“Justin,” muttered Natividad. “His name is Justin. And you need me, you know you do, especially if those Russian black dogs are going to be laying traps for you!”
“No,” Ezekiel and Alejandro said simultaneously, and glanced at one another, a fleeting glance that held, Natividad thought, wary approval on both sides. So that was something, at least; if all the guys in Natividad’s life were going to be infuriating, at least it could be a bonding experience for them. She rolled her eyes, but was pretty sure neither of them noticed.
“So,” said Ezekiel. He crossed the room and touched the back of one of Natividad’s hand mirrors with the tip of one finger. “We need another trouvez,” he told her. “That would be something that would help.”
Of course they did. Because the other one had been shot by a harpoon. Natividad might be exasperated with them both, but she could hardly refuse to make a trouvez just because she was mad. She could make a trouvez, and that would be useful: a guide and a light in the dark. Even if she wasn’t there, because she could pour light into it before she gave it to them. And she could put into it an image of the female black dog who had tried to carry her away. She rubbed her shoulder, remembering the pressure of those deadly jaws, the smell of sulfur and ash, the terror. Oh, yes, she could make a trouvez that would find that black dog again.
But a trouvez wouldn’t protect anyone from anything. That wasn’t what a trouvez was for. And she wouldn’t be there, to make something at the last minute. Anything she was going to make for them, she had to make it now and it had to last hours and hours without her touch . . . she shook her head, thinking about it. “I’ll make something else for you. A trouvez, sí, but also a telaraña mágica, a net that will hide you from enemies. Better than last time, more effective, less fragile. I can make one for each of you.”
“You can make something that will survive a black dog’s touch?” Ezekiel asked, not as though he disbelieved her, but impressed.
Natividad nodded absently. She blinked at the clutter of little objects on her dressing table. Little glass bottles and ribbons, her small collection of earrings and bracelets, a long hairbrush and a narrow comb. And the other kind of clutter: Mamá’s little flute, almost all Natividad had that had ever been hers; tiny mirrors and chips of glass; a single coin and three slender chains of almost pure silver; a folding knife that Miguel had given her, and a much more serious knife that Ezekiel had given her, of silver alloy, with a soft black leather sheath. You had better not ever go hunting black dogs again, he’d told her. But if you do, carry this. I’ll show you how to use it.
And he had. She hadn’t wanted to learn, but he’d insisted. Eventually, with some irony, he had let her use a weighted wooden knife because she couldn’t bring herself to risk cutting him with even a steel knife, much less the silver one, even though she knew perfectly well he wouldn’t let her hurt him. And she’d blooded the long silver knife for him and for Alejandro, and after a little thought, for Grayson as well, just in case, to make sure it couldn’t ever be turned against any of them. But mostly she thought of the knife as a piece of silver she might someday be able to use to make some aparato mágica. She did not yet know exactly what she meant to make, but it seemed to her an idea sometimes nudged the back of her mind when she looked at its sharp length. She thought of that again now, but a knife was not the right base for the sort of protective confuse-the-eye web she meant to make now. She set the knife aside and shuffled gently through rest of the clutter on her table.
The chips of glass caught her eye. And the ribbons. Though long strands of hair would do better than ribbons . . . she reached up to undo her braided hair and then picked up a pair of delicate scissors, not quite certain what kind of aparato she saw in her mind’s eye, except it was overlain with an intricate filigree of light and shadow.
She could make it, though, whatever it was. She could make something that would protect Alejandro and Ezekiel, that would hide them behind a tracery of light . . . behind a web of light and shadow, she could weave just a thread of shadow into it, so it wouldn’t fray into nothing when a black dog touched it . . . she turned again, reaching to trail the tip of one finger through Ezekiel’s dense shadow, reaching sort of sideways, the way one reached to touch light. His shadow burned against her skin, making her hiss between her teeth. She couldn’t hold it . . . a tracery of blood, though: hers and his, Pure and black dog . . . blood would let her draw the shadow. She found the silver knife in her burned hand, and gathered a small pool of silvery moonlight in her other palm.
It was nothing Mamá had taught her. Nothing, at least, that she exactly remembered Mamá teaching her. Shadow and light and blood, a kind of magic that was Pure, but shot through with slivers of shadow. A kind of magic she sort of half knew, in a sideways kind of way. She said to Ezekiel, distractedly, “No te muevas,” and nicked the translucent skin of his wrist with the tip of the knife. It seemed to her that light welled up, from the knife or the blood or from the magic itself. And she fell into the light and then into the dark and finally into the light again, flickering, gone.
-5-
Even after Natividad and Miguel left him alone in the room where he was supposed to stay, Justin was too tired to sleep. Or too scared, way down deep, where fear could be almost be shoved out of sight and ignored. Except it was never completely out of sight. It was like . . . like a summer dust storm. The dust got into everything, coated everything, clung to your skin, choked your throat until you couldn’t breathe, blew into your eyes so you couldn’t see. It was like that.
Or maybe that was grief. He was too tired to tell. It had all tangled together, all the fear and anger and grief of the past night, and the past weeks, until he hardly knew where he was. His throat hurt. His eyes hurt, gritty as though a storm had driven dust into his face. He shut his eyes, breathing carefully, trying to shove it all back down.
Thought it was probably only a few minutes, it seemed to take a long time before he could open his eyes again. They still hurt. He was so tired. It was so hard to believe that anything in this night had actually happened. Except he was here. In this strange house, in this unfamiliar room, surrounded by magic and monsters.
The room was all serene earth tones, everything brown and tan, fawn and cream. Desert colors. There was one bowl of wavery blue glass on an otherwise empty coffee table, two point nine inches from the edge of the table, like a splash of water in the desert. It was all so peaceful. He resented it, with a ferocity that shook him. He wanted to break that bowl and grind the slivers of glass into the carpet. He wanted to stamp on the coffee table and heave over the couch and tear up the comforter on the bed.
He wanted to go home.
But home was gone. He was caught by an image of himself going back there, to his mother’s house, just walking down the street and up the stairs and opening the door and stepping into the kitchen—the empty kitchen—he flinched sharply away from the picture.
He couldn’t possibly go back. Even if he got out of this room and out of this house and out of Vermont. Even then, he couldn’t go home. His home was buried in the past. So . . . if he had no idea about forward, maybe staying here was . . . at least tolerable. For a while. Despite the werewolves.
Justin shoved his hands into his pockets and slid down to sit on the floor, bowed forward around himself.
Magic. He was supposed to be able to do magic. He was supposed to be able to bring peace into a room, into a house. Peace. That was almost funny. Except it really wasn’t funny at all.
But he drew a star on the carpet with his fingertip anyway, and hoped for some kind of peace.
The star glowed. He thought it did. Unless he was imagining it. But either the star or just thinking about the star . . . seemed to sort of fold the grief back, a little, like someone folding back a heavy curtain. It was still there. But . . . maybe not quite so all-enveloping.
Magic.
Though apparently you got monsters along with magic. That might not be such a good deal. He couldn
’t really imagine just cutting himself off from his real life and staying here in this house among werewolves. Put like that, it sounded insane. Never mind that cutting himself off from his real life was exactly what he’d set out to do.
It seemed impossible that this was still the same night that had started with Justin accepting an offer of supper from a friendly priest who happened to keep an eye out for people in trouble.
He wondered whether the werewolves really would leave Father Mark alone. Natividad had said they would. Now, alone in this unfamiliar room in this unfamiliar house, in this strange, cold country that was nothing he knew, without Natividad’s cheerful presence . . . he didn’t know. Ezekiel had offered so readily to go back and kill Father Mark. And Grayson Lanning had so casually talked about bringing another werewolf here, killing him if he didn’t toe their line. They were monsters. Who know what they would do?
He should get up. Try the door, see if it was really unlocked, as Natividad had promised. If locks even mattered, with miles of chilly woods between himself and human civilization. Probably that whole town they’d driven through belonged to Dimilioc. Like one of those company towns, way back when robber barons had owned everything.
Anyway, even if he’d been able to leave, he was supposed to be too scared of bad werewolves to set foot out in the world without a good werewolf to protect him. He had that much clear, at least. Because he was Pure, and the bad werewolves hunted the Pure.
Though all Dimilioc’s Pure women had apparently been killed in that brutal half-hidden war between vampires and black dogs. He had that clear, too. Dimilioc was supposed to protect the Pure, but they sure hadn’t done a very good job. He wasn’t supposed to notice that, or at least he wasn’t supposed to think about what it meant for him.
It was ridiculous. It was stupid.
He was scared, though. They’d achieved that much: they’d meant to scare him, and they had damn well succeeded. Or the memory of those vicious monsters in the rectory kitchen scared him. He didn’t know what he should do. But he didn’t even know what he wanted to do. Because they’d wanted to get him interested in this stuff about magic, and they had succeeded at that, too.
Justin scrubbed his hands across his face, hard. He couldn’t think. He wasn’t sure he could move. This couch and a couple of chairs separated the living room area from the bedroom part. The bed seemed . . . a long way away. Maybe he would just pry himself off the floor and sit on the couch. It was a pretty big couch. He could probably lie full-length on it.
Or he could just fold over sideways and lie right here on the floor. That was tempting. He wasn’t sure he would be able to get up if he tried.
He lifted his right hand, looked at it. It looked perfectly ordinary. The same hand he used to write, to catch a ball, to wave to a friend, to thumb a ride. To draw a star that glowed and spilled a slow ripple of peace into the air. If he left, if he found a way to leave this house and walked away from the werewolves and from Natividad, would he ever have another chance to learn magic? Did he want to learn magic? Even Natividad’s peaceful, nice kind of magic? He doubted it was actually rainbows and unicorns all the way down.
If he didn’t get away, what would happen to him? He had been in this house only a few hours, but already it seemed like much, much longer; as though he’d suffered a sharp disconnect from his old life when he first stepped into this house and was now separated from it by unbreachable walls of time and distance. As though he’d somehow become a different person.
Maybe that was just because he was so tired.
He thought of his Grandmother Leushin. His only family, now. He had not been able to bear the thought of staying with her before; Roswell had not been far enough from Los Alamos. He hadn’t been able to bear the desert, where memories were burned right into the gritty earth. But maybe he could go to her now. Maybe for a visit, at least. Despite the note he’d left, she must be wondering where he’d gone, how he was. Besides, maybe she knew something about his mother, something she hadn’t ever—
The door to his room jerked abruptly open, and a cold, beautiful voice declared, “You are nothing to me.”
It was Keziah, of course; Keziah and her sharp-edged obsidian shadow. He hadn’t heard her at all. If she’d made a sound, if she’d called out or rapped on the door, he’d been too out of it to hear her.
Justin had flinched sharply when the door had opened, as much from surprise as alarm or anger. But, as adrenalin flushed through him, driving away the exhaustion, he found both anger and fear flooded up readily from the place he’d tried to bury them. Getting quickly to his feet, he gripped the back of the couch with both hands, partly to brace himself against a sudden sharp urge to back away and partly to stop himself from picking up the nearest handy object to hurl at Keziah. There was a lamp on an end table that would have done fine. It looked like it might be an antique, though. Probably it wouldn’t be a good idea to throw it at her, even if she wasn’t a werewolf. Even if she deserved it. He said with some heat, “What the hell? Don’t you people knock?”
Keziah gave him a haughty look. “It is too late in the night to pound loudly on anyone’s door. If you did not want anybody to come in, you should have locked your door.”
“Somehow it didn’t occur to me that people would just barge in in the middle of the damn night. What the hell? Doesn’t anyone in this house sleep at night? I thought it was vampires that burned up in sunlight!”
Keziah smiled. It was not a friendly expression. She leaned in his doorway, long and languid, but there was nothing languid in her slanted eyes. They were brilliant with anger. Her shimmering earrings dripped with tiny emeralds, each swinging with its own tiny sinusoidal motion as she moved her head, emphasizing her long, graceful neck.
“Did you hear me?” she demanded. “I said, you are nothing to me. I don’t want you.”
“Believe me, that’s just fine,” Justin assured her, with considerable emphasis. Although Keziah was amazing, in a terrifying way. She looked like a goddess, but the kind of goddess that struck men dead for looking at her. He couldn’t seem to look away.
Her eyes narrowed scornfully. “A Pure boy!” she said. “Who ever heard of Pure boys?”
She drifted a step closer, through the door, tilting her head in scorn—but coming in, not going away. Justin didn’t have a clue what the hell she meant with those mixed signals. Again, he had to stop himself from taking a step back. She came closer still, putting Justin irresistibly in mind of a stalking cat. It was getting harder not to back up. Maybe standing his ground was a really, really stupid kind of pride. Maybe he should forget all about pride and scream for Natividad to come rescue him from the scary girl werewolf.
But, staring into Keziah’s beautiful face, he knew he wasn’t going to yell for help. Certainly not for another girl to come rescue him.
Everyone had known how Keziah was going to react to him. He could almost hear Ezekiel’s amused drawl when he said to Ethan: Aren’t you looking forward to introducing him to Keziah? And then Miguel, saying to Natividad with friendly malice, Think of him and Keziah!
Given all that, Justin couldn’t help but think of himself with Keziah. Like breeding dogs, he had accused. He had been angry. Outraged. The outrage quotient dropped a little, now that he actually had a chance to look at her. She was terrifying, though. She sure didn’t have to tell him how outclassed he was. He got that all by himself.
Keziah didn’t look like a werewolf. Or she did, in a way. That distinctive sharp-angled, razor-edged darkness surrounded her. But he couldn’t imagine her turning into a monster. Into a lioness, maybe. He could have believed that of her. He half expected her to snarl at him and melt into a great cat. To tear out his throat and slouch away into the Arabian desert.
She didn’t change into either a lioness or a monster. She didn’t tear out his throat. She didn’t even touch him. She stared disdainfully at him from hardly an arm’s-length away and said, “Dimilioc breeds the Pure to their black dogs. Has anyone told yo
u that yet?”
Justin didn’t let himself flinch. He met her eyes. She had beautiful eyes. Not black, as he would have expected. Dark, but neither black nor exactly brown. Sort of a tawny color. Almost translucent, like dark-bronze honey. He said, hearing the tightness in his own voice, “I’ve sort of gathered that. Since you’re not interested, though, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Her lip curled. “Grayson Lanning will not ask me whether I am interested. But I will not permit anyone to decide for me.”
Justin met her dark-honey eyes. “Yeah, me, either. Grayson Lanning can go take a flying leap if he thinks otherwise.”
Keziah stared at him. Then she laughed. She had a beautiful laugh, but there was no trace of kindness in it. “So innocent!” she said. “Do you think you need to protect me? You are nothing to me, Pure boy, but perhaps you amuse me a little.” Reaching out, she gripped Justin deliberately by the throat, staring into his eyes from that scant distance.
This was not exactly the response Justin had expected. He flinched, feeling claws prick against his skin. It was almost impossible not to try to jerk away, but he was completely certain it would be the wrong thing to do.
Keziah’s hand tightened, forcing his head back. She said softly, “Perhaps after all it would amuse me to take you for a night or two. Perhaps I would like that.”
Justin could smell her perfume: something wild and resinous. He thought he could feel heat radiating from her, as from an open fire—not sexual heat, but the kind that burned. The kind that could explode outward and turn homes and towns and whole forests to charred ruins and blowing ash. Her eyes had gone a paler gold now, more fire than honey. A color that could burn. He said tightly, “Let go of me.”
Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3) Page 11
