Shadow Twin

by Rachel Neumeier

  Except it wouldn’t matter very much. Because if the witch had Ezekiel back, and kept control of Grayson and the rest...yeah. Ethan and the rest of them wouldn’t stand even a faint, fragile chance.

  And there was nothing he could do but watch Grayson force Lieutenant Santibañez into place in the third row of prisoners. There was nothing Santibañez could do, not against black dog strength. There was nothing Colonel Herrod could do, except turn his head to watch with his face set like stone.

  There was nothing the young man at the end of the row could do except try hopelessly to defend himself as Grayson hauled him to his feet, ripped vicious three-inch claws across his belly, and dropped him to gasp and writhe and bleed out his life on the frozen gravel. Gut him like a fish. Right. Miguel had no idea how long it would take a man to die of that kind of injury. Way, way too long. He turned his face away—and jerked back around at Kristoff’s sharp, annoyed grunt.

  It took him about half a second to realize that Grayson had done more than gut the poor guy from the end of the row. As he’d turned away, the Master of Dimilioc had also torn out the man’s throat.

  Right. Because Kristoff hadn’t forbidden a mercy blow.

  The witch crooked a finger at Grayson: Come here. The Master lowered his head and came, like a dog, like a slave. But he was neither. He’d just shown that.

  Miguel was not at all eager to see him pay for it. He said softly, “That guy might have been somebody’s nephew too, you know.”

  Kristoff turned. His expression was fleetingly ugly, but then he smiled. “They’re nothing,” he said, dismissing that point with a flick of one hand, like a man waving away a gnat. “Except for what they can give to someone who matters. Their blood is useful. Their pain. Their fear. But in themselves—nothing. You should learn that. You must learn that, if you want to seize power.” His voice lowered. “And you do want power, don’t you? You want that more than anything. A sharp young man like you. Of course you do. You’re a Toland. That’s a name I recognize. You’re a son or brother or cousin to these animals, yes? Of course you are. You could be so much more. So few people rise more than half a step above the brute. But a young man like you...And it would take so little. Which of these black dogs is closest kin?”

  For a long moment, Miguel didn’t answer. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “One or another will have to be sacrificed. A good many of the humans, but definitely at least one black dog. I do hope one is adequate to summon and bind a greater demon. I’ve never seen one as big as the demon your friends here accidentally created—never having been careless enough to do what you did. I presume it was accidental? You did not, for example, discover the possible result of freeing two lesser demons in close proximity and letting one consume the other? You didn’t cause that deliberately?”

  Miguel still couldn’t say anything.

  “I hate to give up even one of my beautiful new pets,” Kristoff said regretfully. “But there’s no help for it. Still, if I do the sacrifice, it won’t mean anything to you. Whereas if your hand is on the knife, it could mean everything. Sacrifice is the gateway to power, true power...and after all, he will die anyway, so why not get as much use out of his death as you can?”

  Despite everything, Miguel couldn’t quite conceal his reaction to this suggestion.

  Kristoff smiled slowly and ran his tongue over his lips, disturbingly sensual. “Especially since I will kill you if you refuse,” he said softly. “But I would prefer not. I like you, Miguel Toland. I think I might come to like you very much. I could teach you...so much. Maybe someday you could rival me for power. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Miguel said, a little too sincerely, “It’s an idea that could grow on me.”

  Kristoff smiled again. “You are impudent. A very little impudence is charming, from time to time. But not that much. Ezekiel, punish the young man for me.”

  Before Miguel could even flinch, Ezekiel closed a hand on his shoulder, swept his feet out from under him, and slammed him down on his back on the porch. But he also grabbed Miguel’s hair on the way down, preventing him from cracking his head. Miguel, even startled and breathless and scared, even as fast as Ezekiel had moved, realized how careful the black dog had been. Was still being. The hand that seized his throat and pinned him down was gentle, nearly all the violence of that grip an illusion. When Ezekiel ran his other hand down Miguel’s arm, finding and pressing vulnerable nerves with scientific accuracy and total ruthlessness, Miguel couldn’t suppress a cry of pain—but he also realized it was his left arm, and that though the pain radiated right down to his fingertips, it was nothing that would leave him crippled.

  Ezekiel was obeying the witch. But no more than he had to.

  But had to because Kristoff owned him after all? Or had to because he didn’t want to give away his own freedom?...Just how much of that damned corpse powder did it take to master a black dog, and how much might still be in the air out here? Or what else had they missed? If Natividad were out here, she’d figure out what had gone wrong and find a way to fix it—God, he was so glad Natividad was not out here!

  The situation was honestly not very conducive to rational thought.

  Ezekiel let him go. “More?” he asked Kristoff, his tone flat. “I could break him.”

  Miguel thought that Ezekiel didn’t sound nearly reluctant enough about that prospect. He sat up slowly, pressing his right hand to his aching left arm.

  “Oh, I know. You could do...so many things.” Kristoff ran his tongue slowly over his lips, studying Miguel as though trying to decide what to have Ezekiel do first. “But I don’t think so. Not yet,” he said at last, regretfully. His eyes were a little wide. His tongue flicked out again to lick his lips. He’d enjoyed that. In a really disturbing way, Miguel was pretty sure. Sick, sadistic son of a bitch. Not that Miguel would dare say so. Which was probably the point. Part of the point.

  Also to keep him off balance. Keep him from thinking. That seemed possible. Or if Kristoff weren’t so subtle as to have that in mind, it was still the effect. Or could be, if Miguel let that happen.

  All right. Humble. Meek. He was good at that; he’d sure had enough practice. Ezekiel could do a lot worse than hit a nerve cluster and Miguel could still pull off meek and tap dance too. He looked up at Kristoff, then let his gaze fall when the other man caught his eye. “Can I stand up?”

  “May I,” the witch told him. “When you handle demons, precision is everything. Or it is if you forget it. You should learn that now.”

  The cabrón imagined he was going to be Miguel’s teacher. He was going to make Miguel kill somebody and own him through guilt as well as fear. He sure thought so.

  Right, then. Miguel said, painstakingly deferential, “May I stand up, please?”

  “Much better. Yes, you may. Now—where was I? Oh yes.” Turning slightly, Kristoff ordered in a completely different tone, preemptory and dismissive at once, “Absolon! Go fetch my supplies.”

  Below the porch, the smallest of the black dogs rose to his feet, shook himself like a dog, and padded softly away without looking at anyone else.

  “What kind of supplies?” Miguel asked. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir.” He got to his feet. His arm still hurt. Actually, it hurt quite a bit. But he was trying not to think about that. There were several other more important things to think about. For example, Ezekiel had moved several steps closer to Kristoff during that sick little demonstration of power. He wasn’t looking at the witch at all. He was staring away, out at the ruined pines and the untouched mountains beyond, his expression blank and his attention, as far as Miguel could tell, far away. His eyes were blue. Not a trace of yellow. Was that a good sign or a bad one? Miguel said almost at random, “Candles? I’ve heard witches use candles. What are those made of anyway?”

  “Curiosity and intelligence are excellent qualities,” Kristoff said mildly. “In moderation.”

  Miguel let himself flinch visibly. “Right. Sir.”<
br />
  “Tell me your relationship to all these black dogs, Miguel. Are any of them also Toland?” Then before Miguel could answer, he turned to Ezekiel and said blandly, “I bet you know exactly who in the vicinity is most closely related to Miguel Toland, don’t you?”

  Impossible not to stiffen. Equally impossible for Gregor Kristoff to miss that reaction. The witch was vicious and sadistic and a complete, total bastard, but he was also smart and perceptive. He smiled at Miguel as Ezekiel nodded. “Oh, now. That’s promising. Go on, Ezekiel. Tell me.”

  “His brother, Alejandro Toland,” Ezekiel said after about one second of struggle. “And his sister, Natividad Toland.”

  And that pretty much completely answered the question about whether Ezekiel were really under the witch’s control. Miguel tried not to sag visibly. Whose idea had this plan been, anyway? He had a sinking feeling it had been his. What a totally stupid idea. He made a mental note: next time just run for the hills and let Grayson and Herrod and all their people get killed.

  Yeah, even after all this, that still sounded even worse. But he should have come up with a solid Plan B.

  Except he kind of had, when he’d made sure Natividad would be somewhere watching. She was somewhere nearby, he knew that. Alejandro too. He had no doubt of it. Knowing that was kind of a mixed blessing. Especially now.

  “Mexican mother?” murmured Kristoff. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. And they’re here? Both of them?” He looked around as though he half expected to find Alejandro and Natividad hiding behind furniture on the porch or pine trees below. Then he looked at Ezekiel. “Ezekiel...fetch.”

  Ezekiel turned and took one step toward the house.

  “No need,” Natividad said from just inside the house. “I’m right here.” She stepped out, pale but composed, patted Ezekiel on the arm, stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek, and then stepped past him and faced Kristoff.

  Miguel didn’t dare look at Ezekiel. Not after all that business. He held up his right hand in a gesture of harmlessness, of surrender—his left arm wasn’t working quite yet—and said quickly, “Look, don’t hurt her! I’ll do whatever you want. Anything you want. You want me to sacrifice a black dog? No problem. All the Special Forces guys one after another? I can do that. Just, listen, can’t you just let her go?”

  Kristoff looked from Miguel to Natividad and back again with real delight. He actually rubbed his hands together. “Oh, but this is wonderful. You’re actually twins, aren’t you? Wonderful. Perfect. You know, this is just perfect. You have no idea how powerful a demon you’re going to bind for me when you sacrifice your sister.”

  Miguel took a step forward. “Not gonna—”

  Kristoff faced Miguel, and Natividad took advantage of the moment to brush by them both, running lightly down the steps to hug first Grayson and then, surprisingly, Carter. Absolon was coming back, in human form now, a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, and Natividad turned toward him and then hesitated, looking over at all the black dogs guarding Herrod’s people.

  “Ezekiel,” Kristoff said in his soft, smooth voice. “Fetch.”

  And Ezekiel turned like an automaton and went after Natividad. Except to go down the steps, he passed just within arm’s reach of Kristoff. And as he passed him, one hand flashed out, sharp and vicious as a striking snake, and left Kristoff staggering, hands to his face, his lower jaw maimed and crushed.

  Miguel got it after a second. Yeah. Gregor Kristoff was not going to be giving anybody orders now. Not with his jaw and mouth destroyed.

  Ezekiel was already long gone, heading straight for Herrod’s people, where they still knelt, helpless and threatened by five Dimilioc black wolves.

  “¡Sea libre!” Natividad said urgently to Grayson. “Be free of him and all his works!” She flung her hands out, gathering sunlight in both palms, and Alejandro came around the corner of the house with a long aggressive stride, and threw a handful of something, silver shot maybe, to the right and to the left, little beads that, thrown with black dog strength, scattered a long way. Definitely to the far edge of the driveway, well out beyond the place where Herrod and his people knelt, guarded by enslaved black dogs. Those black dogs had already moved to attack the humans—it had to be some kind of standing order—but Ezekiel was there on one side, and Carter almost as fast, that was a surprise, and suddenly James was there, right there, and where in God’s name he had come from was a total mystery. But with James and Carter backing up Ezekiel, there was no way any black dog was going to murder those guys. Plus the humans were up on their feet now, although that might get ugly if they got their weapons back and other things weren’t totally, obviously under control.

  Miguel ran down the stairs, caught up the leather satchel Absolon had dropped, slung it over his own shoulder, and ducked for shelter—toward the Master, for lack of any better ideas. He didn’t take time to glance in the satchel, not yet, but it was pretty heavy. More in there than just candles—

  Grayson roared, a sound that slammed across the mountainside with physical force. It staggered Miguel, definitely. Every single black dog except for Ezekiel shifted instantly into human form, so abruptly that Miguel knew Grayson had forced them into and through the change.

  “Fiat lux!” Natividad cried, the first time Miguel had ever heard her use Latin instead of Spanish for magic. Every glittering bead kindled in the sun and burst into bright, blazing light.

  Kristoff, his hands to his ruined face, made a garbled sound. Every single Dimilioc wolf turned and looked at him, all of them, despite their human shapes, with fiery eyes and predatory expressions.

  And Carissa dropped from above, mostly in black dog form. She landed just beyond the porch and sprang forward, low and deadly, struck twice and then threw Kristoff from the porch. He fell hard and clumsily, catching himself as best he could. No one moved to break his fall. Grayson, back in human form, his shadow so closely gathered and dense even Miguel could almost see it, leaned down, took the witch by the back of the neck, and lifted him to his knees. Where he stayed, making helpless, voiceless noises that were nothing like words.

  He couldn’t stand, Miguel realized. Carissa had hamstrung both legs. She was mostly human now, and mostly laughing, except that her laughter sounded a lot like a snarl of rage.

  “We need him alive!” called Herrod. He left his people to sort themselves out and strode urgently toward Grayson. “We need him alive,” he repeated, this time more quietly. “That demon is still out there. This man is our only resource for dealing with it. Who else knows what it is or how to find it, control it, get rid of it? I understand if you’re reluctant. I truly do. But we have to have him alive.”

  Grayson looked at him. Then he looked at Ezekiel. And nodded. Just once.

  For a second Miguel thought he was ordering Ezekiel to back off, and tried to muster sensible arguments the other way, which was tough because Herrod was so obviously right, except for being totally wrong.

  Then Ezekiel smiled his killer’s smile and Miguel took a breath and almost, sort of, relaxed.

  Ezekiel strolled to where Gregor Kristoff knelt, with his ruined face raised and his hands up, trying to surrender or cast a spell or whatever. Miguel backed away.

  Dimilioc’s executioner didn’t seem to notice Miguel at all. His attention was all for the black witch. “Tell me again about my beautiful eyes,” Ezekiel murmured, bending low to speak into Kristoff’s ear.

  Miguel made a mental vow never to reveal he’d heard that.

  Kristoff just stared up at Ezekiel. He wasn’t trying to speak anymore. He didn’t move at all.

  Ezekiel slid one hand lightly across the witch’s belly, a languid, almost gentle movement. He straightened with grayish rubbery intestines looped around his fingers.

  There wasn’t much blood, really. Not even when Ezekiel pulled out most of the witch’s guts, dumped them on the ground in front of him, and set fire to them with a single look from burning yellow eyes.

  Natividad didn’t sta
y to watch.

  Miguel did. He’d seen worse. And he wanted to be really, truly, totally sure the witch was dead.

  -22-

  MigTol: R U there?

  MigTol: We came we saw we totally kicked ass You have no idea It’s over TGIO

  MigTol: U there?

  Prophetess: M! Ur still alive! Sorry Got distracted. AFK. I’m here now

  Prophetess: Ding Dong The Witch is Dead? Tell me he’s dead They’re all dead All of them Say yes

  MigTol: So so soooo dead. Very yes

  Prophetess: You BAMF. WTG!   

  MigTol: Yeah not me. E. I never saw The Executioner execute B4. That’s one badass dude. Remind me never get him mad at me.

  Prophetess: Yeah that’s what I hear. Mad at big bad witch is much better.

  Prophetess: U r all OK? Srsly? Everyone? HRU? ???

  MigTol: Yep Well mostly. Mostly we’re good. I got a neat new book. A grimoire I guess. Lotsa v disturbing drawings.

  Prophetess: Also maybe words?

  MigTol: Yeah but I’m illiterate. I think maybe Greek? I’ll send you a picture. U read Greek?

  Prophetess: LDO. If it’s not Greek I’ll help u figure it out. Colonel H know u have that?

  MigTol: Yeah one more thing he’s not happy about. G and Colonel H might not be bff anymore. H also wanted the witch arrested and alive and in his hands.

  Prophetess: Like that was going to happen. LMAO.