Black Dog(87)

“Well?” said Grayson.

“Well,” said Thaddeus, “Considering the options… I’m in, alright. Hell, if you’re offering, I’m in all the way. We’ll see if you keep your end of the bargain after I fight your enemies.” He didn’t sound very trusting.

“Our enemies,” DeAnn said, softly but firmly.

“Yeah. Our enemies.” Thaddeus dropped to one knee and said much more formally, “Master.”

“Good,” said Grayson. “We expect to face roughly four times our numbers. This should present no insuperable difficulties, as our enemies are by no means a cohesive pack. We shall expect to demonstrate Dimilioc superiority. I shall expect you to assist in illustrating the principle, Thaddeus.”

“Yeah,” said the newest Dimilioc wolf, not impressed. “I’ll demonstrate my own damned superiority, but you can call it Dimilioc if you want.” Though his words were proud and even defiant, his tone was much more respectful… and he did not look Grayson in the face.

“That will do for the moment,” agreed Grayson. He threw the key to Alejandro and added, “We’re moving in five minutes. Eat something fast.” Without turning toward him, he said peremptorily, “Miguel.”

Miguel twitched, the first sign of nervous guilt he’d shown. But his face and manner revealed nothing but eager willingness to help as he straightened attentively. “Yes, sir?”

“Take DeAnn upstairs. If she can shoot, give her a rifle. When you see black dogs coming back across the snow toward the house… I don’t imagine you’ll have any difficulty telling who’s won the battle.”

“No, sir,” Miguel agreed earnestly.

Grayson grunted, said, “Eat,” to Alejandro, and walked away, back up the stairs. If he had any doubts about turning his back on Thaddeus Williams, they didn’t show.

Thaddeus had already edged out through the cell’s narrow doorway. He was tearing off big bites of a sandwich, gulping them down with more haste than manners. DeAnn had picked up the plate and looked at Miguel to show her where to go. She held her son’s hand in hers, not exactly with the air of a protective mother, but more as though she was worried the child might attack Miguel if she let him go.

Once he’d thought of the possibility, Alejandro worried about this, too. He doubted the problem had occurred to Miguel, yet… He caught his brother’s eye, then glanced at the boy.

Miguel followed his glance. “Right,” he said to Alejandro, and went on casually to DeAnn, “I’ll introduce you to my sister first thing. You’ll both like Natividad. Can you shoot?”

“I have a silver knife… somewhere.”

“Guns are better,” Miguel told her. “You never want a black dog to get up close enough to let you use a knife. But silver ammo is tremendamente expensive, so maybe we’ll get some practice in with regular bullets, right?”

Thaddeus followed his wife and son with his eyes as Miguel led them away, still chatting about the possibility of a black dog attack as casually as though he was discussing a party he was planning to throw for friends.





10



By the road, it was a little more than ten miles from the Dimilioc house to Lewis, but it was only six if you cut straight across country – not as the crow flies, but as the black dog runs. Alejandro, running near the tail of the line, saw for the first time how deeply the snow had drifted in the black forest where no Pure magic blew it aside. He guessed it would now be well over Natividad’s head. It might even be over his, if he took human form. Alejandro could hardly believe there could be so much snow in the world, far less that anyone – anyone human – would choose to live in a frozen country where it might bury them standing.

Snow never fell in the forests around Potosi, where Alejandro had hunted deer and boar with his father. And sometimes javalinas and the big mule deer in the dry country around Hualahuises. There were bears for sport. One did not touch cattle, but then cattle were boring anyway. Except the longhorns, which could be exciting. Even a grizzly or a puma respected the longhorned cattle. For a moment it almost seemed to Alejandro that he was at home, running with his father in the hot mountains around Hualahuises, hunting javalinas. Not the longhorned cattle. Never cattle. Certainly never men.

“We are not murderers,” Papá said sternly out of memory. He was half-changed, but, though his voice was thick and his words slurred, he did not lose language. “We are not barbarians or animals or demons. You have Dimilioc blood in you, Alejandro, and we do not hunt men, no matter how our shadows press us. We remember who we are.”