Then she fell. She fell among the shadows of the rocks. But she turned and lifted herself on her elbow and laughed with scorn, and Uncle Hamsa came after her and bent down and seized her. He was far, far too angry to feel the waiting silver. And when he bent over Keziah, Amira slid delicately out of the shadows where she had been hiding and stabbed the knife into his back, low, to strike for the kidney.
Amira let go of the knife at once as Uncle Hamsa convulsed and screamed. She left it in his back, ripping at him with her claws as he tried to turn and get away, then tried to reach back and grasp the handle of the knife. He tried all of that at once, in a desperate bloody scramble. But freed from his control, Keziah shifted and tore at his belly and he screamed again, his form stuttering between human and black wolf and back again to human as his shadow tried to carry away the injuries. It could not take away the knife wound. Injuries dealt by silver could not be carried away, and the knife still stood in his back. From the moment Amira struck, he was a dead man. Only it took some time for him to die. Time enough for him to understand that this was not chance or happenstance. Time enough for him to understand what Keziah and Amira had done.
“So much blood!” Amira whispered, crouching to withdraw the knife.
Keziah nodded, intensely satisfied. “You did very well, my sister. Take the knife—carefully. Would you like me to take it? Are your hands burned?”
“I am not hurt at all,” Amira declared, as though surprised to realize it. “Uncle Hamsa is dead and we aren’t hurt at all!”
“So it will be with them all,” Keziah declared. “Let the jackals tear his flesh! Let the vultures follow the sunrise down to the desert and find him here! Let nothing remain but the smell of blood and ash! When our father discovers his body, let it be torn and ruined so no one can see how he died. Here, see, I will tear the body so the knife wound does not show so plainly. You have the knife—good! Put it away carefully, ukhti as-saghira. Tomorrow we will begin understanding Uncle Youssef, so that we can make a way to kill him, too.”
“Not Uncle Youssef next,” Amira demurred. “Uncle Ahmed. He is stronger than Uncle Youssef. Or maybe Cousin Malik. Did you see how he looked at you tonight? After you looked at him? He is dangerous, Keziah! Dangerous to you especially!”
“Perhaps,” Keziah conceded. She had not thought of that possibility when she had chosen to look with hot desire at her cousin. Now she could see she had been foolish. He was a very young man, yes, but a man, vicious as any man. She already knew their father would not protect her—that no one would protect her. Amira was right: Cousin Malik was dangerous.
But it did not matter. Keziah knew now she would keep the vow she had made on the day of her sister’s birth and her mother’s death. She would kill them all.
But she looked at her little sister and smiled, because she knew also that she would not face all her enemies alone.
Keziah and Amira waited all through the next day for the news of Uncle Hamsa’s death to run through the household. They waited to see what their father would do, what Uncle Ahmed and Uncle Youssef and Uncle Rayan would do. They waited for fury and questions and suspicion. Keziah told Amira not to be afraid. She explained again why none of the men would suspect girls—even black wolf girls. She explained this not because Amira needed to hear it, but because she needed to hear herself say it.
But nothing happened. All day the household was quiet. The body was found; what was left of it. Much damaged; jackals or wolves had indeed found it. Men went out in grim silence and came back with the torn remains of the body. But whatever they thought had befallen Uncle Hamsa, no one explained anything to women. The news came at last to the woman’s side of the house with an unexpected twist.
“The Quiet War,” Aunt Sofia murmured when she brought the black wolf girls their supper. “Zara served the meat tonight and that is the word she brought us. The men think this was a move in the Soft War with the khafash. Hamsa’s body was found close to this house. Too close perhaps for safety, for if enemies dare strike so close, next they may be through the very walls.” Smiling, she laid out dishes of chicken in cream, saffron rice with tart barberries, and rounds of tameez bread.
“The Quiet War,” Keziah repeated, rolling the words across her tongue. “The Soft War. “The khafash?” This sounded mysterious and exciting. She tried to imagine who the khafash might be. It was not a name she had heard before. Who were these people who might be engaged in a subtle war against her father? Whom might he blame for a death when there was no evidence of anything but jackals and vultures? A prince, perhaps. Some relative of Kalila’s, offended by her father’s pretense to royalty he did not truly possess. Or someone like ibn Abdel, who constantly strove to surpass other Arabic black wolves in wealth and power.
But Aunt Sofia said, “That is a name for the people of blood. You have heard of the people of blood? They are all shadow where you black wolves are half shadow. They fill the empty bodies of the dead and rise up to hunt the living. It seems the truce between the dark kindreds has been broken.” She sounded uncertain herself on this last. “I have heard of the khafash, but not of this truce. But I think that is what your father believes. That the people of blood have begun to hunt black wolves here—black wolves of powerful families, where any blow they strike will be felt most deeply. It is not altogether a foolish notion, perhaps. If the people of blood did move against us here in Riyadh, your father’s household probably would be targeted among the first, as he is wealthy and powerful, but not royal.”
“The...people of blood?” Amira asked doubtfully. “They are shadow all through?” She looked at Keziah.
Keziah did not know either, so she nodded to Aunt Sofia, a regal nod as though she, Keziah, could answer if she chose but preferred Aunt Sofia to explain.
Aunt Sofia inclined her head. “So it is said. They do not ordinarily come into Saudi Arabia, these blood-drinkers, these khafash. They dwell in Africa, far to the south where the land is less desert and the great trees shade the earth. Or again, many rule in Bulgaria and Romania and such cold lands. They do not come across the Red Sea or the Black Sea or the Mediterranean.”
It took a moment for Keziah to remember those names, which Aunt Sofia spoke in English. She knew them better by their Arabic names: the Al-Bahr Al’Ahmar and the Al-Bahr Al’Aswad and the Al-Bahr Al’Abyad Almutawassit. These were the little seas that lay between Saudi Arabia and neighboring lands, and the rest of the world. Keziah said, “Yet perhaps they do cross the water. Or why would my father believe they had killed Uncle Hamsa?”
“The men fear the khafash,” Aunt Sofia answered simply. “This I know. When I was a child, my mother told us that the people of blood do not rule, but ruin. They do not wish to have and build power, but to corrupt and spoil. But now Zara says the men spoke of this Quiet War and of the people of blood and the breaking of the long truce. I will listen. We will all listen. If the people of blood are killing black wolf men . . .” her voice trailed off; she would not finish that thought aloud. But she smiled.
So did Keziah. So, after the barest moment, did Amira. “Yes,” she whispered. “I see! If the khafash are killing black wolf men, then the khafash may be blamed when any black wolf man dies!”
This was exactly right. Keziah looked proudly at her little sister, and Aunt Sofia nodded and murmured, “Confusion among one’s enemies is as much a weapon as a silver knife. We will all watch and listen, and soon you will lay another trap before one of your uncles, a snare for him to step into while he is looking over his shoulder for enemies behind him. The people of blood kill slowly, taking blood and life from their prey. Knowing this, how will you kill to make it seem certain the death came from the fangs of the khafash?”
When the question was posed that way, the answer was obvious. Blood could be carried away by water, and the readiest place with drains and water was the men’s pool, which was without the household compound but separate from the main house; screened behind lattice and surrounded by palms and oleander. Women
were not, of course, permitted near the pool. But everyone knew men sometimes took a woman there, late at night when a man could be private. And everyone knew the man most likely to bend the household rules in that way was Uncle Rayan.
That made everything simple.
Uncle Rayan was not clever like Uncle Ahmed; not careful like Uncle Youssef. No. Uncle Rayan was stupid. Also, he was one of those who preferred the youngest girls. Girls too young even for child-marriage, girls of seven or eight. Girls Amira’s age.
Uncle Rayan bought such girls at the Evening Market. But he could not do so as often as he wished because Uncle Ahmed thought it a waste of household funds, so sometimes he took a girl from the household. He would not ordinarily have dared touch a daughter of his brother. But a black wolf daughter...the second and even more useless of two black wolf daughters...when such a temptation was presented to him temptingly enough, how could he resist? If the way looked easy and smooth...after all, everyone knew Amira was not a valuable daughter. Amira was kept so much out of the way that probably Uncle Rayan did not even know her name. Probably he did not know her by sight at all.
So the time and place were obvious enough, and the lure was simple. The danger to Amira was not great, because any injury Uncle Rayan dealt her could be given to her shadow—indeed, he could not hurt her too much without forcing the change.
Hiding the silver knife so Uncle Rayan wouldn’t feel its presence, that seemed at first impossible, but actually turned out to be simple as well. Keziah buried the knife in the grit below the palms, its fire muted by a gold tray she stole for the purpose.
So at first everything was very easy. Keziah was certain Uncle Rayan couldn’t resist the bait Amira offered. Men never resisted such lures. Indeed, he did not resist it. Amira put herself in his way twice and again over the course of a day, and once she’d caught her eye, she made sure Uncle Rayan thought he saw her slipping into the pool enclosure for an illicit swim. Of course he followed.
So the ambush started very well. But as soon as Keziah moved to carry out her part of the plan, everything became suddenly very much more complicated.
The trouble came first because of Keziah’s mistake. Amira’s first cry of uncalculated fear made Keziah move too soon, lest she leave her move too late and allow Amira to come to harm. She knew Amira was not so vulnerable as a human child, but still she moved, and, more quickly when her second cry held pain as well as fear. The gravel scattered with a shower of little sounds when Keziah retrieved the silver knife; more gravel gritted underfoot as Keziah hurled herself forward; she was in too much of a hurry to be as quiet as she should have been. Uncle Rayan heard her. He should have been too stupid and too focused on Amira to heed anything, but it turned out he was not quite that stupid. He hurled Amira away and spun around, and fast as she was, Keziah was not quite close enough to stab him.
She feinted and dodged, but she couldn’t shift; there wasn’t time and besides she would have had to drop the knife. Amira was shifting, but too slowly; Uncle Rayan, snarling furiously, was already half in his black wolf shape. Foolish, foolish, Keziah knew she should have thought of something to do in case the first blow went awry.
She dodged again, and Uncle Rayan roared, and then Uncle Youssef charged into the pool enclosure, gravel scattering and steam hissing up from the damp tiles as his great clawed feet touched them.
Both Keziah and Amira should both have died right there, torn to pieces by male fury. But Amira, still mostly in her tiny, vulnerable little-girl form, scrambled sideways to get behind Youssef, and Keziah flung her little sister the knife while she herself leaped straight at Rayan’s face, shifting as fast as she could, threatening his eyes to make him focus on her. Youssef reared up, massive and terrible, to destroy Keziah, but then he screamed as Amira sank the knife into his side and tore it across his spine with strength that would have been utterly beyond any truly human girl her size. Black ichor was followed by red blood as Youssef body contorted into human shape—his shadow was trying to take away the injury, but wounds dealt by silver could not be given away.
It was so fast. Before Keziah, half stunned by what had happened, could entirely realize that Youssef was dead, Uncle Rayan struck her. She felt him behind her at the last moment, his massiveness and the wave of heat that came from him, and she nearly dodged, but not quite. The blow smashed bones up and down her left side. Keziah couldn’t scream; pain stopped her breath; she was forced back into her human form far too quickly as her shadow carried away the crushing injuries.
For a few terrifying seconds, Keziah was blind with lingering pain and the shock of the forced change. Even so, she rolled fast to the side and scrambled to her feet, reaching for the change of body. She couldn’t shift. Everyone knew sudden serious injury would force the change, but she hadn’t realized it could stop her from shifting back again, didn’t know how long that would last. But Uncle Rayan didn’t kill her, not yet, which meant he wasn’t after her, which probably meant he was after Amira. Keziah blinked and shook her head, trying to recover her vision and sense by sheer force of will.
Her sister cried out, a thin sound of fury and terror and pain. Keziah saw Uncle Rayan mainly as a huge black bulk, halfway between human and black wolf, his eyes burning red and his misshapen form wreathed with steam. But his hands were almost human and he held Amira, he held her pinned against the floor though she struggled. In his other hand he held the silver-bladed knife.
He said something to Amira, a low growl, and the knife moved, flashing through the white veils of steam. The little girl shrieked.
Keziah flung herself forward across gravel and tile, at the last second realized Uncle Rayan was using Amira as bait, and barely ducked a raking blow, dodged again, rolled sideways, caught up a handful of gravel to fling at his face, and dropped low to slash at his legs and feet. She doubted she had dealt much injury, but there was gritty ripping sound and a loud splash, and Amira arrowed across the pool in her sleek human form and lunged out on the other side, turned and threw a bar of silver fire that rose up...and arced across the pool...and Keziah lunged, together with Uncle Rayan, but she had understood first and she was faster, and she caught the knife by its burning blade. She bit her lip against a cry of pain as she shifted her grip and whirled and held it out, and Rayan ran heavily onto the blade before he could stop himself, and Keziah jerked the knife upward with all her strength even as his weight knocked her into the pool.
Uncle Rayan was making small sounds when she came up, gasping and tossing her head to get her hair out of her eyes—obviously he was not dead, and Keziah’s stomach clenched in case he should come after her again. But then she saw the knife still in him, high up under his ribs where her last effort had forced it. Rayan was on his knees, clawing at his own stomach, blood coming out of his mouth. Blood was everywhere, the blood that was supposed to all be in the pool or rinsed away. Keziah did not know what kinds of bodies the khafash left behind them when they came and went, but nothing in the pool enclosure suggested anything but black wolf violence. Surely they had made enough noise to bring the whole household down on them—they had to get out of this place—if there was still time to get out, and she feared there could not be. She looked for Amira –
– and found her sister in human form, but running toward Uncle Rayan and not away. Half of Amira’s face was masked with blood, but her snarl held fury rather than pain and she ducked and seized the knife, tore it free of Rayan’s body, and slashed it across his throat, dodging his weak attempt to defend himself with contemptuous ease. Uncle Rayan opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He crumpled forward, and Aunt Sofia ran in.
Aunt Sofia was running with tiny cautious steps, her dress gathered up and her slippers almost silent on the tiles. She cast one comprehensive glance over the whole scene, snatched the knife from Amira, flung it down next to Rayan’s body, and pushed Amira into the pool. Amira, too surprised to resist, splashed ineffectually for a few seconds and then swam across to join Keziah, who was just pulling h
erself from the water on the other side of the pool.
Keziah lifted her little sister out of the pool and put her arm around her, cautiously, in case Amira could not tolerate the touch of another black wolf. But Amira clung to her. So she held her and did not let go. Keziah was furious and afraid and worried about the vicious cut all down Amira’s face, from just below one eye to the corner of her mouth. She started to ask Aunt Sofia about that, about what to do for a silver injury, but Aunt Sofia shook her head, lifting a finger to her lips just as, with a roar and a shimmer of furious fire, all the other black wolves of the household arrived.
Or nearly all. It seemed like all of them in that first moment. Keziah’s father was at the forefront, and Uncle Ahmed was with him, and Cousin Malik and Cousin Saleh, and also a handful of human men, but they did not matter. Keziah’s father was the one that mattered. He had shifted halfway, into a grotesque form larger and stronger than any human man. Keziah had not known it was possible to shift partway and then stop, but he had done it, and held in one hand a weapon like a sword, with a steel hilt and a silver edge.
Uncle Ahmed was in human shape, but not much less frightening for that; huge and wreathed in fire. The cousins were mostly in black wolf form, shouldering forward to stare at the blood with burning eyes that promised violence. But no matter how terrifying they all were, Keziah’s father was still the one that mattered.
Keziah shuddered with the effort not to run. Running would not help anything now.
Her father slowly looked from one side of the pool enclosure to the other, taking in Youssef’s body near the other door and Rayan’s body near the edge of the pool; the silver knife lying by him, the splashes of smoking black ichor and sticky crimson blood, and on the other side of the pool, Keziah and Amira kneeling together, their nightclothes soaking wet and blood still running sluggishly down Amira’s face.
Black Dog Short Stories II Page 4