Black Dog Short Stories Read online

  “Pay attention,” growled Grayson Lanning, the Dimilioc Master, from behind him. “Daydreaming about old times, Williams? You’ve missed the trail.”

  He had. There was nothing he could say. He’d gone right past it, that subtle breath of sulfur and ash and old blood they’d been following: it had faded suddenly as the stray shifted to his human form—that spoke well for his control—and ducked away west down a little alley that ran between the ass-ends of crowded businesses, restaurants and who knew what, right into the heart of Chinatown where he might hope to hide his scent in the cluttered smells of spices and cooking, fish and herbs and who knew what.

  And, yeah, Thaddeus had missed it, gone right past. Angry and embarrassed, he wanted to snarl back at Grayson, but that would be stupid, a kid’s temper. He took a deep breath instead to fix the weaker, less distinctive scent, and turned west to follow the trail. What all did lie over in this direction, anyway, once you got past the restaurants but before you got to the river? Apartments, warehouses, both, maybe. He wasn’t sure. But the kid hadn’t gotten too much of a lead even with his little dodge; they’d catch him before he’d got two blocks, probably. Then there’d be one less cur in Chicago.

  Hunting strays was the point, but only on the surface. Thaddeus wasn’t a fool. Sure, lots of strays were making trouble these days. Sure, yeah, too many for that scary-ass young punk Ezekiel to deal with all by his own damn self. But no one had to explain to Thaddeus why Grayson had decided to take this particular mission himself, and why he’d decided to bring Thaddeus—and no one else—as backup and support. This was a test. Thaddeus could have counted on his fingers all the different ways it was a test, and even then he might have missed a couple unless he took off his shoes.

  It was a test of Thaddeus’s temper, because Grayson wasn’t making any damn effort to be nice. It was a test of Thaddeus’s control of his Beast, what in Dimilioc they called his shadow, a stupid name for something that could explode up out of a man and take on real substance. A man cast his own shadow. The Beast was something else, something outside a man, though it clung close, yeah, okay, close as a shadow, that part was right. It was something that came straight from Hell, just like they said; that part he believed.

  So, yeah, this whole damn mission was a test of Thaddeus’s control, because here he was, way out here alone with Grayson Lanning, just the two of them, no one else for miles, no hostages, no witnesses, and if they fought, neither of them knew who would prove stronger.

  But Thaddeus kept his Beast down, with a continual effort. It wanted to rise, wanted to fight: ambitious and furious and crazy, what else was new. He’d had lots of practice. He kept it down and he kept his mouth shut and he did what he was told. That was maybe another part of the test. Or maybe it was a test of his commitment to DeAnn and Conway, left behind in Dimilioc. Or a test of his trust in Dimilioc, to obey the Master and leave his wife and little son behind. Who knew what the hell the Dimilioc Master had in his head?

  And, so, yeah, what could make any test worse? Why, making yourself look like a moron by getting lost in your own head and missing a trail, that was what.

  The stray had been in black dog form when they’d caught his scent. Thaddeus didn’t know whether he’d caught that sulfur-stink first, or if Grayson had just waited to see how long he’d take to catch it—another test, maybe, it could of been. But the kid had some kind of control or he wouldn’t have been able to try to hide his scent by shifting to human form. He wouldn’t be able to keep his Beast down long, though, not now when he was scared, when he knew he had way meaner black dogs on his tail. No, he’d let his Beast back up, or lose control of it and it would come back up on its own. It wouldn’t make any difference. A single ordinary cur black dog wasn’t going to last even half a minute once they caught him—

  Then Thaddeus caught a sharp, acrid stink and a heavy blood scent, and swung around. A seafood place on one side, the smell of spices and shrimp blurred the ash-and-sulfur scents of black dogs, but the blood smell was strong and sweet. Nothing could hide that. Another alley led off south between two hulking dark buildings, toward 22nd and who knew what, except that someone was dead there, and a black dog—no, two black dogs—by the scent, stronger than the stray Grayson and Thaddeus had been tracking. Though maybe without as much control.

  Grayson lifted his head, breathing deeply, sorting the scents. “Full moon,” he growled in disgust, meaning all the strays in the city were out tonight.

  Thaddeus felt the pull of the moon himself, and his control was much, much better than any stupid kid’s. Except around Grayson. Around the Dimilioc Master, he felt like a stupid kid himself, which didn’t help his control any. Made it hard to talk, too. But Thaddeus jerked his head the way they’d been going, then toward the alley and gritted out, “Which?”

  Their original target plainly wasn’t completely stupid. If they didn’t catch him soon, he might be able to hide, and DeAnn had stayed with Con at Dimilioc, which was fine, but now they had no Pure woman with them to help them track a stray if they lost him. So maybe it would be better to chase that one down now, before he got too far ahead. If they caught him quick, they might still have time to circle back and track these others by the scent of the lingering blood and rage. But if they lost these, they’d lose two and only have caught the one. Thaddeus thought they should take the two, but he wasn’t calling the shots, not tonight.

  Grayson thought it over.

  The Dimilioc Master showed no sign of being affected by the moon. He was a big man, not as big as Thaddeus, but broad-boned and heavy, with powerful shoulders and big hands, a strong jaw and deep-set eyes beneath heavy brows. But he wouldn’t have intimidated Thaddeus at all except for his Beast. The Master’s Beast was very, very strong. Grayson hadn’t let it up, there was no trace of its distortion in his hands or face. But Thaddeus could see it, gathered right below his skin or maybe hovering right over it, so dense it was almost palpable. The Master was not much older than Thaddeus, but the strength of his Beast made him seem a lot older. Just having Grayson Lanning walk into the same city as them ought to have made all these stupid strays flatten out—but ignorant, crazy curs, yeah, what did they know? Kids with no sense and no experience and no idea their noise might draw the wrong kind of attention. They probably thought they needed to watch out for ordinary humans armed with silver, and had no idea at all they should worry a whole lot more about Dimilioc black wolves.

  “You, go after that one,” Grayson ordered, stabbing a finger down the alley the way they had been going. “When you’ve dealt with him, go back to the hotel. Don’t argue—go.”

  Thaddeus had been about to object. Splitting up was stupid and unnecessary, because finding yourself facing a whole pack of enemies out here wasn’t likely, but it could happen—or, much more likely, there might be men with guns and silver bullets. Murderous strays would draw that kind of reaction in a hurry these days, and these days even in Chicago a lot of people went armed and never mind moronic laws that told them they were supposed to let themselves be the prey of monsters in the dark

  If Thaddeus let Grayson Lanning get killed on this mission, Ezekiel would hunt him down and make him a fucking example for the ages. Thaddeus didn’t need Dimilioc’s young executioner to actually stroll up and say so in person. He knew it was true.

  But it was also obvious that the Dimilioc Master wasn’t going to take Fuck, no for an answer. Sooner done, sooner home picking your teeth, as Thaddeus’s father used to say. Thaddeus turned without a word and loped after their original target.

  His target was a young stray, not very strong yet, probably he’d never be very strong. But he wasn’t as stupid as most. Everything pointed to that, and Thaddeus thought so again now, tracking the kid down the last block and right through a restaurant, in the back door and out the front, a little hole-in-the-wall place meant for Chinese people rather than tourists, violent with chilies and Sichuan pepper, steamed fish and black mushrooms, hot oil and sizzling pork. Clever kid, sca
red kid, he should have tucked himself in at a table in the back and stayed right here in this place. If he’d done that, Thaddeus might of lost him in the confusion of scents, or would at least have been forced to lie low and wait rather than taking him out in the middle of a public restaurant, because the place wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either. But he’d gone through, the scent was clear outside the front door . . . and disappeared three steps down the street.

  Thaddeus paused, nostrils flaring. No one challenged him. No one had said anything when he’d come in the back way and strode through the restaurant, no one said anything now, though he had stopped dead, forcing people out here on the sidewalk to go around him. He turned in a circle, taking deep breaths, sorting out what must of happened.

  Not a stupid kid, no. He’d come out the front door and turned around and gone straight back in, and he was probably out the back again by now and running for safety. No one from the restaurant had showed a thing, not by so much as a glance. Known here, maybe, that kid. And of course Thaddeus was a stranger. Not that it would make any difference, in the end.

  Turning, he took a long step back toward the restaurant’s front door.

  No one tried to stop him, but two of the staff got in his way, like it was accidental. He shoved past them, ignoring their sullen, wary looks. The back door was now locked. Yeah, like that was a coincidence, right? He broke the lock and flung the door open, and was back out in the alley, casting back and forth. Yes. The kid’s scent was here, stronger now. He was in black dog form again. The moon or just plain fear had driven him to shift, but he was still heading west—yes, one small street and then parking lots, empty in the dark.

  And then the bulk of some large building, not a little shop but something big. There was a green banner in the front, right up the face of the building above the front door, three stories if it was an inch, but Thaddeus couldn’t read the Chinese characters on the banner. He didn’t care what building it was, anyway. All that he cared about was the hunt, the hunt with his quarry running before him, yeah, the kid knew he was back here, knew he hadn’t managed to throw him off the trail. Maybe he’d hidden and waited, watching the back of the restaurant. Maybe he’d seen Thaddeus come back out. He was scared, Thaddeus could smell it. Any stray would know right away, seeing Thaddeus, that there could be no way to fight. That Thaddeus was the hunter tonight, and the kid was just prey.

  The kid hadn’t gone in the front door of the building. Around the side, and away toward the river—toward the river, really? Thaddeus cast one way and the other, circled wide around the building and then more closely, and found, as he’d half-expected, his quarry’s scent on a rear wall and a balcony one story up. Yes. The same exact trick again, fake trail and doubling back, but it was a good trick and the kid hadn’t had a lot of options once he’d got his far. This time he’d laid down a lot more of a trail to draw Thaddeus away toward the river before he doubled back. And jumping up to the balcony, that was clever, if Thaddeus had been a little more careless, that break in the scent trail might have thrown him off. Maybe it was even another false trail . . . but no. The scent was strong here. He was sure the stray had gone in through the balcony door.

  The door wasn’t ajar, but it was unlocked. A black dog could slide it open, but only a human hand could work the little lock, and his quarry was too scared now to manage the shift back to human form. Thaddeus had never yet let his Beast up; he had no need to. If he ran into ordinary human people, better to do it in his human form and not as the Beast. Grayson had laid down that rule, but it was true. No need to change, not yet, plenty of time for that once he caught up with the stray at last. So he had no trouble sliding the balcony door open and then shutting it behind him.

  An apartment. A bedroom, and beyond that another room, and across the room a door, closed, but probably leading out to the main hall. Dark and empty; this apartment even smelled empty . No one lived here. The scent trail led straight through each room, detoured to one side and the other, and then led out through the interior door. Thaddeus had his hand actually on the doorknob before a breath or a sound or, hell, maybe a half-conscious thought about kids who doubled back and doubled back again, made him turn.

  He was shifting as he turned, and he ducked, too, hit the floor and rolled, or he might have bought it right there, ambushed by a kid a third his age and less than a third his size. DeAnn would never have let him hear the end of it. That was the thought that made him move so fast, that brought his Beast roaring up. In that form he was close to half a ton of jet-black shaggy monster, all muscled bulk and hot breath and fiery eyes and knife-sharp claws. And the kid was only a kid, hardly bigger than a big dog. It was not an even contest.

  Thaddeus’s Beast loved the younger black dog’s fear and despair. It didn’t want a contest. It wanted a hunt and a leisurely slaughter, preferably not too fast. That wasn’t what a decent man would want: if killing had to happen, a decent man would make it quick. But it was hard; harder than it should of been; he’d been scared by that ambush and now he was angry—or his Beast was angry, it was always angry, but this was a hotter, more vicious rage, feeding his own anger. Thaddeus had intended to make it quick, but instead he only tore five shallow gouges along the stray’s shoulder and side and threw him against the far wall. Then, embarrassed by the self-indulgence, he lunged to finish the stray, but the young black dog rolled and tucked himself down and fled before Thaddeus caught him, out the door and gone down the hallway. Thaddeus wanted to curse. It came out as a low, grating snarl.

  There were no screams, that was something; apparently no one was out there just at the moment. Thaddeus tore his own way through the doorway, wrecking a good chunk of the doorframe and wall, and followed. The trail was so clear it might have been lit by burning fire; there was no missing it now. The door at the end of the hall—that was a stair, and the stray had fled upward, very nice, the kid would run out of up soon enough—a chase, a hunt, and a victim who had no hope of getting away . . . he tried not to savor it, but it was hard.

  Out on the highest floor, and here at last someone was out in the hall, an elderly Chinese woman who pressed back against the wall, her hands over her mouth. The Beast wanted to tear her intestines out in passing. Thaddeus blocked the impulse, barely noticing the familiar effort, and slammed his weight against the door through which the scent trail led.

  The stray flung himself at Thaddeus as he came through the door, one last desperate effort, but Thaddeus turned his shoulder to that rush, blocked the first frantic slashing blow and the second, and someone shot him.

  It wasn’t silver. He knew that first. It wasn’t a killing shot, obviously, or he’d never have known anything about it. A handgun, something small caliber, it hadn’t made much noise. It hadn’t made much of a wound, either: he’d been shot in the chest, but his heavy bones had deflected the bullet and in this form he was very hard to kill. But it hurt. His anger roared up, vast and burning. The stray was in front of him again. Thaddeus knocked him down and aside, crushed his ribs and tore through his belly, flung him aside and turned on the man with the gun . . . who was an old man, old, old, ninety years old, a hundred maybe, he looked that old, a little old Chinese man with a thin face and wispy white hair and a little gun gripped in his shaking hands. Hands shaking like that, it was a miracle he’d hit Thaddeus at all, even if Thaddeus in his black dog form was a target hardly smaller than the broad side of a barn.

  Then the kid was there. Thaddeus had hurt him, hurt him bad, he’d done it deliberately, forcing him to shift back to human form to shed those injuries, getting one enemy down so he could figure out this new threat. That had worked fine, because of course the kid didn’t have the control to shift back to his black dog form, not right away, not when it counted most. But he flung himself in front of Thaddeus in his fragile human form. Like a toy terrier pup facing down a wolf. Just like that. It was a surprise, a black dog cur facing Thaddeus like that, protecting an old human man—his father, no, too old: maybe his grand
father. That was . . . actually, that was kind of something, a black dog kid acting like that.

  The kid was shouting, quick and angry, but at the old man, not at Thaddeus. Thaddeus couldn’t understand him and thought at first he’d lost language after all, though he hadn’t in years, but it wasn’t that, of course: the kid was shouting in Chinese, cussing up a storm by the tone, but the old man wasn’t budging. He was trying to get around the kid, shoot Thaddeus again. So the kid grabbed the gun out of his hands and threw it away, smart kid, even right now, right this minute, even with everything else. That was seriously astonishing. Hard to believe he was an ordinary stray’s kid—but then, Thaddeus knew better than most, better than any stuck-up Dimilioc wolf, that some black dogs actually did do their best to train up their kids.

  And the gun skidded all the way across the room and under a threadbare old couch, gone, out of easy reach. Not that it had been much of a gun anyway. The kid was pushing the old man back bodily, away from Thaddeus, down an interior hallway. The kid shoved the old man away and then blocked the hallway with his own body, like his skinny ass would slow anybody down for more than half a second. Not that the old man went, he was pushing at the kid’s back, yelling something loud and angry in Chinese.

  Thaddeus caught his Beast by the tail and dragged it back and down, forced it down when it didn’t want to yield, stomped his foot down on it and braced himself good against it getting free. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at both the black dog kid and the old man. “What the hell?” he demanded. “Kid wants to save your sorry ass, what’s your problem, old man?”

  “Don’t hurt him,” the kid said, quick and urgent. He was just a kid, too, thirteen or fourteen. No way he was as much as fifteen, skinny little kid like that, all knees and elbows. “Don’t hurt him,” he said again. “He’s not one of us, he’s nothing, you don’t have to kill him, people know him, everyone knows him, killing him’ll only make trouble, people with guns—”