Pure Magic (Black Dog Book 3) (2 page)

Above him, the monsters were fighting. Werewolves, he realized at last. He knew they had to be werewolves, instantly recalled flashes of every horrible werewolf killing reported in the past couple years, didn’t want to think what it would be like to be torn apart, ripped up,
eaten
. They didn’t really look much like wolves, though the one that had come in through the window, smaller and more graceful than the others, looked more like a wolf than a bear. It didn’t seem upset to find itself facing two more werewolves, both larger than itself. It blocked a powerful slashing blow from one of its opponents, knocked Father Mark down and fortunately out of the way, somehow sidestepped a rush from the other monster—it didn’t seem possible for it to evade that attack, not penned up in this tiny kitchen, but between one step and the next, it shifted into human form. A monster had crashed through the window, but it was a slim human youth who slid underneath a sledgehammer blow that should have taken his head off, then instantly exploded back into his massive werewolf form to return the attack.

Suddenly the two larger monsters were crowding back toward the shattered doorway. The smaller one tore claws across one enemy’s back, simultaneously crushing its neck between powerful jaws, and that one collapsed in a fountain of black blood, its body jerking and twisting back into human shape. But the other flung itself sideways, hit the table, and went out the window while the splintered table collapsed on top of Justin.

There was a sudden profound silence.

The smaller werewolf—
smaller
was a relative term for a creature so much bigger and heavier than a man—turned its heavy, blunt-muzzled head to stare straight at Justin. Its eyes, brilliant yellow, looked like they were literally lit from within by leaping flames. Justin dragged himself out from under the broken table, pushed himself back along the wall away from the bodies, and tried to get to his feet. It took him two tries.

He found he was still clutching his stupid butter knife, but couldn’t bring himself to throw it down, even though he knew what a pathetic excuse for a weapon it was. A butter knife, for God’s sake! He couldn’t understand why the monster had not yet attacked him. Certainly not because he had the stupid knife. He couldn’t understand why it hadn’t killed Father Mark, who was half-lying on the floor, one hand to his head, looking every bit as dazed and shocked as Justin felt. Father Mark was hardly a yard from the werewolf, but the monster did not look at the priest. Its attention seemed fixed on Justin, who swallowed hard and stood still. He was sure that if he ran, it would be on him. Although maybe he could draw it away from Father Mark—

To his shock, a young man stepped through the ruined doorway, glanced around, and came in, striding indifferently past the bodies and the spattered blood.

He was dark and heavy-set, not too tall, probably a few years older than Justin, kind of ordinary looking. He wore black jeans, a plain black tee shirt, blunt-toed black boots, and a heavy glower. He ignored the bodies and Father Mark with a complete lack of interest and showed no alarm at the werewolf that, having killed or chased off the others, still remained in the kitchen. But he raised his eyebrows when he looked at Justin. His disapproving expression deepened.

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?”