Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3) Read online

  The werewolf reared up, straightening and dwindling as it—he—took on his human form. He was young, about the same age as the other young man, but other than that they looked nothing at all alike. The werewolf turned into a young man with short-cropped pale hair, icy blue eyes, and a narrow, bony face.

  There were none of the agonizing contortions the movies always showed for the change of werewolf to human or back the other way, only one moment a monster stood there and the next a young man. He stood with a kind of relaxed attentiveness, as though he wouldn’t have been surprised at all if more werewolves had suddenly leaped through the window and attacked, but also as though he weren’t in the least alarmed at the prospect. He ignored Father Mark, glanced at Justin with swift interest, and said to his companion, “And where were you, Ethan?”

  The dark young man shrugged. “There were two more strays. Five strays, can you believe that? In a town this size?” He looked personally offended, though at what exactly Justin couldn’t guess. He added in a disgusted tone, “About time we got around to this sweep. I took care of mine. I notice one of yours got away.”

  This only got a thoughtful stare from the werewolf. Ethan, shrugging, looked away. At Justin. He looked him up and down and said, “And what are you? Besides the lure that brought all those little strays together. You’re certainly unexpected.”

  Justin stared at him, too baffled to say anything. He thought he should have a thousand questions, but couldn’t frame a single one. Even if he had dared to ask it, which didn’t seem likely.

  “I’ll take care of the one that ran,” said the fair young man. He, too, gave Justin a quick assessing look, though at least he didn’t look actually unfriendly. Then he said to Ethan, “You can stay here. I’m sure you’ll be fine. After all, he’s pure. Plus he has a silver knife.”

  There was mockery in his tone, but his look at Justin was almost . . . wary. Which didn’t make sense. Justin looked down at the butter knife in his hand. His fingers hurt from gripping it so hard. Silver. A silver knife. Blunt as it was, maybe it had been a good choice after all, against werewolves. He tried to imagine defending himself or Father Mark against werewolves with nothing but a silver butter knife. The idea was ludicrous. But he didn’t put the knife down, either.

  “A pure boy,” said Ethan, his tone contemptuous . . . but there was something else in his tone besides scorn, something harder to read, and his glance at Justin was not scornful at all, but wary, maybe even hostile.

  “Oh, I can think of one or two possible advantages,” the other young man said, with a touch of malice. “Aren’t you looking forward to introducing this one to Keziah?”

  Ethan laughed, though a little grudgingly. “Well,” he said, and shrugged. “Well . . . yeah, I’d pay money to see that. You can perform the introductions, how about that? I’ll just make popcorn and sell tickets.”

  The fair young man grinned, a swift glint of dangerous humor. “Right. So keep him safe, then. I’ll be back soon enough, but there may be more.”

  Ethan made a scornful sound. “There’s not a stray left anywhere in this city who’d be stupid enough to come here tonight. We might as well have put a sign up: Ezekiel is here. Yeah, they’ll stay clear. We ought to track the rest of ’em down, but I guess we have more important things to do, now.” He glanced at Justin again, frowning as though he might say something else. But he didn’t. He only stepped over the body nearest the door as though he hardly noticed it, picked up a chair that had been knocked over in the fight, spun it around, and dropped into it, crossing his arms over his broad chest and scowling impartially at the whole room and everyone in it.

  The other one—Ezekiel—stepped up on the wreckage of the table, which didn’t look as though it should hold his weight but did, and from there, with a complete disregard for the broken glass, onto the windowsill. Then he leaped out into the dusk. Although it was a young man who had stepped up on the table, it was a huge werewolf who leaped through the window and disappeared into the evening.

  So that left only the dark young man, Ethan. Who was probably also a werewolf. And two dead bodies, and a tremendous mess. Justin was afraid to move. He felt bruised and stiff, yet he couldn’t remember either of the dead werewolves actually touching him. He couldn’t remember exactly what had happened, everything had happened so fast—except throwing the toast, he remembered that. Then he remembered having the table fall on him when the fleeing werewolf leaped on it. Yeah, that explained the bruises.

  He had just watched helplessly while Ezekiel hit Father Mark and knocked him aside. At least Father Mark didn’t seem to have been hurt. The priest was now moving in a bewildered sort of way, not exactly trying to get up, but more as if he were trying to figure out whether all his arms and legs were still attached properly. Justin understood that perfectly.

  “What were your parents?” Ethan asked unexpectedly.

  There was an arrogance to his voice, and a barely hidden violence, as though he would be perfectly happy to beat answers out of Justin. But Justin could only stare at him in bewilderment and slowly kindling anger. “What?”

  “Your parents!” the young man repeated. “Pure, black dog, human, what?” He looked Justin up and down, his lip curling. “Look at you! I expect you think you’re just so, so special, don’t you?”

  Justin had no idea what Ethan meant. Ignoring him for the moment, he moved stiffly to kneel beside Father Mark, helping the priest straighten. Father Mark looked past him at Ethan. At the bodies. And the blood. The black blood seemed mostly to have . . . burned away, somehow. Some of it still smoked, smelling like charred meat and something else. Burned clay. Sulfur, maybe.

  But there was a lot of ordinary red blood clotting on the floor. And walls. And . . . ceiling. Dripping. Onto the smashed cake. Justin could smell coconut, behind the thick metallic smell of the blood. He looked away quickly and swallowed hard, grateful he hadn’t had anything to eat after all.

  “What—” Father Mark began, but stopped. He passed a shaking hand across his round face and stared again at Ethan. “Who—”

  Justin only shook his head.

  Ethan shrugged impatiently. “What, are there secrets left now? Tell him, if you want. It doesn’t matter now.”

  Justin stared at him.

  “Or don’t,” said the young man in a disgusted tone. “You, Father, do not throw up anywhere near me, understand?”

  Father Mark looked quickly away from the bodies, swallowing.

  Ethan stood up, took hold of one body by the arm, and dragged it away, out the door, into the alley. The body looked heavy, but Ethan hauled it up and dragged it away as though it weighed nothing. Then he treated the other body the same way. He didn’t seem to mind walking right through the blood and . . . the other things. Justin was positive he was a werewolf, too. Not only because of his strength and indifference to the blood. There was something else. He couldn’t exactly say what it was. Something dark and angry that clung to the young man. Justin could see it, like seeing music; just like that. Only this was a lot less beautiful. It was a spiky razor-edged obsidian cloud that seemed almost solid enough to repel and refract the light in the room.

  Justin licked his lips when Ethan came back. Then, gathering his nerve, he began, “Somebody could see those—” only then he stopped abruptly, because that would be fine. Somebody could see the bodies and call the police and that would be great.

  The young man only shrugged. “It’s dark out. Do you want that carrion in this house? Right, then.” He went over to the ham, resting untouched on the counter by the stove, and cut himself a slice. Then a slice of bread. He added, “Too bad about the cake.”

  Justin glanced involuntarily at the blood clotting in the midst of spattered frosting, gagged, and looked away.

  “You pure. You’re no different from the rest, are you?” Ethan seemed pleased, for some reason. He piled the thin-sliced ham on the bread and took a bite, watching Justin. “You were staying at that hotel. We found your scent there,
when we were hunting strays. You didn’t do anything at all to keep them off you, did you? Can’t you do magic at all? That because you’re a dude, or what?”

  Justin stared at him.

  “Were you heading for Dimilioc? That’d be smart. But who protected you, before, when you were little? Your mother?” Ethan waited a moment. When Justin didn’t answer, he added, “I’m Dimilioc. You probably figured that out, right? I’m Ethan Lanning. Grayson Lanning is still Master. You’ve probably heard of Grayson Lanning, right?”

  Justin shook his head.

  “Or maybe not. You don’t know damn all, do you?” Ethan paused again, staring at Justin. Now, for the first time, he looked a little sympathetic. In a way, that was more alarming than indifference or even disapproval. He asked abruptly, “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Justin,” Justin muttered. “I’m not a kid.”

  “Justin,” repeated the young man. “And what were your parents, Justin? Do you even know?” He took another bite of ham and bread, watching Justin steadily. His eyes were dark, but flecked with gold. There was a heat to his gaze that wasn’t anything Justin recognized. A vicious sharp-edged heat, like anger but different. Something about Ethan seemed almost familiar, but Justin couldn’t have said what, or who, that sharp anger reminded him of.

  Father Mark groaned, put a hand to his head, got his feet under him, and heaved himself upward. Justin caught his arm and helped, not that he was strong enough to keep the priest upright if he collapsed again, but he could at least support him on the way down.

  “What—” began the priest, as he had before, but stopped again. He leaned against the counter, touched his head gingerly with a hand that still trembled, cleared his throat, looked at Justin, and asked at last, “What were those . . . were they demons? Do you know?”

  Justin could only shake his head, but Ethan, smiling with savage humor, said “That’s right, Father. Demons. Don’t worry about it, though; they’re gone now.”

  Father Mark and Justin both began to speak and both stopped. Justin was sure they both wanted to ask something on the order of And are you a demon, then? But probably that wouldn’t be at all smart.

  Then a sharp crunching sound from outside interrupted them and removed the temptation to ask stupid questions. Justin stood very still, listening. Someone stepping on glass or shattered wood. In just an instant, another werewolf was going to surge into this house, and there was no longer even a door in place to slow it down—

  Ezekiel stepped through the doorway. He took in the missing bodies, the pooling blood, Ethan with his ham sandwich, and Father Mark and Justin huddling together in the midst of all the mess and destruction. He didn’t seem impressed by any of it. He merely said, to Justin, “You’ve had time to catch your breath, I hope, because it’s well past time to leave.”

  “In a rush, are we?” said Ethan. “You weren’t in much of a hurry about your hunt.”

  “I encountered complications.” Ezekiel didn’t even glance at the other young man. He was studying Father Mark and frowning.

  Ethan set the rest of his snack aside. “Complications?” And, after a moment, when Ezekiel did not answer, he went on, “Yeah, there’s another complication right here, isn’t there? What do you want to do about the priest?”

  It took Justin a moment to believe he’d heard the young man correctly. Then he took a fresh grip on his butter knife and stepped in front of Father Mark, who made an inarticulate sound and began to try to straighten up.

  Ezekiel raised a pale eyebrow at him, but said to Ethan, “We don’t need to do anything about him at all. He’s not important.”

  “You think Grayson will agree?”

  “Yes,” Ezekiel said flatly. “That’s what I think.”

  Ethan shrugged. “Whatever you say. If Grayson’s pissed off, it won’t be my problem.”

  “Exactly,” said the other young man, and added, speaking now to Justin, “You now. You’re important. Were you heading for Dimilioc?”

  “He wasn’t. He doesn’t know anything,” said Ethan. He gave Justin an unreadable look. “Not about himself, not about Dimilioc. He’s completely clueless. Don’t ask me how he’s lived this long without knowing anything about anything, but I’d lay odds he doesn’t.”

  Ezekiel tilted his head to the side, regarding Justin with narrow-eyed curiosity. He said after a moment, “That right? Your mother left you so ignorant?”

  Justin stared back at him. “Watch what you say about my mother.”

  There was a slight pause. Then Ezekiel smiled, thinly but with real humor. “You’ve got guts, kid. Good for you. But, trust me on this, you do not actually want us to walk away and leave you here alone. You do not want that. You may not have to worry about the vampires or their damned blood kin anymore, but you might have noticed that now we’ve got a problem with strays. And you’re Pure. You’re going to draw them like terriers after a little mouse, do you realize that? It does not matter what you do or where you go or how clever you are with magic. You are going to get yourself killed, and until you do, you’re a danger to everyone around you. You understand me?”

  “Wow, that sounds scary,” Justin said recklessly. “But I’ve been fine till now, so I don’t know why that should change. You walking away and leaving me alone sounds like a great idea.”

  Ethan rolled his eyes. “Why are we arguing? Tell the kid how it’s going to be and let’s get on.”

  “Listen, I’m not—” Justin began. At the same time, Father Mark said sharply, “You can’t just kidnap—”

  Interrupting them both, Ezekiel strode across the room and closed a hand on Justin’s upper arm. Though Justin brought the butter knife up into a half-hearted guard position, the werewolf caught his wrist as well and twisted with inexorable strength, forcing him to drop it. From mere inches away, he met Justin’s eyes and said softly, “I can do anything I want. You can’t stop me. Can you?”

  Justin, furious and terrified, strained, briefly, against the werewolf’s grip. It was like trying to shove against steel.

  “And what I want to do,” Ezekiel said, still in that soft, dangerous voice, “is take you to Dimilioc, where, whether you believe me or not, you will be safe. Dimilioc protects the Pure. We really do. But we do not have time to stand here and argue. Therefore you will be quiet and cooperate, or I will kill the priest after all. Which I do not want to do. So don’t force me to it. Do you understand?”

  “Now, look, son—” began Father Mark.

  “Shut up,” the young werewolf said, without looking at him.

  He did not raise his voice, but somehow his quiet tone carried enough intensity that Father Mark stopped almost mid-word. Justin had no idea how Ezekiel did it, but he thought he would have shut up, too, if it had been him. He stared into the werewolf’s eyes. Ezekiel stared back, patient and ruthless.

  “You will cooperate,” Ezekiel said to Justin. “You’ll come along nicely. I won’t kill anyone. I swear to you, you won’t be harmed in any way. Nor anyone else. But you won’t try to walk away or make a scene or anything of the kind. No Pure tricks, if you do know any. No magic tangle-you-up nonsense, none of that. That’s the bargain. Understand?”

  Justin absolutely did not understand, but he spared a glance for Father Mark. Then he nodded.

  The werewolf barely smiled. “Good.” He let Justin go and gave Father Mark a brief look, faintly apologetic. “Justin will be fine. So will you, I expect. Once Justin’s gone, there shouldn’t be much to draw a stray back here. Rather the reverse. Still, you might fix a crucifix above every door and every window, just in case his scent lingers.”

  Father Mark squinted at him. “A crucifix. Right. Are you a demon, then, son?”

  Ezekiel shrugged. “Only half. Not the half that’s in control.” He beckoned to Justin and turned away, his whole attitude expressing his confidence that everything was going to go exactly according to plan from this moment forward.

  Justin hesitated. Then he picked up the butter knife and p
ut it in his pocket, trying to be unobtrusive. He was pretty sure both Ezekiel and Ethan noticed, but neither commented. Justin looked around, feeling lost and uncertain. “My things . . . the hotel . . .”

  “Your things are replaceable. You do not want to go back to your hotel just now. Trust me on this.” Ezekiel took his arm in a hard grip that just missed being painful and propelled him easily toward the door and out into the night. Justin’s quick, half-desperate glance back showed him only a rectangle of homey yellow light rapidly disappearing behind him, like the last hope of an ordinary life.

  -2-

  “It’s a trap,” Natividad said.

  She spoke a little more loudly than she’d intended. Her voice echoed within the confines of the van, taking on an unexpected hollow reverberation that made her words sound too significant. Almost like prophecy.

  Natividad didn’t believe in prophecy. But even so, she wished Alejandro had not gone out into the dark to survey the territory of their enemies. She wished—though this wasn’t exactly nice of her—that it was Keziah out there instead of her brother. From her slow smile, Keziah, sitting across the van from Natividad, knew exactly how she felt. Natividad could feel her face heat and was pretty sure she was blushing, but she tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed the smile.

  Keziah’s little sister, Amira, shivered as though she, too, had heard something fateful in Natividad’s warning. But Keziah only arched one narrow black eyebrow in elegant mockery and said, “Oh, indeed, a trap! Who would have thought it?”

  Which was fair.

  Natividad had thought everything would get better once Vonhausel was dead. Vonhausel was dead, all the vampires and their horrible blood kin were dead, what could be left to fear? She’d really thought everyone would be safe forever.