Blood Magic

TWENTY-SEVEN

IN addition to a siren, T.J. had a police radio in his car. They listened to that and to regular news in their mad race to Memorial. From what she could piece together, the fire had abruptly poofed out about the time Sam settled on top of the building. Firefighters were baffled.

Lily wasn’t, not about the cause—but the motive had her wondering. Sam was an ethical being, but his standards didn’t often overlap with human morality. Lily felt sure he hadn’t suddenly decided to become a scaled firefighter.

There were reports of a bomb, garbled and unconfirmed. There was no official word on casualties, but according to someone interviewed by a reporter, the hospital’s sprinklers hadn’t activated and much of its tech had malfunctioned. So it could be bad.

Lily couldn’t get Rule or Cynna on their cell phones. She knew Rule lived. The mate bond made that a certainty. She didn’t know about any of the others.

Even with a siren, T.J. was unable to get very close. It seemed as if half the people in the downtown had fled when the dragon appeared—and the other half had left their cars or their offices to get a better look. Sidewalks and streets alike were jammed.

T.J. parked well down Frost Street. As soon as the car stopped, Lily slid out into the oven-dry heat—and jumped as a cool mental voice said, Your mate and compatriots live.

“Thanks,” she whispered to Sam.

Memorial was big. Like many big hospitals, it had spawned a number of offspring. The campus included parking garages, buildings for outpatient care and rehab, a women’s hospital, and a children’s hospital. The main building, though, was shaped like a V. They headed toward the western tip of the V, weaving among stranded vehicles and gawking pedestrians.

Where had all these people come from? San Diego-ans didn’t mob up outside in the summer. It was too stinking hot.

“Are any of my compatriots hurt?” Lily asked Sam. “Including Nettie. She’s the clan’s doctor. She’s been taking care of Cullen. So was Jason. He’s Nokolai.”

“Uh, Lily?” T.J. glanced back at her. “You talking to me?”

“No, I’m talking to the dragon.”

“Sure. Pull the other one.”

Your question is imprecise. If you wish to know whether any of them sustained damage today, Cynna Weaver is coughing but essentially unharmed. The gnome is undamaged. Cullen Seabourne is in sleep. The healer with him . . . yes, I see that she is called Nettie. She is undamaged, as is the nurse with them. Rule Turner incurred cuts to one arm, but they are healing. He is under arrest.

“He’s what?!”

He threw a bomb. The authorities find that suspicious.

A bomb. Lily drew a calm-me-down breath. One question at a time. “What are you doing here?”

I put out the fire and absorbed the power the sorcerer used to disable the tech in the building. Most of the tech is operational again. Some remains . . . I believe the phrase is screwed up.

“That’s the phrase, all right.” It explained why she’d been unable to reach Rule or Cynna on their cells. “Was that a direct answer to my question, or are there other reasons—”

“You’re worrying me,” T.J. said.

“I’m not the one acting weird. You bought my lunch.”

He snorted.

Her hairline was already growing damp, especially at her nape. Should’ve put her hair up this morning. She walked faster.

They’d almost passed one of the big parking garages. She could see part of the west wing of the hospital now and some of the emergency vehicles clustered around it. There was a hydraulic truck pulled up onto the grass, its platform elevated to the third story. Wispy white trails of smoke drifted out some of the windows on that floor.

There was also a Channel 7 van straight ahead. “This way,” she said, snagging T.J.’s sleeve and pulling. “Let’s dodge the reporters, if we can. You know dragons use mindspeech, right? Well, Sam prefers us to answer out loud when he mindspeaks us. He says our thoughts are too muddy otherwise.”

Human thoughts are muddy at all times, Sam informed her, but worse when you don’t vocalize. The officer who considers himself in charge of Rule Turner has a particularly messy mind. This caused me to misspeak, since my attention is somewhat divided. I’m monitoring several minds while watching for the sorcerer and the Chimei.

Lily suspected “misspeak” was the dragon version of “I was wrong.” “What did you misspeak about?”

The officer hasn’t arrested Rule Turner. He either intends or wishes to do so. There is little distinction in him between wishes and intentions. Very muddy.

Directly ahead was a knot of people held back by a police barricade. Beyond that were streams and eddies and puddles of first responders from both the fire department and the police. From here she couldn’t see where patients had been evacuated to. “Why did Rule throw a bomb?”

“He did what?” T.J. demanded.

He didn’t want it to explode inside the hospital. A sensible action, but the officer disbelieves his account of events, although there is a witness to corroborate most of it.

“Where did the bomb come from?”

The sorcerer planted it outside Cullen Seabourne’s room after creating the fire and attendant confusion to act as cover. The Chimei was not with him, so he lacked her illusions. The man with you now is your friend?

“A compatriot,” she said, liking the word. “And a friend.”

He wonders if you are going mad. I will speak to him. He will be less useful if he distrusts your sanity.

“Okay.” They’d reached the police barricade. “FBI,” she told one of the uniforms at the barricade as she pulled out her ID. “MCD Unit 12, Special Agent Lily Yu. I need through.”

“Omygod,” T.J. said, paling. “Yes. Sure. Omygod.”

“Hidden radio,” Lily told the officer, who was eyeing T.J. suspiciously. “He’s SDPD, but he’s with me. Who’s coordinating? Hennessey?” Coordinating was policy speak for in charge, and Carl Hennessey was deputy chief of operations for the Fire Department. A hospital fire was a major incident and would draw the big guns.

The officer gave her ID a good look before handing it back. “Fire’s out. You’ll want to talk to Captain Dreyer, ma’am. SDPD.”

Lily’s eyebrows rose. Policy called for a senior police officer to be on scene in cases of suspected terrorism. She could see why they might suspect terrorism. But in such a situation, policy also called for evacuating the area, not allowing civilians to mob the street and gawk at the pretty dragon.

She ducked under the makeshift barrier. “Where’s Captain Dreyer? And why is no one dispersing the crowd?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’ll get the sergeant, ma’am. He can answer your—”

“Sandy!” T.J. boomed out. “Over here!”

A man with skin almost as dark as the dragon’s scales looked their way. He had a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve and the build and expression of a defensive tackle about to take out the quarterback. That expression didn’t lighten one whit when he yelled back, “T.J., you crazy bastard. What are you doing here?”

“Tagging along with Agent Yu.” T.J. jerked his thumb at Lily. “She used to be one of mine, but she’s gone over to the Feds now. Unit 12. She wants that crowd dispersed.”

The sergeant’s frown deepened as he took a few long strides to join them. “Any idiot asshole would want the crowds dispersed,” he said when he reached them, his voice low. “Any idiot asshole but our captain. Sorry, ma’am,” he added to Lily. “Orders are for us to maintain the perimeter until reinforcements arrive.”

“Reinforcements who won’t be able to reach you,” she said. “Emergency vehicles can’t get through the mob.”

The scowl tightened another notch. “Yes, ma’am, but—”

“She’s Unit 12, Sandy,” T.J. repeated. “She’s got the fucking authority on this scene, not Dreyer.”

Now the sergeant looked pained. “Magic shit?”

“Magic shit,” Lily agreed, though she didn’t actually know that yet. Though Sam had said the sorcerer had blanked out the hospital’s tech, hadn’t he? “I don’t want to get you in trouble with your captain, but those people need to be moved out. Get some bullhorns. Any idea of casualties?”

“At least two. The fire was confined to the third floor.”

Cynna Weaver wants you to hurry.

Lily’s head jerked up. What?

The officer with the muddy mind has sent other officers to evacuate those in Cullen Seabourne’s room. Cynna Weaver does not intend to comply. There is some logic to her position. While I do not believe the sorcerer is here, I’m unable to touch his mind directly, so there is a possibility he remains near and could finish his task. He would be a fool to linger when I am here, but we do not yet know if he is a fool.

“Plus we don’t know if he has others on his string who could . . . Uh, thinking out loud,” she told the sergeant, who’d looked puzzled. “Never mind. Get the bullhorns. Do what you can, and I’ll have a word with your captain. Where is he?”

“The command post’s in front of the arrival plaza, ma’am. The place where patients are dropped off.” He hesitated, glanced at T.J.

“Don’t worry about my girl, here,” T.J. told him. “She can handle Dreyer.”

The sergeant shook his head and muttered something. It didn’t sound like he was expressing confidence in her ability to take on his captain.

Lily thanked him and took off at a fast walk, veering back to the street to avoid the swarms of responders and their equipment. T.J. stayed beside her. She glanced at him. “I don’t know Dreyer. Garcia headed Patrol back when I was in uniform. Do you know him?”

“Yeah. He’s a prick. Does the job, but he’s a prick. Yappy little dog type.”

That was code from when he’d been mentoring her. T.J. compared people to various types of dogs. She’d often wondered what breed he thought she was, but had never dared ask. “Ankle biter?”

“You got it. He’s loyal, small-minded, territorial as hell, and he thinks he’s a damned Doberman, so he won’t back down from a threat. You’ll have to use your owner’s voice.”

She shot him an amused glance. “I should make him sit?”

“Damn straight. Then give him a bone he can go away and chew on.”

“Sam said some officer here intends to arrest Rule. Maybe it’s this Captain Dreyer.”

He considers that his name.

“Okay. Uh—T.J., I’m talking to Sam now. Sam, you said the . . . damn.” She could not use the word Chimei. It wouldn’t move from her brain to her mouth. “The out-realm perp isn’t here, but you can’t tell if the sorcerer is or not.”

I did not say that. A whiff of displeasure accompanied those words. I said I cannot touch the sorcerer’s mind directly. I can, however, infer his presence or absence in other ways. These methods do not offer complete accuracy, but they strongly suggest he has left the area.

“The sorcerer has shields like Cullen’s?”

He is shielded, obviously, but not like Cullen Seabourne. Cullen Seabourne’s shields are . . . unexpected. I know of only one being who could construct layered shields of that specificity, strength, and sophistication, but he has been dead for several hundred years. I had always believed he did not share his technique with anyone, yet his shields appear to have been re-created. It is impossible that Cullen Seabourne did this himself.

In fact, he hadn’t. Yet some perversity made her want to argue with Sam. “Cullen’s pretty bright.”

A primitive tribesman might be brilliant, but you would be astounded if he painted an exact duplicate of the Mona Lisa without ever seeing it.

Rule had been right. Sam was deeply curious about Cullen’s shields.

I look forward to discussing them with him, true, but I would not characterize my interest as you have.

She scowled. “Quit peeping in my head.”

Learn proper mindspeech and you will control which thoughts you share.

Another reference to her learning mindspeech. How un-subtle of him.

That was unusual. So was his chattiness today. She couldn’t remember when he’d answered so many questions, even volunteering information she hadn’t asked for. Of course, she couldn’t remember a lot of her interactions with him. Most of them had happened in Dis to the other Lily, the one whose silent soul shared space with her.

Some people would say that the other Lily was her. Same soul, same person, right? And in an obscure, underneath-it-all sense, that was true, but it didn’t feel that way. She didn’t hold those memories. Now and then one brushed against her conscious mind, but they always evaporated quickly, like mist in the desert.

“You going to claim this for your crowd?” T.J. asked.

“I don’t know. Did the sorcerer use magic?” she asked Sam. “I don’t have authority here unless magic was used in the commission of a felony.”

The sorcerer created the fires magically. He also used magic to disable the hospital’s tech and to put a large number of people to sleep so he would not be seen or interfered with when he planted the bomb. Your laws regarding magic vary from the convoluted to the absurd, but these acts seem to fall within the purview of those laws.

T.J.’s eyes were wide.

“I guess you heard that,” Lily said. “I wish I could tell when Sam’s talking just to me and when he’s including others in the conversation.”

You could if you learned the basics of mindspeech.

“The dragon,” T.J. said. “He did it again. Talked to me, I mean. In my mind.”

“I know. It’s disconcerting at first.”

He snorted. “It’s freaky damned weird, is what it is. Cool as hell, but freaky damned weird. What’s this about an out-realm perp and a sorcerer?”

With a jolt, Lily realized she’d mentioned the sorcerer in T.J.’s hearing. Not the Chimei, but she’d been able to refer to the sorcerer. An hour ago, she hadn’t been able to do that. “Just a sec, T.J. Sam? How come I could . . .” talk about the sorcerer, but not the Chimei.

I do not care to say things twice. Join your mate, dismiss the mud-brained officer, and I will explain to the extent I am able.

“Dismissing the mud-brained officer may take a while.”

I will wait.

From the vantage point of the closed-off street, Lily could see the command post up ahead. The fire chief’s car was there, along with two cop cars, a fire engine, and too many people. She was far enough from the building to see the roof better, too. And the dark, wedge-shaped head that peered over the edge of it, surveying the scene below him.

So did lots of others, judging by the noises some of them made. Even some of the cops.

There is no livestock here. If I am to wait, I wish to eat.

“Snack later. You’re scaring people.”

Fear is a reasonable response, and it may disperse the crowd which worries you.

“If they don’t trample each other trying to get away.”

That could be inconvenient. It is difficult to judge what level of fear is useful, given the unpredictability of those who consider themselves apex predators when confronted by a superior predator. Pack predators such as humans are particularly volatile. Shall I assure them I do not intend to eat them?

“I don’t think that would have the desired effect,” she said dryly.

Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. Her heartbeat picked up. Rule was close. She knew he lived and wasn’t badly hurt—some cuts to one arm, Sam had said. She knew, but she needed to see him.

To T.J. she said, “I’ve got two perps. One’s out-realm, like I said when I was talking to Sam. The other’s human and a sorcerer, the real deal. Capabilities largely unknown, though he has some kind of mental shield and, uh, sometimes he can disguise himself magically. He may be Asian. I think I saw him, and that guy was Asian, five-three or -four, weight one-forty. He’s trying to take out a sorcerer who’s on our side. Nearly succeeded last night, which is why our guy is at the hospital.”

T.J.’s eyebrows shot up. “This sorcerer was ready to burn down a hospital to kill one man?”

“So it seems. There’s an awful damned lot I don’t know yet.”

“Why’s the dragon here? He part of this?”

“The part I can’t tell you about.”

“You’re sounding like a Fed, Lily.”

“Sorry.”

The closer she got to Rule, the clearer her awareness of him became. It was distinctly sensory, this knowing, but not like any of her other senses. Touch, hearing, vision—they brought her information about everything around her: all the objects that contacted her physically, disturbed the air to create sound waves, or reflected light into shape and shadow. The mate-bond sense perceived only one thing: Rule. It told her nothing about him except where he was . . . less than thirty feet away now.

Yet if moonglow were a wind, Lily thought, it might feel like this.

Up ahead at the command post, Deputy Chief Hennessey—easy to spot in any crowd, even in his rig, because he was only a few inches shy of seven feet and skinny as a teenage boy—appeared to be arguing with a much shorter man in a wrinkled white shirt. When one of his people interrupted he listened briefly, nodded, then left with his man.

And when he and the other firefighter left, she saw Rule. He lounged against the side of a pumper truck, looking bored. His hands were behind his back, but she could see the blood on one sleeve.

His head turned. He straightened, and their eyes met . . . and she understood why his hands were in that odd position. They were cuffed behind his back.

Anger, raw and red, poured through her. They’d trapped him—handcuffed him, treated him like a felon, when he was injured—when he hated being trapped, feared it, fought that fear—

No. No, she was overreacting. The cuffs probably didn’t trigger his claustrophobia, since he could leave them behind simply by Changing. They were an insult and an offense, but they weren’t harming him.

But she let the anger carry her forward, moving faster now. “Which one’s Dreyer?” she asked T.J.

“Little guy, mostly bald, white shirt, glasses. Bear in mind that you can’t kill him. And if you scare him, he’ll bite.”

“I’ve got bigger teeth.”

“Lily—”

“Don’t worry. I remember what you said about the bone.” And as they approached the small group clustered around the command cars, she pulled out the chain around her neck. She unfastened it.

Rule’s gaze was intent on her. He didn’t say a word. She walked straight to him. A short man with glasses, very little hair, and a wilted white shirt with gold bars on the collar barked at her. “Who the hell are you?”

She ignored him, stuffing the chain and the toltoi into the pocket in her slacks. “You’re all right,” she told Rule.

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “I am.”

She heaved a breath of relief. “Your arm—?”

“Hurts, but it isn’t serious.”

Deliberately she slid his ring on her finger, then turned. “Captain Dreyer,” she said to the short man who was scowling at her. The eyes behind his black-framed glasses were small and close-set.

“Who the hell are you?” he repeated. “If my boys have let a damned reporter get through, I’ll string someone up by the balls.”

“Their genitals should be safe, then. Though you may be fascinated to learn that you have women on your squad, and women lack those particular dangly bits.” She held out her shield. “I’m Unit 12 Special Agent Lily Yu. FBI. Why do you have my fiancé in handcuffs?”