Black Dog(85)

DeAnn laid a hand on his, like caramel over dark chocolate, and he stopped suddenly, turning his hand to grasp hers like a drowning man grabbing after hope of rescue. In Thaddeus’ grip, his wife’s strong hand and wrist looked almost delicate.

Thaddeus turned his head, touched his lips to his wife’s hair, closed his eyes, and stayed like that for a long breath of time. Then he pressed her hand between both of his and turned to glare at Miguel once more. He demanded, “I know the Dimilioc executioner, that vicious young bastard, but who the fuck are you, boy? A couple of wetback kids like you, you’re not Dimilioc, so what the fuck?”

Miguel wasn’t offended, but Alejandro gave the other black dog a hard stare. After a moment, acknowledging his own difficult position, Thaddeus muttered, “Sorry. Sorry. I’m…” his voice trailed off. He lowered his gaze, a deliberate gesture of submission which must have been painful for him, since both he and Alejandro knew that he was the stronger.

Alejandro thought he might actually like the black dog. Or learn to like him. Alejandro’s shadow hated and feared a rival, but Alejandro respected how hard Thaddeus was trying to protect his wife and son. The black man reminded him, suddenly and strongly, of Papá, which was both disturbing and comforting. He was sure Grayson had been right to want this black dog for Dimilioc, and now also sure that Miguel had been right to approach Thaddeus immediately. Thaddeus was going to be hard to recruit: mistrustful and angry and too strong to submit easily to anybody’s authority.

Miguel didn’t seem to be suffering from any doubts, though. He leaned casually against the silver-laced bars. “I know who you are, of course. I’m Miguel Toland. My brother is Alejandro Toland. Our father was Edward Toland. He went to Mexico, met my mother, hid the same as you, only for longer…”

“Mexico,” repeated Thaddeus. He turned his dark face away, scowling. Thinking, no doubt, that if he’d taken his family to Mexico that the Dimilioc executioner would never have shown up on his doorstep. That was probably even true.

DeAnn leaned her head against his shoulder. “Lots of black dogs in Mexico. You told me that.”

Thaddeus transferred his scowl to her. “I could’ve protected you from ‘em. If this kid’s dad could protect his wife, I could’ve protected you.”

Alejandro made an impatient sound. “No seas estúpido,” he said. “Cabeza dura – worse than stupid; willfully obtuse. Our mother is dead: who do you think murdered her? How do you think our father died?”

Thaddeus swung around to stare at him.

Alejandro glared until the big black dog remembered his position and dropped his gaze. Then he added, “Before the war, Mexico was a good place to hide from Dimilioc. After the war, my father had enemies, but also there were too many black dogs for anyone to protect anyone. Lots of them weren’t quiet, not them, too stupid and too vicious and not scared of anything with the vampires gone and Dimilioc broken, so after a while we also got a lot of soldiers down from Monterrey, wandering around the countryside shooting at shadows, almost as dangerous as the black dogs.”

Thaddeus began a hot response, but his wife interrupted, her tone interested, almost friendly. “You two are brothers, of course? Your mother was Pure?” Her voice had gentled; she already knew the answers to both questions. She was sorry for their mother’s death, pity that Alejandro would have bitterly resented if it had come from someone who wasn’t Pure herself.

“We are,” Alejandro agreed. “And my sister, she’s Pure, like you. That’s why we came here, when Mexico got too dangerous. To ask Dimilioc for a place, because Dimilioc protects the Pure.” Well, it was mostly true. He deliberately looked back at Thaddeus. “Dimilioc needs wolves.”

“Shit, kid,” Thaddeus said, forgetting his effort to appear submissive. “No way anybody like you or me’s going to be Dimilioc, Pure sister or no Pure sister. Or wife. They’ve got ‘em a pure angel cake operation up here, kid, no place for anybody whose family wasn’t kissing cousins with the Mayflower bunch–”

“Last year maybe that was true,” Miguel said. He was still leaning against the silver-laced bars of the cage. Now he put his hands in his pockets, totally unafraid in a way that only a human, free of black dog instinct, could be. “But, hey, check it out! Just at this moment, Dimilioc does not care about your bloodlines. Grayson’s even brought in a couple of Saudi black dogs, and that’s no bloodline that’s ever crossed one of Dimilioc’s, you bet.”