She didn’t open her hand even a millimeter. “Innocent boy,” she said softly. “Don’t you know better than to expect kindness from a black dog?”
Would it be cowardice to scream for Natividad to rescue him from a beautiful girl werewolf? Justin was starting to think it might be just good sense. He met Keziah’s eyes and said softly, “I thought Dimilioc black dogs protected the Pure.”
Keziah did not respond to this at once. But gradually the fire in her eyes ebbed. After a little longer, one graceful, narrow eyebrow lifted. She opened her hand, letting him go, though she did not step back. “Of course,” she said, in a tone that might have been meant to be mocking but in which Justin heard mostly bitterness. “We all know the Pure deserve protection.”
That was . . . fraught. Who failed to protect you? Justin wanted to ask. She had laughed at the idea that he could protect her. He thought now that maybe that had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with someone else, someone in her past. Someone who had hurt her, someone who had failed her, maybe both. Whomever that might have been, Justin was willing to bet the man was dead, and that it hadn’t been any vampire who killed him.
He stiffened his jaw against asking any dangerous questions, and only looked into Keziah’s eyes. They were very nearly human eyes, set in a very nearly human face. He thought again of a tawny lioness pacing across the desert under the burning sun. With great pyramids rising up behind her, stark tetrahedrons against the endless sky. The vision dizzied him. He kept seeing the lioness superimposed over the girl. He was scared and angry, and yet he also wanted to touch her cheek, see if her skin was as silken-soft as it looked. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible to feel all those things all at once. He did not dare move.
“Look down,” she ordered him then. “Stop looking at me. Look down, fool.” Her tone was tight with a new kind of strain that he didn’t understand.
Justin blinked. It sounded ridiculous, like advice for dealing with a Rottweiler, not a person. But he thought she meant exactly what she said. He looked down, cooperatively, and actually felt Keziah’s anger ease a little, like banking a fire.
She stepped back at last, opening and closing her hands. “You Pure!” snarled Keziah, glaring. “I will not be sent to one bed or another on Grayson Lanning’s whim!”
“Neither will I,” Justin assured her, a weird kind of terrified regret mixing with the relief that she seemed amenable to reason after all. He tried not to look her in the face. It was difficult. She was stunning. Amazing. He could hardly believe a girl like her actually existed. But he said as firmly as he could, “I promise you, no way. So that’s fine.”
She gave him one long incredulous look, whipped around, and stalked out. Since her back was turned, Justin risked watching her walk away. She had a lithe stride, like a lioness, amazingly sexy.
The door didn’t burst into flame when she slammed it behind her, which Justin found astonishing. It was amazing how much colder and darker the room seemed, once she was gone. And how much more air suddenly seemed available. And how strongly he felt a possibly suicidal urge to go after her.
After a moment to recover, he went to find Grayson Lanning instead.
The Master of Dimilioc was still working when Justin found him, even though it had to be very late, or rather very early, by the time he located the Master’s office. Justin, caught up in the lingering rush of adrenalin from Keziah’s visit, had already retraced his way back to the kitchens and from there made his way nearly all the way back to that office before it occurred to him that it was still the middle of the night. Or actually way past the middle. By then he was close enough to see light pouring out through the open door and hear the rustle of papers and the thump of something heavy being set down.
Even with the sounds of movement and the light, Justin hesitated. Grayson Lanning. The Master of the werewolves. That’s what they called him, the Master. Not someone to interrupt lightly.
There was a second muffled thump, followed by the distinctive sound of someone big leaning back in a chair, and the Master’s voice said, “Yes, Justin?”
Werewolves apparently had very good hearing. Justin took a deep breath and walked forward. He stopped in the doorway, not quite sure whether he should go in. “Sir,” he said, because he definitely wasn’t going to say Master but didn’t have the nerve to try calling Grayson Lanning by his name. The Master, leaning back in his heavy chair, his desk covered with neat stacks of paper and one leather-bound book, with a pen still in one broad hand, still looked to Justin very much like the principal at a tough, elite high school. ‘Sir’ seemed like a good compromise.
The Master frowned. “Justin. You are upset. What has upset you? Have you—” He cut that off and sighed. Then he said, a trace of weariness coming into his voice, “Ah. You have met Keziah, I surmise. I shall speak to her.”
Justin hadn’t forgotten how deep and harsh the Master’s voice was. But that weary edge to his voice . . . somehow Justin hadn’t expected that, from the Master of Dimilioc. Though maybe he should have, since Grayson Lanning was clearly pulling an all-nighter. Was that Ezekiel’s television appearance, or that half-explained thing in Boston, or some other crisis? Justin immediately felt just a little guilty, adding to the problems of a man who plainly had enough problems already. He said, “We were going to meet eventually, right? Anyway, she didn’t scare me.” He wasn’t sure even sure whether this last was a complete bald-faced lie. Keziah had scared him. But he wasn’t sure he’d want her ordered to stay away from him, either.
The Master’s frown deepened. “Indeed? Well, sit down.”
Justin sat down immediately, in the nearest chair. It only occurred to him afterward that he might have defied this order just to see what Grayson Lanning would do, and then it was too late. He felt a visceral awareness that ran through his blood and bones that defying the Master of Dimilioc would be very, very dangerous. But everyone kept insisting that none of the werewolves were dangerous to him. But then there was Keziah.
“Well?” said the Master. “So Keziah did not frighten you? And yet you came to find me, despite the hour.”
Justin cleared his throat. It was still hard for him to believe in black dogs. But it was easy to believe that Grayson Lanning was someone to be wary of. He said carefully, “Keziah thinks she’s going to be ordered to, um.” He had meant to be totally neutral about this, but it turned out that keeping a calm tone was harder in real life than in imagination. He knew he was flushing. He tried to keep his voice steady and wasn’t sure he managed it. He went on, “To, um, get involved with me. She doesn’t want to. I won’t do that to her. To anyone. Get involved with them, I mean, just because somebody else wants it. Just to have that clear. So if that’s what you have in mind, it’s just not right.” He really was blushing. He could feel the heat rise up his face. Grayson was not exactly smiling, but there was a little crinkle around his eyes that was like a smile. Justin glared at him.
The Master tapped his fingers slowly on the edge of his desk for a moment. “It is not the Dimilioc custom to compel the Pure in such matters,” he said eventually. “Occasional attempts to do so in the past have resulted in . . . various undesirable consequences. However. You may not be aware that a black dog woman often has difficulty bearing long-lived children. The shadows of such children frequently overwhelm them while they are still . . . very young. It is a tragedy of our kind. But given a Pure partner, a black dog can always bear children that will live. Keziah can hardly be unaware of the . . . possibilities you represent.”
Justin knew he was still flushed. He said shortly, refusing to drop his gaze, “And yet she made it clear she’s not interested.”
Grayson picked up his pen and turned it over in his fingers, once and then again. Then he set it down, gently, so that it was exactly parallel with the nearest stack of papers. “No doubt she asserts she is not. I am not certain Keziah is entirely clear about she wants, just now. It’s always difficult to adjust to a dramatic change in one’s
circumstances.” The Master gave Justin an acute look. “Perhaps you are aware that Natividad is expected eventually to take a black dog lover.”
Justin immediately thought of Natividad, and Ezekiel. He shifted uncomfortably, frowning at the Master. “That’s—”
“She came here to Dimilioc with that exact understanding, of course.” Grayson disregarded Justin’s interruption. “Once, Dimilioc would not have considered constraining the choices of the Pure in that way. But this is a difficult age, and it seems essential to ensure that the Pure do not waste their bloodlines on ordinary humans. However, your case is not the same. I understand quite well that you, raised among ordinary human people, have no intimate understanding of black dog necessities. I assure you, I have no intention of compelling your choice. I most particularly have no intention of compelling Keziah’s choice; her commitment to Dimilioc remains as yet too tenuous. You have no need for concern.”
“Well—” said Justin, but then did not know what to say. He said lamely, “Well, then. Fine, then. I mean . . . good.”
Grayson waited a moment, then said gravely, “There is certainly no need for hasty decisions on any such matter. Let us allow a year or so to pass and see what time brings for us all, shall we? In the meantime, it is certainly not necessary for Keziah to trouble you. I shall speak to her.”
“Well,” said Justin again, and paused. A year or so. The Dimilioc Master seemed very sure Justin was going to be staying that long. He said, “Just so long as we’re clear that if anybody does give me an order like that, I’m out of here.” He’d meant this to sound flat and determined, but wasn’t sure he pulled it off.
Grayson only said mildly, “Your concern does you credit. As it happens, I doubt anyone is going to have the leisure to contemplate such matters for some little while. We have other priorities at this moment.” Tenting his hands, he gazed at Justin over his fingertips, in what Justin was already beginning to consider a habitual gesture. He looked very autocratic when he did that, which was probably not a coincidence. “And how do you find yourself, in other respects? Perhaps it’s as well we have this chance to talk. I wish for you to feel yourself at home here, though . . . I am aware this will take time.” He gave Justin a searching look and went on, “This is in fact your home. You have lost your family, and I am sorry for it, but Dimilioc offers refuge and a home to all the Pure. Certainly to you. I hope you will soon come to feel that this is true.”
Justin found himself speechless.
Grayson inclined his head slightly. “I hope that you also find some interest in discovering your unknown blood and your potential for magic. It is part of you, that potential. As well as—”
The phone rang, cutting the Master off in the middle of his sentence. Justin flinched at the unexpected sound. Even the Master blinked. He lifted the phone off its wall-mounted charger behind his chair and said, curt but not in an obvious temper, “Yes?” Then, his tone suddenly underlain with a deep growl, “Natividad? Just now?”
Justin straightened, his attention caught.
“Yes,” said the Master. And, after enough time for Justin to really start to worry, “Yes,” again. And then, his tone grim, “Indeed. Momentarily.” He set the phone down on his desk, rising to his feet in the same motion. The chair creaked, though the Master moved fluidly for a man his size.
“Natividad?” Justin asked, scrambling up as well. “She’s—?” he stopped, not knowing what he wanted to ask, unable to guess what could possibly have happened to the girl in the brief time since she’d showed him where he was supposed to stay and gone—he’d thought—to bed.
“She has collapsed,” the Master said tersely, gesturing for Justin to come with him.
Justin missed a step.
The Master didn’t pause, but did spare him a glance. “Natividad does have a way of working with magic that is somewhat beyond the edge of what we understand. I gather Ezekiel asked her to make something that might afford his team some useful advantage upon their return to Boston. Of course Natividad immediately attempted to create something new and unusual.”
“But—” said Justin.
“I am certain she is perfectly well,” said the Master, and swept Justin around one last turn of the stairway, down a short hallway, and into Natividad’s own room, directly across from Justin’s. It was an airy pink room that stopped just short of having unicorn wallpaper and did boast a large four-poster bed with curtains of pink gauze. The curtains, drawn back now, showed Natividad lying on the bed, looking very small and young in a soft pink robe. Ezekiel, kneeling on the floor beside the bed, looked intense and worried and furious. He was holding a small mirror in one hand. Alejandro stood nearby, and Miguel had actually crawled up on the bed next to his sister. Both of Natividad’s brothers looked just as worried and almost as angry as Ezekiel.
Ezekiel glanced up as Grayson entered the room. “She’s breathing,” he said sharply. “But not so that one could be certain without a mirror. Her heartbeat is steady, but too quick.”
The Master strode forward and made his own examination, touching fingertips to Natividad’s cheek and then to her throat. Justin couldn’t tell precisely what he was checking, but he couldn’t help but notice the concern, almost tenderness, with which he touched her.
The Master straightened. “What precisely did she do?”
Alejandro took one step forward and silently proffered something that lay across both his hands. Justin blinked and looked, then looked again. It was hard to see, like a handful of shadows and glitter; it seemed to shift in and out of visibility as Justin stared at it. He had no idea what it was. But the Master said, “I see. I believe I see.” And then, “Yes, I think you had better be the one to hold onto those, Alejandro.”
“She used my blood to make them,” Ezekiel snapped.
“Did she?” The Master did not sound impressed. “Then perhaps we may hope that you as well as Alejandro will find them useful in dealing with our enemies in Boston.”
“I won’t leave—” began Ezekiel.
“I do wonder,” said the Master forcefully, “Why it is that no one seems able to simply go to bed and stop generating crises for even one night.” He glanced around at them all. Not even Ezekiel had the temerity to interrupt. The Master added, “You may all consider that an order.”
“But—” began Alejandro and Ezekiel, simultaneously.
“Bed,” growled the Master, cutting them both off. “I do not want to see either of you before noon tomorrow. You will leave for Boston tomorrow at dusk and you will be rested when you go.” He gave both young men a hard look and added, “I shall watch over Natividad until I am certain she has recovered. I assure you, I am quite equal to the task. I expect you to both attend to your own duty. You both know perfectly well, or you should, that she will indeed recover. Her magic may be unusual, but, Ezekiel, you, at least, have certainly once or twice seen a Pure woman who has overstrained her strength.”
“Yes,” muttered Ezekiel. “Well . . . yes.”
Alejandro did not look reconciled, but Miguel said tentatively, looking from one of them to the other, “I’m not going to Boston. I can stay with her. Too.”
The Master gave him a narrow glance and a curt nod. “If you wish.”
“Yes,” Alejandro said, agreeing with plain reluctance. “I . . . that would be well. Yes. She should have a brother to watch over her.”
“I’m gratified you find this solution acceptable,” said the Master, with considerable irony. “Go to bed. Now.”
Natividad’s black dog brother flushed, and bowed his head. He touched his sister’s hair, but then retreated, if reluctantly, toward the room that Justin assumed must be his own.
The Master glanced at Ezekiel, who finally lowered his head as well, and got to his feet. He started to speak, hesitated, shrugged, and said, “I know you’ll take care of her.”
“Of course,” said the Master.
“Of course,” Ezekiel repeated. He gave a very small bow and went out.
Justin, who had been watching all this with fascination, found the Master’s heavy gaze suddenly on him, and cleared his throat. “Bed. Right. I’ll just . . . “ he made a little gesture toward the door, and by implication his room. “I just go on to bed, then.”
“Excellent,” said the Master, gravely. “I am quite certain no one will disturb you.”
Justin was very certain of that, too, with the Master of Dimilioc holding his own private vigil right here across the hall.
He would probably dream of magic, though. Pyramids and lionesses, but also Natividad’s still face and shallow breaths, her slender brown hands so small against the pink of her robe and the bedcovers. This was a feature of magic he would have been happier not seeing. But maybe a feature he had needed to see. Because he sure couldn’t remember anyone warning him that overstraining your magic could make this happen. Or could even lead to—he couldn’t possibly have mistaken the depth of everyone’s worry—even worse things.
Magic and monsters. Both dangerous, maybe even deadly. That was something to give you not just dreams, but nightmares.
-6-
It was morning. Silvery light tinged with apricot brightened Natividad’s window. The pink muslin curtains around her bed had been pulled back to the bedposts, so the light lay across her face and arms. She blinked into the light, puzzled for no reason she could name, feeling dreamy and slow and sort of heavy. She was lying on her back, her shoulders propped up against her pillows, the pink coverlet drawn up to her chin. The dawn light ran across her skin like water. She blinked at it, not quite sure yet whether she was awake or asleep. The light felt warm and soft. She could cup her hand, like this, and gather the thin sunlight of the early morning in her palm . . .
“Enough,” Grayson said beside her. Natividad turned her head.
He had drawn a chair up near her bed. He had been sitting there patiently, watching over her while she slept. That seemed strange. Grayson was always so busy. Why would he take hours out of his night just to watch her sleep? Though . . . his presence made her feel safe. But she hadn’t felt in danger. Had she? She frowned, trying to remember the previous night. Justin . . . Miguel . . . something about Alejandro, and Ezekiel, but she couldn’t quite sort out what was real memory from what was confused half-remembered dreams. She felt very tired and a little stiff, as though she had worked too hard at something physical. Her left hand hurt, the skin tender as though she had scalded herself. She didn’t remember that, either, and frowned again, puzzled, lifting her hand. Her palm and fingers were reddened. The pale sunlight seemed hot where it lay across that hand, here in this country where the sunlight never held much heat.
Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3) Page 12
