Black Dog Short Stories II

by Rachel Neumeier

  The strays were loping in pursuit of their prey, their attitude a strange mix of intensity and indolence—they did not want to catch those girls, not yet; they wanted their prey to run, they wanted their terror and hopeless exhaustion. Their whole attention was on their hunt—careless, when they hunted so near a crowded city. Distant sirens pointed up that carelessness.

  But there was no hope for these girls in that sound. The girls knew it, too. They had kicked off their shoes and ran now down the middle of the empty street, flinched from a lunging black dog, and sprinted straight ahead, north. Ezekiel saw the moment the younger girl thought of the lake, and caught the older girl’s hand, urging her to the east. That was clever, because black dogs did not like to swim. But of course the crimson-eyed one lunged and snapped, forcing the girls to turn. Ezekiel, running along the edge of a warehouse’s flat rooftop, could see the awareness of death in the frantic way the younger girl turned at bay, snatching up a broken brick; in the way the older ducked sideways to shake the locked gate that closed off a parking lot.

  The three black dogs spread out in a line, heads low, jaws gaping. But they left an opening: west, toward the mountains, away from the lake and from any hope of help. The sirens were still distant, a lonely sound like the wail of wolves. The biggest of the black dogs, a yellow-eyed monster, snapped at the air, a loud chopping sound that echoed through the dark. Run, that meant. Run into the night. Run to your death.

  Ezekiel flowed over the edge of the roof and took the yellow-eyed stray in a silent rush. The black dog was larger and heavier than he was, but he had been too focused on his own hunt to suspect Ezekiel’s presence until it was far too late. A fight would have been entertaining, a drawn-out kill; Ezekiel’s shadow urged him to let his enemy understand that he was going to die. But that was foolish, of course, when there were three. Ezekiel drove his first blow across the back of the stray’s neck, his claws lengthening as he struck. He tore out chunks of the black dog’s spine, black ichor spraying into the air, and then red blood as the stray’s shadow dispersed and his body contorted in spasmodic, disjointed haste back into his human form. A tall man, his head half-torn free of his body, sprawled on the street: hawk-featured, his hair black as his shadow and his skin amber in the glow of the moon; dead dead dead because his shadow could not possibly carry away that much damage.

  Ezekiel had already leaped past him, slashing sideways, slicing the hamstring of the second stray, cutting halfway through the heavy bone of his leg. The stray toppled, roaring. He would shift; he would let his shadow carry away that crippling injury; but shock and pain would challenge his control. Nearly any black dog would take moments to recapture his human form after such an injury, and longer moments to shift back, and for those moments he could be discounted as a threat.

  The third stray, the smallest and most vicious, was the threat. He could not be taken by surprise or from behind, not now, and he was an experienced fighter, fast and deadly. Ezekiel ducked a hammering blow that could have caved in his skull and perhaps even killed him, shifting into his human form and rolling beneath the curved slash of the heavy paw, instantly calling up his shadow and rising again as a black dog, lunging—but his opponent had leaped away and was not there. The crimson-eyed black dog guarded himself, his back to the bulk of a solid warehouse wall, heavy shoulders bunching, eyes burning with fury, smoke rising from his jaws and little wisps of flame flickering from the asphalt where he crouched. He snarled, a long wavering sound, not loud, but filled with hatred.

  Behind Ezekiel, the injured stray shook himself from vulnerable human to black dog form—that was faster than Ezekiel had expected—and roared.

  The girls had ducked low against a wall, out of the way, but now the younger girl caught the other by the hand, and they ran, right past Ezekiel, which was brave and perceptive. They cowered as they passed him, but didn’t hesitate, and then they fled down the street the way they had come, back toward the crowded rave and life.

  The black dog facing him snarled again, aching with frustrated fury because those girls had been his, they had belonged to him, his prey, his to hunt. Ezekiel let his jaw open in a silent, savage laugh and leaped—not forward, but sideways, attacking the black dog he had already injured once, driving that one back, slashing at his face, ducking low in human shape and a step later coming up inside his guard in black dog form; raking his belly and flank and spinning away from a counterattack. The crimson-eyed black dog rushed forward, but Ezekiel gave back mockingly, refusing to face him.

  Then he leaped sideways again, with instinct-driven urgency, not quite avoiding the raking blow of another black dog. Ezekiel had not suspected this one’s presence—no, nor the other, for there was another behind him—five strays, not three, had come to these deserted streets to hunt. The three had driven their prey this way, meaning to drive them into the waiting jaws of these two; he could guess that now. It was too late to wonder whether prudence might have suggested calling for backup rather than facing this particular enemy pack alone, but Ezekiel laughed. Trained and strong and working as a team, these black dogs were a lot more dangerous than ordinary strays, but after all, he’d already killed one. Four at once was a challenge, but he could take them. He had no doubt of it, and laughed, letting them see his confidence. He hoped they would realize who he was, hoped they would be afraid.

  His attacker’s claws had torn across his flank and hip, a trivial injury because, though deep, none of the cuts were life-threatening. Ezekiel flickered into human form, letting his shadow carry away the wounds, letting his enemies get a good look at his face. He darted forward in human shape, light footed and quick—ducked low under a scything blow that would have crushed all the bones of his vulnerable human chest, skidded and rolled and rose into a powerful lunge as he exploded back into his massive black dog form. He tore through the belly of his nearest opponent; the black dog screamed and twisted away, and while he was off balance, Ezekiel threw his weight against him and flung him down, and tore out his throat with a savage snap and a jerk of his head. Black ichor and red blood fountained. The black dog might have recovered even from that; he jerked himself back into his human form, writhing, the terrible wounds partly healed as his shadow tried to carry them away. But he could not recover his black dog shape as quickly as he had shed it, and Ezekiel snapped his human neck while he was still vulnerable, even as he spun in a tight circle to meet the concerted attack of all three of his remaining enemies.

  Dodge and dodge and twist away, shift for half a heartbeat, nearly human for a single breath and then black dog once more, riding the knife-edge of the change—he took a raking blow across his face, just failing to return a strike that would have torn across the neck of one of his enemies—his enemies were even better trained than he’d expected and if his own control had been a fraction less perfect, he would have been dead twice over already.

  He did not doubt that he was going to win, of course he would kill them all, his shadow always acceded to his will because it knew they would always win. Doubt would shake his control, so he had no doubt. He flashed from black dog to human and then back to black dog, swift as the strobe lights at that ridiculous rave, and crushed the forelimb of one of his enemies, but it was not a killing blow and he could not press his advantage because the other two forced him back. Ordinary strays almost never worked as a team, but these supported one another with the smoothness of long practice. The leader of his enemies snarled with pride and offense and a confidence that almost matched Ezekiel’s. He had the temerity to laugh, crimson eyes burning, and Ezekiel readied himself for a feint that would offer that arrogant young black dog enough of an opening to draw him out, draw him away from the protection of his companions –

  Then the boom of a shotgun cracked open the night, and the black dog farthest toward the rear of the group screamed, rearing up and then collapsing, flames rising from the gaping wounds the silver shot had torn through his body. The other two black dogs whirled, snapping at the air in astonishment and
furious threat, but before they could attack the man who stood there, the shotgun boomed a second time. Another of them fell, his shadow shredding into the air, melting into the dark. His body contorted jerkily back into human form, hawk-fierce features and long limbs emerging piecemeal from the massive form of his black dog.

  The remaining black dog fled, the crimson-eyed leader. Detective Ayerson turned, smoothly tracking the path of his flight, his arm and hand tensing as he prepared to shoot. Ezekiel lunged to stop him.

  Ayerson, eyes wide with shock and anger, spun back, trying desperately to bring his shotgun to bear. Ezekiel dropped into his human form, nearly deafened by the shotgun blast as Ayerson, unable to correct his aim for his now much smaller target, squeezed the trigger. Ezekiel would have sworn he actually felt the burn of the silver pellets as they slashed over his head. Then he closed one hand hard on Ayerson’s wrist, forcing the gun aside and down, and with the other firmly gripped the man’s throat, claws out just enough to warn him against struggling.

  He ordered, half a growl, “Drop the gun, Detective. Drop it.”

  Ayerson tried to break away, disregarding the threat of Ezekiel’s claws pricking against his skin. He tried again, with all his strength. Ezekiel, half annoyed and half amused, retracted his claws so that he would not cut the man despite himself. He simply allowed Ayerson to discover that he could not begin to find the limits of black dog strength. Ezekiel tightened his grip on the detective’s wrist, illustratively. Then a fraction more, until Ayerson, gasping with pain, at last ceased his struggles and opened his hand. The shotgun struck the pavement with a clatter. Ezekiel kicked it away, said shortly, “Don’t run. Don’t fight. Be still,” and let him go.

  Ayerson staggered, caught his balance, and straightened. He lifted one hand to rub his throat, realized what he was doing, and hooked his hands in his belt instead. He glared at Ezekiel. But he was not dead. He wasn’t even hurt, beyond a few bruises. Ezekiel saw the man’s eyes narrow as he realized that.

  Ezekiel took a slow breath. The hot air was heavy with the smells of gunpowder and ichor, blood and hot pavement, fear and rage. Ezekiel let his breath trickle out again through his teeth, shrugging to settle his shadow firmly below his human self. He said, his voice taking on its familiar cool tone, “One of them had to run, or I would have nothing to track. He’ll go home, that one. He’s strong, and he’s not stupid, but he’s young, and for the moment his shadow is ascendant. He’ll run home, and I’ll find him there and finish this.”

  He glanced around. Four enemies. Four corpses. They looked small and ordinary and harmless now. They looked human. All of them with those fierce hawk-features and that amber skin, all with black hair matted with blood, and dark human eyes open and empty. They looked so alike they might be brothers. No doubt they were at least cousins. Saudi, probably. Definitely from a family and not a cartel, or they would never have stayed together when they fled their home territory.

  The cartels had splintered in the aftermath of the war, most of their black dogs torn down by internal strife or literally shot to pieces by mobs of the humans they’d ruled for so long. All the cartel black dogs hated the Pure; all of them treated women brutally; any of them might have thought of kidnapping human women in a bid to establish a new, strong family after losing so much in the aftermath of the war. But Ezekiel could not believe enough of black dogs from any cartel could have survived to make themselves a problem here in America.

  Grayson was fairly certain that the remnants of the North African cartels had been destroyed by the civilized black dog families of Morocco and Tunisia. He and Ezekiel had discussed that part of the world, and Grayson thought that most of the fleeing black dogs had probably been driven entirely out of black dog territory, into West and East Africa. What would become of them there, whether they might be able to carve out new territory or whether they would be overpowered by the strange magic of those regions, was not clear. But they weren’t Dimilioc’s problem, which was all that mattered to Ezekiel.

  No, the Saudi black dogs were surely the likeliest to have made themselves Dimilioc’s problem. Ezekiel couldn’t imagine the powerful, civilized houses of Israel and Lebanon allowing any black dogs from Saudi Arabia to flee through their territories. But some might have survived the furious aftermath of the vampire war and got out through Kuwait, perhaps. Or the Emirates. After all, Keziah had gotten out somehow. With her sister, too, which couldn’t have been easy. He hadn’t ever asked her how she’d done it, and it didn’t really matter. But he should have realized that some of her cousins might also have fled to America. Especially because the black dog houses of Europe had often drawn much more violent reactions from the surrounding human populations than Dimilioc. Too many of those houses had treated ordinary humans with contempt, and so found themselves hunted with merciless determination once they were exposed to human view. Those were more dangerous lands for black dogs now.

  Ezekiel nodded to himself, considering. Saudi or otherwise, he could guess that quite a few black dogs would be waiting for him at their house when he found it. How many? A least one old and canny black dog. Maybe just one. But with so many youngsters, he suspected there might very likely be two or three older black dogs.

  And they would know he was coming. He should call Étienne, call for backup. Actually, it was a pity he couldn’t call Keziah. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in reluctant amusement at the thought of Keziah taking on this particular fight. That would be highly appropriate. She would almost certainly enjoy it.

  And he would like to call the main sept of Dimilioc, to hear familiar voices, speak to the Master of Dimilioc. Even to Natividad, though he could not immediately think of a clever excuse to justify that conversation.

  But of course there was no time to call anyone. Not even Étienne, who was so much closer. Anyone Étienne sent could be here in half an hour, forty minutes, perhaps an hour. That would be the wisest course: call for help and wait.

  But if Ezekiel did that, they would have time to run, these foreign black dogs who had dared intrude in Dimilioc’s far-flung territory. They would hide somewhere in the vast reaches of these western states, and by the time he found them again, they might be far more dangerous. No, better to finish it now.

  He started to turn toward the trail the young crimson-eyed black dog had left for him.

  “You’ll finish it, will you?” Ayerson said roughly. “By yourself? They would have killed you! What if that one has more friends than you can cope with?”

  Ezekiel lifted an eyebrow. “No, Detective. I would have killed them. However many there prove to be, I assure you that I’ll manage.”

  He infused his tone with confidence, but Ayerson didn’t look impressed. “Yeah? And what if you’re wrong? If you get killed, I’ll have those monsters loose in my city, and what then? You need someone at your back when you find them.”

  Ezekiel looked at him.

  Ayerson turned, strode to his abandoned gun, bent to pick it up. His whole manner defied Ezekiel to stop him. He hefted the weapon, broke it open to check on the loaded shells, didn’t even glance over to see if Ezekiel objected.

  The man’s audacity was amusing, Ezekiel decided. He refused to be offended, refused to allow his shadow to press him. Human allies with silver bullets were something Dimilioc wolves had learned to appreciate, recently. Human enemies so armed were...not as welcome. But Ayerson was not, perhaps, exactly an enemy. Not, at least, at the moment.

  And he knew the man was right. These black dogs were not civilized, but they were not strays, and he had no idea how many of them he might be facing. He did need backup.

  He said, lightly, “I suppose you may as well come along. As long as your report makes Dimilioc’s dedication to calm coexistence clear. And as long as you can keep up with me. You have a car nearby, Detective?”

  The house was a rambling monstrosity well outside the city, at the end of a mile-long private drive, hard against the sharp rise of the mountains, framed by dark pines a
nd the occasional spreading oak; the sort of place that might have been meant to anchor an upscale resort in the seventies or early eighties, but had never quite managed to thrive. It had been sold and sold again, no doubt, while it gradually fell into disrepair. The silver moonlight picked out its age in merciless detail: the paint on its faux-classical columns that was peeling in strips; the porch floor that sagged askew in the middle; the fallen shingles that left scattered gaps across what should have been a graceful roof. Here and there an upper-story window had broken and been boarded up. The other windows were mostly dark, but the uncertain light of oil lamps glimmered here and there. Several lamps shone in the highest windows.

  It would have made a splendid setting for a horror movie; something with violent ghosts or demonic possession. That last, of course, was not far from the truth.

  “I’ll go straight in,” Ezekiel said quietly. And, as Ayerson opened his mouth to protest, “There’s a time for subtlety, but this isn’t it, Detective. We came in good time. They’re still there. If they see I’m coming in alone, they may not run. I think that would be best: to finish this now, tonight. You will stay out of sight until they are all fully engaged in battle. Then...it would be best if they do not realize your presence until you begin shooting.” He turned his head, meeting Ayerson’s eyes.

  The detective offered only a curt nod.

  They had come in quietly, on foot through the woods for the last little distance because a car would have given away the presence of human allies. Whoever was in that house, they would have too much sense to face both Dimilioc’s executioner and a man with a shotgun loaded with silver shot. If they knew Ayerson was here, they would run.