Miguel, though much less strong than Alejandro, was the only one of them carrying a real burden. Natividad carried a shoulder bag with matches and a thermal blanket and some food, and her brothers had insisted on her carrying their small remaining cache of American money. Her twin carried everything else: the little pot to boil water; mugs and powdered cocoa; jerky and nuts. Extra clothes, too – especially for Natividad, of course, which was a little embarrassing, but only a little. It wasn’t her fault her brothers didn’t care about clothes.
Since they had known their car might not be able to get all the way to Dimilioc, they had brought the things she and Miguel might need if the cold got too bad. More than that, they had not wanted to abandon every last trace of their past. Buried in the middle of Miguel’s pack, Natividad knew, was Mamá’s special wooden flute, wrapped up in Natividad’s favorite dress, the one with all the ruffles.
They hadn’t had to argue who would carry the pack. Last year, when she and Miguel had been only fourteen, he might have argued. Even Natividad herself might have argued. She might have thought Alejandro should carry the pack because he was the biggest and had the black dog strength. But this year, they all understood that Alejandro could not carry any burden because he needed his hands free.
Alejandro carried only a knife: the silver one she had blooded for him. If worse came to worst, he would fight. If he fought well enough, if Natividad had time to use her maraña, then maybe she and Miguel would be able to get away. Lewis was not so far behind them, and if they could get another car, maybe they would be able to get all the way off Dimilioc territory.
The truth was, if worse came to worst, probably they would all die. But that had been so since the day Mamá and Papá had been killed. Even before that, in fact, though they had not known that when they were younger. So short a time ago, when they had all been children, before the war between black dogs and the blood kin had weakened Dimilioc, and Vonhausel had renewed his own war with Papá… Natividad shut those memories away with a sharp effort.
“I’m not too tired,” she said. “I can go on.” She looked at her watch, a cheap one with a black plastic strap and a pink face, and a white kitten to point out the hours and minutes. She put back the hood of her coat and looked at the sky, where the sun lay already low above the horizon. So comfortless and distant, that sun. She could almost believe cold radiated from it, and not warmth at all.
Alejandro said, “No. You two should eat something. Is that not what you said, Natividad? People need to eat more in the cold. You told us that.”
“You did say that,” said Miguel, so placidly that Natividad could not argue. Her twin was very hard to argue with. “Of course you should eat something. Some jerky, maybe. I’ll take one of those nut bars with the chocolate, if you’ve got any more. And we should drink some water.”
Natividad shrugged. “Matón,” she said, but without heat. Then, remembering her rule about English, she corrected herself: “Bully.” Tucking back several wisps of hair that had worked out of her careful pins, she began to search through her light pack for something to eat. Miguel walked a little aside from the trail they’d been following, kicking knee-high snow out of his way, and swept more snow off a fallen tree so she could sit down. “I really don’t need to rest,” Natividad protested, but then shrugged. “But I suppose I wouldn’t mind coffee.” She followed him, peeling the wrapping away from one of her nut bars and handing her twin another.
“Well, look at this,” said a new voice, sharp and quick and nasally American. “Black pups trespassing. Do you know, when we got the call, I walked out in the middle of breakfast? If I’d realized it was a pack of puppies, I’d not have troubled myself.”
Natividad jumped and spun around fast. Miguel caught her arm to steady her and Alejandro took several quick steps to put himself between them and the newcomer. Natividad touched her pocket, but didn’t grab her maraña mágica, not yet: she didn’t want the newcomer to guess she had it. If they did have to run, she wanted it to take him by surprise.
Alejandro moved a step forward, toward the threat. He stared directly into the newcomer’s face for a breath, which between black dogs was a challenge. Then, with an effort Natividad could see, that she thought she could almost feel in her own body, he lowered his eyes.
The American was taller than Alejandro, but seemed hardly older at all. Surely he couldn’t be as young as he appeared, but the way he stood and moved and looked, no one would have dismissed him as a boy anyway. He stood with his weight forward, relaxed, but holding himself with the kind of balance that meant he could move fast in any direction.
His was a very American face: bony and narrow, with a thin, unsmiling mouth crooked now with disdain, as though nothing he looked at pleased him and he didn’t expect it to. His hard stare implied arrogance; the set of his mouth suggested impatience and an inflexible temper. Despite his youth, it was the face of someone already long experienced with killing and death, someone who would not be easily touched by anger or fear or grief. It was the face of the Dimilioc executioner, who killed without mercy or regret.
She knew his name. Everyone did – everyone who knew anything about black dogs. This was Ezekiel Korte, old Thos Korte’s nephew: the youngest man ever to be made Dimilioc’s executioner. Stray black dogs always feared the Dimilioc executioner. Even in Mexico, a thousand miles south, black dogs whispered his name and looked over their shoulders when they broke Dimilioc law, afraid that someday they would find the executioner behind them – and for the past six years, when they did, it was this face they had seen before they died.
The young Dimilioc executioner was dressed with a black dog’s indifference to cold: narrow black pants that tucked into boots, a blue shirt, a black leather jacket clearly chosen more for its looks than its warmth. Other than his shirt, there was no color to him. His hair was the color of bleached straw. His pale blue eyes, many shades lighter than the shirt, seemed to Natividad to be the color of the winter itself. She was immediately afraid of him, but she also found that she was sorry for him, which she hadn’t expected at all. He had drawn danger and disdain around himself as closely as that leather jacket, but what she thought was that she had never in her life seen anyone who seemed more alone.
Alejandro took another step forward and then dropped to one knee in the snow, but he did not reach for the knife he carried. Natividad was very glad of his restraint. She could see her brother was trying to strike a balance between respectful acknowledgement of the executioner’s superior strength and his own pride – black pup, the young executioner had said, and him only a few years older than Alejandro himself. She knew it would be harder for Alejandro to defer to Ezekiel Korte than to one of the older Dimilioc black dogs. Black wolves. Papá had said the Dimilioc black dogs called themselves wolves. She wished desperately that Papá was here now. Or Mamá, even more. Though if their parents had lived, none of them would have come here.
“Well,” said the Dimilioc executioner, looking them over with leisurely derision, “It’s a little late for courtesy, isn’t it? What is this? One black pup and a human boy and a girl Pure as the white snow? One doesn’t expect to find such a mixed pack of strays in the winter woods. Still less walking on foot straight into Dimilioc territory. There are quicker ways to find death, if that’s what you seek.”
“We ask to speak to Grayson Lanning. We ask for a proper audience. Is it your place to refuse?” Alejandro said. Natividad could hear the edge of strain in his voice, but she hoped a stranger would not.
Ezekiel tilted his head to one side, smiling. “Oh, it is.”
Alejandro hesitated. Behind him, Miguel said, “Of course it is, but, Ezekiel Korte, would the Master of Dimilioc thank you for exercising your prerogative?”
The young man’s wintery eyes went to Miguel. “You know me, do you?”
“Everyone knows you.”
“Black dogs. Not humans, generally.” Ezekiel’s pale gaze shifted back to Alejandro. “Your brother, is he? And the gir
l’s your sister, I expect. She’s pretty.”
Alejandro stiffened at this provocation, delivered so indifferently it was almost an insult. Natividad shook off Miguel’s restraining hand and went forward to touch Alejandro’s shoulder, trying to calm him. She knew – they all knew – that no Dimilioc wolf would attack her. If Ezekiel Korte attacked anyone, it would certainly be Alejandro.
Ezekiel’s pale eyes remained steady on Alejandro’s face. He said softly, “You think you can fight me? Give your brother and sister time to run?”
“She’s Pure,” Alejandro said sharply. Too sharply, despite Natividad’s touch. He obviously knew it, because he took a breath, then, and lowered his head. “I don’t want to fight you, but why should she have to run? She is Pure.”
“I see she is. But she’s with you. And you’re trespassing. Aren’t you?” The young executioner’s gaze shifted to Natividad, then to Miguel and finally back to Alejandro. “You think she can run in this cold? The Pure are just as susceptible to cold as ordinary humans. You got your car stuck at the bottom of some hill, I suppose. It’s a long way back to Lewis from here. Too far for children on foot – especially children who don’t cast real shadows.”
“I’m fast,” Natividad said sharply. It was dangerous to show a black dog fear. She was sharp instead, so she might seem less like prey. “We’re not children, and I’m fast, and strong. You might be surprised.”
Ezekiel’s pale eyebrows rose. He laughed, briefly, but with real humor.
Alejandro’s muscles tightened under Natividad’s hand, but he kept a tight leash on his rising anger. “Fighting you is not my first choice. Usted eliges – it is your choice. What we want is to speak to Grayson Lanning. Not a challenge – not a challenge, or would we have walked openly into Dimilioc territory?”
“Perhaps not,” murmured Ezekiel. “No, perhaps not. And you’re not up to my weight – though perhaps you’re just old enough to think you are. You’re what – sixteen?”
“Eighteen,” Alejandro snapped, then visibly caught himself. Natividad tried not to wince. She could see Ezekiel had been deliberately insulting, and her brother had let his temper slip. Just a little, but enough to show that no, he was not up to Ezekiel’s weight. Which, of course, they had all already known.
Ezekiel’s cold gaze rested on Alejandro for a moment longer. Then he looked at Natividad. “You’re younger than he is, aren’t you? You are pretty. But can you run?” He shifted his weight, stepped forward, focused on her with clearly predatory intent.
Just that fast, Alejandro was on his feet, flinging Natividad back, his knife in his hand, his shadow rising behind him and around him in response to his sudden blaze of fear and anger. The cold air smelled of ash and burning.
Her brother couldn’t win a fight with the Dimilioc executioner. Natividad knew that. But if he could injure him with silver, there was a better chance she and Miguel could get away. They had all agreed to that, but she hadn’t thought they would have to actually fight – Miguel had been so sure they would not have to fight. Though her heart raced with sudden fear, she still thought Ezekiel didn’t mean it. But Alejandro was ready to fight, even if he knew he couldn’t win. The silver in the blade sparked against his fingers, but it did not burn him. If he cut Ezekiel, though, that cut would burn, and resist ordinary black dog healing.
“You would fight,” Ezekiel said, easing back. He was smiling again: a thin, dangerous smile. “I thought you would. But with a knife?”
“It is your choice,” Alejandro repeated. “If I must fight you, I will use a knife, yes. Because I would need the advantage. But I do not want to fight you.”
“Don’t you? Down, then. Down – and drop that knife.”
Alejandro did not move.
“Do it,” muttered Miguel, his voice low. The executioner had frightened him, too, Natividad could hear it in his voice. But he whispered to their brother, urgently, “It’s a test, I’m sure it’s a test. Do what he says.”
Alejandro’s mouth tightened. But after a moment, he turned and threw the knife, a sharp motion that left the slender blade buried in the smooth bark of a tree twenty feet away, chest high. Natividad understood: if he had to fight the Dimilioc executioner now, maybe he could recover it, use it. Ezekiel couldn’t: it wasn’t blooded for him.
Then Alejandro turned back to face Ezekiel and dropped again to one knee.
Ezekiel smiled, a mocking expression. His own shadow had gathered around him, heavy and dense, clinging to his pale skin, almost as obvious to her as it would be to another black dog. It smelled of ozone and bitter ash and burnt clay. But he did not go into the cambio de cuerpo, and after a lingering moment, his shadow ebbed back down to lie again on the white snow.
Ezekiel took a step forward. Another step, wary. That was a compliment, sort of: that Dimilioc’s executioner approached Alejandro with caution. The American eased forward a third step. Alejandro shuddered. Natividad knew her brother was on the edge of leaping up, backing away, letting his shadow bring the cambio de cuerpo. Miguel caught Natividad’s arm, pulling her back, leaving Alejandro alone. She yielded, reluctantly, and only because she knew that their presence would only make Ezekiel’s close approach harder for Alejandro to bear.
He did not move. Natividad was so proud of him. Her brother stayed still, even when Ezekiel reached out slowly and set one hand on his shoulder, close to his throat. Black-shadow claws tipped the young man’s fingers. It was naked aggression, that touch. It was a threat, and an arrogant show of control over his own shadow.
“I could tear out your throat right now,” Ezekiel said softly. “Could you stop me?”
Alejandro said, harshly, “No.”
“You’re in a bad position. Why did you let me put you in such a bad position?”
“Because the only choice I saw was fighting you, now. We didn’t come here to fight.”
“No. Of course not. You want to talk to Grayson.” Ezekiel stood for a moment, staring down at him, and then lifted his hand and eased back a step. “You have something resembling control, it seems. Maybe he’ll want to talk to you.” He backed another step, glanced past Alejandro toward Natividad, and added, “It’s another few miles to the house. Can your sister walk so far?”
“Of course I can!” snapped Natividad, insulted. She strode forward again, laying her own hand on Alejandro’s shoulder, exactly where Ezekiel had touched him. His black dog shadow did not take her touch as a threat. Their mother had worked the Aplacando on her black dog son as soon as he was born. To him, the touch of the Pure, especially Natividad’s touch, was strengthening, reassuring... calming.
Alejandro took a long breath, glanced up warily, and got to his feet.
There was no sign that Ezekiel took that movement as a challenge. The young American only raked his wintery gaze across them all. Then he turned his back and walked away, leaving the road to walk directly into the stark forest. He did not turn his head to see Natividad detour briefly to recover the knife, but she thought he must know she had. Probably he didn’t mind if she had it. She kept it – that was probably best, because Ezekiel would no doubt care a lot more if Alejandro took it again.
The countryside was rugged. The snow, mostly knee high, was in places up to Natividad’s hips. It was hard to wade through. Natividad had discovered long since that snow was not as light and fluffy as she had always imagined: it was brittle and hard on the top, so one broke through with every step; and it was heavy to push aside. A black dog like Alejandro or Ezekiel could wrap himself in his shadow and walk, weightless, along the top of the snow. But they didn’t. Alejandro walked in front, and then Miguel, breaking a trail for Natividad. They had done that all along, but she was surprised to find that Ezekiel Korte also, without comment, walked heavily through the snow, helping make a trail.
Another red bird clung to a branch overhead, scolding them in sharp little chirps. Its mate, brown touched only lightly with red, joined it. Farther away, a trio of deer stood motionless and watched them pass
. There was far less clamor of life than in the oak forest near Potosi, or even the dry scrub around Hualahuises where the coyotes and javalinas lived. But at least the frozen forest no longer seemed completely barren. This seemed, in an odd way, a sort of reassurance. An omen – as though life might be possible here also for black dogs out of the south and their human kin. She wanted to point the deer out to Miguel, but none of them could say anything that Ezekiel would not overhear, and she was afraid he might think her silly. So they walked in silence.
The Dimilioc house was a great sprawling mansion of white stone and red brick, nothing that invited burning, which was a sensible precaution for a black dog’s house. Natividad thought that three of their mother’s house could have tucked themselves into just the first floor of one wing of this house, and there were two wings and three stories. There was no landscaped garden, only a sweep of clear snow-covered ground that ran out to the edge of the forest. Near the house, low stone walls edged the road. There were no tracks through the snow, but here and there were light scuff marks that might have been made by the weightless steps of black dogs.
Four men waited on the wide porch of the house, framed by red brick pillars and the leafless stems of some tough vine that clung to the brickwork. Natividad clung tightly to Alejandro, not for her own reassurance, but to help him keep his temper. She held Miguel’s hand, too, but that was for herself.
Ezekiel Korte lengthened his stride and went up the stairs onto the porch, with a short, ironic nod for one of the men there, unmistakably disclaiming any continuing responsibility. He might as well have said aloud, “That’s my part done; now this is your problem.”
Natividad knew the man to whom Ezekiel nodded must be the Master of Dimilioc. Grayson Lanning. She would have known him anyway by the density and strength of his shadow, by the way it had eyes that flickered with fire. She had thought Papá strong, but even Papá’s shadow had not had eyes like that, through which one could glimpse smoke and burning.
Black Dog Page 3
