Light slid through the trouvez, and they left town and headed into the desert. The road got rougher, the way little-used desert roads would, eroded by rain and wind. A barbed wire fence appeared to their left, and then changed into a high chain-link fence with barbed wire across the top.
“Area 51,” said Nicholas, nodding.
“Miles to go before we get to the entrance,” Father Stepan told him. “Longer because we have to go around where the road’s washed out. Turn here, please.” He indicated a secondary road that was little more than the faint impression of tire tracks. Keziah turned, the car skidding a little on loose grit and gravel as they left the main road. “North and then west again,” Father Stepan said. “Then we’ll cut back south and come out a little too far west. We’ll have to backtrack a mile or so.” He paused. “If we want to go in by the main entrance.”
“We do not,” Keziah said firmly. “We will go in there at that place where you say the road will bring us.”
“There’s the fence,” Father Stepan pointed out.
“Well, that’s a problem,” Nicholas said. “A fence, wow. Whatever shall we do.”
Justin sighed. “Nicky, please be polite. Father, a chain link fence is not a problem, but is this car going to be able to get to the main buildings or bunkers or whatever cross-country?”
Father Stepan hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t have a clear idea of just how the land lies in that area. If there are no arroyos, probably.”
“If we cannot take the car, we will run,” Keziah said. Her tone was calm, but flecks of gold burned in her dark eyes. “It does not matter. We may well wish to leave the car before we have come all the way. It is always better to surprise one’s enemies. Justin, the trouvez?”
“Yeah, we’re going the wrong way, but it’s still showing us which way we ought to go –”
“Turn west up there, by that old oil drum.”
It was a battered, rusted oil drum, but it did indeed sit next to another barely visible track.
“Used to be a ranch out here,” said Father Stepan. “The Thompson place. It was never good country for a ranch. The well wasn’t reliable enough. But old Thompson was a stubborn man. Took him years to give up, but early this fall he finally packed up and disappeared.”
“He did not disappear,” Mrs. Farris corrected sternly. “He went to his daughter in Albuquerque. Ever since her husband passed away, she’d been after him to sell this place and move in with her and the children. Eugenia told me all about it at the ladies’ luncheon back in May.”
“Probably the aliens made him leave,” said Nicholas. “They probably drove him off with their crazy psychic powers.”
Somewhat to Justin’s surprise, Father Stepan added thoughtfully. “Or a witch, with some kind of curse.”
Nicholas shrugged, but Mrs. Farris said, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Eugenia’s impression was that he didn’t mean to go, until suddenly he changed his mind. She was quite surprised. We all were. Not one to change his mind about anything, that old man.”
They drove past the faded homestead: a battered mobile home and an equally battered lean-to shed, fences with sad, leaning posts and a half-dry pond surrounded by cracked earth. The whole property looked as though it had been abandoned a long time ago rather than just a few months previously. A feral cat, black and thin and looking exactly like it ought to be a witch’s familiar, glared at them from the mobile home’s porch as they drove past. Other than that, there was no sign of life.
Shortly after passing the Thompson place, before Justin had really expected to, they came back to the fence. Without a world Amira flowed out of the car and into her black dog form. She was so young that her other form was not much larger than a big dog—granted, a really big dog; she probably weighed twice as much in her black dog form than she did as a girl. But she was more than strong enough to peel back the heavy steel wire and leave a twelve-foot length of the fence in a tangled heap at the side of the road, while Father Stepan and Mrs. Farris stared. The priest crossed himself, murmuring in Latin. Mrs. Farris said, not quite under her breath, “That poor little girl!”
“She would not understand you,” Keziah said, but with more irony than offense. “I assure you, she would not wish to be a soft, helpless human girl. The world is sufficiently unkind to black dog girls.”
Justin reached forward to touch her shoulder. “Not in Dimilioc, surely.”
After a moment, the stiffness under his palm eased. “Not in Dimilioc,” Keziah conceded. “But neither Amira nor I would wish to be merely human.”
Amira certainly showed no sign of wanting to shift back to her human form. She glared around at the empty desert, the shaggy black pelt bristling over her heavy shoulders and down her spine. Then she loped away, not too fast, not quite parallel with the road, but at a slant that would take her deeper into the forbidden area.
“Good,” said Keziah. “She will go ahead of us. Carefully, for we do not know what we may find. Nicholas, go out and stay by Amira. Be careful.”
“Yeah, I was going to be careless,” Nicholas muttered. “I’m not stupid, you know.” But he got out of the car, shifting not quite as smoothly as Amira had. His other form was larger than hers, but Justin was accustomed enough to black dogs to notice the way he averted his gaze from Amira’s when he came up with her, and understood that Keziah’s sister was the more dominant of the two. He wasn’t surprised, either. Nicholas might be Dimilioc-bred and a Hammond, but Amira was Keziah’s sister.
Then there was a long, slow, careful progress, following whatever sense the black dogs were using to tell them this way to our enemies. As far as Justin could tell from the light sliding through the trouvez, they were still going the right way. Whatever they found waiting up ahead, surely his grandmother must be there. The light was not exactly brightening, but it was growing more intense and the streaks were moving faster, and Justin felt they were getting close. He was starting to think they must be right on top of his grandmother, that they probably ought to slow down and look around for something like underground bunkers—if they could even find them, underground bunkers might be pretty hard to find, something they ought to have thought of earlier—
Then the light flickered and dimmed. Between one breath and the next, the magic invested into the trouvez faded. The mirror misted over and then cleared, and Justin was left staring, shaken, at a blank bit of glass.
“Well, that does feel a trifle peculiar,” murmured Mrs. Farris next to him.
Keziah took her foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to coast to a gentle, near-silent halt in the middle of what seemed a vast stretch of flat, dry nothing. She said, her voice tight, “Justin. Your magic has faded. If I did not know you were Pure...I would not know you were Pure.”
Justin had already figured that out, at least the part about his magic fading. He hadn’t even known that magic was like an extra sense, but he felt like he had suddenly gone blind and deaf. Or not really. More as though he had unexpectedly walked into a bank of heavy fog that muffled sight and hearing. He drew a slow breath and let it out again. “How do you feel?”
“I?” Keziah considered this question. “Well enough,” she concluded. “Well enough.” She held out one hand, all its bones shortening and thickening, jet-black claws sliding out of distorted fingers. Then the change reversed itself until her hand was hers again, right down to the cobalt polish on her long, smooth fingernails.
Even at this moment, Justin had a moment’s realization that this was finer control than she’d been capable of earlier in the year and that she must have been practicing in private. But mostly he was just relieved black dog magic didn’t seem to have been affected by...whatever this was. Witchcraft. Whatever.
“Witchcraft,” he said out loud, experimentally. “Witches.” It still sounded ridiculous.
Father Stepan was studying Justin and the now-useless mirror. He told Keziah, “Back up immediately.”
This was so plainly a good idea that Keziah di
dn’t even glare at the priest for his temerity in giving her an order. She simply put the car into reverse and eased backward, gently, not too fast. Outside, Amira and Nicholas were loping back to join them. But Keziah waved them off, a sharp jerk of one hand, and they melted away into the desert instead, surprisingly thoroughly for large shaggy black monsters. Justin only hoped that was a good idea; he had to admit he would have felt considerably safer with the two younger black dogs near at hand.
Especially when the muffling effect did not reverse itself.
“Of course it couldn’t be that simple,” he muttered. Then he said to Keziah, “Okay, maybe we should go on, then. Or I should. Maybe this witch or whatever he is felt me coming. Or maybe he had some kind of spell set up to zap Pure magic if any of us got too close. But since you’re not affected, you should get clear away and Father Stepan should take the wheel. No, listen, we’ll be perfectly safe –”
Keziah cast her eyes up to the heavens, but waited, with unusual patience, for him to finish.
Justin shrugged. “Okay, not safe, but even if this witch expects me, even if he’s set up to handle human visitors like Father Stepan and Mrs. Farris, I bet he won’t expect you. So you get away from the car and join the others. The three of you can see what’s up and then figure out what to do, and we’ll just see –”
“Too late,” muttered Father Stepan, and nodded off to their left, where a young man with a narrow, sly face and long greasy blond hair had suddenly appeared about fifty feet away, from, yes, an underground bunker. Or so Justin assumed from the camouflaged door he’d pushed up, which had been invisible until he opened it. Stepping out, the man scattered a handful of what looked like elongated dice or little white sticks before him on the ground, spun three times in a tight circle to his left, blew a handful of gray dust toward the car, and made several broad gestures in the air like he meant to start a game of charades. Only after all that did he stroll toward them. With, in fact, disturbing confidence. Justin wondered exactly what the guy had done—what they’d let him get away with doing. And how much they’d regret not just shooting him before that thing with the spinning and the dust.
“Grungy, as you see,” pronounced Mrs. Farris. “A quite unprepossessing young man. Justin, you had better let me have my gun.”
Justin glanced at Keziah, but he gave Mrs. Farris the gun without waiting for her nod. Keziah didn’t say a word. Her eyes were narrowed; her expression in profile coldly hostile, but she was watching the approaching man, not anybody in the car. Mrs. Farris tucked the gun beneath a fold of her skirt and sat up straight, looking dignified and very much as though she’d never dreamed of touching anything more dangerous than a nail file in her life.
“We’ll have to play it by ear,” Justin said in a low voice. “Keziah, if you can pass for human...until it’s time for you not to pass for human . . .”
Keziah didn’t answer. She had both hands on the wheel, her fingers long and graceful and completely human. Justin hoped her eyes were human dark rather than burning with black dog fire, but couldn’t see her face from his place at her back.
Then the young man was at the car, leaning down to look in Keziah’s window. His glance took in Keziah and Father Stepan, skimmed across Justin, and settled on Mrs. Farris, who coolly pointed her gun at his face. Justin hadn’t see that coming and froze. Keziah raised one elegant eyebrow. Father Stepan let out a slow breath, but appeared willing to let Mrs. Farris take the lead.
The man was probably no more than five or six years old than Justin, but looked older, with the dark tan and broad shoulders and ropy muscles of someone who’d spent a lot of time working hard out of doors. Dirt was ground into his palms and around his fingernails, the way it got when someone had been working with his hands without wearing gloves. He held no obvious weapon, but he was had a cell phone clipped to his belt and, despite the gun pointed at him, he was grinning. It was not a very nice expression.
Keziah was staring at the young man—they all were, of course. But Justin could see nothing of the anger he would have expected in Keziah’s expression. If anything, Keziah looked faintly surprised. When Justin reached forward to touch her arm, she didn’t seem to notice, even when he gripped her wrist pretty hard.
“Hey, look at this!” the young man said to Mrs. Farris. “You found me. And you’ve brought friends! Including, yes, a black dog!” He seemed disturbingly happy about this, and not the least bit worried about standing well within Keziah’s reach. “Anna—can I call you Anna?—how did you find one of these? And a smokin’ hot babe, too. That was real clever of you.”
Keziah didn’t gut the punk, even then. Justin sat back, glancing from her to the bad guy. A witch, yeah, or something. He’d done something to Keziah, too fast for anybody to even realize he was doing it—maybe that stuff with turning in circles and the handful of dust. And none of them had even tried to stop him. When Justin figured this out, he would fix it. He’d find a way. And when Keziah tore this guy’s head off, he would cheer.
The young man didn’t seem worried about anybody tearing his head off. He said happily, “Listen, Anna, don’t threaten me, that wouldn’t be clever. That was one thing this morning, but you can’t shoot me now, you know. Just put the safety on before somebody gets hurt. Natalie Leushin, for example.” He took out his cell phone and flourished it dramatically. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure someone at the other end was probably listening.
Her expression stony, Mrs. Farris continued to point her gun at the young man’s face. “Young man, I believe it’s most likely Natalia is already dead. Unless you prove otherwise, shooting you would be only sensible.”
Justin held his breath. Everything had gotten so crazy so fast, but he thought Mrs. Farris was probably right not to let this guy have everything his own way. Except Justin was afraid of what might happen if she actually shot him.
The young man was still grinning. “No, no! Not yet,” he protested. “She’s fine. A little pissy, maybe. I bet she’ll last a lot longer now you’ve brought us a black dog for a pet, especially a black dog that’s already got a leash on it. Kristoff really wanted one and now he doesn’t have to catch his own. Yeah, you’ve been real helpful.” He thought he was just terribly funny, Justin could tell. That sly tone—he really did think he was in control, despite the gun pointed at him. Mrs. Farris didn’t impress him at all.
Justin said quickly, before anyone could do anything hasty, “You say you’ve got my grandmother, whoever the hell you are. I want to talk to her, or else as far as I’m concerned Mrs. Farris is right and she can just shoot you right now.”
“Oh, ho!” said the young man, really paying attention to Justin for first time. “Look at you, kid! You’re Natalie Leushin’s grandson, are you? That’s great! You can call me Crowley, how’s that?”
Father Stepan snorted, though the name meant nothing to Justin.
Crowley ignored the priest, concentrating on Justin. “What’s your name, kid? You a white witch like the old lady? You are, aren’t you?” He stared at Justin, disturbingly avaricious. “Well, how about that? Kristoff says white witches are always girls, but just look at you.”
If Justin had been holding the gun, he definitely would have been tempted to pull the trigger. “Why should it matter to you?” he asked, concentrating on keeping his voice even. “What do you and this Kristoff want with...white witches? What have you done with my grandmother? Listen, let me talk to her, or Mrs. Farris will shoot you.”
“Sure, she’ll try,” said Crowley, but he also said into the phone, “Put the old lady on. Come on, Kristoff. No, c’mon, listen, I’ve got this, but it’ll be easier if the kid talks to her.” He listened for a moment and then rolled his eyes. “I bet you can make her,” he said.
“Put her on!” Justin snapped, alarmed. “Nobody needs to make her do anything!”
Crowley laughed, but he held the phone out—tauntingly just out of reach.
Justin wouldn’t give this guy the satisfaction of reaching f
or it. He raised his voice. “Grandmama?”
“Justin?” said his grandmother’s voice barely audible. But it was clearly her. Justin clenched his teeth.
“There, you see? The old lady’s fine,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Come on out here, kid, and I’ll take you right to her, I promise.”
Staying in the car offered no protection at all. Especially with Keziah frozen in the driver’s seat. But Justin wasn’t at all sure getting out would improve anything. He stayed where he was.
“Black witches gain power by making a deal with the Devil,” Father Stepan said abruptly. “So it’s said. Is that true, young man? You can’t imagine it will work out well for you in the end. It never does.” He was studying Crowley, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t look intimidated. He looked like a guy who’d been in a tight spot once or twice before and knew all about how to get into and—more importantly—out of trouble. Justin was suddenly glad he was here, even if he couldn’t see any obvious way for Father Stepan to fix things.
“Well, lookie here, this other guy’s a priest!” Crowley exclaimed in evident delight, looking Father Stepan ostentatiously up and down. “Don’t you worry about us, Father—worry about yourself. Come on out here and I’ll introduce you to Kristoff. He’ll be real glad to meet you. Oh, this is perfect, it really is. Totally makes up for Anna being such a bitch this morning.” Stepping back, he beckoned to them all. “Come on. Come here.” And he added, directly to Keziah, “Come here, pet—and bring me that gun.”
Justin caught his breath, because Keziah twisted around with smooth speed and took the gun away from Mrs. Farris. Then, her face blank, she got out of the car and handed it to Crowley.
“Oh, yeah,” the young man said, grinning. He put the cell phone back on his belt, stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans and set his hands on his hips. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.” He gave Keziah a lazily admiring look and added to Justin, “You the one who got the leash on her? Damn, kid, good job. She is nice. Gotta admit, Kristoff was right about setting up a hook for black dogs. Worth the graveyard dust and burning the bones and all that shit. I gotta learn how to do that.”
Black Dog Short Stories II Page 17