Black Dog (12 page)

“
Desolado
,” Miguel said. He had, surprisingly, left the computer and now leaned in the doorway of his room, watching Alejandro's face rather than looking out the window. His comment might well have been meant to apply to Alejandro and not the brittle winter forest.

Natividad, lying now on her back on the pink bed, one leg crooked casually over the other upraised knee, shook her head. “
Espléndido
,” she said. “But it's not a friendly splendor, is it? This is a country that doesn't care if you die. I mean, neither does the desert, but this isn't the same.” She tilted her head, peering sideways and almost upside down at Alejandro. “Do you feel that also, even though you don't feel the cold and can run on top of the snow?” Her tone dropped. “You'll go for a run later, I guess.”

She meant, with Ethan Lanning and maybe one or another of the other Dimilioc
lobos
; she meant more than a run. And she was right. There would be a run, and a fight. Alejandro shrugged, meaning “
Sí
”
. Knowing that Natividad couldn't help but worry, he said, “The country out there may not care if anyone dies, but Grayson Lanning would be furious. Nobody wants that. I don't, either.” Although he wouldn't mind killing Ethan – well, that was his black dog shadow snarling. But he would not lower his gaze for Ethan Lanning. He would
win
.

“You'll beat him,” Miguel said. “I don't know him, but I know
you
. You'll beat him.”

“I wish you didn't have to fight, even if you do win!” Natividad rolled abruptly to her feet and came to stand beside Alejandro, looking out the window. Leaning forward, she breathed on the cold glass and then drew a circle on the misted surface with the tip of her finger. She fitted a five-pointed star into the circle and then watched it fade. But if she breathed on the glass again, it would reappear. Her pentagram was still there on the glass, even though it was invisible. Like light, in a way.

Alejandro shrugged again.

“Oh, yes, I know. Shut up. You black dogs…” Natividad made a face. “I don't want to think about black dogs. Or Dimilioc wolves. What
ever
.” She sighed, and the window misted from her breath, her pentagram glimmering briefly back into visibility.

Alejandro wanted to ask her which of the wolves she would choose, but how could she know yet? He wanted to ask what she thought about Ezekiel's threat. But she probably did not know yet what she thought about that, either. Maybe she didn't find Ezekiel as frightening and offensive as Alejandro did. She probably wouldn't tell him if she did. She would talk to her twin about her fears, maybe. But then Miguel wouldn't tell Alejandro what she said, either. Too good with secrets, both of them. Especially for fifteen.

“Well, children,” someone said behind them, and Alejandro only just stopped himself from whirling violently around. Instead, he made himself slowly unclench his hands from the windowsill and turn with something like control.

Natividad did spin about, but that was alright: girls never looked stupid even when they were surprised.

One ought never to flinch from a black dog. You never backed away, because if you ran, a black dog would chase you. Not so much someone Pure, like Natividad, but it would be worse for Alejandro to look surprised or wary. Worse still if Miguel flinched. Alejandro tipped his chin up and looked deliberately into Zachariah Korte's face for a long moment, to focus the black wolf's attention on himself before he lowered his gaze.

From the voice, he'd thought it was Ezekiel. The two were alike in more than voice. Like his nephew, Zachariah looked very
American
, all bony gringo height and pale coloring. His voice, too, was much the same. His eyes were the same cold blue, the color of the winter sky outside. They had even less expression, Alejandro thought, than that sky.

“Pup,” Zachariah said to Alejandro, with a scant nod of acknowledgement. He ignored Miguel entirely, but he offered Natividad a cool smile. “Natividad. That's an unusual name: Natividad. Do they call you Nattie?”

In reply, Natividad picked up a pink frilly wastebasket from beside the nearest table and pretended to throw up in it. “Anyway,” she added, to Zachariah's surprised laugh, “it is not unusual. It's a good Catholic name, and besides it was Grandmamá's name.
Nattie
would be silly. It wouldn't
mean
anything. It just sounds strange to you because gringo names have no pizzazz.” She gave the Dimilioc wolf a sly, sidelong glance. “I guess they call you Zack?”

Zachariah Korte smiled, barely, as though expressions were meant to be horded, as though if he might use up his share and never be able to smile again. “Very seldom.”

He thought Natividad was funny, Alejandro could tell. The Dimilioc wolf thought she was
cute
. Zachariah looked at her the way he might look at a precocious four year-old baby, not the way a man looked at a pretty girl. Alejandro exchanged a glance with Miguel as a tension he hadn't exactly known he'd felt suddenly eased. Zachariah thought Natividad was too young for him. Or maybe he just didn't mean to set himself up to oppose his nephew. Either way, Alejandro thought that was fine. He could tell by Miguel's crooked smile that they agreed Zachariah was definitely
much
too old for Natividad.

“I don't suppose they call you Alex?” Zachariah said to Alejandro, with another of those faint smiles.

“No,” said Alejandro shortly.

“‘Jandro, sometimes,” Natividad said cheerfully. She put the wastebasket back where she'd got it and bounced over to sit cross-legged on the bed, coquettish as a kitten. She did not seem, this morning, to be afraid at all of the Dimilioc wolf. She gave him another sly look. “
I
could call you Zack. I bet everybody really calls you Zack when you're not trying to be scary. And everybody probably calls Ezekiel Zeke, too, and Harrison, Harry. What is it for Ethan? Eth? Than?” She did not suggest that anybody called Grayson by any nickname, Alejandro noticed.

Zachariah laughed. “No, indeed – though I'd enjoy watching you call my nephew ‘Zeke'. But, in the interests of a convivial breakfast, it might be best if we all agree to refrain from any nicknames whatsoever.” He turned to Alejandro. “After breakfast, I think you'll find Ethan invites you for a run. Among other things.”

Meaning he, too, expected Ethan and Alejandro to fight. Alejandro didn't allow himself to smile, but the thought of violence and blood prickled pleasurably down his spine. His shadow flexed, wanting to rise.
Later
, Alejandro told it silently.
Later
. Patience was not a black dog quality, but after a momentary struggle his shadow subsided.

“You like the idea, do you?” Zachariah had missed nothing. “Good. But breakfast first.” He turned to lead the way, gesturing them to go in front of him.

 

The kitchen was big. Actually, it seemed a little overdone to Alejandro. Nothing like their mother's kitchen, where they had all used to gather. Natividad had helped Mamá make tortillas every day, and at Christmas everyone had helped her make tamales. Mamá's kitchen had always smelled of chilies and cumin and cinnamon and hot oil and, to a black dog, vividly of blood from cleaned chickens and meat.

This room was not like a real kitchen. It was too big and too shiny and artificial. It smelled more of soap than of food or cooking. The sink and refrigerator and oven were all steel, and the counters were lined with gray granite almost as shiny as the steel. And the kitchen was cluttered with tools he did not recognize; all those things looked big and shiny and artificial as well. Pans hung suspended from the ceiling, but there were no strings of garlic or dried chilies. Mamá's kitchen had been the heart of their home. It was hard to think of this kitchen as the heart of anything.

To Alejandro's silent astonishment, Zachariah made breakfast as though he was accustomed to the task. Maybe he cooked all the time. In Monterrey, where people were rich, a house like this one would employ twenty servants. Here there didn't seem to be
any
, but after all somebody had to cook. Natividad perched on the edge of a tall stool drawn up to one of the stone-topped counters, uncomfortable until Zachariah gave her two dozen eggs to beat with cream and salt.

Miguel touched Alejandro's shoulder, tipping his head toward the door, and the two of them wandered out into an immense, ornate dining room. The room held a polished table with space to seat at least twenty people – black dogs, who needed plenty of space – and two matching sideboards, and glass-fronted cabinets in which were displayed crystal glasses and silver platters and fragile-looking dishes painted with intricate designs in blue and red and black.

Harrison and Ethan Lanning were already seated at the table. Ethan gave Alejandro a direct stare, curling his lip. Alejandro deliberately glanced away, as though he merely happened to be interested in the display cabinets.

“Quit your nonsense,” Harrison growled at both of them. He said to Miguel, “A few ordinary humans around the place are exactly what we need. Black-pup posturing makes me tired.” He waved a broad hand. “Sit, sit. Anywhere.”

Anywhere not at the head of the table; Alejandro and Miguel both understood that. Alejandro wanted to put Miguel at the end, with himself between his brother and the next nearest black dog, but Miguel slid around him and instead took the seat directly next to Harrison.

“How many humans did you used to have here?” he asked. “Were they all somebody's relatives? Because that's pretty bad, losing them, if they were brothers and sisters, cousins and wives. That's tough.”

“Too many were, as you say, kin,” said Harrison. “Far too many.” His tone lowered, so that Alejandro wondered what kin he might have lost. He added, almost more to himself than to Miguel, “They… Humans are so vulnerable to vampires.”

“Were,” said Miguel. “
Were
vulnerable to vampires.”

Harrison's dark eyes focused on Miguel. After a moment, he smiled, though grimly. “
Were
vulnerable. Yes. That's done.”

Alejandro found the Dimilioc wolf's obvious grief profoundly reassuring. They had carried one or another of the Dimilioc names, he guessed, those dead human brothers and sisters and cousins and wives. They had counted as part of the Dimilioc pack. Maybe a subordinate part, but they'd had an accepted place, a place that Miguel could move into and make his own.

“We'll bring in a few human servants in the spring,” Ethan said, his tone tight and annoyed.

Alejandro looked at Ethan in surprise. They would? How? Would the Dimilioc wolves just hire ordinary people as servants? That was hard to picture. Maybe Dimilioc actually made a practice of kidnapping people when they ran short of servants? Could that possibly be what Ethan meant: that in the spring maybe a few early hikers might disappear?

“Oh, servants,” Harrison said, with a dismissive little tilt of his head.

“Useful creatures, servants. Or do you enjoy dusting?” said Zachariah, coming into the dining room with a platter balanced on each hand and Natividad, similarly laden, behind him. He slid his platters onto the table with the neat grace of experience and turned to help Natividad with hers.

“You don't seem to mind the cooking,” Ethan said, not quite snapping.

“But do I dust?” Zachariah was clearly amused, but the glint of humor in his pale eyes faded as he looked around the table. “Where's Ezekiel? Grayson?”

“Busy, one supposes,” Harrison said. “We won't wait.”

Breakfast was ham and eggs and biscuits with honey and fig jam. The eggs were fine. Plain. Not very interesting, was Alejandro's reluctant judgment, and he didn't even care about food. Natividad, if she had been cooking, would have fried strips of day-old tortillas to scramble with the eggs, and added chilies and onions. The biscuits were alright, though. Much better than the squishy bread you could get at the roadside places where buses stopped. Alejandro watched Natividad tuck ham and fig jam into a biscuit. She was avoiding the eggs. He suspected she was planning a takeover of the kitchen. He wondered whether Zachariah would mind if she made some good Mexican food. Did he think of that kitchen as his? He might be territorial about it, hard though that was to imagine when the room was so free of personality.

“Do you make bread, too?” Natividad asked, and Zachariah said, “I do,” and passed her the platter of ham. Alejandro found it was actually not hard to imagine Zachariah's long clever hands kneading bread dough on one of these fancy stone-topped counters.

“In the spring–” Harrison began, and was interrupted by Zachariah suddenly putting down his fork and lifting his head. “Yes?” said Harrison.

“I don't quite know.” Zachariah stood up, not urgently but not wasting time either, and said briefly to Harrison – not so much to the rest of them – “I'll let you know.” Abandoning his plate, he walked out, heading for the front of the house.

Harrison ate two more bites of eggs, then put his fork down and glowered at Ethan. “Anything?”

Ethan shrugged. “Not so I can tell.” He shoved his chair back, preparing to get up. He said to his father, pointedly not looking at Alejandro or Miguel, nor even at Natividad, “I'll go find out, shall I?”

 Harrison began to nod, but was interrupted by a deep-throated cry – a sound midway between a howl and a roar, violently aggressive. There was the sound of shattering glass and the long ripping sound of splintering wood. Harrison was instantly on his feet, striding toward the door, his back bowing and twisting as his shadow rose: it had been a man who'd got to his feet, but it was a massive-shouldered black dog who slammed the door open and lunged through it, moving in long bounds that seemed almost more suited to a lion than a wolf. Ethan was a step or two behind his father, still mostly in human form, his dense shadow gathered close around him.