There were no more gunshots.
Vonhausel howled again, powerful haunches bunching as he sank down, preparing to spring forward. The rest of the black dogs rallied to him with a cacophony of howling and snarling, gathering into a tight pack. They meant to rush Ezekiel, Alejandro understood suddenly: they would take Ezekiel and Grayson, and after that they would find it no great task to bring down the rest of the ragged Dimilioc wolves. And after that they could do anything they wished to the children of Edward Toland and Concepcíon Ramerez.
Zachariah suddenly left Alejandro, running toward the Dimilioc Master. Alejandro saw Ethan pressing in from the other side, still on three legs, blood dripping from slashes across his head and neck but following the same instinct: the Dimilioc pack gathering to face down its enemies. Alejandro leaped forward, following Zachariah, because there was nothing else to do and anyway he was angry, angry, angry. How dare these black dog callejeros attack Dimilioc now, when they would cost Alejandro so much, cost him everything? Visions of the destroyed village came to him, Mamá and her kin tumbled bloody and abandoned, Papá torn and dead and looking so small in human form, so small in death, when he had always been so powerful. Vonhausel had done that. It was all Vonhausel’s fault. Alejandro dropped into a crouch, flanking Zachariah, snarling, a low savage note that vibrated in his chest; he longed for blood and hellfire and destruction.
Four more black dogs emerged from the forest, surely a superfluity of enemies. Two were big, heavy, broad-headed; the other two small and slight, but they looked like they would be fast – if the four fought as a team, they would be very dangerous – but Grayson tipped his torn head toward the sky and howled, and Ezekiel joined him with a long high-pitched ripping shriek of aggression and scorn, and Zachariah gave voice to a deep, grating sound that was more roar than howl. All four newcomers answered savagely and loped forward to cover the left flank of the little group of the Dimilioc wolves. The crowd of intruders hesitated, Vonhausel rearing high up, staring at the newcomers.
A pistol shot rang out, sharp and crisp against the voices of the Dimilioc wolves and the black dogs, and Vonhausel spun about, snapping at his own side. Grayson Lanning howled and leaped forward, pulling his Dimilioc wolves along in his wake, the four newcomers with them. The pistol cracked again, and Vonhausel must have wondered whether the shooter would find more silver bullets, because he whirled around, racing for the shelter of the forest, and all his followers scattered and fled after him.
The Dimilioc wolves let them go, though the shooter fired once more, so that one tardy enemy tumbled over, yelping, before scrambling to his feet and bounding away. Miguel –for it could only be his brother firing in their defense – really had run out of silver bullets, Alejandro guessed, or that black dog wouldn’t have gotten up again. He regretted, savagely, that Vonhausel himself had not come in range while Miguel still had silver bullets in his gun.
Por otra parte… on the other hand, Miguel had rashly brought a gun – had hidden and brought a gun along, a gun and silver ammunition, right into Dimilioc territory. Their mother’s gun, by the sharp sound of its retorts. Alejandro had not known. Miguel had not told him – well, of course he hadn’t, Miguel would have known how furious his black dog brother would be.
Thank God and the Virgin for the little fool’s audacia. That audacity had very likely saved all their lives. But, Madre de Dios, if the Dimilioc Master had guessed, if Ezekiel had found that gun before this fight… Alejandro found himself snarling under his breath, racing toward the house. If Grayson did not kill Miguel, he was going to do it himself.
5
Once the shooting was done, Natividad got Miguel to put the gun down as quickly as she could. Then there was nothing to do but wait for trouble to arrive. Natividad only hoped she could help keep the trouble from getting too big and serious.
She’d had no idea her twin had brought a gun with them into Dimilioc, no idea how he’d gotten it past Ezekiel Korte – loaded with silver ammunition, even! But she had a very good idea how the Dimilioc black wolves were going to respond to that particular bit of smuggling. She didn’t know whether Miguel had been totally stupid to smuggle a silver-loaded gun into Dimilioc, or totally brilliant. Although if he hadn’t, they might all be dead now, so she guessed he’d been brilliant.
Which didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be in big, serious trouble.
They waited in a big room on the second floor, right above the front door; a formal room with heavy furniture and gloomy landscape paintings and, which was the important thing, a sliding glass door that let onto a wide balcony. From the balcony, Miguel had been able to direct his fire straight into a crowd of enemies only forty or fifty feet away. But he’d come inside again now. He stood in the middle of the room, his arms at his sides, his gaze fixed on the floor. Natividad hovered anxiously to one side. The gun lay on a table, spent casings piled neatly beside it. It was their mother’s light little .22 pistol. Miguel was a good shot, but Natividad had to admit, hitting anything at all with that gun at forty feet was amazing.