Black Dog Short Stories II

by Rachel Neumeier

  “Wait until they’re fully engaged with me,” he repeated. Then he turned and ran toward the house.

  He let his shadow pour up through him with his first step, so that by his second he was fully in his black dog form. All his doubts fell away, for his black dog was long accustomed to savage victory. Its confidence rose through him; more than confidence, a hot-edged arrogance that fed a sensual anticipation of the coming fight. He lowered his head as he ran, his snarl edged with rough black-dog laughter, and shook fire from his shaggy pelt. The spring grasses smoked where his broad paws fell, but he did not want to set fire to that house—for a moment, he did not remember why he did not want to burn it to the ground, but it came to him: yes, the light in the attic window. That was why. It didn’t matter; fire would have been satisfying, but blood would be better.

  They knew he was here, those lesser black dogs. Three of them—no, five—well, five or six or perhaps seven; it was hard to be certain. Three of them had come out to meet him. At least two more held back, waiting, letting the others run ahead—one of those would be the master here, old and strong and experienced. That was fine. He would kill them all, send their shadows shrieking into the night, spill their red blood upon the earth—he leapt sideways suddenly, not knowing why until the sharp crack of a rifle echoed across the face of the mountains. The shot went wide, and now he saw the figure move in one of the darkened windows, the shine of moonlight on the barrel of the rifle, which some part of his mind had glimpsed barely in time.

  That was infuriating: both the gun and his failure to think of the possibility. Stray black dogs did not work with human men—but these were not precisely strays. He dodged sideways and away, shifting again and again, human and black dog and human again, ducking in and out of the shadows of the tall pines, angling toward the house because he knew he did not dare stay out in the open, not with that gunman in the window. The rifle cracked again, and once more, and the four black dogs rushed forward to block him from shelter, force him out into the bright moonlight –

  Behind him, not very far behind, a shotgun boomed. Of course, a shotgun. Ezekiel had underestimated Ayerson as an ally. He wanted to laugh. The rifle had fallen silent, and now his enemies were far less eager to close—but now it was too late; they were too near to get away, if they ran now he would tear them down one at a time from behind. They knew it, too. The master of the little pack roared, and all of them rushed forward together.

  But now both guns were silent, and Ezekiel hurled himself to meet his enemies with no more hesitation. Feint and feint, duck into human shape and lunge back up with all the massive strength of the black dog, and one of his enemies writhed, dwindling abruptly to human form in disorderly death.

  He took a blow across the chest that would have killed a black dog with only ordinary control, but he simply flickered into human form to shed the wounds and then brought his shadow up again, so fast that the following blow, intended to crush the fragile bones of a human, only raked harmlessly across his black dog’s heavy shoulder. Ezekiel laughed and tore his enemy’s throat and side, not killing blows, not yet, but debilitating if the black dog could not rid himself of those injuries by shifting to his human form. And he couldn’t, because he was too hard pressed and would never be able to reclaim his black dog shape before Ezekiel killed him. The black dog roared in frustrated fury, setting half a dozen pines ablaze, and tried to retreat, to let the other two carry the fight, but Ezekiel ducked past them in human form, reared up into his black dog shape, and slashed claws across his opponent’s face, trying again for his throat.

  The shotgun boomed. Ezekiel had once again almost forgotten about it, but he found himself suddenly no longer threatened from the rear. Freed to concentrate on a single enemy, he struck, and contemptuously shrugged aside a return blow, and struck again, finishing his opponent, leaving him to crumple in human form to the torn ground. His enemy’s shadow, denser than most, wailed almost audibly as it shredded into the air.

  The last of the black dogs fled for the house. Ezekiel was faster, and afterward loped past the torn corpse and leaped up the wide shallow stairs to the sagging porch. He let his shadow carry his weight because the structure was plainly unequal to bearing even the step of an ordinary human, far less the full bulk of a black dog. The door was half open, but even shoved wide, it was not adequate for his size. Silence within suggested no threat. He was certain at last one or two more black dogs had been here, maybe more. He was in particular quite sure that he had not yet killed the young crimson-eyed black dog he had pursued out of the city and tracked to this place. But any remaining enemies had retreated deeper into the house, or fled entirely. Ezekiel didn’t mind if they fled into the mountains, but he didn’t want them lingering here in this house. He snarled, a deadly scraping warning to any within: Run! But there was no sound; no sense of any threat.

  He stepped through the doorway in human form, taking in the high cobwebby ceilings and dingy walls, the paucity of furniture. His quiet footsteps echoed. A single oil lamp hung from the chain that should have held a glittering chandelier, its warm light deepening the shadows that lay in the corners. At the far end of the antechamber, a graceful stairway curved up to the floor above. Ezekiel crossed the cracked tiles of the floor and started up, but had not gone five steps before hearing, behind him, the metallic sound of a shotgun being cocked.

  He turned, annoyed with himself. He wasn’t surprised, precisely. At the same time, he would never have put himself in a stairwell that limited his movements if he had remembered the human, and the gun.

  “Two of the monsters ran for the mountains,” Ayerson told Ezekiel. “At least two. They’re hard to see in the dark, but I might’ve seen as many as three, even four. The pace they lit out, I don’t think they’ll stop until they get to California.”

  The detective’s mouth was set, his gaze difficult to read. He held the shotgun steady on Ezekiel’s chest. That he hadn’t fired yet meant that he was still making up his mind. Ezekiel stood very still. He said, “They’ll be dangerous until they’re dead, any black dogs from this house. I, or someone of Dimilioc, will track them down eventually. I’m sure you realize how useful we will be for that purpose. Believe me, you do not want to deal with issues of jurisdiction and jealous prerogative when you pursue such prey.” He paused. Ayerson said nothing. Ezekiel added, “If you pull that trigger, don’t add that detail to your report. Don’t even mention it to your immediate superior. Never whisper it aloud. Let everyone assume my death came from the black dogs here, or their human accomplice.”

  Ayerson’s eyes narrowed.

  “It would be a mistake to shoot me, Detective. In so many ways. Among other things, if Dimilioc finds out you killed me, they won’t forgive it. The Master of Dimilioc will personally come looking for you. But you’re a decent man. A good cop. You don’t deserve to die for killing monsters.”

  There was a little pause, that stretched out. Ayerson didn’t move. He was thinking that over, but if he had to think this long, Ezekiel was fairly confident of how the decision would come out. Besides, he heard a muffled sound from above. Gesturing upward, he said casually, “There’s one of the reasons you’ll be glad you didn’t shoot me. You know those women are still alive, don’t you? The attic, I think.”

  Turning, he went up the stairs, lightly, not too fast. Behind him, he heard Ayerson’s muttered curse and then the heavier tread as the man followed him. He didn’t shoot. Ezekiel had been almost certain he wouldn’t.

  The stairway led to darkened hallways that stretched away to either side. Ezekiel ignored them, turning on the landing to continue upward. The stairs narrowed after the third floor, and steepened, and lost the graceful curve to run straight up between walls dark with stained paper and smelling of mildew. They ended at last before a locked door. This would be the attic from which the light had shone, if Ezekiel had the plan of the house clear in his head. The lock was new and sturdy, but the door was old. He slammed his hand right through the aged wood, fi
rst above and then below the lock, tore it free, and shoved the door wide.

  Six narrow beds in a row, and six hard-backed chairs pulled into a tight group before a small iron stove, and a grim smell of stale bread and boiled venison and fear and illness, and five terrified women who cowered at the far end of the long attic room.

  Ezekiel liked people to fear him, but he didn’t like this. It was too much like something Thos Korte might have done; too much, in fact, like the things Thos had actually tried to do when he had still been Master of Dimilioc. Ezekiel was not generally troubled by a vivid imagination, but it was far too easy to picture that row of cages in Dimilioc’s basement, each containing a woman like one of these women. He could all but see Melanie in a cage like that. Even Natividad, if Thos had tracked down her father and killed him and forced Natividad into Dimilioc.

  Thos would have done it. For all his Dimilioc blood, he’d been very nearly as vicious as any black dog lying dead out there in front of this house.

  How to persuade these women that not all black dogs were like that? That Dimilioc was not like that, not under Grayson; that they were safe, would be safe?

  Brutalized, frightened, kept like animals or like slaves...after what had been done to these women, nothing he could say would be right. Especially after they had already watched him smash through their door: inhuman strength was surely not very reassuring, under the circumstances. If Natividad were here...or better still, DeAnn, ten years older than Natividad, older than any of these women, calm and steady, good with wounded creatures. Or even Grayson, whose integrity no one could doubt, even on first meeting. Dimilioc’s executioner was hardly the right person to do this. But he was the only one here.

  Ezekiel said, without preamble, what in their place he would have wanted most to hear: “All your captors are dead. They died in fear, knowing they would die. You are safe, and free.” He ignored the detail that a handful of the black dogs here had fled. They were dead, too, after all. He would track them down eventually. He moved aside and gestured toward Ayerson. “This is Detective Ayerson, who has rescued you all.”

  “You’re one of them,” accused one of the women. She was older than the rest, or perhaps captivity in this house had aged her. She was tall and straight-backed, striking even under these conditions. She wore a blue dress that was almost clean, and her dark hair was bound back with a cord that looked like silk and had beads of real lapis braided into its ends. She sounded angry rather than afraid. Ezekiel approved of her. She seemed strong. And she continued to stare at him, not Ayerson, which showed perspicuity. She was also very pregnant. They were all pregnant, he was fairly sure. But with this one, no one could have missed the fact. She stood with her head up and her hands folded across her belly, clearly near her time, but fiercely defiant despite her fear. He was glad of her strength and courage. She would need both, however this came out.

  “I’m certainly a black dog,” he agreed. “But hardly one of them.” His lip curled with scorn at the idea. “I’m Dimilioc. We’re a civilized house. We cherish our human kin and respect the mothers of our children.”

  “Oh, the mothers of your children. We’ve seen how you treat the mothers of your children!”

  Ezekiel tilted his head, keeping his manner quiet. “In fact, you have not. I hope you will meet my fiancée, who will be the mother of my children. She is as fierce as you, in her way.” He couldn’t quite shut out an image of Natividad, wounded and desperate as this woman was wounded and desperate. Natividad would be furious and grieved at what had been done here. Thinking of her, how she would feel, helped him keep his tone steady and mild. “I hope you meet DeAnn, who is married to a black dog man. Their son is six years old, a fine boy.” He looked deliberately around at the other women and went on carefully, “Every woman of Dimilioc is held within our protection. No one may harm her. The black dogs who brought you here were savages. But they are dead. Dimilioc does not tolerate such barbarity.”

  The woman tipped her chin up, her expression closed and hard, but Ezekiel thought she was listening. He hoped they all were.

  “He killed most of ’em himself,” growled Ayerson, unexpectedly. “And brought me here, and told me you all were up here, or I wouldn’t have known to look.”

  “You’d have figured it out, Detective,” Ezekiel said drily, though he was pleased by this unexpected testimony. “You’re all free,” he added, speaking again to all the women. “You are free to do whatever you wish, go wherever you wish. But there are complications. Certainly for you.” He paused.

  The woman in blue knew what was coming. Her face tightened, and her hands spread protectively across her swollen belly.

  “You’ve guessed, then,” said Ezekiel. “Or did they tell you?”

  “They told us,” said the woman, bitterly. “Breeding little monsters, and God help us if we have a normal child –”

  “Yours is a black dog.”

  “I know! They said that. He did, the one they called their prince. He gave me a new dress and a necklace and things, and better food, and told me he’d beat me if it was born dead –”

  “Savages,” Ezekiel acknowledged. “Barbarians. Saudi, were they? Yes, I thought so. They thought they were kings among men, dark lords of the Earth. To them, ordinary humans were slaves. Slaves and prey. Then their slaves realized that their chains had been put on them by monsters, and rose up against them, and found that monsters can be killed if the hands of decent men are set against them.”

  Ezekiel didn’t have a gift for words. His uncle Zachariah had been the storyteller of the family. But they were listening. Ezekiel went on, quietly, “This was some prince who escaped the days of blood. A prince who, driven out of his homeland but finding himself still alive, aspired to greater things. He thought Dimilioc would allow him to build up a house of his own, here. Now he is dead, and all his kindred with him.” He let his contempt show in his voice, even though the Saudi prince’s plan might have worked, if Ezekiel had not happened to hear of an unusual run of kidnappings in an area where werewolves were thought to be hunting. He had guessed immediately what kind of black dog might kidnap girls, and why.

  He said, “We would never have permitted it. They were dead the moment they caught our attention. I’m only sorry I did not discover their intentions before they could do you such harm.” He meant this, to his own slight surprise. He glanced from the first woman to the others, meeting each one’s eyes, trying to let them see his sincerity. They all seemed healthy, at least. Bruised, but sound enough, and perhaps beginning to believe they might be safe. The youngest of the women, pale and blonde, with dark circles under her eyes and bruises vivid on her upper arms, looked about sixteen but was probably several years older; he thought she was one of Ayerson’s more recent kidnap victims, which made her close to nineteen. She flinched and looked away from his gaze, folding her arms defensively over her chest.

  He tried to look harmless. It wasn’t a look he had practiced very often. He said to the older woman, “He’s half you, that child you carry –”

  “And half monster!”

  “Well, yes,” Ezekiel conceded. “But half you, and black dogs don’t have to be monsters. To us, he would be a child. He would be a valued member of Dimilioc. You are his mother. We would cherish and respect you. You’ll need help with him. You’ve felt him moving in your belly, haven’t you? He’s almost ready to be born. But a black dog birth can be difficult. The women of Dimilioc know how to take care of you, and how to take care of him.”

  Natividad or DeAnn would need to do the Beschwichtigan, the Calming, the moment the child was born. Before, if possible. The baby’s shadow was a strong one; Ezekiel could feel it from where he stood. Without the Beschwichtigan, this woman’s son would surely kill her, probably at an age where a human child would still be crawling. And, with a shadow that strong, he would soon be consumed himself. A tragedy from conception to death, that child’s life, unless Ezekiel could make this woman listen to him. He said, not loudly but letting
his voice gain intensity, “Dimilioc would welcome you and protect you. I would protect you—I would stand against any who sought to harm you. And I assure you, I am not the least of the black dogs of Dimilioc. No one would dare lay a hand on any I take under my protection.”

  “Probably true,” muttered Ayerson.

  Ezekiel raised an eyebrow at him, but gave him a nod of gratitude at this unexpected vote of...partial confidence, perhaps. The women looked at one another. Ezekiel thought they might almost be willing to trust him—at least, a little—at least the woman in blue. He said as persuasively as he knew how, “A black dog child—a human can’t safely raise one of us. A child of ours has to be taught to control the monster. We can do that, at Dimilioc. We can raise your child to be a decent man. Not like those.” He gestured contemptuously around at the house. “Nothing like those.”

  “You can’t seriously expect us to go with you,” said the woman in blue, angry and doubtful.

  “Certainly I hope you will come with me,” he told her. “All of you, but particularly you. Your child is unmistakably a black dog, and very near his time. You need our help, and Dimilioc could use his strength. He’ll be strong, any child of yours, I know that. You’ll be respected at Dimilioc. You’ll be a valued guest, not a prisoner. Or a part of our family, if you choose to stay. Either way, if you bring us this child, he’ll belong to a civilized house. He’ll be taught the control he needs. He’ll have a good life –”

  “I want an abortion,” one of the younger women declared abruptly. “I’m not going to have it! I was—I was—it’s not mine, it’s nothing of mine, it’s not even human, it’s his!” She clenched her fists and glared at Ezekiel. Her eyes were an unusual gray-green, her cheekbones high and angular. She seemed to have gained courage from the other woman’s example.

  “That’s certainly another option,” Ezekiel agreed. “But you’re not far enough along to know whether it’s human or not. Do you want to destroy it before you even find that out? Maybe it’s a little girl, a daughter as human as you. Even if it’s a boy, it might be human.” He glanced around at all the women. They were all staring at him. So was Detective Ayerson. But the detective made no move to interrupt this sales pitch. Ezekiel said softly, speaking directly to the angry woman with the greenish eyes, “You can certainly end your pregnancy before it’s too far along. That would be safe and easy. But Dimilioc will offer you haven if you choose to bear it. If you want time to decide, we will give you time. If you bear it, we’ll be glad to keep a black dog child. Or if it’s human, if you don’t want it, I promise you, we would value a human child as well. Our human kin are important to us.”