Blood Magic

FOURTEEN

AT 2:38, Rule pulled to a stop in the parking garage beneath the ten-story high-rise he called home.

Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he thought of this as the place he stayed. Lily decided to ask him about that some time when she wasn’t half asleep but still wired, her brain buzzing on caffeine and nerves.

A few months ago, the lease on Lily’s tiny apartment had come due. She’d allowed it to lapse. That was only sensible; she didn’t have room for Rule at her place, and he had plenty of space at his—two bedrooms, two baths, a small office, and an open living area with a killer view. Besides, his place was about twenty times nicer. It was like HGTV exploded there and left it ready for a photo shoot. And if the mate bond dictated that they cohabit, well, that was okay. She wanted to.

However sensible the decision, the results had been bumpy, but she figured that was normal. One of the bumps was the cat that came with her. Dirty Harry did not like being confined to an apartment. He’d been a stray when she found him—or when he found her—and was used to being outside. He also didn’t much like Rule. What cat would feel warm and cuddly with someone who smelled wolfish?

The second bump, of course, was money. Rule had oodles of it. She didn’t.

Some of that was his own money. Rule managed his clan’s investments and paid himself a percentage of the profits. He’d roughly tripled Nokolai’s wealth since assuming those duties and had managed to hang on to the wealth in the current downturn, so there had been plenty of profit to draw from. But Lily couldn’t discount the clan’s wealth because the line between personal property and the clan’s property wasn’t hard and fast in Rule’s mind.

This building belonged to Nokolai. Rule didn’t pay rent. He didn’t make a condo payment. And he’d been seriously insulted when she wanted to pay him for her share of the space. After prolonged discussion, they’d agreed she would pay half the utilities.

To Rule’s way of thinking, there was nothing wrong with the clan providing Lily’s living space as well as his. She was clan. She was Chosen. For Lily, a place she didn’t pay for wasn’t hers, wasn’t home.

But if the apartment didn’t feel like hers, it was still a great place. She was looking forward to getting there as she rode up in the elevator. She let her eyes half close and took Rule’s hand to help him with the claustrophobia he rarely admitted to—but which was one reason he lived in a high-rise. He rode in the elevator every day, and hated it each time. And proved to himself over and over that he could handle the fear.

Stupid, obsessive, determined man.

“Who was it you spoke to at the hospital?” the obsessive man asked. “The deputy.”

“Hmm? Oh, that was Cody. Deputy Beck, I ought to say. Why?”

“There was something in your voice when you spoke to him.”

There shouldn’t have been. She’d thought she kept it businesslike. Lily frowned, her eyes opening fully. “Discomfort, maybe. We, uh, we had a thing several years back, when he was with the SDPD. It didn’t end well.”

He didn’t say anything.

“That’s some really loud silence,” she observed, wide-awake now.

“There was something in your voice,” he repeated. “Something I haven’t heard when you speak to other men.”

Could he possibly be jealous? No, she decided. She was making a human assumption. He had some sort of curiosity or concern, but it wasn’t jealousy. That had been trained out of him, or else lupi lacked the jealousy gene.

And yet, stupid as the question might be, she was about to ask it when the elevator doors opened.

Then she couldn’t say anything. They weren’t alone.

There were eight apartments on this floor—five small ones east of the elevator, three larger units to the west of it. Rule had the corner unit on the north side. Two men flanked that door. One was five-eight, white, blue and brown, built slim. The other was six-three and two-ten with the dark eyes and creamy caramel complexion of a mixed heritage.

“Eric,” Rule said, giving a nod. “LeBron. All quiet?”

Eric and LeBron were Rule’s bodyguards. Two of them, anyway. The Leidolf Lu Nuncio had more or less forced them on Rule when he and Lily returned to San Diego—these two and four others. Each pair worked an eight-hour shift so that Rule could be covered 24/7 with a few exceptions . . . actually, a lot of exceptions. Rule said he preferred them to guard his home rather than his person most of the time.

Rule had sighed and accepted the necessity. “A Rho must have guards,” he’d said. “It’s as much a matter of status as safety, but Leidolf needs to know I am protected.”

The bodyguards were the most recent cohabiting bump, and the biggest for Lily. She had not adjusted to the loss of privacy.

“Except for the cat,” Eric said. “We checked it out when he started yowling, but he was just bored and pissy.”

“Did he get you?” Lily asked, digging in her purse for the key.

LeBron shrugged. “It wasn’t deep. Nearly healed now.”

“I need to advise you of a situation,” Rule said, and, as she’d expected, began briefing them of the attack on Cullen. It was only reasonable, unlike her spurt of resentment. Which she really wished she’d get over.

Lily let herself into the apartment. The thudding feet of a large beast greeted her. She closed the door quickly—and the ginger tabby streaking toward her stopped dead, glaring.

“Sorry, Harry,” she said, moving close to scoop him up. “No nocturnal escapes for you tonight.” She rubbed him along his jaw.

He immediately turned on his motor. Lily was the only one Harry allowed this particular intimacy. Others might pet him upon invitation, but only she was permitted to pick him up. It made her feel absurdly honored. She continued stroking, giving attention to the place behind his ears he especially liked. One of those ears was missing a chunk. He’d been pretty torn up when she found him.

Or he found her. “Anything to report?” she asked the cat. “No? Okay, let me put my purse up, then you get your pay.” She headed for the bedroom at the other end of the apartment.

They’d left a single lamp on, but even without it there would have been enough light to find her way. The outside wall of the great room was glass and the air was clear tonight. City lights twinkled at her from that vast open expanse—Rule’s reward, she thought, for having endured the closed-in space of the elevator to get here. There were drapes, but Rule never closed them, and she’d learned to live with the openness, even at night. They were high enough for privacy.

She’d checked.

Harry grabbed her hand in his teeth when she passed the kitchen. Not biting. Getting her attention. “You know the drill,” she informed him. Even Harry didn’t get his way every time. Her weapon was in her purse. Guards or no guards, she wanted to have it close when she went to bed.

Besides, she liked having things in their place.

With her purse in its designated spot in the bedroom and her weapon next to the bed, she headed for the kitchen, still holding twenty pounds of battle-scarred tomcat. “Guess Rule and I wouldn’t be alone even without those guards, anyway,” she said as she deposited Harry on the kitchen’s shiny slate floor. “You’re always here. At least the lupus guards don’t scratch, bite, or swear at me.”

Compromise. Living together was all about compromise. She came with a cat; Rule came with guards.

Plenty of compromising there, too, though not between her and Rule. She opened the refrigerator and took out a baggie with scraps of deli ham. Harry plunked his rear down next to his bowl and watched intently.

Rule’s brother, Benedict, had long wanted Rule to have bodyguards. Once Rule accepted the necessity for Leidolf’s guards, Benedict had promptly sent an equal number of Nokolai guards. They’d negotiated. The Nokolai guards had weekend duty while Leidolf handled weekdays.

Rule suspected that was what Benedict had wanted all along. Lily suspected he was right.

She tore up a half slice of ham and put it in Harry’s dish, and he fell upon it like the starving beast he wasn’t. Harry approved of ham.

So now the Leidolf guards lived in two of the smaller apartments in this building. More compromising had been needed there due to the question of who would pay for their living quarters. Nokolai was wealthy and could afford to subsidize them, but initially Isen insisted that Leidolf pay rent. Rule, wearing his Leidolf Rho hat, had refused. Nokolai benefited from having its Lu Nuncio guarded.

Of course, Rule could have done what he wanted about the rent, since he controlled Nokolai’s investments. But that would have been a clear—to him—violation of his duty to Nokolai, so he’d brought the matter to his father for negotiation. Only Isen could deal officially with another clan—even when that clan was represented by Isen’s heir.

It was sure as hell complicated. Lily couldn’t recall the exact details, but she thought Leidolf ended up paying utilities for the two apartments plus a token rent.

Kind of like her. She sighed and shut the refrigerator. Then for a moment just leaned against it, so tired she hardly knew what to do next. She let her eyes close . . . and saw once more Cullen’s motionless body stretched out on the ground, his eyes blank and staring.

Lily shivered. The sound of the front door got her moving.

Rule was in the little entry foyer, emptying his pockets. Unlike her, he had no problem dumping things the moment he stepped inside, which was why she’d put a small bowl on the console table for his keys and change.

His hair was messy. It so seldom looked mussed. His eyes were tired, distracted. And he was wearing that silly T-shirt.

Her heart turned over. “Hey,” she said, walking up to him and sliding her arms around his waist.

“Hey, yourself.” He ran his hands down her arms, then rested them at her waist. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Harry,” she explained. The warmth of him settled her, and if she was a bit warmer some places than others, that, too, was pleasant. “Then I got to thinking . . . Rule, was Cullen dead? Before Nettie got to him, I mean.”

“It depends on how you define death.”

“Define it for me.”

He sighed and straightened. “His heart had stopped, but our magic sustains us for a time without a heartbeat.” He paused. “It was close, though. Too damned close.”

“I’m told close counts in horseshoes. When it comes to staying alive, it’s pretty much yes or no. We got a yes tonight.”

“So we did.” He nuzzled her hair. Sighed. She felt some of the tension drain out of him.

“I’ve got a question.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“How long can you go without a heartbeat?”

“If you mean me, personally, I’m pleased to say that I haven’t checked,” he said dryly. “It varies from one lupus to another, and also with the amount of damage involved.”

“Give me a rough average.”

“This is very rough, but perhaps double the time a human could survive. Ten minutes or so. I know of one lupus who went substantially longer, but he’s unusual.”

“Who’s that?”

“My father.”

“Oh. Yeah. Your ability to last without a heartbeat isn’t a deep, dark secret, but it isn’t exactly common knowledge, either, is it?” She considered that, frowned. “Yet this perp didn’t expect a thrust to the heart to be enough. He reinforced it with a spell.”

“Or she.”

“I’m tired of saying he or she. I don’t mean it. The perp’s male. I saw him.”

He brushed her hair back from her face. “You’re just plain tired.”

True. “I’m thinking the perp knew about the party. Seems like a pro would have, and I’m leaning that way. He’s got the moves of a professional. If the timing was intentional, why? What advantage would there be to killing Cullen with everyone around?”

“He—or whoever hired him, if this was a paid hit—wanted to make a public statement.”

“Maybe.” Was Rule still fixated on the marriage-as-motive deal? “Or maybe he likes having a crowd. Some pros like to take out a target on the street, at a game, someplace where they can blend with a crowd to get close. This killer wouldn’t have trouble blending, would he?”

“Not if he can make people think he’s someone else.” He fell silent a moment. “Cullen would have seen the killer’s Gift if he hadn’t been struck from behind.”

“Yeah.” Lily straightened. “Yeah, I should have thought of that. I should have asked Cullen . . . Maybe Cynna will know. Is it more likely a spell or a Gift that lets him hide in plain sight? Gifts work better. That’s what everyone tells me, and Max said this took some real juice to pull off. So if it’s a Gift, is it one of the mind Gifts, like telepathy or charisma? Max thought it was, in which case—”

“Cullen’s shields would have blocked it. Yes, I think you’re right. The perp had to strike from behind.”

“If he knows about Cullen’s shields, he did. Maybe the backstab is his standard MO. I need to find out if—”

His mouth came down on hers. Soft, not hard, with a lover’s certainty and a taste of tongue. Heat curled low in her belly. Her fingers curled, too, holding on a little harder. “What was that for?”

“You.” He pressed another kiss to her lips, then deserted them for her neck. “You need to go to bed.”

“Probably, but not to . . . ah.” He’d done that thing with his fingers at her nape that made her shiver. “Sleep,” she said, trying to mean it. “Not sex. I need sleep.”

“You need to shut your mind off.” He painted a rune along her collarbone with his tongue. “Or you won’t sleep.” Now his hands reached for one of their favorite spots . . . her rump. “I can help.”

A chuckle slipped out. “Always thinking of others.”

“Certainly. For example, I think you’re too warm.” His hands deserted their post to find the zipper in the back of her dress. He pulled it down slowly, drowning her in another kiss, this one deeper, richer.

Seconds later, her dress crumpled to the floor, and his hands found new places to touch while his mouth tended to a spot on her neck he liked.

“Hey.” The stirring was sweet, familiar, new. Always new. “I have a question. Something I’ve been wondering all night.” Her hands slid to his denim-clad butt. “Commando?”

“Mmm. I can’t remember. Perhaps you should check.”

She did. She slid the shorts down to discover that, indeed, there was nothing beneath them but Rule.

He clasped her hand and her waist, leaving several inches between them, and murmured, “We missed our dance.” And he began humming.

So she danced in bra and panties with her beautiful, naked Rule, with the lights of the city twinkling at them from the window wall. He danced her into the living area, humming a 1930s torch song, one that had been old-fashioned even back when he was born.

Lily didn’t dance with him because he was right, though he was. She did need to shut off her mind. But a quick, hot bout between the sheets—or on top of them, or in the foyer, wherever—would have taken care of that. She didn’t need to spin around the floor at nearly 3 A.M.

He did. He needed surcease, comfort, sex, and sleep.

The sex was easy. Sleep? She couldn’t guarantee that, but sex would surely help it along. She had a good shot at comfort, too, thanks to the mate bond. As for surcease . . . that’s what this dance was for, wasn’t it? Surcease means to bring to an end, and he meant to bring this long, difficult day to an end his way, with the stubborn insistence that blood and violence might be part of their lives, but only part.

Play was just as real. What was romance but a lovely bit of play between man and woman?

Absurd, stubborn, impossibly romantic man. He kept touching her, but nothing they couldn’t have done on any dance floor.

Not yet.

He paused their motion to bend and switch off the one lamp they’d left on. She laughed softly at the sudden darkness, the city lights, and herself.

His hands settled on her hips as he continued to move to his own music, but the tune changed to one with a hard, definite beat. “Something’s funny?”

“Me.” She looped her arms around his neck, swaying with him, humming along this time. So selfless she was, willing to give up a little sleep for a man who was clearly determined to make sure it would be no sacrifice. How did a woman give to a man who was so determined to give to her?

She tried harder. Lily smiled into the dimness and eased closer. Now she brushed against him with every motion.

He liked that. He rumbled low in his throat in a way she wouldn’t dream of calling a purr—even if it did remind her of Dirty Harry. His hands tightened on her hips. One of them began wandering . . . brushing her lightly here and there, but never in the place that had begun to ache for him. She pressed closer.

“Uh-uh.” The hand at her hip tightened, keeping a hint of space between them. Suddenly he whirled her around—once, then again—making her laugh in spite of her frustration, ending with them at the dark tunnel of the hall. Once more he slowed.

Two slow, humming turns into the hall, her bra fell to the floor.

Her panties slid down her legs at the entrance to the bedroom.

His fingers slid between her legs just as they reached the bed. An easy caress, a gentle rub, one quick stroke—and she went over.

The climax whited out her brain. She forgot about legs and standing. Fortunately, he scooped her up and tossed her on the bed before she collapsed. He followed her down and, with the aftershocks still pinging through her, he slid inside.

He’d dawdled all he wanted, it seemed, for he finished with quick, hard strokes that overloaded her sensitized flesh, bringing her a second pop.

The next she knew, he’d collapsed on top of her, his breath coming heavy and fast on the side of her head. She lifted one limp hand, stroked his chin. “Mmm. Tangy,” she murmured.

“Tangy?” He was amused, sleepy.

She nodded, eyes closed. “Like a whole-body SweeTART. The second one, I mean, not the first. The first was . . .” Her drowsy brain couldn’t find a sufficiently explosive food to compare it to. She settled for, “Wow.”

“Ah.” He lifted off. “Wow here, too. Scoot. I’ll get the cover.”

She scooted, tugged with him, and wiggled herself under the covers. There was a wet spot on the comforter—the only disadvantage of sex with a lupus. They couldn’t get or give STDs, so no condoms were needed. No condoms meant wet spots, unless you took precautions. Which they’d forgotten to do . . . again.

But no matter. She’d wash the comforter in the morning.

Rule draped one arm over her. Lily snuggled close, closing her eyes, savoring the comfort of the bed and the contact, enjoying her limp body, the drugging pull of sleep.

A thought wiggled up from somewhere.

Rule hadn’t made love like a jealous man, had he? There’d been no possessiveness, no claiming, in either part of their dance. Was she relieved or disappointed?

She couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. Lily sighed and let go.