Valentin Kologrivov stepped forward to stand at the woman’s right hand, and several of her other strong black wolves come forward to support her on the other side. Alejandro tensed, aware that Grayson could not possibly face all these old Russian wolves alone. And there were the younger ones, closing in from all sides, not only half a dozen more black dogs, but also the human men, all of them armed with silver bullets in their guns, two of them with those other weapons, the harpoon guns. Alejandro wanted to close his eyes. He could not bear to see Grayson Lanning humbled by Dimilioc’s enemies, but he could not look away.
“Jesus Christ in a fucking Cadillac,” Ethan muttered.
On the last word, the car’s trunk exploded open and two men in black body armor stood up, beginning to shoot before they even aimed. Grayson had already flung himself violently down and to the side, but the Russian wolves, taken completely by surprise, were slower to react. Alejandro stared, utterly shocked, as two and then another fell and the others at last scrambled for cover behind crates and canisters.
Then a thin little voice hissed beside him, “No key! Hold still!”
It was Amira, who had appeared out of nowhere. Alejandro had had no idea she could slip around unseen as her sister could, but here she was, directly beside him, her small face tense with fear and concentration and fury. She held a powerful metal-cutter in hands that were not quite human; her fingers had shortened and thickened and she gripped the tool with jet-black claws.
Alejandro, recovering from the first shock of Amira’s appearance, held out his hands and said urgently, “Thaddeus? James? Ezekiel?” He peered past her, looking desperately for the other Dimilioc wolves, but everything was a confusion of violence and noise, everyone had scattered now to the dubious shelter of crates and canisters and loaders and the expensive bulk of the Cadillac. He could not tell who might be winning.
He really wanted Amira to say yes, Ezekiel was here, Natividad and everyone had already safely returned to Dimilioc and everyone had come here with Grayson to tear down these arrogant Russian black dogs. But he already knew that could not be true, because if it were, his sister would not be somewhere far away, terrified. And Amira would not be here, crouched low, at risk every moment from a stray shot. No. Keziah would have come to free him and Ethan, and Amira would be—here, yes, maybe she would be here, but not in such an exposed position.
If Amira got shot getting Alejandro and Ethan loose, Alejandro knew they would never be able to make it right with Keziah. If she got shot, probably either Keziah would kill him and Ethan, or they would have to kill her.
Grayson was never going to forgive either of them for getting caught, but if Amira got killed and everything went to pure mierda, he was really never going to forgive them.
Alejandro wrenched his hands apart as the silver chain gave at last. The cuffs themselves were still closed tight around each wrist, impossible to remove. He could not bring his shadow up, he was crippled and weak, but at least he was no longer chained to the floor like a dog, to be shot or torn apart by whoever got to him first. He fell to his knees by Ethan, snatched the cutters from Amira, and jerked his head at her urgently, Get out of here. He really meant Get to safety, but she gave him a snarl of gratified rage and flung herself away toward the battle. Alejandro swore violently in Spanish and English, ending with a furious, “Will you be still?” to Ethan. He only saw then that Ethan had in fact been struck by a stray bullet. His teeth were gritted with pain and he gripped his left side hard with his right hand. The blood leaking between his fingers was bright red because, bound with silver, he could not call up his black dog shadow to carry away the injury.
Then Alejandro remembered that the bullet had undoubtedly been silver, too. Even if Ethan had been able to shift, the cambio de cuerpo could not have healed all the damage.
Alejandro worked as quickly as he could to get Ethan free and then to get him away to the side, behind the heavy bulk of a loader. He would have picked him up and run, but was afraid to make so big a target of their combined bodies. He stayed low, half pushing and half carrying Ethan, with no idea who was winning the larger battle—he could not look, there was no time to look, he had no idea what had happened to Grayson or Amira, or if Thaddeus was here at all. Silver flashed and flickered, brilliant and deadly, at the edges of his awareness. Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming. Someone else was shouting. Alejandro could not understand the words, but did not know whether that was because the man was shouting in Russian or because he himself had lost the ability to understand human language.
Then something struck him across the back, hot and quick as the blow of a whip, and he sprawled, dropping Ethan. He was aware of pain at first, then a spreading cold. Ethan cursed, grabbing at him, dragging both of them sideways, for the scant cover of a stack of crates. Alejandro tried to shift, to let his shadow carry away whatever injury he’d taken, but of course the silver cuffs were still around his wrists and he could not. The pain was hot and cold at once, worsening every moment because of the silver in the wound. The cuffs around his wrists seemed to burn brighter and colder also, though he might have imagined that. He tried to turn his head, to see whether a silver-tipped harpoon stood in his back, but he could not turn his head so far, even without Ethan pulling at him.
Shouting echoed, and the racketing sound of someone running up the metal stairs. They had not yet made it to cover. Gunfire echoed—Alejandro was sure they would both be shot again—then a sudden, shocking silence fell. He blinked, and blinked again, trying to clear his vision of both fury and pain.
Bodies were sprawled across the warehouse floor, black dog and human, all appearing equally human in the ruin of death. Several lay clustered together, dead in the first moment of battle, hardy a step from where they had been when Grayson had sprung his trap. Another of the Russians lay half across a crate, a harpoon gun abandoned near his limp hand. But the body near the Cadillac, that was surely one of the men Grayson had brought in; and there was another body near the open door.
He did not see either Zinaida or Valentin. But two of the human Russians were kneeling on the concrete floor of the warehouse, their fingers laced on top of their heads, with other men pointing guns at them. Those men wore black body armor, each with the American eagle badge on his shoulder, and Alejandro recognized them at last as American special forces—the unit formed during the past few years specifically to deal with all the creatures of the fell dark.
Alejandro had known that Grayson Lanning had allied with the American special forces during the last year of the war, feeding them information so that they could destroy the vampires Dimilioc could not reach. He had known that. But he had not even begun to guess that Grayson might call on them for something like this.
Then he saw that three of the special forces men were pointing their weapons at Grayson instead of at the Russians, and realized that this was not exactly an alliance after all. Or not any simple kind of alliance.
The Master of Dimilioc was standing very still. He was not kneeling, and he did not have his hands on the top of his head. He looked perfectly calm. He was not looking at the men who were pointing guns at him. He was looking past them, at another man, a black man, an ordinary human, but with uncommon confidence for a man surrounded by furious black dogs. The man was elegant, in a suit rather than body armor, with intelligent eyes set deep beneath iron-gray brows.
The black man met Grayson’s eyes without flinching. He walked forward, stepped fastidiously over a rivulet of blood, glanced around the warehouse, and shook his head minutely. “A waste,” he said. Though he was not a big man, his voice was smooth and deep. He looked around again, his attention lingering on spatters of smoking ichor that had not yet burned entirely away, and on the cluster of dead black dogs who had not managed to move even a step before his people had gunned them down, and at last on Alejandro and Ethan, injured and vulnerable. Alejandro did not ordinarily care what ordinary humans thought, but he found himself flinching from this man’s gaze.
/> Then the man turned his attention back to Grayson. “A waste,” he repeated. “Don’t compound it. Your young people are injured. I give you my word I will see their injuries treated. They won’t be harmed. You know you haven’t a chance of getting them clear now. I propose a policy of cooperation.”
“Colonel,” said Grayson, and looked past him, at the door.
The man raised his eyebrows, and turned. Alejandro looked also, and grinned with fierce satisfaction despite the radiating pain in his back.
Thaddeus stood in the wide doorway of the warehouse, in the half-shifted form he alone could hold for as long as he chose. Huge even in his fully human shape, the largest black dog Alejandro had ever seen in that form, in this in-between shape he seemed to take up the entire truck-wide doorway. He took one step forward, muscles rolling beneath his dense pelt. His face, short-muzzled and narrow-eyed, looked like nothing that had ever been human. Black lips were drawn back in a grin or a snarl; jet-black fangs gleamed like obsidian in his jaw. In one clawed hand, he held a knife nearly large enough to be a sword. His other hand was wrapped entirely around the neck of a special forces man. The man stood pale and very still beneath that grip, not looking at anyone and most especially not looking at his commanding officer.
Several of the special forces men shifted their aim to Thaddeus, but the colonel put up a hand and everyone stopped. Thaddeus grinned more widely. Or maybe that really was a snarl. It definitely showed a lot of teeth. If it bothered him at all to have a lot of guns pointed at his face, Alejandro couldn’t tell.
“Colonel Herrod,” Grayson said in a level voice, “Even a head shot won’t be quick enough to save your man. Even if the bullet is silver. You know you haven’t the faintest chance of getting your man back alive. Unless I let you have him. I propose a simple trade. I will take my young men and go, and yours will be released the moment we are clear. I give you my word that he will not be harmed in any way.”
The colonel’s expression did not change. “Two of your people for one of mine hardly seems a fair trade to me.”
Grayson inclined his head. “It’s the offer on the table. In your place, I would trade. But perhaps I value my people more than you value yours.”
Colonel Herrod’s mouth crooked in reluctant appreciation. He gave a small nod.
“Also, you should know that several of my wolves are still outside. If they hear shooting now, they won’t hesitate. You don’t want this battle. Not between your people and mine. I am certain you agree that, at the moment, we both have more urgent matters to which we should attend.”
There was a pause. Then Colonel Herrod shrugged. “True. Very well. Another day, then,” he said, and signaled. All the guns lifted, not quite in unison, to point at the ceiling. The man Thaddeus was holding let out a breath. Thaddeus only grinned more widely. Unless that was a snarl. His fangs glinted.
Grayson turned his head to inspect Alejandro and Ethan. Alejandro bowed his head, flushing. He knew what they must look like: injured and bloody, still bound with silver so they could not shift. Helpless. Patético.
“Can you get up?” Grayson asked, his tone completely neutral.
“If I have to,” Ethan said, his voice gritty with pain, and Alejandro answered at the same time, “Sí, yes, I think so,” though he was not sure.
“Take your time,” said Colonel Herrod. “No need to rush.” He clasped his hands behind his back and regarded them all with an expression of reserved disapproval.
Ignoring the human, Grayson strode over, gripped Alejandro by the arm, and hauled him up. Alejandro bit down on a scream and closed his own hand hard on Grayson’s wrist. He managed to get his feet under him, with an effort that seemed to tear every muscle in his back.
“That boy needs medical attention,” said Colonel Herrod. “Silver injuries are serious for your people, I know. Let me have him. I promise you, he’ll receive the best of care. You know I’m a man of my word, Lanning.”
“I know you’re a man under authority,” Grayson said, not turning. He picked Alejandro up bodily, carried him to the Cadillac, and put him in the back seat, more carefully and gently than Alejandro thought he deserved. Then he waited while Ethan eased himself in, and while Thaddeus folded himself into the front seat with the special forces man half beside him and half on his lap. They would never have fit in a smaller vehicle, and Alejandro wondered if Grayson had had even that detail in mind when he had chosen it.
But before he got into the car himself, Grayson turned back toward the Colonel. “As it happens, I have people in the south, attempting to deal with the vampire there.”
“On the spot, as always, Lanning?”
“Perhaps too much so, this time.”
“I see.”
“If it comes to that, Colonel, I would rather have my people in your hands than those of Zinaida Alexandrovna Kologrivov. Far less the vampire. You understand that whatever Zinaida Alexandrovna believes, no bargain is possible with that vampire.”
The colonel’s mouth twisted slightly. “You’re preaching to the choir on that one, Lanning.”
“Good,” said Grayson. He fixed the man with a steady stare. “Perhaps I will hear from you, then. A word of advice, if you will permit me. I’m not your enemy. Don’t make me into one. It’s not necessary. And not wise.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the colonel said, his tone utterly neutral.
Grayson got behind the wheel. Alejandro was sure the car would not start, that some stray bullet had damaged something important. Or a special forces sniper would shoot Thaddeus and then Grayson, and he and Ethan would be left, helpless, to find out what Colonel Herrod wanted with captive black dogs.
But the car did start, and no one opened fire. Colonel Herrod walked to the middle of the doorway and watched, expressionless, as the Cadillac backed smoothly down the drive. He was not holding a gun. No one shot after them. Grayson turned the wheel, and the car swung ponderously in a long curve and rolled out of the lot and onto the street.
The special forces man cleared his throat.
Grayson spared him a glance. “In a moment. When we are well away.”
“Right,” said the man. His voice hardly shook at all. He stared straight ahead, not turning his head to look up at Thaddeus. He cleared his throat again and said, “Might be kinder if you just tore my head off and pissed down my neck yourself.”
Thaddeus gave a growling laugh.
Grayson did not even smile. He said, “You may tell Colonel Herrod that I appreciate his assistance and look forward to working with him again, possibly quite soon, though preferably not at such close range.”
“I’ll tell him,” said the man. “Those exact words.”
“Yes.” The warehouse was well behind them, now. The night seemed perfectly empty. Grayson took his foot off the accelerator, allowing the Cadillac to coast to a halt. He gave a small jerk of his head, and Thaddeus opened the passenger side door and clambered out, then held the door for the human man.
The man slid over on the seat and caught the edge of the door to pull himself out. But then he paused.
Grayson turned his head, giving him a long, steady look.
The man nodded. He said, “You know . . . the colonel really is a man of his word. And I think he’s only under authority when he wants to be.”
“I shall remember,” Grayson said, his tone flat.
The man nodded once more. He got out of the car and walked away, not looking back.
Thaddeus shook his head and grimaced, trying to take his human shape. Alejandro could see the bones move in his face. Clearly he was having difficulty—too angry, maybe, or too caught up in black dog bloodlust. Grayson sighed and looked at him, a single powerful look, and Thaddeus shook himself all over and got back into the car, once more fully in his human shape. He fit better, but he still took up a lot of room.
“Amira?” Ethan asked, and Alejandro realized hazily that he had forgotten about her and that this was inexcusable, but he could not seem to track a
nything that was happening.
“She will arrive momentarily, I believe,” Grayson said, and got out of the car, standing with one hand on the frame of the open door, gazing back toward the warehouse. Alejandro looked that way as well, squinting. Though they had come only a short distance from the warehouse, it seemed infinitely far away. Russian black dogs and the battle seemed like things that had happened to someone else a long time ago. The night was quiet. Gentle waves lapped against the stone pilings at the edge of the harbor, and the sky stretched overhead, cloudless and filled with stars.
Amira came softly out of the shadows between two buildings, in her black dog form. Though she was not large in that form, she was big enough to carry Miguel, who was perched on her back, gripping her shaggy pelt with both hands.
For a moment, Miguel’s presence with Amira seemed to make perfect sense. Then Alejandro blinked and tried to lift his head, realizing that his brother’s presence here made no sense at all. He tried to speak, to ask what Miguel was doing here—had Grayson meant to offer him to the Black Wolf because Natividad was not here? No, that made less sense still, and he would not believe it of Grayson anyway . . .
“Colonel Herrod reacted exactly as you suggested,” Grayson said to Miguel. “I thought he might sacrifice his man to take my wolves. Or at least demand I trade one for one.”
Miguel nodded matter-of-factly. “Right, no, he wouldn’t’ve have done that, not even if he could’ve, which he couldn’t anyway, with all his people watching. No, Herrod’s not a bad guy, I’m pretty sure. I was afraid Zinaida would win. I did not want to try Plan B. Not even with Russell and Andrew to back me up.”
Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3) Page 27
