Shadow Twin

by Rachel Neumeier

  Miguel knew all that. He kept trying to think of something better, though. But he just kept coming up empty.

  Then he looked up and found Ezekiel’s steady gaze on him. Yeah, Dimilioc’s executioner knew exactly what he was thinking. He cleared his throat, but then found nothing to say.

  “I understand deception,” Ezekiel told him quietly, with no sign of offense. He touched one hand to his chest, his expression faintly abstracted, as though not quite certain even yet that the other half of his soul was back where it was supposed to be. But he said, “We both do. This isn’t even the first time we—I—have used this exact tactic.”

  “Oh,” said Miguel. And then blinked as he realized what Ezekiel must mean. “Oh. Um. Right.”

  “Right,” Ezekiel said. One side of his mouth crooked upward. He might not be entirely recovered, but he was putting on a good act.

  Which was kind of the point, come to think of it.

  “Oh, that,” said Carissa said, getting it a second after Miguel. “Yeah.”

  Miguel figured that just like him, she probably didn’t know the full story about Thos Korte’s death. But everyone born into Dimilioc probably knew the basic outline: The previous Master had made Ezekiel his executioner, the youngest ever to hold that position. Then a few years later Ezekiel had killed the Master and thrown his support behind Grayson.

  Thos Korte had, by all reports, been a pretty scary guy. But Miguel hadn’t ever guessed before that Ezekiel might have had to go with deceit and strategy when he’d decided to play kingmaker. That . . actually, that made Thos Korte seem even scarier. He wondered if Carissa were old enough to remember the old Master. She looked to him like she was about Ezekiel’s age, maybe a little younger. From her expression, she might remember Thos pretty well.

  Carissa was leaning in the doorway, keeping an ear out for anybody—or anything, such as weird shambling monsters that exploded into corpse powder—that might appear. Alejandro hovered near her. Miguel didn’t know whether his brother understood how plainly he was showing his feelings, but was pretty sure Alejandro wouldn’t appreciate his pointing that out.

  Natividad was tucked against Ezekiel’s side. She was busy making something from thread, probably a maraña in case it seemed useful to turn aside the gaze of an enemy. Ezekiel’s arm was around her waist and she leaned against his chest, seeming perfectly happy to rest her cheek against him even though he’d been taken over by a crazy evil witch dude just, like, twenty minutes ago. Or so.

  It seemed longer.

  Stéphanie Callot had retreated into the farthest cage from the door, locked herself in, and drawn the best pentagram and the strongest circle and the most thorough look-away spell she could manage. Miguel didn’t blame her, especially because with all those protections she’d drawn, he had a hard time even remembering she was there.

  Lieutenant Santibañez had taken up position a little way from Miguel. Like Carissa and Alejandro, he was on his feet. Who knew, he might even be fast enough to do something useful if a monster of some kind—or Kristoff himself—suddenly appeared. He had his knife back. In Miguel’s opinion, Natividad ought to have kept it. He figured weapons belonged with whomever could use them most effectively. But she’d given the knife back, so he guessed she didn’t think she was real likely to need it again.

  Maybe she was right. He hoped she was right.

  He said, “So, are we doing this?” He looked at Santibañez, who could still throw a great big spanner in the works if he decided not to go along. He and Miguel were the two Kristoff had gotten a look at. They were the ones who’d get to play bait, unavoidably. Miguel was pretty confident of his own acting ability, and he was pretty sure Santibañez could pull it off. If he chose.

  “Something I should know?” Santibañez asked.

  The Special Forces lieutenant asked Ezekiel directly rather than Miguel. But Ezekiel, what with one thing and another and with Natividad tucked in the curve of his arm, seemed in firm control of his temper, his control-freak tendencies, and his black dog instincts. Plus he had probably also figured out that Santibañez had to go along.

  Though as far as that went, Miguel guessed Ezekiel could probably just claim he’d killed the lieutenant. He couldn’t see why Kristoff wouldn’t believe that. The bastard probably wouldn’t care one way or the other.

  He wouldn’t exactly mind if Ezekiel went back out there all by himself and said he’d killed them both. Except on the other hand, he kind of wanted to be in on the end of the play. Just in case he happened to find something useful to do.

  Stupid to feel like he’d make the difference between success and failure. But, yeah. He did feel that way.

  “Nothing that matters now,” Ezekiel answered Santibañez, and rose smoothly to his feet, lifting Natividad effortlessly up with him. He frowned at her. “You’ve got that finished? It looks strong. Lay that on top of Stéphanie’s—”

  “No,” Natividad said flatly. “I’m coming with you.”

  Ezekiel picked her up and stepped toward the nearest cage.

  “No!” repeated Natividad. “I mean, not with you! Stop it! I’m going upstairs to watch. I’ll stay out of sight, but what if you need me? Alejandro and Carissa can come with me—”

  Carissa snapped, “Speak for your brother if you want and if he lets you! Not for me. No way I’m going out there. No way.”

  “Uh, we might not really have time to argue about this,” Miguel mentioned, just in case anyone lost track of what was important. “Just how long is Kristoff going to think is plausible for Ezekiel’s little errand?”

  As though he hadn’t spoken, Ezekiel said to Natividad, “You are absolutely not going anywhere near Gregor Kristoff.”

  Since Natividad looked like she was going to hit him rather than say anything useful, Miguel looked away and commented, “You know, taking people’s choices away is kind of what a witch does to a black dog, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t even have time to blink before Ezekiel closed a hand around his throat and shoved him back against the wall. He hadn’t actually expected that and hadn’t seen it coming, and so he couldn’t help but flinch and gasp. Then he caught himself and held still. He could tell Ezekiel hadn’t actually forgotten himself—there was no prick of claws and anyway Natividad wasn’t screaming. Or even protesting. She probably thought he’d asked for it. He kind of had, actually. He thought about apologizing. He was right, obviously, but maybe he better apologize anyway.

  Then Ezekiel let him go. He said, short and fierce, to Natividad, “Stay the hell out of sight.” Then he stalked toward to the door, jerking his head at Santibañez in an order to come. He assumed Miguel would come too, of course.

  Which, of course, he would. He had to. Up all those stairs and out to face a worse monster than any black dog, and suddenly Miguel found himself dragging his feet a little, in no hurry at all to get where they were going.

  MigTol: Hey you know what happens when you fill a disposable monster up with corpse powder and get black dogs to rip it apart so it explodes?

  Prophetess:...

  Prophetess:...

  MigTol: Cass?

  Prophetess: Just being consumed by horror. Guess ur ok?

  MigTol: Y so far

  Prophetess: How many of them did Kristoff get?

  MigTol: All of them ex Jandro and Carissa but we got E free. N pulled his shadow out, purified it, and put it back. Pretty intense. I think like blooding silver only different—free will is mine and also yours, like that. Let DeAnn know she better work on that just in case

  MigTol: Herrod’s people right here too. Think Kristoff’s got smthg in mind for them cause last I saw they weren’t dead. Blk dgs got em penned up lk sheep. I don’t think K can control human ppl like blk dgs cause so far no.

  Prophetess: H’s people there? U mean right there? At sept house?

  MigTol: long story

  MigTol: BTW how good an actor do you think E is? Kristoff doesn’t know he’s free...we think.

  Prophetess
: OMG AYS

  MigTol: Yeah, seemed like a good idea at the time. We’ve got to get Kristoff smhw

  Prophetess: Found this thing, says might work betr 2 shoot a witch in the throat, but it says that’s for skinwkrs in animal form so maybe conflated with blk dog, kinda sorta true for them if ur using regular bullets. But also shooting a witch in the throat probably interferes w him giving anybody orders. Anyway I’m thinking probably E tearing K into little pieces also good—uh, hey, where exactly r u in this clever plan?

  MigTol: YDWTK

  Prophetess: U know what happens to the bait when a trout takes the hook?

  MigTol: Still got to get Kristoff smhw

  Prophetess: ur crazy

  MigTol: I know but ^^

  MigTol: Figure U better know. U don’t hear from me again, try something else when it’s ur turn.

  MigTol: Morituri te salutant.

  Prophetess: Benediximus

  The two of them, Lieutenant Santibañez and Miguel, had to go in front of Ezekiel as they got close to the outside door. Not just black dog manners; they were supposed to be prisoners and that meant going in front. Miguel let Santibañez lead, though, while he let Cassie know what was going on. Only as they got near the door did he put his phone away and concentrate on looking like a scared kid surrounded by monsters.

  This got really easy the moment they stepped outside.

  Kristoff was sitting on the top step of the porch, carefully raking white goo off his pants legs, wincing a little now and then when he accidentally hit a raw spot on his hands. There were burns on his arms, too, but unfortunately nothing serious. A scrape on his chin, when he looked up. Apparently he’d gotten a little torn up when he’d hit the ground and rolled.

  Too bad he hadn’t hit his head good and hard. Or broken his neck. Or had white sugar napalm eat his face. Damn, that had been a good idea, but nothing had come of it but those stupid little burns and ruined trousers. And a black smear of ashes in the driveway, which was probably all that was left of the jacket.

  Off beyond the streak of ashes, the Special Forces people knelt on the gravel, their hands behind their heads, mostly either expressionless or murderous. Three rows of nine. Herrod was at one end of the front line. He was one of the expressionless ones, not to Miguel’s surprise. He had been watching Kristoff, but his gaze lifted as Ezekiel brought Santibañez and Miguel out onto the porch. His impenetrable calm didn’t falter even then, but his eyes closed just for a second.

  Yeah, Miguel didn’t want to imagine what Colonel Herrod must be feeling right now. Especially if he’d hoped Santibañez would pull off something clever and heroic. Or even just get away and clear.

  A couple of the Special Forces people looked a little the worse for wear, but mostly they seemed okay. Their guns and other weapons were in a pile off to one side. Five of the black dogs guarded them, which seemed like overkill, except probably Kristoff didn’t want to have to slaughter them just yet. Not until he was prepared to do whatever he planned to do and could use their deaths somehow. That was how Miguel figured it, anyway.

  Grayson, Carter, and Absolon all lay at the foot of the steps, in black dog form. Like dogs bidden by their master to stay off the porch. Grayson lifted his heavy, blunt-muzzled head and stared at Miguel with crimson eyes.

  Miguel carefully avoided meeting those burning eyes. If he didn’t want to imagine Colonel Herrod’s feelings, he definitely didn’t want to imagine Grayson’s. He didn’t want to give anything away, either. Who knew what the Master might see in Miguel’s expression—or what orders he might have been given by the witch? Much better to look anywhere else.

  He also didn’t turn to glance at Ezekiel. He didn’t dare. For a whole bunch of reasons.

  He didn’t want Gregor Kristoff taking a good look at Ezekiel either. The whole point was that the trout was supposed to pay attention to the bait, not the hook.

  Plus Kristoff was studying Santibañez with the kind of expression that suggested he was considering which piece to cut off first. Pretty clearly he thought Santibañez was the dude responsible for those burns on his hands and arms. And the Lieutenant was staring straight back at Kristoff, letting him think that—even encouraging him to think it.

  Not a great idea, in Miguel’s opinion. Kristoff had so many Special Forces guys, he might perfectly well decide to make an example of one who’d managed to land a blow.

  So Miguel looked straight at the witch and said, “A really clever idea and all that work, and nothing but a few little burns? That’s just damn disappointing, is what that is. ”

  Santibañez blinked, startled. But Kristoff was the one Miguel wanted. The witch’s eyes had narrowed, but he looked...yeah, he looked more dubious than was really convenient. Miguel added, glancing briefly over the Special Forces people, and then nodding toward the black dogs lying on the ground, “I can’t believe not one of them managed to take advantage of the opportunity I gave them. What a total waste.”

  “The opportunity you gave them,” Kristoff repeated. He stood up, slowly. He wasn’t very tall. Not especially short, either. A little plump, the way a guy might get if he spent all his time inside sitting down, never outdoors standing up. His hands were small and soft, with smooth pale skin and neat nails—he’d never picked up a hammer or an axe in his life, Miguel guessed. Or if he had, he sure wanted people to forget about that now that he was an important guy who hired menial laborers to drive nails and chop wood.

  The burns on those smooth hands were not very satisfying considering how much hope Miguel had pinned on his fake napalm. Also, the look in Kristoff’s eyes and the little twist to his mouth were not exactly reassuring.

  But the witch merely looked Miguel up and down and asked—of course—“How old are you?”

  “Why does everybody always ask that?” Miguel met the witch’s eyes. “Can you control, like, any number of black dogs all at once? How does that even work? Is that corpse powder, like Navajo skinwalkers?” He paused.

  There was no answer, unfortunately. He’d really hoped Kristoff might be the kind who liked his own voice enough he’d deliver a little lecture about black witchcraft. But there was only that measuring gaze, so he went on. “I figure maybe skinwalker legends kind of hit on the truth a little bit sideways. Like maybe skinwalkers don’t turn into animals and do all this crazy mind-control on regular people. Maybe those legends got all mixed up with the truth about black dogs. You can take them over and make them shift whenever you want. I figure you do that by taking over the demon that shares their soul, right?”

  “Is that what you figure?”

  Such a smooth, soft voice. Miguel could easily find this man terrifying. He pretended to a cool assurance he was far from feeling. “Am I wrong? Except then sometimes you put an extra demon in them. But not all the time, right? How do you do that? Why do you do that? Does it make them more powerful? More obedient? Kind of like vampires as well as black dogs? You know, you really wouldn’t want something like that getting loose, would you? Like how you lost that demon you called up. Both demons.”

  What exactly was Ezekiel doing? Miguel could feel his own heart pounding, half flying on adrenalin from matching wits with Kristoff and half sheer blinding terror. He’d given Dimilioc’s executioner all the time in the world to fillet Kristoff like a fish, but nope, so far nothing. He was scared he’d run out of inspiration, lose the witch’s attention, and then God knew what would happen.

  Kristoff’s gaze shifted, fixing on Ezekiel. He opened his mouth, and Santibañez, mostly forgotten by now, started to move, a shift of his weight that Miguel felt more than saw, and then Santibañez gave a muffled grunt as Ezekiel suddenly shoved him hard. The man went sprawling down the steps, hands outflung, but way too far off his balance to catch himself. Grayson caught him instead, cushioned Santibañez’s headlong fall against his heavy-pelted shoulder, and pinned him to the ground with one powerful clawed forelimb and a rumbled threat that froze him like a rabbit pinned by a wolf. Grayson’s heavy head swung arou
nd, his eyes burning crimson as he looked to Kristoff.

  For orders, Miguel realized, and gritted his teeth. The Master of Dimilioc was overbearing, high-handed, authoritative, and a total control freak. Somehow it was not at all satisfying to see him humbled. Especially not by a guy with eyes as cold and calculating as Kristoff.

  “Sometimes someone just begs to be made into an example,” Kristoff said softly, and started to lift a hand.

  To make some dramatic gesture when he pronounced Santibañez’s doom, Miguel guessed, and said quickly, “You know, that guy’s uncle’s a US senator.”

  Kristoff paused.

  Miguel shrugged. “I just thought maybe you’d like to know.”

  The witch nodded. “You are a sharp one, aren’t you? What is your name?”

  Miguel thought about lying, but he couldn’t really see the point. “Miguel Toland.”

  “Ah!” The witch sounded like he’d found more enlightenment in that name than Miguel had really expected. And proved it by adding, “You are actually related to these brute animals. Well, that does clear up one or two points of confusion.”

  Miguel said nothing. Obviously he should have lied after all. But it was too late now.

  Kristoff shrugged, smiling, and ordered Grayson, “Put the senator’s nephew at the end of the last row. You can make room by taking the one that’s there now and gutting him like a fish.”

  Miguel took an involuntary step forward. Ezekiel caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks, and oh, God, suddenly it was just impossible to tell whose side Dimilioc’s executioner was on except it didn’t actually seem to be the side of the angels. Miguel was conscious of sharp, bitter anger, plus regret that he wasn’t going to get a chance to text Cassie about what had gone wrong, because it sure seemed like something the rest of Dimilioc needed to know.