it and lunged aside, sprawling full length and rolling, trying to put out the spatters of fire that clung to him before the rest of the goo caught. That wouldn’t work; it might be poor man’s napalm and not the real thing, but it was damn hard to put out. But Kristoff was already whipping off his jacket, a much better idea. Miguel wanted to curse, but didn’t dare lose his focus as he waited for another jar.
Santibañez had the fourth jar in his hand, but before he could throw it, Kristoff flung his jacket to one side, stabbed his hand toward the balcony, and shouted. And way over to the side, from where he’d been circling Herrod’s guys like a wolf herding sheep, Ezekiel wheeled around and leaped into a dead run, straight toward the house and the balcony.
Miguel grabbed Santibañez’s arm. “Whoops! Time to run!” He dragged the Special Forces man toward the doorway.
“I could have hit him—”
“Fire’s no good against a black dog! Move!” Miguel dragged harder. He could think of just one possible safe place to run to. If they could reach it. If Ezekiel didn’t catch up to them first. Put like that it seemed a long shot.
“We’ve got a plan B?” Santibañez asked. “Just checking.”
He was keeping up with Miguel now, no problem. If it were a real foot race, he’d definitely win. But he was holding back a little, half his attention behind them. What he’d do if Ezekiel appeared wasn’t clear; he didn’t have the gun and Miguel definitely wasn’t giving it to him. And it only had two bullets left anyway. Two bullets against Ezekiel, yeah, no, that would not be Miguel’s first choice. Or second, or third.
Might be his fourth, if nothing better turned up.
“This way!” Miguel flung himself onto the back stairway, taking the stairs two at a time, hit the wall at the landing and hurled himself down the next flight. Santibañez still brought up the rear. Miguel hit the next landing and tried to figure out how many flights down it probably was. He hadn’t checked it out himself, not even when he’d had all the time in the world. Stupid. If he’d guessed wrong, if this stairwell didn’t even go all the way down, if the design of this house were too different from the main sept house—last landing, last door, standing open, light on inside, should the light be on?—too late to change his mind now, he was pretty sure he could hear Ezekiel on the stairs above them.
Right through the door without slowing and Miguel spun in a tight circle, getting the fastest possible picture of what was down here.
Ceiling-high cage of silver-laced steel mesh, check. Three cages, actually, each with basic plumbing and a cot and a single chair. Lights were bare lightbulbs, no luxury here, not that Miguel cared. The padlocks on the cage doors were what mattered. Locks with plenty of silver in the alloy. All of that was just as he’d expected.
What he hadn’t expected was to find Natividad already tucked safe in the nearest cage, padlock fastened tight, the key in her hand, her bag over her shoulder. His twin was standing straight. She was pale, but her eyes were bright with terror and determination. And—even more surprising—Stéphanie Callot was huddling on the cot behind her.
-20-
After the first second, Natividad realized she should totally have expected to find her brother right on her heels. In fact, it had been such a struggle to get Stéphanie down all those stairs that it was really surprising Miguel hadn’t beaten her here. She guessed he and Lieutenant Santibañez had been watching the fight, same as she had. Only apparently for a little bit longer, which had slowed them down.
She hadn’t dared delay. Poor Stéphanie was kind of better, but she was in terrible shape still. She seemed barely aware of anybody or anything. Except she knew Kristoff was out there. That terrified her. Natividad couldn’t blame her, but it had been so hard getting her here.
Every sept house had to have a place like this and since Dimilioc’s was in the basement, she’d pulled
and pushed and guided Stéphanie down all the stairs she could find right to the bottom. And then figured she was heading the right way when the other woman stopped trying to pull away and started pulling Natividad forward instead.
So now here they were, and she’d even beaten Miguel.
“Great minds think alike,” he said, beckoning with some urgency to the Special Forces lieutenant. He asked her, “You saw what happened?”
Natividad hurried to unlock the door of the cage. “Part of it. Who’s behind you?”
“Uh,” her brother began, and to Natividad’s horror, Ezekiel stalked through the doorway. Not hurrying. Moving at a smooth, lounging pace. In human form at the moment, but this was Ezekiel, so that could change in a heartbeat. Besides, he could kill them all without changing shape, with his bare hands, without breathing hard.
“Don’t unlock the door!” Miguel ordered her, which was just like him. He leveled his gun straight at Ezekiel.
Who met his eyes, and kept coming. His mouth was twisted in a bitter smile and his eyes were bright fiery yellow, and he definitely wasn’t stopping. The smile was awful. It told Natividad he knew what he was doing and couldn’t stop himself.
Lieutenant Santibañez eased back, keeping out of Miguel’s line of fire. He had a knife in one hand now. A little one. Silver alloy, obviously. About as much use as a peacock feather against Ezekiel. To him. It might be more use to her, if he’d give it to her.
Natividad stepped forward, unlocked the cage door, and shoved it open.
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