Copper Mountain (Black Dog Book 7)

  COPPER MOUNTAIN

  Black Dog Volume 7

  Rachel Neumeier

  Published by Anara Publishing 2020

  Cover art and design Midnight Coffee 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Rachel Neumeier

  Contents

  -1-

  -2-

  -3-

  -4-

  -5-

  -6-

  -7-

  -8-

  -9-

  -10-

  -11-

  -12-

  -13-

  -14-

  -15-

  -16-

  -17-

  -18-

  -19-

  -20-

  -21-

  -22-

  -23-

  -24-

  -25-

  -26-

  -27-

  -28-

  -29-

  -30-

  -31-

  -32-

  Endnotes

  Other Work by Rachel Neumeier

  Acknowledgments

  -1-

  Miguel had never—okay, hardly ever—been so glad to arrive anywhere in his life as he was to return to Dimilioc house, very damn early on a crystal-clear December morning, after way too many bumpy roads. And, before that, way too long in the air. And before that something like the second—okay, maybe third—worst day of his life.

  After everything that had happened out west and the long trip home, the main sept house of Dimilioc looked thoroughly welcoming. Despite the surrounding forest and the forbidding mountains and the bitter cold. Vermont winters were never going to seem welcoming, but the house itself, oh, definitely.

  The dawn was flawless, the sky turning from pearl to apricot to pale blue as the heavily laden van came around the final curve and made its slow way across the open ground between the forest and the house. It must have snowed last night, but not much. Not enough to hide the trampled snow and torn earth. Frozen blood colored some of that snow, its color still bright in this cold. Miguel frowned out the window. He’d known Cassie was leaving a lot out of her texts. But he hadn’t realized she was leaving out this much.

  “Looks like someone had a pretty good fight out there,” Lieutenant Santibañez observed from the seat beside Miguel. The lieutenant’s tone was neutral, which didn’t do much to disguise his acute interest. He added thoughtfully, “Nothing got too close to the house, though. I guess Dimilioc’s enemies aren’t the kind to set up, oh, rocket launchers, say, maybe on that ridge over there, and just blast the hell out of the house from well out of reach.”

  Luis Santibañez was a pretty good guy. He was one of Colonel Herrod’s people, plus a senator’s nephew—both important qualities—and also, at the moment, kind of a liaison-hostage-spy. It was complicated. Miguel had high hopes for him. He answered without hesitation, “Ranged attacks aren’t really a black dog thing, plus the house would be pretty hard to target.”

  “Ah. Magic?” Santibañez might have sounded skeptical a week ago, or even a couple days ago. Not now. They’d all seen a lot in the west, and Santibañez was not a stupid man.

  “Sure,” Miguel agreed, and held up one finger, meaning Hush, because James, who was driving, had finally turned the big van around the curve of the driveway and brought it to a halt and in a second everybody would be moving. Already the Dimilioc wolves left to hold the fort here were coming out onto the porch to greet Grayson Lanning, Master of Dimilioc, who had been away and had now came back to take up his place. Black dogs made a big deal out of this kind of moment. No surprise. Black dogs made a big deal out of a whole lot of things.

  Ethan Lanning took the center place on the porch. Ethan had been an interesting choice to leave in charge while Grayson was gone. But from the little bit Cassie had let drop, he must have done okay.

  Quite a crowd, as everybody piled out of the van. Miguel steered Lieutenant Santibañez to the side. Always best to get out of the way while black dogs sorted things out. The cold was biting. Miguel stuffed his left hand in his jacket pocket, but with his right arm he hugged his brand new satchel against his side. He’d liberated it from that bastard Gregor Kristoff and still hardly knew what was in it, but he didn’t intend to let it out his grip even if all the fingers of his right hand froze and broke off.

  Alejandro came up beside him, frowning. He wasn’t very happy Miguel had that satchel and all it contained. Miguel pretended not to notice his older brother’s disapproval. He wouldn’t let the satchel out of his hands unless Grayson himself demanded it—and he’d already lined up a dozen different arguments in that case, starting with It’s what you don’t know that’ll bite you and ending with Who else is more likely to figure this stuff out? With other arguments on top of those just in case the Master had answers for the entire first set.

  But Alejandro didn’t say a word. After one lingering glance at the satchel, he’d put his attention on Ethan—of course. Those two were rivals in the constant black dog preoccupation with strength and dominance and authority within the house. Alejandro, though six or seven years younger, was actually the stronger of the two, which must burn Ethan’s butt.

  Ethan wasn’t looking at Alejandro, though. All his attention was on the Master.

  Thaddeus stood directly behind Ethan—that was a statement. If Thaddeus was going to take Ethan’s side from now on, that would probably do screwy things to the relative rankings within the house. Miguel didn’t have the acute sense for dominance that came naturally to a black dog, but alliances mattered, and one-on-one Thaddeus Williams was definitely the strongest Dimilioc wolf—even stronger than Grayson, probably. The others who’d stayed home spread out along the railing, none too close to the others. At first Miguel couldn’t spot Cassie, but no, there she was, keeping sensibly out of the way at the back of that little gathering.

  A knot of tension he’d hardly been aware of unclenched. She was obviously fine. Her father, Sheriff Pearson, stood beside her. He had his left arm in a sling and a really nice bruise all across one side of his face, more evidence of the stuff Cassie hadn’t mentioned.

  Grayson, last out of the van, walked past everyone else—everyone moved hastily out of his way—and stopped about ten feet from the bottom of the porch stairs. Ethan looked his uncle in the face for a few seconds. Then he lowered his gaze, descended those stairs at a measured pace, and went to one knee in front of his uncle. He tipped his chin up, offering Grayson his throat—mostly symbolic. But never entirely symbolic. Not even between uncle and nephew. Miguel looked longingly past Ethan, toward the open door, the waiting warmth and comfort of the house, and suppressed a sigh.

  “Master,” Ethan said to Grayson. Not Uncle.

  Grayson touched his nephew’s throat lightly with the tips of his fingers. Then he gestured for Ethan to get up. “Everything here seems to be in order. Everyone is still alive? The house is intact? Our enemies are dead? The authority of Dimilioc remains unquestioned?”

  Ethan got to his feet, answering with the same kind of rote formality. “Everyone is well. Your house and all your wolves and the town and all our people are in good order. Dimilioc’s enemy Zinaida Alexandrovna Kologrivovna is dead.”

  Ah. Zinaida Alexandrovna Kologrivovna. The infamous Black Wolf of Russia. Yeah, no surprise she’d moved against Dimilioc—again—the second she saw a chance. No wonder there were signs of battle surrounding the house.

  Ethan was going on. “I’d prefer to discuss my report with you before you read it. Nothing in it is urgent. It could easily wait until tomorrow. Or next week.”

  There was a slight pause. Ethan must have seen something in his uncle’s face or felt something in Grayson’s response that Miguel missed. Because then Ethan bowed his head and added, “You’ll be angry, sir. But it truly can wait. DeAnn and some of the others have put together a special breakfast, I think.”

  Breakfast sounded like a truly fabulous idea. Somehow, Miguel didn’t think Grayson was going to be distracted even by that.

  Nor was he. The Master raised his eyebrows in that patented I-am-being-patient expression of his. “I’m sure it could wait, Ethan. But you had better tell me the worst now.”

  There was another slight pause. Finally Ethan nodded and said, “As it turned out, Sergei Ilyich Vasiliev had also come to this country. He and his people were stalking Zinaida. They took her from the rear at a crucial moment, after I’d made several serious mistakes that put Dimilioc in a bad position. If Vasiliev hadn’t brought his people in, we—I—would probably have lost Dimilioc right there. Sergei and I had a little chat. He wanted to establish a new house here, in this country. I gave him Florida.”

  Beside Miguel, Lieutenant Santibañez stirred as though he wanted to ask a question. Yeah— his family was from Florida. Miguel bumped his arm and gave him a stern look, although he was dying to ask all kinds of questions himself. But not until after the explosion. He was pretty sure there was going to be an explosion.

  But Grayson actually turned his head, studying the mountains rather than continuing to look at his nephew. Probably counting backward from a hundred by threes. Miguel eyed Natividad, but she didn’t look concerned. Ezekiel was watching Ethan, though not with any particular intensity. James Mallory had gone still, and Miguel bet Étienne Lumondière must be seriously cabreado even though it didn’t show in his face or posture. Étienne had lost his sept—and now
Ethan gave Florida away to someone else? Miguel was just as glad he wasn’t in Ethan’s shoes right this moment.

  Ethan didn’t so much as glance at anyone but his uncle. He said to Grayson, “I didn’t set your word behind anything, sir. But I’ve had time to think it over, and in my opinion it would be best to let my decision stand, Master.” Then he bowed his head deeply and stood still. Also waiting for an explosion, now slightly delayed, Miguel diagnosed.

  But when the Master turned back to Ethan, he didn’t seem especially angry. He said merely, “I’ll consider your report, and we can discuss it.”

  Oh, yeah, Miguel was sure that would be fun. Ethan nodded without looking up, undoubtedly thinking much the same thing. But to Miguel’s surprise, Grayson added, “I gather you preserved Dimilioc, preserved our options, and negotiated Vasiliev into some posture other than unrelenting hostility. Under the circumstances, that was well done. I don’t expect to agree with your decision. But we’ll discuss it, Ethan. Perhaps you will persuade me.” Then he reached out, took his nephew’s arm in a gesture that looked almost approving, and walked with him back toward the house.

  Well. Miguel definitely hadn’t expected that. He stared after those two for a whole five seconds at least before the cold, striking through his totally inadequate jacket, made him realize everyone now had permission to get inside out of the bitter Vermont winter. Thank God. He nudged Santibañez again and headed briskly for the porch, careful not to crowd any of the black dogs, although with Alejandro right beside him, none of the others was likely to take serious offense.

  Everyone headed off in various directions the minute they were inside. But Cassie had waited in the foyer, her hands tucked in her pockets. Her dad had gone off somewhere, maybe with Grayson or maybe James, to trade reports and generally get caught up on recent events. Miguel looked forward to doing the same thing, except with Cassie, whose point of view would probably be a little different from anybody else’s.

  She was elflike and pretty, but right at the moment she was also tight-drawn and pale—paler than usual. It was getting pretty close to the full moon. Miguel didn’t say so. If she felt she’d be all right today, she would be all right today. She never took chances with her demon.

  She eyed Miguel up and down and spoke before he could: “You look terrible. Tough time hunting witches, huh?”

  “Parts of it were pretty bad,” Miguel admitted. “Sergei Vasiliev, was it? That’s unexpected. Bet that was exciting, him and Zinaida Kologrivovna both coming in.”

  “Would’ve been worse if the Russian dude hadn’t shown up—it turned out.”

  Miguel could just imagine the bit before they’d all known it was going to turn out that way. “How’s your dad?”

  Cassie touched her left upper arm with one finger of her right hand. “One little bullet hole. He’ll be fine. Silver bullet. Went right through. Little bitty entrance wound, little bitty exit wound, good thing silver bullets don’t smoosh like lead. Doug got hit too—you know Doug Lanmere?—worse than Dad. In the chest. Luckily the bullet didn’t bounce around much, but it punched a nice hole through this and that. He’ll be okay, Theodora says.”

  Theodora Grosman was one of several women that Ezekiel had brought in a couple months ago. They’d all been pregnant, Theodora very pregnant with a black dog baby. There was a story behind that; Miguel didn’t know the details, though he could guess. But Theodora’d turned out to be a medical doctor, a surgical resident, and willing, barely, to stay near Dimilioc for her baby’s sake. Pretty handy if Dimilioc’s human allies were going to get shot up or whatever.

  “Uh huh, good,” Miguel said. “And where were you when all this was going on?”

  Cassie lifted her eyebrows. “Hiding with DeAnn and the kids, like a sensible person. Unlike you, heading out to face evil witches practically all by yourself. At least you had the Special Forces to back you up.” She looked Santibañez up and down.

  “Lieutenant Luis Santibañez,” Miguel introduced them. “Cassandra Pearson. She’s Sheriff Pearson’s daughter. The sheriff is one of Dimilioc’s most important local human allies.” He added, with a wary sideways glance at Cassie in case she might object, “She’s moon-bound. You’ll want to keep that in mind if things get complicated while you’re here. Keep way, way clear of her when we’re coming up on the full moon—like maybe as early as tomorrow.”

  “By now I can tell pretty well when I’ll lose it,” Cassie told Santibañez in a matter-of-fact tone, ignoring his slight but visible double take at the news she was a shifter. She added, “You won’t need to worry unless—like Miguel says—things get complicated. Which they shouldn’t, but hey, you never know.”

  “I’ll remember, Miss Pearson. I’m pleased to meet you” Santibañez answered, with a small bow because Miguel had told him black dogs didn’t shake hands and he obviously wasn’t sure about shifters. “I wasn’t aware that Dimilioc wolves, ah, welcomed moon-bound shifters into their ranks.”

  “I’m special,” Cassie told him blandly. “You’d better not get bitten, Luis, so steer clear of the Dimilioc wolves who used to be strays. It’s totally against the rules for anybody to lay a hand on you, but even so.” She looked at Miguel. “You saw my father’s face? Andrew.”

  “That cabrón, seriously? Not good.”

  “Very not good, but Ethan took care of it like a boss. Pro tip: Do not piss off Ethan.”

  “Yeah, really?”

  “I was actually impressed. Did not see it coming.” Cassie turned back to Santibañez. “Miguel’s probably told you which wolves are mostly safe to be around—remember those names and keep away from everyone who’s not on that list. General principal: anybody with a bloodline name is safer than anybody who used to be a stray. Except Thaddeus is fine.”

  Miguel winced slightly as Santibañez lifted one eyebrow. He hadn’t actually given the lieutenant that kind of list. Obviously he should have. “Everyone’ll be at breakfast. That’ll be a good time to learn everyone’s names and faces. Dimilioc bloodlines: Toland, Hammond, Mallory, Korte, Lanning. Plus these days, Lumondière and Callot.”

  “Right,” the lieutenant said.

  “We’ll point everyone out,” Cassie promised. “Breakfast’s the right time for it, everyone’ll be there. Breakfast is gonna be pretty spectacular, it’s about ready to go on the table, and DeAnn’ll wring our necks if we’re late.” She eyed Miguel. “What’ve you got in the bag? A grimoire written in Greek, maybe?”

  Miguel patted his satchel. “Spoils of war, you bet. I’ll show you later.”

  Cassie nodded. “You can tuck it under your chair for now anyway. Come on. We’ve been working since like four in the freaking morning and I will wring your necks myself if you make me late. Luis, great to meet you, come on, this way.”

  -2-

  Breakfast was, as promised, spectacular. The centerpiece was a towering eight-layer chocolate cake with a creamy white filling between the layers and shiny glaze dripping down the sides. Cassie set it possessively on the table, raising cool eyebrows at her father. “Some people think cake isn’t appropriate for breakfast, but I say why be bound by meaningless cultural practices? We all totally deserve cake. Plus, if we can have doughnuts for breakfast, we can definitely have cake.”

  Sheriff Pearson grinned at his daughter, an unguarded expression that made him look less tight-assed than usual. Cassie smiled back, gave her cake a possessive nudge toward the exact center of the table, and came down toward the end where all the humans were finding places.

  They actually did have doughnuts, freshly made and piled high on another platter. And scones. Plus an apple cake and corn muffins. Also plates of sausage and bacon at opposite ends of the table, and two pies, made with eggs and ham and cheese, in between.

  Grayson sat at the head of the table, of course. Ethan took the place to his left, which wasn’t where he normally sat. James took the chair at Grayson’s right. Thaddeus and Étienne were also up there, and then the rest sorted themselves out. Ezekiel was at the foot of the table. Might’ve been a tactical choice, because he could keep an eye on all the rest of the black dogs from there. Miguel nudged Santibañez toward a chair by Sheriff Pearson, carefully keeping him separated from Ezekiel because why invite trouble? In a few weeks ... or months ... maybe Ezekiel would forget he kind of blamed Santibañez for certain recent events. But for the moment, probably better to be a little bit cautious.