Silver Nitrate(87)
“My car is right there, across the street,” the old man said, pointing to a sad-looking Taurus in need of a new paint job. “Let’s go.”
“Look, buddy, we don’t know you; maybe we could go to the coffee shop—”
“Damn it. They’re here. Whatever you do, stay behind me and do not flee. You’ll die on your own.”
Tristán looked in the direction López was staring and saw two men walking their dogs. They seemed ordinary, dressed in suits and ties. The dogs were Dobermans with spiky collars. The only thing that he thought was a bit funny was that they should look so well dressed for a dog walk, as if two bank executives had taken a break to pick up their pets.
Yet as he looked at the dogs they seemed to change, or perhaps it was that the longer he looked, the more he was able to see the seams of their construction. Those were not dogs. Their fur was a liquid black, as if they were etched with a brush. Their eyes, when they raised their heads and bared their razor-sharp teeth, were a murky yellow, the color of a wavering candle. A black liquid, tar-like, slipped down the corner of their panting mouths.
“I’ll handle this,” López said. “Stay close and do not interfere.”
The men undid the leashes, and the dogs sprang forward, rushing toward the spot where they stood, their jaws snapping in the air. Tristán had a clear picture of his demise and raised his hands in a futile attempt to ward off an attack, but López stepped forward and swung his cane, hitting one dog and then the other. The handle of the cane was decorated with the silver head of a bird, and where it touched the dog’s flesh, black ink oozed out and dripped on the ground, then bubbled up, sizzling and evaporating, leaving only a faint tendril of smoke.
The dogs came again, teeth bared, their ugly yellow eyes without any pupils staring at them, and tried to bite José, but he swung the cane a second and a third time. The dogs dripped ink upon the ground and retreated when the silver handle brushed against their skin.
The men in suits did not say a single word. They were watching them, their hands stiffly holding the leash of each dog in a complicated knot. Their lips were moving, but Tristán couldn’t have heard the words even if he’d wanted to.
José took two steps back, motioning to Tristán and Montserrat to also step back. He was trying to shield them while they crossed the street. The dogs lowered their heads, sniffing the ground and growling, as they slowly made their way to the car. When they had almost reached the Taurus, the dogs edged closer to each other and suddenly seemed to merge. It was a violent, chaotic fusion of limbs, with sinews loudly snapping and bones popping as the two dogs became one larger creature with a single head and four eyes that narrowed into tiny pinpricks.
“Hold this,” José said, grabbing the messenger bag and the cane and slamming them against Tristán’s chest. He managed to clutch both items with clumsy hands while the old man took off his raincoat and tossed that to Montserrat.
Yellow claws clacked against the pavement as the dog-thing shifted and pulsed.
“We should run,” Tristán whispered to Montserrat.
“He said to stay close to him.”
“I know what he said. I also know what I’m seeing. That’s a fucking Cerberus.”
“Cerberus has three heads.”
“Of course! That makes it much better!”
Under his raincoat José López wore a baggy beige sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. He pulled each sleeve up to the elbows, revealing a series of intricate black tattoos that looked like Ewers’s runes. They covered his forearms completely.
“Bag,” López said, and Tristán handed him the messenger bag. The old guy stared at the gigantic dog-thing while his hands searched for something inside until he took out a bottle and poured its contents on the ground. The greenish, viscous liquid resembled mucus and smelled foul. It made Tristán wince in disgust.
“Cane,” López said, and Tristán handed him that, while pressing a hand against his mouth to keep himself from retching.
López grabbed the cane, dipped its silver-plated ferrule in the green liquid, and began drawing with it. Faint symbols that had been carved into the wood of the cane glowed a light green, and Tristán thought that for a second López’s tattoos were also imbued with this green glow, the hue glittering beneath the ink. The sorcerer then folded both of his hands atop his cane.
But Tristán could not observe this strange process with more care because in the blink of an eye the dog was no longer a lump of ink shivering and twisting on the ground. The dog-thing rose, fully formed, huge and lean. Its long snout opened, making it look not much like a dog anymore, but a primeval wolf.
On the sidewalk the men in suits were whispering their incantations.
The creature shook its head and rushed forward, showing innumerable gleaming teeth and letting out a screech that made Tristán slam his back against the cold metal of the car.
From the angle where Tristán stood he did not have a view of López’s face, nor could he hear what he was saying; the snatches of words that reached him were senseless blabbering that were muffled by the dog’s screech as it lurched forward and then took one monstrous leap, landing on López and knocking him to the ground.
The dog-thing growled, fixing its eyes on Tristán, and Tristán felt Montserrat’s fingers digging into his shoulder, holding him in place even though his first instinct was to run.