World of Lupi 10 - Ritual Magic

by Eileen Wilks

  Thank God Lily had shown up in time. Stubborn woman. He smiled as he stepped out of the car and inhaled, which told him several things . . . Isen had had spaghetti and meatballs for supper. Home still smelled right, however it might push at him. And . . . “Sam doesn’t seem to be here.”

  “He watches over Nettie,” Grandmother announced as she climbed down from the van, “so Benedict may attend.”

  “Hey, Dad!” Toby shot out of the van at his usual pace. “Can Danny and Emmy come over? They’d like to meet Julia, I bet.”

  Rule’s gaze flicked to the five-foot-nine twelve-year-old exiting the van behind his son. “I’m afraid not. We’ll be discussing confidential matters. Would you like to go to Danny’s?”

  The excitement leaked out of Toby’s voice. “I guess not. Carl’s probably got cake or cookies or something.”

  Toby was as interested in sweets as any other boy, but that wasn’t why he didn’t want to go to his friend’s house. He didn’t feel safe away from Rule. Rule understood that. He didn’t want to let Toby out of his sight. When he thought of how close Toby had been to those dworg, how differently it all might have ended . . . best not to think about it. They’d have to get over their mutual clinging, but for now, Toby stayed with him. “Let’s find out,” he said cheerfully enough and roughed up Toby’s hair.

  “C’mon, Julia,” Toby said and set off for the front door at his usual clip.

  The door opened and Isen stood there, solid and sturdy as a tree, beaming at his grandson, arms opening for a hug. “Toby!” he boomed happily, as if he hadn’t seen the boy in months. Toby barreled into him.

  Then it was Rule’s turn. His father was a world-class hugger, and for a small pinch of a moment Rule felt as safe as Toby must have when those strong arms closed around him. This, too, I could have lost . . .

  Enough of that, dammit. Rule moved on into the house, hating the anxiety that had trailed him like his own shadow since the dworg attack. Normally he would have slid closer to his wolf to relieve it. To the wolf, it was simple. He’d won that battle. His mate and his brother and his Rho had won theirs, as well. What was there to be anxious about in that? But the man was too aware of how easily it might have gone differently for any one of them. The man kept thinking of that, dammit, no matter how often he pushed those thoughts away.

  And here at Clanhome, the wolf couldn’t help because that part of him was much more sensitive to the push-away. It made the wolf nervous and jumpy and distracted. Here, the wolf needed the man’s help to be calm.

  Isen had intercepted Lily on her way in to give her a hug. Lily’s family didn’t touch easily and often the way Rule’s did, but she’d gotten used to Isen’s greetings. She might even, Rule thought as he watched her hugging Isen back, have grown to like them.

  Isen did not attempt to greet Madame Yu with a hug. He gave her the sort of nod he would have given another Rho and told her she and Li Qin were welcome. “And this is Julia.” His voice softened with his smile. “You’ll call me Isen. It’s not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but what choice do you have? Courtesy demands you address me as I wish, and that’s my wish.” And he took Julia’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm and patted it. “Come, come, and let me introduce you to Carl. He’s going to let you and Toby help him make tarts. Apple, I believe. Do you like apples?”

  Julia was happy to talk about apple tarts, happy to go off with Isen. Lily stopped there in the entry hall and shook her head, smiling. “Your father does have a way with . . . well, with just about everyone.”

  Because he liked just about everyone. Each person mattered to him. Some more than others, yes, but Isen’s heart remained open. Even now, even in the midst of war and loss . . . “He risks so much,” Rule murmured. “I haven’t half his courage.”

  Lily cocked her head in a silent question.

  He slid his arms around her and pulled her to him. “I need a moment.” Because this, too, he could have lost. He could have lost Lily. Friar had tried to kill her—again—and would keep trying. His heart beat fast in fear that threatened to swamp him, drown him . . . how could he be with both Toby and Lily every moment? He couldn’t. Couldn’t protect them both, couldn’t keep them safe . . . Can’t, can’t, can’t pounded in his mind with every too-hard beat of his heart.

  Gradually his heartbeat slowed. She was here now, and for once not asking questions. “Anxiety attack,” he explained.

  “You?” Her eyebrows lifted, as did the corners of her mouth. “Must mean you woke up on the wrong side of perfect yet again.”

  “I believe I did.” He smiled down at her dark eyes, the beautiful oval of her face . . . her skin was soft, but nothing like porcelain or ivory or anything so fragile and protected. His nadia was a California girl who’d been impatient with her mother’s lectures about sunscreen when she was young, and still forgot it more often than not. Often on purpose, he suspected. Her skin was sunshine and honey, not cream, and right now she smelled of toothpaste, of almonds from her lotion and apple from her shampoo, and Lily. The loveliest smell in the world.

  A smell that stirred him . . .

  “Wrong time, wrong place,” she told him. That wasn’t telepathy. If his face hadn’t given away his reaction, his body certainly had.

  “True.” He eased away, but took her hand. “End of time-out. Let’s go deal with something other than my delicate feelings.”

  She snorted softly, squeezed his hand, and went with him.

  * * *

  LILY liked Isen’s house. She liked it even better now that she wasn’t living here anymore. Though that, like most truths, had layers. Because she had lived here for a few months the place felt homier to her now, which was funny because it hadn’t felt like home when she was staying here.

  Minds are weird, she decided. Hers included.

  They’d assembled in the great room at the back of the house. It was large and flooded with light in the daytime; now the windows were covered by remote-control-operated blinds that hadn’t been there a month ago. Isen was showing off his new toy—the remote—to Karonski. One of the blinds started to lift, paused, and headed down again.

  Rule headed straight for the new toy. Lily paused, looking around.

  Near the fireplace, Li Qin smiled at Hardy, who seemed to be singing something to Cynna. At the far end of the room, Cullen sat at the big table with Arjenie, both engrossed in their discussion—magical shit, no doubt. They both loved to talk about magical shit. He had little Ryder on his shoulder. She was asleep. Grandmother sat at the other end of the table, and as Lily came in, Benedict handed Grandmother a cup and saucer.

  That would be tea, not coffee. Grandmother detested coffee. Lily had never seen anyone in this household prepare or drink tea, and Grandmother was extremely particular about hers. She moved closer to listen.

  Grandmother held the cup near her face. She inhaled, then sipped. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “It is good tea.”

  “Carl,” Benedict explained.

  “You may sit beside me,” Grandmother informed him. “I wish to hear about your daughter. She is recovering?”

  Benedict didn’t talk much. He didn’t smile much, either, but when he did, it transformed him. He sat beside Grandmother now, all but glowing. “The doctor let her wake up this morning and try some healing. She did great. She says there’s nothing wrong she can’t fix, given time and rest. They’ve taken her off the sedatives so she can keep herself in sleep most of the time. That’s better for healing.”

  From out of nowhere, Lily was hit by this wave of feeling—feeling both vast and weightless, universal and utterly particular to this room, this moment, these people. Every one of whom she loved. Every one of whom had woken up this morning on the wrong side of perfect, just like Rule, just like her, each of them capable of annoying, delighting, or disappointing her; capable of heroism, misunderstanding, quarreling, laughing, or sitting
stubbornly on some stupidity he or she refused to abandon. All of them so different, and so connected.

  The feeling ebbed, then passed. She thought: Love? Karonski? And of course that was ridiculous, but even as she shook her head at herself, she knew that it could be both ridiculous and true. This . . . all this, the room, the people here, the odd little pairs and groups they’d formed, the ways each was finding to connect to the others . . . this was what she fought for. For these people, yes. And for moments like this, punctuated by coffee or tea, with a baby on one man’s shoulder and a saint humming over by the fireplace . . . everyone gathered together to work toward their common goal. She fought for them, and for people she’d never met and never would, people who deserved a chance to make their own moments, built from their own flawed choices, with the people they found.

  If everyone is here, a crystalline voice announced in her head, we should begin.

  THIRTY-THREE

  JUDGING by the sudden silence in the room, that had been a Sam-to-everyone communication. Judging by their expressions, they’d been as startled as Lily was. Even Grandmother’s eyebrows shot up.

  Lily hadn’t known Sam could do something like this—talk to all of them when he was about thirty miles away keeping a telepathic eye on Nettie. “I want some coffee first.”

  Attempt to do two things at once. I have serious matters to impart, but wish to know what you have learned before I do so. Abel Karonski, you may begin.

  “Fine,” Karonski said. “First I want to bring everyone up-to-date on the victims, because that’s where we’ve been focused, now that we know how they’re all connected. We’re up to three hundred and twelve. They aren’t all in San Diego. Debrett’s cousins, for example . . .”

  Lily listened with half an ear as she headed for the kitchen. He wasn’t saying anything that was new to her, though the others probably hadn’t heard it in detail. Debrett’s cousins, for example, were in bad shape, though not comatose like their parents. The one in Belize was being flown back here. The other was being treated in Denver. But they’d found more, so many more—Debrett’s coach in high school, who’d moved to Albuquerque and had thought he was going crazy; people he’d served with in the Marines; friends from college and from church. Many of them were only slightly affected, like the ones at the pipe company, but some were more seriously messed up.

  Two of the victims had died. Barbara Lennox had slid from a coma into death; records showed she’d been Debrett’s first grade teacher. And a man in San Francisco who’d gone to grade school with Debrett had been killed in an auto accident right about the time someone slit Debrett’s throat. He’d suddenly and inexplicably lost control of the car. Not drunk, not on drugs, no obvious medical condition. Lily figured he’d suddenly forgotten how to drive.

  In the kitchen, Toby was turning the crank on a gadget that peeled, cored, and sliced apples. Julia stood at the restaurant-style range stirring something under Carl’s supervision. She flashed Lily a quick smile. Lily filled two heavy mugs with coffee, knowing Rule would want one, too. She’d rewrapped her wrist before they left, and it didn’t hurt at all to carry a mug in that hand. Maybe her left hand wouldn’t be out of commission too much longer.

  She got back just as the others were seating themselves at the big table. Isen had a pad and pen ready. One of his more unexpected skills was shorthand.

  Rule took the mug with a smile. Lily sat and pulled out her own notebook. Isen’s notes would be more complete, but she still wanted her own.

  Karonski was finishing his summary about the victims. “Those affected the worst seem to be the ones who either knew Alan Debrett as kids or who had a strong emotional connection, like his aunt and uncle, though there are exceptions, like the former teacher who died early this morning. We don’t yet know if there was another, deeper connection between her and Debrett, or if her physical frailty—”

  Physical condition means little, Sam informed them. It was amazing how well a voice that was no more than iced thought could cut off normal conversation. This is one of the two subjects I need to introduce. Your supposition that the chief predictors of major damage are an early connection to Debrett or a deep emotional connection is roughly correct. I will state this with more accuracy, although your terms do not allow real precision. The level of damage depends upon the way the excised memories were woven into subsequent memories and the individual’s sense of self. A visual metaphor may be helpful. Imagine an elaborate house of cards with many levels. Some cards may be removed, particularly in upper levels, with little damage to the overall structure. Remove cards in the middle or lower levels, and some or all of the levels above the point of excision collapse, and the lower structure may be in turn damaged by the falling cards, creating instabilities that do not immediately reveal themselves. Remove foundational cards, and the entire structure collapses.

  Lily spoke slowly, keeping her voice down so she wouldn’t be heard in the kitchen. “The part about how removing cards from a lower level makes the top levels crash and damages the lower structure . . . that’s my mother.”

  In a lamentably imprecise way, yes. The memories she lost were substantial, emotionally charged, and were formed at a time when she was building her understanding of identity, community, and sovereignty. At the moment of injury, her mind instinctively reverted to its most stable configuration prior to the excision. It was not, however, truly stable; such extensive collapse had damaged the underlying structure. I reinforced certain foundational structures and performed other alterations that do not fit the card house metaphor.

  So Julia was a stable twelve-year-old . . . if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms.

  I describe the damage in this imprecise manner in order to increase your understanding of the process that is under way in the victims of memory excision. I will also offer generalizations about their prognosis so you may prepare for the most likely results. I am generalizing about a process that is highly individualized, and therefore will not apply in every instance. These generalizations refer to matters as they stand now, and are as follows.

  Those who are now in a coma will die. Those with substantial damage to early memory formations will continue to deteriorate, which for most will mean coma followed by death. Many, but not all, of those with light to moderate damage who seem to be stable are not. They, too, will deteriorate. Some of them will reach a point of stability; others will not, and will eventually slide into coma and death.

  Everyone waited for a moment to see if Sam was done. Apparently he was.

  “Well,” Karonski said, “that’s a grim prognosis. I’ll let Ruben decide who needs to know. Those who are caring for the victims, obviously. Others in emergency management. The president, of course, which brings me to something I suspect some of you aren’t going to like. Ruben called me as I was on my way here. People were already on edge about the amnesia victims, and the sudden appearance of dworg has made it worse. The president plans to give a prime-time speech to tell everyone about the Great War and her.”

  “What?” Rule exclaimed. “The market’s volatile, yes, but—”

  “Is she nuts?” Cullen exclaimed.

  “I don’t know,” Arjenie said. “Maybe it’s time to level with people. Have you seen the news lately? They’re talking about the end times and plagues of locusts—as if dworg were some kind of giant locust!—and alien invasion. The reputable channels are trying to pooh-pooh those ideas, but—”

  “And this is going to help how?” Cullen said. “I can see it now. ‘Don’t worry, folks—we’re not dealing with an alien invasion. Just a crazy goddess who’s been trying to take over since before the dawn of recorded history.’ Yeah, that’ll do wonders for the Dow.”

  “They’re also talking about conspiracies and cover-ups,” Karonski said dryly. “Which may be part of the reason the president decided to reveal more. She did run on a platform of increased transparency.”

  Rule
muttered something Lily didn’t catch.

  “True,” Isen said, “but I don’t believe the president has solicited our opinion. We’d do better to focus on how the clans should handle this. We’ll need to get in touch with the other Rhos.”

  “Who are not going to appreciate the fact that the president knows about the Great War.”

  “The Lady never forbade our speaking of it. That’s tradition, but Nokolai broke no covenant by revealing historical facts the rest of the world was unaware of.”

  “Until now. Or soon, anyway.” Rule looked at Karonski. “When does she intend to speak?”

  “Tomorrow night at nine Eastern. She’d like to have you and possibly some of the other Rhos join her electronically afterward, if you could be at a local television studio.”

  Rule scowled. “I don’t know if that’s wise.”

  Isen spoke. “Will the president insist on a script? If not, this would be a chance to spin the revelation the way we wish.”

  Rule cast his father a glance. “It might, if we knew how we wished to spin it.”

  Both Benedict and Cullen started to say something at the same time.

  Delay this discussion, Sam told them in a voice sharp enough to cut. I need to relate the other matter that brought me to join your council tonight. I have learned much concerning the artifact in Friar’s possession.

  “You heard from that agent you sent to the sidhe?” Lily asked.

  In a manner of speaking. I suspected that the artifact disrupts time, which—

  “It what?”

  Everyone else reacted, too. Cynna repeated, “Disrupts time?” Arjenie exclaimed wordlessly. Isen frowned. Rule asked what that meant. Karonski said, “Son of a bitch!”

  And Cullen sat bolt upright. “It’s named?”