Black Dog(138)

Natividad finally got enough of her breath back to scream, which was useless and stupid, except she distracted Ezekiel just enough that Grayson was able, barely, to meet his charge. So she screamed again, just in case it might actually help, but it didn’t seem to: Ezekiel and Grayson crashed together and ripped at each other. Ezekiel was going to kill Grayson. Natividad knew there couldn’t be any other outcome. The grief of it tore her apart – not only grief for Grayson, but for Dimilioc, which would never hold without the Master; and for Ezekiel, who would surely never recover from the knowledge of what he’d done.

Everything was so fast. She wasn’t a black dog, she couldn’t follow every move, but there was a brutal exchange of blows and afterward Grayson was down, with horrible gashes all across his chest and side, and Ezekiel was rearing above him. In the next instant he would plunge down with all his immense strength and weight and his terrible black claws would tear Grayson in half. Natividad knew he was going to do it and she screamed again, weeping as well, and this time her cry had a word in it, and the word she cried out was Grayson’s name.

Alejandro slammed the door open and plunged into the room, with Thaddeus behind him – then they both froze in horror. But the embattled black wolves seemed somehow fallen into a vibrating stillness as well, which Natividad didn’t understand: Ezekiel hadn’t completed his kill after all, and didn’t, and still didn’t, and that first instant stretched into a full second, and then Grayson was up and using his superior size and weight to hurl Ezekiel off balance, and then their positions were somehow reversed because Ezekiel was the one down, and Grayson was the one with his powerful jaws closed around his opponent’s throat. And Ezekiel was fighting then, but it was too late, Grayson had him, he was going to kill him – he was going to kill him, and he couldn’t, he mustn’t. Natividad was horrified at the idea that Ezekiel might die, but even worse, if Grayson killed Ezekiel, Natividad was sure he’d never recover. She screamed his name again, this time in a totally different kind of horror, and Grayson turned his burning eyes toward her. There was nothing human in those eyes, but he didn’t close his terrible jaws.

And then Alejandro flung his shadow forward and across both Grayson and Ezekiel. Natividad felt it as a smothering darkness that wasn’t exactly visible and a bodiless pressure that wasn’t anything like weight but somehow forced both the Master and Ezekiel back into human form. It wasn’t smooth this time, especially not for Ezekiel. The change was slow and shuddering for Grayson, but for Ezekiel it happened in a series of painful, twisting jolts and convulsions that was horrible to watch.

Grayson got to his feet, slowly, once they were both back in human form. He moved as though it hurt him and as though he didn’t care who knew it. Ezekiel did not get up at all. He stayed down, braced on one elbow, his head low. The carpet where he lay was spattered now, like everything else in the room, with black ichor and red blood. He didn’t look at Grayson. He didn’t look at any of them.

“Cage,” Grayson said, rasping, his voice not at all human. “Now.” He turned a dangerous stare on Alejandro and Thaddeus. They both immediately dropped their eyes. He said harshly, “Once he is secure, leave him be. Is that clear? No black dog is to approach him.” Then he looked away from them, his temper locked down so tight it almost hurt Natividad to watch him. “You,” he said to her. “Come with me.” He stalked away, not moving exactly like a normal human even now, and went through a door across the room.

Natividad threw her brother an urgent look, hardly knowing what she meant to convey, and ran after Grayson.



Grayson wanted calm. He wanted her to draw pentagrams on all the windows in his suite, especially his bedroom. Natividad had been curious about what Grayson’s suite might tell her about him ever since she’d seen Ezekiel’s. This was not the way she had meant to break into the Master’s privacy, when she was distracted and anxious and stumbling with exhaustion and he was clinging to his control by a thread so tight she was afraid even to breathe too loudly. She was afraid for him, afraid that grief and anger might still lead him to fall into the terrible dark that always waited for black dogs. But, even so, she couldn’t help but be interested.

The bedroom wasn’t much like Ezekiel’s. The suite wasn’t. Where Ezekiel’s rooms were Zen, Grayson’s were very English. Or what Natividad thought of as English. All polished walnut and antique brass; tables with carved legs and chairs with ornate backs – all probably antique, not that she would know. In the bedroom, a rocking chair with an intricate border of fancy inlay around its worn cushions faced another of those big fireplaces, this one with a hearth of black granite. The bed, with an old-gold coverlet, had an intricately carved headboard and bedposts.