by Eileen Wilks
Rage bubbled up in Lily. Why could no one follow directions? Orders, even. They thought they knew best and ignored what you told them to do, and people died. “You want my decision.”
“I have said so.” He was becoming testy. “Please listen. The options I offer you—”
“Okay, I’ve decided. You’re fired.”
She had to stab the phone twice to disconnect. That was when she noticed that her face was wet. She was crying? Oh, God, she was bawling, and she was supposed to talk to the goddamn press and not fall apart. Too late. She rubbed hard at her face.
“Here.” Casey had pulled off his T-shirt and was holding it out. He stood close—protectively close, she realized, blocking her from view as much as possible. “It doesn’t have much blood on it. You can clean up with it.” His faded blue eyes looked worried.
Casey and the others—living and dead—had fought with her and for her today. Now he was literally giving her the shirt off his back. Never mind the goddamn press and the worried public. Lupi needed to know their leaders were in control. She’d pull herself together for Casey’s sake. “Thanks,” she said, and her voice didn’t wobble or break. She dried her face dry with the unbloody portion of his shirt and handed it back.
He nodded once and pulled his shirt back on.
Lily took another slow breath. She was okay. She could do this.
When her phone rang this time, it was Rule. At last.
TWENTY-SEVEN
RULE was talking on his phone when he returned from visiting his clansman in recovery. He handed Lily one of the coffees he’d brought from the hospital’s gift shop, where they brewed what he considered a decent cup. He’d been here often enough to form an opinion. Mercy General was Nettie’s hospital, where the clan usually brought anyone injured badly enough to need surgery. Rule had met Lily there about fifty minutes earlier, escorting his own small group of casualties.
She took the foam cup in both hands. Her left wrist was wrapped in an elastic bandage, all snug and tidy. It throbbed, but she’d been lucky. She had a sprain, not a break.
Luck was one weird and capricious mother. “Gil is doing okay?”
“Excusez-moi un instant,” he said to the person on the phone, and he told her that Gil was doing very well and already on his way home—“somewhat against the surgeon’s wishes, but he’ll rest better there.” He switched back to French as he sat beside her. Casey—who’d gone with him, along with two other guards—handed him his cup. Rule laid his arm along the back of the couch in a way that let him play with her hair.
Lily sipped and smelled coffee, baby lotion, and blood.
The baby lotion had come from Cynna’s tote. Cynna had woken up on the way to the hospital and winced and started rooting in her tote, but she hadn’t been focusing too well. Must have been a bad headache. Lily had located the ibuprofen for her. While digging for that she’d noticed the baby lotion, so she’d asked if she could use some, thinking it might cover up less pleasant smells. Like blood.
Which she should not be smelling. She didn’t have Rule’s nose. She’d cleaned up in the restroom, and while she hadn’t been able to get rid of the blood splatter on her clothes, there wasn’t that much of it, and it was dry. Chances were the smell was all in her head.
A crowded and unpleasant place, her head. She leaned into Rule and closed her eyes and tried to notice only the smell of the coffee.
“C’est bien,” Rule said, messing with her hair. “Oui, je vois que vous comprenez . . . Mercy General. Vous le savez? Oui. Merci, monsieur.” He disconnected.
“I guess that means Philippe is back on board.”
“Complete with feuilles des pommes et grenades, which he assures me will outshine even the feuilles de brick avec fruits de la passion.”
“Grenades? We’re serving grenades at our wedding?”
“Grenades is French for pomegranates.”
“Oh, good. I’m feeling real fond of grenades right now, but can’t see serving them sautéed in butter or whatever.” She tipped her head. “Is Philippe really French? I figured that was just part of his image and his name was really Jim Bob or something, but the way you were chattering at him, maybe not.”
“Belgian, I think, though I’m no expert on accents. I promised to tell you that he is desolated that he bothered you at such a difficult time. I was barely able to dissuade him from rushing here immediately to throw himself at your feet and beg your forgiveness.”
In spite of everything, her mouth twitched. “I don’t know. That might have been fun.”
“I could call him back.”
“That’s okay.”
“I could call him back,” Rule repeated in a different tone. “Are you sure you’re okay with keeping him on?”
She shrugged, uncomfortable. “The wedding’s too close to get another caterer.”
“I’d rather serve Spam and Vienna sausages than have you unhappy about this.”
She turned her head to look at him. The dark fans of his lashes hung lower than usual, and she could see brackets down his cheeks. He was exhausted, worried, hurting. Just like her, but somehow he’d found the patience to deal with the damn caterer. She touched his hand to tell him thank you. “I’m going to say no on the Spam. Mother would have a fit, if she was herself. She’s not, so it wouldn’t be any fun.”
Rule sifted her hair through his fingers. “It’s not a victory if your opponent isn’t fighting back.”
Her opponent? Huh. Was that how she saw her mother? Lily took another sip of coffee. Not exactly, she decided. Her mother didn’t oppose her so much as want to fix her, or fix her life, or just hold on to the time when Lily was small and things could be fixed. How odd to think no one was trying to fix her now. Odder still to find that, on some level, she missed it. She felt as if she had to pick up the pieces her mother had dropped—plans, quirks, attitudes. As if she could hold on to those pieces now, then hand them back at some point.
Better be careful of what she held on to. Becoming her own opponent wouldn’t be fun, either. “‘Sparring partner,’” she decided, “fits better than ‘opponent.’ As for Philippe . . . I shouldn’t have fired him. Hung up on him, maybe, when he wouldn’t listen, but firing him didn’t solve anything. I was just . . . Santos didn’t listen, either. I was angry at him, and took it out on the guy who thought the worst news I’d get today would be about passion fruit.”
“Ah. Yes. I need to discuss Santos with you.” He glanced around the waiting room. It was crowded that afternoon, especially with so many lupi lurking nearby. They’d pretty much claimed this whole side of the room. “Scott, remain here. The rest of you need to wait out of easy earshot.”
Scott had a quick word with the others. They were hip-deep in guards pulled from both Leidolf and Nokolai to minimize the depletion of fighters at either location. Casey had been allowed to stay as part of the Leidolf contingent in spite of some minor wounds—minor to a lupus, anyway—so he could hear about José the moment they did.
Santos had not. He’d been sent to the barracks to await judgment.
Another attack so soon seemed unlikely, but until a few hours ago, they’d have thought dworg were unlikely, too. Unlikely verging on impossible, like opening gates in four places at once. Or flat-out impossible, like creating gates without a node to anchor them.
Someone had done it, though. Someone had used ley lines to open three gates. He, she, it, or they had used a node for the gate at Nokolai Clanhome—sheer destructive greed on their part, Isen thought, that had led to their defeat. If they’d been willing to settle for just killing him, they could have used a ley line and a smaller gate and sent three or four dworg without needing the node. That might have succeeded. Instead, those twenty-two dworg had had to race down from Little Sister, giving him time to prepare.
That was an assumption, of course. They knew their enemy had used a node for the gate at Cl
anhome; they were only guessing about why. Maybe they’d needed a node there because Clanhome was somehow a harder nut to crack, arcanely speaking. Guessing, too, about their enemy’s goal. But that was a strong guess. Four attacks, with three of them on those who held or could hold the Nokolai mantle? The aim seemed clear: destroy the mantle and you destroyed the clan.
Lily figured the attack on her had been gravy. The Great Bitch knew how to hold a grudge.
Since reaching the hospital, she had called or been called by several people. Karonski first. He was working the scene with the Big A, and he had a good news, bad news deal to report. Miriam had succeeded in removing the contagion from Officer Crown, which was great news. Crown had even woken up. And screamed, and kept screaming . . . they were keeping him under heavy sedation.
Then she’d talked to Ruben again. And Li Qin, who said the children—by whom she meant Julia as well as Toby—were frightened but well. And Isen, who told her he’d spoken with the other Rhos and none of the other clans had been attacked. And finally Benedict, who’d answered some of her questions.
Sam hadn’t hung around to chat after dispatching the two dworg at the hospital, but he had told Benedict a couple of things before he left: That it was impossible to open a gate within his territory without his knowledge, which was how he’d known about the dworg. And that the gates hadn’t truly opened simultaneously, but within the span of four seconds.
Dragons were hell on wheels at multitasking. In those four seconds Sam had sensed the gates; identified the first dworg to leap through; sent Grandmother a warning; taken telepathic note that Lily, Benedict, and Isen were aware of those gates; and chosen his target. By the fifth second he’d leaped skyward, heading for the hospital at top speed.
Why there, rather than one of the other sites? The pediatrics ward, Benedict had told her. Then he’d explained exactly why that mattered. Lily had nearly thrown up.
She hadn’t been able to ask Cullen about node-free gates yet. By the time Rule called and told her about the attack at their home, Cullen had been on his way to the ER. When she and Cynna got there, Cullen had been wobbling on his feet. He’d kissed Cynna, which seemed to energize him—not through pure eros, though. Cynna had slid him some clan power, enough to keep him going a little longer. Then the two of them had hurried off to scrub.
Anesthetics didn’t work on lupi. Sleep spells and charms did, but their duration wasn’t predictable. Cullen and Cynna were alternating between the operating rooms, making sure no one woke up on the operating table.
Lily didn’t have a complete casualty count, but a lot more lupi had been wounded than were transported. Wounded wolves do not deal well with hospitals, so only the truly critical had been brought there. That included José and Andy, but not Joe. Lupi didn’t consider a broken leg serious, and he’d stopped bleeding before blood loss became an issue. Eric, who’d fought beside Rule, had a bad head injury, and two Nokolai from Clanhome had needed surgery. One had lost a leg. One had nearly bled out through a throat wound.
That was Gil, the one who was on his way back to Clanhome now. He’d healed enough by the time he arrived at the hospital that they’d patched him up in the ER. He’d needed fluids, blood, and stitching, all of which could be handled there. The one who’d lost a leg was out of surgery and would probably be discharged soon. Fielding, too, was out of surgery, if not out of danger. He’d been moved to recovery when Ackleford called Lily. José, Eric, and Andy were still in surgery.
So far, Isen had lost one of his fighters. Rule hadn’t lost any. Lily had lost two.
So far.
Soon, Lily’s pulse whispered. Soon, soon, soon. Her tidily wrapped wrist throbbed in time with that mantra. Surely the surgeons would be done soon and she’d know if her tally of dead held steady or moved up.
“About Santos,” Rule said once most of the lupi had moved out of earshot. “I need you to repeat, as precisely as possible, what you told him about following José’s orders.”
She did. She remembered clearly, so it wasn’t hard.
“He indicated that he accepted this.”
“He didn’t like it, but he nodded. Steve and Joe did, too.”
“And you heard José tell him to fight alongside Steve and Joe.”
“Yes. When he didn’t—when he followed and grabbed me—I told him to let go and get back there. He didn’t follow that order, either.”
Rule looked at Scott, who hovered close. “Scott?”
Scott was as grim as granite. “Clear failure to obey. It’s my fault. I knew he had a problem recognizing authority in a woman. Most of Leidolf do until they’ve been around Lily awhile. They obey anyway, because you’ve been clear about that, but at first that’s all about you, not her. I thought Santos . . . but I was wrong. I shouldn’t have assigned him to her. With your permission, I’ll take care of it.”
“No,” Rule said. “That will be my duty, should it be necessary.”
“Wait a minute,” Lily said. “What duty?”
“One more question, then I’ll answer yours. If Santos hadn’t obeyed when you held the gun to his throat, would you have shot him?”
Scott made a small noise. She glanced at him and wondered why Rule wanted him to be part of this discussion when he’d sent the others away. “Not where he thought I meant to,” she said, “but yes. I was thinking I’d put the bullet in his front shoulder, if he needed more persuasion. That way he’d still have the use of both legs and one arm after he Changed.”
“You had no intention of killing him, then?”
“Does it matter?” And why did she put it that way? Of course she wouldn’t have . . . but memory barged in. She’d been ready to pull the trigger when she jammed her gun under Santos’s jaw, into his vulnerable throat. She’d told Rule she’d been angry with Santos. She had, but that had come later. In that moment, she’d felt cold. Focused. He would obey her, whatever it took.
“It may.”
“I don’t know.” With all those lives on the line and the others fighting monsters, no action had seemed too extreme. Anything was justified. “I don’t know,” she repeated, her voice cracking—a small hairline fracture, barely there at all. “He was no use to me dead. I needed him alive to get Cynna to safety.”
“You—” Scott stopped, started again. “Excuse me, Rho, but I didn’t know about this. If I may ask Lily for more details?” Rule nodded. “Lily, can you describe exactly what you said and did when you threatened Santos?”
She wanted to talk about almost anything else, but she did as he asked. Her voice held steady this time. When she finished, he looked pleased. He glanced at Rule. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose.”
“Why not? She surprises me regularly.”
“Still,” Scott said, “it does complicate things.”
“It does. It also gives me options. I haven’t decided yet if I want them.”
Lily looked at the two of them. “You realize I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Rule’s face was expressionless. “There are only two punishments possible for deliberate disobedience during battle: death or expulsion. I am not cruel enough to expel Santos from the clan.”
Her stomach twisted. She’d expected Santos to be punished. He deserved it. But this was too much. “Santos was wrong. He was really wrong, but he was trying to do the right thing. He wasn’t cowardly or traitorous. He thought he was saving me. He didn’t know about the Uzi in the trunk. I did, but there wasn’t time to . . .” Time to explain. Which was precisely why he’d needed to follow orders. Battle seldom offers the leisure for explanations.
“You are not obliged to consult your guards over the orders you give them.”
With a jolt, Lily realized that Rule was furious. Coldly, quietly furious.
Rule went on, “Some Rhos have made exceptions to the death penalty—”
“Victor sure didn�
�t,” Scott muttered.
“—usually when the clansman had information his superior lacked, and obeying the order would have caused great harm. Santos may have believed that’s what he was doing, but he had no special knowledge, only his own conclusions. He decided José was wrong, you were wrong, and he could disregard you both. That he would, in fact, be a hero for doing so.”
Since that was exactly what had happened, Lily couldn’t argue.
“He went on to ignore your direct order. He knows better. All of the guards know. They are to treat your word as mine. There are only two exceptions. If your order contradicts mine, they follow mine. And regardless of what you tell them, they are not to leave you unguarded.”
“He might have thought that because Cynna and I were separated from them, we were unguarded.”
“Santos may be a fool, but he isn’t stupid. Engaging the enemy is not the same as leaving you unguarded.” Rule drew a slow breath. “It’s true that I have encouraged our Leidolf guards to think for themselves more than they’re used to doing. This may have confused Santos, so I share some responsibility. I didn’t make sure he understood the difference between initiative and disobedience.”
Her stomach was churning. She’d lost two under her command today. She didn’t want to add Santos to her tally. She was sick of death. “Scott said I complicated things by threatening Santos. He looked downright happy about that.”
“Not about the complication.” Briefly, Rule’s eyes warmed, though the smile didn’t make it to his mouth. “He’s pleased for the same reason I am. You didn’t have time to plan the best way to deal with Santos, yet you did so perfectly.”
“You’re glad I threatened to kill him?”
“That distresses you now.”
She didn’t say anything. He knew damn well it did.
“That makes no sense to my wolf, but I understand that your experience and culture tell you that such a willingness to kill is wrong. It is, however, exactly right for a lupus in that situation. You took Santos by the throat and let him know that his life was yours. Because you had a use for him—a use vital to the Lady, I should add, protecting one of her Rhejes—you spared his life. You treated him precisely as a dominant treats an erring subordinate, or one who has Challenged.”