Mortal Sins

FIVE

RULE slid behind the wheel of his Mercedes. Lily shut the door on the passenger side with what, in a less perfectly engineered piece of equipment, would have been a slam. “Stupidity I can live with. God knows I have to, at times. But that sort of mean-spirited behavior . . . He did it on purpose, didn’t he?”

Rule started the car. “Perhaps not consciously, but he knew the veterinarian would cause trouble for you.” Not that Lily had taken that parting shot because of the trouble Deacon had caused her. To her way of thinking, she’d already dealt with that. She’d done it for Rule.

That protective instinct again. His lips curved up. Lily might never run four-footed in the moonlight with him, but in other ways she made a fine wolf.

“A couple of the reporters recognized me,” she said. “They asked about you, of course. They’ll find you pretty quickly here.”

“I know. You’ve given me time to warn Toby and Mrs. Asteglio, at least. You touched the dogs’ bodies?”

She nodded. “The magic felt different, I guess because of the way they, uh, encountered it—through ingestion. Slimy as hell. But it was there. I’ve warned the ERT to treat all the bodies as biohazards. Rule, Ruben wants me to work the case.”

Ruben Brooks was the head of Unit 12, a formerly obscure section of the FBI’s Magical Crimes Division that had risen to importance with the Turning because most of its agents were Gifted.

Rule was silent as he pulled out of the small parking lot onto an empty street. Dawn had cracked the horizon and light was bleeding back into the world, but no one seemed to be up yet, save themselves. “I suspect he didn’t phrase it as a request.”

“No. Not really.”

“Good.”

“What?” Her head swung toward him fast enough to send her hair flying. “I know you don’t want me to work this case, not with the hearing so close. Then there’s Leidolf and what you have to do there.”

“I don’t want it, no, which is why it’s just as well Brooks didn’t leave it up to you. You would have been torn by opposing obligations. I understand why Brooks wants you on it. No one else has your protection against death magic, for one thing.” Lily’s Gift gave her that. She could touch magic; she couldn’t be touched by it. “For another, you want this one. It’s already yours.”

She reached for his right hand, curling hers around it. “Think you know me pretty well, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that. You’re like Russia.”

“What?” This time he’d surprised a smile from her. “I’m guessing you don’t mean I’m cold—too much evidence to the contrary. And as for any communist tendencies you think I’m harboring—”

“No, I was borrowing from Churchill. Like Russia, you’re a ‘riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.’ But I’ve been studying the riddle, the mystery, and the enigma awhile. I know the obvious things. You’ll let go of an investigation about as easily as a bulldog unclamps its jaws.”

“So I’m an enigmatic bulldog.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know about the enigmatic part.” Her smile faded. “Speaking of dogs . . . it’s stupid, but that got to me. Having to shoot those dogs got to me.”

Rule didn’t doubt that, though he suspected she was focusing on that horror because the other—the children—was too large to come at directly. He squeezed her hand. “I won’t tell you it wasn’t your fault, because you already know that. But maybe it hasn’t occurred to you that death by bullet was cleaner than what they’d have endured otherwise.”

“They’d been pets, you know? At least two of them had. They had collars. No tags, but collars. If you could have seen their ribs . . . They were starving to death. That’s why they dug up the grave. They were starving.”

“They were sinned against twice—by those who abandoned them, and by whoever left the tainted bodies for them to find. But not by you, Lily.”

“I guess.” Her eyebrows knitted. “I don’t see why the magic transferred that way. Why they went mad. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.”

“I don’t know much about death magic.”

“Well, neither do I, but I thought it took a big-deal ritual to work it. I’ll ask Karonski about that.”

“Ah. Will he be joining you? Or is Brooks sending you some other minions?”

“Minions. I like that.” She smiled, but in the pale light of early morning, she looked tired. “For now, just the ERT. Karonski will be calling soon, though. Ruben’s going to brief him. He’s on a case in Wisconsin he can’t leave—one involving a coven gone over to the dark side.”

Surprised, he looked at her. “A Wiccan coven?”

“I’m afraid so. Magical theft. They found a way to persuade the Bank of America’s computers they were millionaires. That’s been done before, of course, but not effectively. Their spell was a lot more sophisticated than the typical lone practitioner’s—it took months for the bank to become suspicious. The story’s going to hit the media in a big way in another day or two, when Karonski makes the arrests. Ruben says Karonski plans to come out of the closet at the press conference.”

“Out of the—oh. You mean he’ll make his own Wiccan status public.” Abel had avoided that in the past. “Damage control?”

“Yeah. If nothing else, people will see that they need the good witches to protect them from the bad ones.” She shook her head. “There’s always been some distrust of Wiccans, especially in rural areas, but it’s worse since the Turning.”

Rural areas, yes, and small towns like Halo.

“You didn’t mention the AP earlier, or CNN. Are they here?”

“They will be.”

Oh, yes. The prospect of a magical component to the murder of children would draw reporters in droves—reporters who would demand to know why Rule was in Halo. Reporters who would gleefully switch to report on a custody hearing involving the son of the Nokolai “prince,” shoving their microphones at Toby, fighting for a chance to put the boy’s face on the six o’clock news.

Rule wasn’t too happy with the sheriff himself.

The sifted light of dawn had already strengthened as summer blew on the coals of yesterday’s heat, ready to throw a new day onto the forge. Halo’s streets remained quiet, but were no longer empty. Rule passed a shiny Ford pickup headed the other way, its driver sipping Coke from a cup the size of a bucket of popcorn. A gray Suburban was backing out of the cracked driveway leading to a small frame house surrounded by mounds of hydrangeas, their bright blue blooms floating in clouds of green like flakes from a dandruff sky.

The Suburban’s movement startled an orange tabby, who streaked in front of Rule’s car. He braked gently. “Looks like Harry.”

“Hmm?” Lily had obviously been a thousand miles away, but she returned in time to see the cat attain the safety of the shrubbery on the other side of the street. “In coloring, maybe, but Harry wouldn’t panic and run in front of a car that way.”

“No, he’d park his ass in the street and dare me to keep coming.” Dirty Harry was Lily’s cat—or she was Harry’s person, to phrase things from Harry’s perspective. He was staying with Lily’s grandmother while they were away. Not that Harry and Grandmother got along, but Grandmother’s companion had a way with cats.

All sorts of cats. Rule smiled as he turned onto Sherwood Lane.

“I guess you were right about renting two cars,” Lily said, “though at the moment mine’s in front of the sheriff’s office. Are you going to need this one?”

“I suppose you need it.”

“Yes.” She ran a hand through her hair, looked down at herself, and frowned. “How do I look?”

“Lickable.”

Her eyes flicked to his, amusement swimming in their depths. No heat, but he heard the way her heartbeat kicked up. Her voice was dry. “Not the look I’m going for. I’ve got a meet with the DA—the one who’s been planning to make a name with this case.”

Rule understood the value of controlling the surface, creating a certain effect, so he gave her another once-over with that in mind. She was less correctly dressed than she liked, he supposed, having thrown on clothes for hiking through the woods: jeans, white T-shirt, black linen jacket, athletic shoes. No makeup.

Honey-and-cream skin. Black hair, shiny and smooth as if she’d just brushed it. Firm lips, unsmiling. Dark eyes that had pinned the sheriff in his chair when she stormed into his office.

What did she need with makeup? “Tidy,” he said. “Casual, but professional. And gorgeous. Is this district attorney male?”

She snorted. “No. Not that it matters, since I’m not vamping my way into anyone’s good graces. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you could. Why the DA first?”

“The arraignment’s today. I need to see her before that. Plus she’s arranging for me to see—uh, the suspect. The one they’ve locked up. I need an interview room, one where we aren’t separated by glass.”

“So you can touch him and tell if he’s tainted by death magic.”

“Yeah. Since it clung to the bodies this long, there must still be traces of it on him, too, but I have to check. Also . . .” She grimaced. “I’m going to have to talk to the veterinarian. The one who thinks I’m hiding an alien spaceship in the woods.”

“Why?”

“People don’t start working death magic out of the blue on humans. They practice on animals first, work their way up. I’ve got the office checking for reports of animal killings, but I’m not expecting much to come of it. Our practitioner would have to have been pretty obvious to tip his hand that way. But the vet’s the head of the local SPCA. He might have heard about pets going missing, that sort of thing.”

When Lily spoke of “the office,” she meant FBI Headquarters. “You’ll be busy, then,” Rule said, slowing. “Take this car and leave me your keys. If I need a vehicle before you get back, I’ll pick up yours.”

The house ahead on the right was a two-story frame structure, the siding freshly painted white, the trim dark green to match the shingles on the roof. An enormous oak in the front yard discouraged grass, but made a nice home for an old-fashioned tire swing. The long, shaded front porch held a pair of wicker chairs, a porch swing, and a red bicycle.

The look of the place had often been a comfort to him. Halo might not have been Rule’s choice for his son, but Toby’s grandmother had done her best to make a home for him. Rule pulled into the drive.

“What’s the plan?” Lily asked. “Are we going to stay here?”

“I don’t know.” Rule yanked the key out of the ignition, frustrated. He wasn’t accustomed to indecision. “I don’t know if it will do any good to move to the hotel. I need to talk to Toby and Mrs. Asteglio.”

“Hmm. Well, you’ve been playing footsie with the media a long time now. You’ll know how to handle them. Just let me know once you make a decision. Rule, when you nearly lost it with the sheriff back there—”

“I did not nearly lose it.”

“All right, when you persuaded Deacon you might lose it. Was the new mantle . . . ah, active?”

He looked at her, startled. “I don’t think so. I didn’t notice it, at least. Why?”

“You were different.”

“Different how?”

“If you’d told Deacon to go sit in the corner, he would have. He might not have stayed long, but he’d have gone.”

He didn’t enjoy having his mistakes pointed out. “I scared him, you mean. Until then he didn’t fear me.”

Lily huffed out a breath, impatient, as if he were being deliberately obtuse. “Rule, he’s an empath. His Gift’s blocked by a spell, but I suspect some stuff still leaks through. He didn’t fear you at first because you weren’t a danger. And I’m not sure it was fear that had him buckling under.”

Dryly he said, “It was fear I had in mind when I suggested he be quiet.”

“He’s former military, you know. Military police.”

“He told you that?”

“No, one of the pictures on his wall shows him in an MP uniform. Marine. What I’m saying is that I doubt he’d let fear freeze him that way.”

Rule had been in that office much longer than she had, and he hadn’t noticed the photo. But he was less visual than she was, and Lily had a cop’s habits. She noticed everything. “I worried you.”

“More like you turned me on, actually. But if the—”

Whatever else she’d meant to say was lost in his mouth. She tasted warm and welcoming, with hints of bad coffee and minty toothpaste. And what stirred in his belly and below had nothing to do with the mantles.

All too soon, she pulled away. Her well-kissed mouth curved in a smile. “Men are so opportunistic about sex.”

He sighed. “Not in Mrs. Asteglio’s driveway, I’m not.”

“Good point. About the mantle—”

“I know better than to call up the new one, Lily.”

“Okay. I have to go.”

“Yes. I love you.”

“Oh.” Her eyes softened. She touched his lips with her fingertips. “Love you. Now I’ve got to go.”

Moments later, Rule let himself into the silent house. Neither Toby nor his grandmother was awake yet, which wasn’t surprising on a summer morning just brushing up on seven a.m. Rule had an urge to go upstairs where he could hear his son breathing, watch him sleep in the twin-size bed that had held Toby’s dreaming self since he left his crib.

Watch him and worry, his wolf pointed out, about all manner of things he had no control over.

Well, wasn’t worry a parent’s prerogative? Still, he heeded the wolf this time, heading for the kitchen instead of the stairs. He’d brought some of his own coffee with him—already ground, which wasn’t as savory, but Mrs. Asteglio didn’t own a grinder, and Lily had rolled her eyes when he proposed bringing his.

The kitchen was a large, comfortable room at the back of the house, flanked by a den on one side and a formal dining room, seldom used, on the other. It was immaculate; Mrs. Asteglio was as uneasy with disorder as Lily, and more militant about it. Rule spotted the piece of paper on the counter right away.

A glance told him Lily had written it. She’d made sure that if she and Rule were delayed, Toby and his grandmother would know where they were and not worry. She thought of things like that.

He didn’t, not always. He’d lived alone too long, grown accustomed to the autonomy of distance. Too, secrecy was a habit for most lupi, especially one in his position. He was learning new habits with Lily, but he had a ways to go. Lily would help, though—by pointing out when he screwed up, for one thing.

Rule grinned as he measured coffee and poured water, enjoying the smell and the habitual quality of the small ritual.

What about Toby’s rituals? How were they going to change?

He knew some of them—the need for a book and tucking in at night; the way Toby brushed his teeth before washing his face; the proper order in which to build a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Toby had spent part of his summers with his father, as well as a few rare weekends during the school year. But full-time fatherhood would be different from visits. He had much to learn.

He was eager, greedily eager, to begin those lessons.

While the coffee dripped, perfuming the house, Rule wandered into the little den, where the only television set in the house resided. He had a decision to make.

There seemed little chance of keeping the vultures of the press unaware of the hearing. Even if the judge and the various clerks with access to the court’s schedule didn’t spill the story, Mrs. Asteglio had probably spoken to her friends and neighbors about it. She wouldn’t have told them who Toby’s father was, but she would have spoken to them about the upcoming loss of her grandson.

The best way to deal with the press was usually to give them some portion of what they wanted. What if Rule told the reporters why he was here?

Not the main reason. Not about Toby. About Leidolf.

The human world knew little about lupus clans and nothing about the mantles that held them together. That was as it should be. The press insisted on calling Rule the Nokolai prince, but Rule’s position, though partly hereditary, had little in common with human royalty. Rule was Lu Nuncio to Nokolai clan and had carried the heir’s portion of the Nokolai mantle for many years now. His father held the main portion, of course, for it was the mantle that made him Rho, just as it made Nokolai a clan . . . and its members more than a hegemony broken into beast-lost packs.

Rule wouldn’t speak of mantles to the press. But he could speak of clans—warring clans that were moving to mend their differences.

He smiled slowly. The press would eat it up.

His mind clicked over possibilities, complications, consequences . . . and the consequences could be large. But he could do it, yes, and in addition to possibly sparing Toby, it would be excellent press for his people.

Did he have the right? He’d be revealing Leidolf’s existence to the press, and Leidolf’s Rho had made it clear—back when Victor Frey was conscious and capable of clarity—that he did not want Leidolf to go public.

Rule paced to the sliding doors, staring out at the thousand shades of green in the tidy backyard. He’d have to decide quickly. If he chose this course, he needed to set things in motion right away. That meant calling Alex Thibideux, Lu Nuncio for Leidolf. He’d call his father, too, for he owed his Rho notice . . . notice, but not obedience. Not in this. The Nokolai Rho had no say in this decision, for it was Leidolf business.

Rule’s mouth twisted, acknowledging the irony. Leidolf, the hereditary enemies of his clan, who’d tried to assassinate his father less than a year ago. Leidolf, whose Rho now lay comatose, slowly dying, having lost the treacherous toss of the dice he’d made when he tried to kill Rule last December.

Instead, he’d ended up making Rule his heir.

Traditionally, a clan’s heir held little real authority—but traditionally, the heir was also Lu Nuncio. A Lu Nuncio enforced his Rho’s will and could at times speak with the Rho’s voice—because a Lu Nuncio did not act against his Rho’s decisions. Ever.

But an heir who was not also Lu Nuncio . . .

Yes, Rule decided, he could act against Victor’s avowed policies. He was not Leidolf’s Lu Nuncio. Victor Frey was not his Rho, and he owed him no obedience.

The other mantle in his gut, the one forced on him six months ago, stirred. Yes, Leidolf’s mantle seemed to whisper. Yes, you must lead. You have the right.