Ritual Magic

THIRTY-SEVEN

FRIAR didn’t like Lily’s plan any better than Rule had, but for different reasons. “You have fucking got to be joking.”

The address he’d given them turned out to be a florist’s shop. They’d taken elaborate precautions getting inside, all of which turned out to be unnecessary. He’d had help getting there, according to Ronnie’s nose, but he was alone now. Alone, unarmed, and a bloody mess. Lily’s first sight of Friar had startled her into an instant’s pity. He’d taken several bullets. Someone had wrapped his chest and shoulder in gauze, but they must have run out. His right arm had an old T-shirt tied around it. His left leg wasn’t bandaged at all, so it was easy to see the damage there. The kneecap was gone. Pulverized.

The first thing they’d done was remove the gauze and the bloody T-shirt along with his clothes. They didn’t find a damn thing except for the two bullets that his body had apparently expelled from his chest. But no weapon or wallet, just the phone he’d used to call them. Friar declined to explain the lack of a wallet.

They had a stash of medical supplies in the trunk, so they’d used some of their gauze to rewrap his wounds. No point in letting him bleed all over the leather seats. While Mike bandaged his arm, Friar told Rule to order his men outside so he could tell them something “not for public consumption.” Rule ignored him. Friar then told him to “send the sorcerer away, at least. He’d find information about the knife entirely too enticing.”

“The sorcerer,” Cullen had said, “already knows about the knife. Both what you told me—I listened to your conversation with Lily, you see—and a few tidbits you left out. Which part did you think I’d find unbearably enticing?”

Lily had almost heard Friar’s teeth grind. Maybe he was truly desperate. He looked royally pissed, but he’d gone ahead and told them at least some of the truth about the knife, ending by saying that obviously they had to shoot its current holder from a distance. That was when Lily told him she meant to go in alone . . . though that wasn’t entirely settled. Cullen was pushing to go with her. He was sure his shields would protect him. She didn’t mention that Gray would be staying back with a rifle.

“This is not my joking face,” she said now, “and you don’t have a veto.”

“And I thought you were the practical one. If you—hell, you don’t have to wrap it that tight.”

Mike had started rewrapping Friar’s chest. “Shut up,” he said and kept winding.

Friar looked at Rule. “Are you going to let her throw away her life? And with it yours and everyone else’s? Your clan will not survive what happens to our realm if the god is brought through.”

Rule hadn’t spoken much. He was crouched near his enemy, his eyes never leaving Friar’s face. He was, Lily thought, about halfway into his wolf, though his voice was civilized enough. “It’s surprising that a man of your intelligence—one who has had reason to learn what he could of Lily—could believe it is within my power to let her do anything.”

Friar had quite a sneer when he made the effort. “Perhaps you’ll feel differently when I tell you that the next victim is almost certainly one of your people. One or more.”

“You didn’t choose one of my people for your rite.”

“I’m not constrained the way the god of that knife is, nor do I want to destroy our realm.”

Lily wanted to smash his face in. “Shut up. Just shut up about how you don’t want to destroy the world. Do you think if you say it often enough we’ll believe it? You don’t want that dead god coming in and taking over your playground, but you had every intention of messing it up yourself. You were going to sacrifice Angela Ward. Millions of people have memories of her. Millions. That’s why you chose her, isn’t it? She’s loved and she’s famous and cutting her out of time would create millions of victims. It would damn sure destabilize the realm, and that’s exactly what you wanted.”

Friar didn’t answer right away. He was thinking, dammit. She’d given away more than she meant to, letting her temper lead instead of her brain. He was wondering how much more they knew and how they knew it. “Reality would have wobbled a bit,” he said at last. “Nothing my mistress couldn’t fix. Dyffaya áv Eni will destroy it.”

“What kind of constraints is this Dyffaya under?” Rule asked.

Friar’s gaze flicked to him. “Because of the way the knife was awakened and fed, its god is bound to act . . . if not precisely according to my plans, then in league with them. At least until he pulls himself fully into our realm.” He shifted as if uncomfortable, but he was breathing a lot better, wasn’t he? Probably because he’d expelled those two bullets. His chest was still pretty messed up, though. “If you’re not going to be reasonable, you’d better call that shaman of yours. We’re dealing with a sidhe god. The only chance short of bullets we have of stopping him is to invoke a deity native to our realm.”

Lily was staring. “You don’t know. How could you not know?”

“What are you talking about?”

Cullen’s eyebrows looked like they were trying to climb off his face. “He doesn’t. He really doesn’t know. And he talked about the god being bound by his rite, not the knife. It isn’t just Lily’s secondhand memory of Debrett that let this semidead god take over. You used the wrong bloody rite.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cullen gave a single, harsh bark of laughter. “Oh, don’t I? Then why didn’t you know that a police officer was possessed by the corruption left behind by your rite? That the corruption compelled him to shoot Nettie Two Horses?”

Friar’s eyes widened. Only for a second, but it gave him away.

“You didn’t know,” Cullen said, leaning forward, “because you thought the knife was still in your control at that point. You thought you didn’t lose control until later, but you were so bloody wrong. You used the wrong bloody rite. That knife is a named artifact, you stupid asshole—and you didn’t know that, either, did you? A named artifact, and you didn’t bind it when you woke it. Which gave this Dyffaya áv Eni a big, fat loophole to squirm through.”

Silence.

“Now that,” Lily said, “is interesting.”

Friar’s dark eyes glittered. “Almost as interesting as the fact that you knew the knife was named. Since you’re so interested in us sharing information—”

“Uh-uh. You want us to take care of this little problem you’ve created. You’re just along for the ride, so your part is supplying information. I need to know why you didn’t use the knife to compel others. You carried Alan Debrett to the ritual site. You could have just told him to follow you.”

He gave Lily a disdainful glance. “Had I used the knife’s ability to compel, it would have strengthened the god’s presence in the knife.”

“Oh? And why weren’t you compelled or persuaded by the knife while you held it?”

“I am wholly dedicated to my mistress. She protected me. If you’re thinking your Lady”—he looked at Rule, making the title sound like an obscenity—“can offer you the same protection, you’re wrong.”

“That,” Rule said pleasantly, “was a lie.”

Lily smiled. Not pleasantly. “He can smell them, you know. Lies.”

“Which part?” Cullen asked. “Because I’m betting it’s his shields that protected him, not his devotion. Whoever crafted those shields does very nice work. They’re not quite as sweet as mine, but still, quite decent work. Of course, you could say his bitch mistress protected him because its her power in those shields. Is that what you meant, Robert?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Friar said through gritted teeth. “Smell the truth when I tell you this: the world is at stake. If we don’t stop whoever has that knife from using it, we are all doomed. We need to leave now.”

“Actually, we do have a little time,” Cullen said. “Assuming tonight was chosen because it’s the dark of the moon—is that correct?” Friar didn’t answer. Cullen went on as if he had. “I’ve been thinking about that. Robert here could perform his rite at any point during the dark moon period, but bringing through a dead god—that’s different. You need one whopping big hole in reality to pull that off, which means the knife-holder will wait for the moment of conjunction. That’s reality’s sleep apnea moment. It doesn’t just thin out then, it pauses. And the conjunction isn’t due for . . . .” He paused, looking at Rule. “You hear her better than I do when she’s veiled. How long?”

“A little over three hours.”

“So there’s time to make plans. Share information.”

Lily looked at Cullen. “You’re sure about this?”

“I could explain, but that makes you testy. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” She looked back at Friar. “I want to know why you lied about the Lady’s protection. And how you kept the knife from taking over Armand Jones.”

Friar closed his eyes. “I will pray that, when the time comes, I’ll be able to kill you very, very slowly. A quick death may have to suffice, but it will not be satisfying.”

“Indulge in daydreams later. Right now I need some answers.”

Friar kept his eyes closed. For a long moment he didn’t speak, either gathering strength or trying to figure out how to lie without Rule smelling it. “All right.” His eyes opened. He looked at Rule. “The extra magic Rhos carry may protect you. The individual who told me about the knife is sidhe, and they know almost nothing about werewolves. Half of them think you don’t exist. But there’s some arguai mixed in with the Rho’s magic, and that’s what might protect you. Or not. And it won’t protect your men. And don’t think that cut-rate compulsion you use on your men will override the knife’s compulsion. The knife is much, much stronger.”

“What a Rho does is not compulsion,” Rule said evenly.

Wasn’t it? Lily didn’t let herself look at Rule. She wasn’t going to give Friar the satisfaction of knowing he’d unsettled her. But how, exactly, was it not compulsion when Rule used the mantle to make his people obey?

Either she’d done a bad job of keeping her cop face on or she smelled upset, because Rule glanced at her and smiled slightly. “Santos,” he said.

What the hell did he mean by . . . oh. Santos had been ordered to obey Lily. He hadn’t. If he’d been compelled, he would have had no choice. She nodded to tell him she understood. She still wanted more of an explanation, but this was not the time.

“Whatever you call it,” Friar said, “it won’t stand up against what the knife can do. As for you”—he looked at Lily, his dark eyes glittering with hate—“your Gift may protect you from compulsion, but that’s not certain. The knife is powered by a god, you overconfident fool. Is your Gift stronger than a god?”

“A god who just yesterday opened four gates—three of them using only ley lines, which is supposed to be impossible. That’s probably a heavy lift even for a god. I’m betting he’s tired right now.”

“You’re betting more than your own life on that assumption, and compulsion is only half of what you’d face. You are not immune to spiritual power.”

“And yet I remember Alan Debrett. I must have some trick you don’t know about, huh? Look”—Lily leaned forward—“you might as well accept that we’re doing this my way, and we’re not budging until we know more. How do we protect ourselves from the knife? Benessarai must have told you how to shield from its power. He wasn’t under compulsion from it. Neither was Jones.”

“Benessarai was an ass. The knife had slept for centuries in his family’s vault, and he had no idea what it was. Admittedly, when asleep it’s mostly inert, its nature hidden, but he knew it possessed arguai. He simply accepted his family’s story about it, too incurious to investigate.”

“So when it’s asleep, it doesn’t compel?”

“That’s what I said. Were you listening?”

“And Jones?”

“I shielded Jones.”

“Another lie,” Rule observed.

“I wonder,” Lily said to Rule, “if we have time for coffee. I could sure use a cup. I saw a coffeepot by the sink.”

“I’ll put some on.” Rule rose.

“All gods damn you,” Friar muttered. “All right.”

STEPPENWOLF’S “Born to Be Wild” blared from the speakers of Miriam’s beautiful little 1970 Karmann Ghia. Tonight she’d learned that Dafydd, her perfect, incredible Dafydd, just loved rock ’n’ roll.

That wasn’t his name, of course. She didn’t know that, but he’d given her permission to call him Dafydd. It was the Welsh form of David and meant Beloved. A perfect call-name for her lord and god. Miriam sang along with the music, laughing when she skidded on the turn. “Oops. Guess I’m going a little fast.” She felt his amusement like a chuckle in her mind—and his agreement, so she eased off on the accelerator.

He was so close now. So wonderfully close. She felt his nearness all the time, and he could talk to her . . . sadness pricked her. He could talk to her now, because of that poor officer.

She had no regrets about tonight. The loudness of the gun had shocked her, but killing was easy, after all. And didn’t they deserve it? Robert Friar was responsible for hundreds of deaths at the Humans First rallies last year, and the other man had been part of that, too, she was sure. And they’d wanted to block her Dafydd, keep him out, keep him imprisoned and alone. The woman hadn’t deserved what happened to her, but she was their fault, not Miriam’s.

But the officer . . . she felt bad about him. Dafydd understood her regret, but he didn’t share it. Not really. To him, they were all so ephemeral, so insubstantial . . . he took delight in them, as she might in the beauty of flowers or sweet-smelling herbs. But if you need rosemary for your dinner, you pluck it. So with that officer. He’d been needed to anchor her lord in this realm until she could take over that task. But he hadn’t been prepared for it, as she had, and he worshiped elsewhere. By the time she had removed the anchoring energy, he was badly damaged. Poor man. She wondered if her lord might do anything to fix him . . .

You have a saying about eggs and omelettes, my love . . . the man’s shell is too badly cracked. Even I can’t get the yolk back inside.

She giggled. Wasn’t it just like him to think of it that way? Perhaps later she’d go back to the hospital and finish the man off. It would be a kindness. She hadn’t dared do it before. She couldn’t afford to draw that kind of attention to herself.

But everything would be different soon. Everything. She reached over and stroked the knife that lay in the passenger seat. Delight shimmered through her . . . and power. Ageless, endless power. It was true that at first the feel of the knife had unnerved her. But the knife was like Dafydd. The more she touched it, the more she wanted to touch it.

What couldn’t she do with this much power?