World of Lupi 10 - Ritual Magic

by Eileen Wilks

  Around the side of the house, a husky baritone voice started singing: “‘We shall overcome . . .’” A second later, his voice was joined by others—a child’s high voice, and Cynna’s? Could that be Cynna singing? And a voice Lily knew intimately. Her mother’s soprano came in strongly.

  Miriam jolted as if someone had shot her. “What’s that?” she cried. “What’s that singing?”

  “I’ll find out.” And Pete set off at a lope.

  Pete was gone, Miriam distracted. This was her chance. She’d arranged two signals with Cory for when it was time for him to release her—one spoken, one nonverbal. But she didn’t just want him to release her. She wanted him to throw her at Miriam. “Cory—”

  Drummond popped into sight in front of her, more see-through than usual. And frantic. He was waving his arms, shaking his head, saying with every motion Stop! Danger! Don’t move! His mouth moved, too, but Lily couldn’t hear a thing.

  Why? she wanted to scream. Every muscle was tight with the need to move, to act—but Drummond knew things she didn’t. He’d helped more than once, and he kept being right. She panted with conflicting needs and made herself stand there, just stand there, even as her mind screamed that this was nuts. She was losing her best chance.

  Drummond faded out with his arms still waving.

  Lily tried to look behind her, but Cory was in the way. He shifted and she could see the steps up to the path. She heard Pete’s voice faintly, and someone responding to him, and the singers continued to come closer. She waited, her body taut, wanting to act, to do—and then it was too late. Pete leaped down the four steps to the deck and ran up to Miriam to report.

  “It’s Cynna, Toby, Lily’s mother, Li Qin, and that homeless guy who was staying with Isen,” he said. “They approached the house. When Dave and Mitchell stopped them, they said they wanted to see you. Orders are to bring anyone suspicious to me, and they thought it was suspicious for them to ask to see you. How did they even know you were here? They’ve been searched. No weapons.”

  “What homeless man? Who’s Li Qin?” Miriam was baffled, tense, distressed. “No, never mind. Why are they singing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They need to stop. I can’t hear him. I can’t hear my lord. They’re singing too loudly.”

  They weren’t that loud. Not loud enough to drown out a voice you heard with your ears, but maybe . . . maybe the singing was happening someplace else, too. A place that Drummond was aware of and Lily wasn’t. A place that a saint might know about.

  Without thinking, she started humming along. A moment later Cory started humming, too. And others. All around them, lupi joined in, humming the old civil rights anthem: We shall overcome . . . we shall overcome someday . . .

  And Miriam did nothing. Her face was as pale as the white powder she’d used to lay her circle and she swayed as if tranced or about to faint. But her lips were moving. She made no sound, but her lips moved: Deep in my heart, I do believe . . .

  The singers came down the steps to the deck as calmly as if they’d been in a processional at church. Hardy held Toby’s hand; behind them Cynna and Julia walked hand in hand, too. Li Qin brought up the rear—and behind her were two guards, their guns trained on their odd assortment of prisoners . . .

  . . . who didn’t seem to notice the guards, the guns, or the peculiar tableau they approached. Toby looked like he was concentrating the way he did when he played soccer or computer games. Cynna wore a small smile, grim and defiant. Julia seemed caught up in the song, and Li Qin might have been pouring tea, she was so matter-of-fact. And Hardy . . . Hardy looked utterly at peace.

  “Stop,” Miriam told them. Her voice shook. “Stop now, all of you.”

  The guards stopped. The singers didn’t.

  “I forgot,” Miriam whispered. “Of course, I forgot to . . .” She fumbled at the scabbard and pulled out one wicked big knife—bigger than Benedict’s hunting knife, smaller than his machete. Maybe eighteen inches. And black. Whatever it was made of, it was all one piece from hilt to tip, and a dull, solid black. “Stop!”

  They didn’t. And Lily knew why. As the singers had drawn closer she’d seen the silver charms they wore—charms the previous Rhej had created based on ancient spellwork from the Great War, workings no one alive today knew except those able to reach into clan memories. Charms that Nokolai clansmen had worn the previous year when they went to war against the Chimea.

  Charms against the most potent of mind magic.

  Her heart leaped in her chest. Of course! Why had none of them thought of that? Lily herself, Rule, Cullen—they all knew about the charms. It was blindingly obvious now, but she hadn’t once thought about them . . . Persuasion? Could that be used not just to plant ideas, but to keep you from thinking clearly, seeing the obvious? If so, nothing she’d done tonight was likely to work.

  But it didn’t have to. The saint was winning this battle.

  Lily and Cory stood near the house. There was plenty of room for the singers to pass them, and at first it seemed they would. But as Hardy and Toby drew even with her, Hardy stopped and made a patting gesture with one hand. Without a break in their song, the others moved to form a semicircle slightly behind Lily and Cory, facing Miriam. They kept singing . . . and Hardy kept walking.

  Alone, he walked up to Miriam, who turned so she could keep her eyes fixed on him—eyes wide and wild, but now their brightness looked like tears, not mania. She shook as if she might fall over.

  Hardy stopped in front of her. “What have I done?” she whispered. “What have I done?”

  He held out his hand. He’d stopped singing. Lily wasn’t sure when, but it didn’t matter. His face was so full of compassion and love—it radiated from him like heat from a fire. He held out his hand and Miriam looked at the knife she held in hers. And shuddered.

  A shredded and sorrowful calm descended on Miriam. Her face relaxed into it. She stopped shaking and stretched out the hand holding the knife, hilt first—then cried out in an anguished voice, “No!” Fast—too fast for Lily to react—she gripped that wicked big knife with both hands. And plunged it into her own chest.

  Hardy cried out wordlessly. Miriam collapsed.

  Lily gave the nonverbal signal. She stomped on Cory’s foot.

  He let her go and she dashed forward, but Hardy—who’d fallen to his knees beside Miriam—held up a hand urgently, saying without words to stay back. Lily stopped. “I’m not going to touch it. The knife. I want to help her.”

  Hardy shook his head sadly. He stroked Miriam’s face, crooning softly. Her eyes were open and staring. The knife must have gone straight to her heart. Lily wouldn’t have thought Miriam knew how to deliver such a tidy death stroke. But it hadn’t been her who did it, had it? That triple-damned god had directed her hands. She’d been about to get free of him, and it had pissed him off.

  Hardy brushed her eyelids with his palm, closing her eyes, singing to her softly.

  “Stop!” someone behind her called. One of the guards. “Cynna, don’t move, for God’s sake. I don’t want to shoot you. Pete, what do I do? She said to obey you, and you said—”

  “Put your weapons up.” Pete’s voice was low and hoarse. “Lily, I can’t move. I still have to . . . she’s dead, but the last order she gave was for all of us to stop. Her other orders, too—they didn’t go away when she died.”

  Shit. Miriam was dead, but the knife wasn’t. “Can you tell them to take the sleep charms off?”

  “No.” He sounded agonized. “The others . . . she didn’t give them specific orders, except to obey me. She made her orders to me more explicit. I can’t give orders that counter hers.”

  The knife was still enforcing Miriam’s orders, but was that all it would do? It was alive, in a sense. Able to act on its own. Any second now it might tell one of them to slit Rule’s throat.

  Hardy had turned to li
sten to them. Now he cocked his head, then nodded. He turned back to the body that had been a woman moments before and gripped that black hilt. He grimaced as if in pain.

  “Oh, shit. Are you sure you should . . .” But he was the saint. Lily had to hope he was getting instructions from someone who knew a lot more than she did. Maybe taking the knife out would cancel Miriam’s orders. Maybe if a holy person held it, it wouldn’t be able to compel people.

  Hardy placed one hand on Miriam’s chest and pulled the knife out. It came free slowly, glistening with Miriam’s blood. He looked at it with the expression of someone holding a fistful of stinking, oozing shit.

  A gun went off inside the house. Hardy’s eyes went wide in astonishment. His hand opened and the knife clattered onto the deck as a red stain spread across his chest. He toppled over.

  FORTY-TWO

  ROBERT Friar darted through the open French doors. Gauze still wrapped his chest and leg, but the son of a bitch wasn’t even limping.

  Lily launched herself at him.

  He got there first and scooped up the knife, but he didn’t have time to do more before she piled into him. He went over on his back. She gave him a quick, hard chop with the heel of her hand, delivered under his chin. It snapped his head back, but didn’t discourage him nearly enough. He struck at her with the knife and she had to roll off, but she grabbed his arm and tried to wrench it behind him. Any second now he’d go dshatu. He’d phase out, and she might still be able to see him—she’d seen Gan in that state, back when Gan was still a demon—but she wouldn’t be able to touch him. To get the knife away from him.

  To kill the bloody bastard who’d shot a saint.

  But he stayed solid. All too solid, as he used the arm she held to flip her up and over him with inhuman strength. He sent her sailing right off the edge of the deck to land in the dirt four feet below. She landed hard and badly. It knocked the breath out of her.

  As she struggled to get her paralyzed diaphragm to work, Friar jumped down beside her, grinning nastily. He pulled a gun from the waist of his ruined slacks and took aim. And eighty pounds of determined nine-year-old boy hit him from behind.

  The gun went flying. Lily’s diaphragm suddenly remembered what to do and she sucked in air as Friar flopped onto his knees, but he didn’t go all the way down. He twisted and knocked Toby away.

  Someone was yelling. More than one someone. She didn’t have time to look. She got her feet under her and sent a kick at Friar’s head. He ducked and tried to grab her foot, but missed. It kept him busy for a second, though—giving her time to go after the gun he’d dropped. It was right beside Rule. She got her hand on it—and Friar landed on top of her, knocking her flat on her stomach.

  He grabbed her hair and jerked her head back, exposing her throat. Toby screeched and must have done something—Lily couldn’t see what—because Friar let go. She bucked hard, trying to dislodge him, keep him from hurting Toby. He fell off and she turned over quickly.

  A flash of searing pain sliced through her leg. And she was sucked away—away from her body, from the world, sucked off into . . . gray. Endless gray, where she floated for a time without time . . .

  Slowly the gray resolved into trees. Black trees. They were tall, impossibly tall, and they were made from shades of darkness. They loomed over her where she lay in the dirt. Glowing dirt. All the light in this place came from the ground, not the sky.

  Fear sank talons into her heart and ripped. She whimpered. Was she dead? She remembered fighting, but not . . . who had she fought? What had happened to her? What was this place?

  “Welcome to my domain.”

  The voice was rich and fluid, a mellow and very male voice, one that captivated. That made her want to hear more. She didn’t trust it, not at all. She managed to shove herself up, though her arms and legs shook. She felt weak and dizzy, but she got to her feet.

  He was a god. She knew that the moment she saw him. He stood about twenty feet away in a small clearing, naked and perfectly shaped. And large, too large for a mortal man—he must have been twelve feet tall. His pale skin gleamed faintly. His ears were pointed, like an elf’s, and his face was elfin, too—narrow at the jaw, broad through the cheeks—and he had long, straight, silver hair. Literally silver. It gleamed, too. From the crown of his head to his bare feet, he was supernally beautiful.

  She didn’t trust that, either. She couldn’t remember much—not how she got here, not what had happened to her. Not—oh, God. Not even her name. Fear spiked impossibly high until she panted with it. But however much she’d forgotten, she knew she did not trust this beautiful being.

  “You’re silent. I don’t like silence. I get too much of that here.”

  “You’re . . . the god who murdered Miriam.” She remembered that suddenly, the way Miriam’s hands had plunged a knife into her chest. The way she’d cried no even as she did it.

  Sorrow flooded his perfect face. “My lovely Miriam. She wanted so much to be with me, and now . . .” Rage washed away sorrow. “Now she never will, and it’s your fault.” He took a single step toward her. “You will have a long time, a very long time, to apologize. To try to make it up to me for losing my lovely Miriam. And everything else.”

  A ghost stepped out from behind one of the too-tall black trees. He was dark haired with a receding hairline. He wore dark slacks and a white button-down shirt and he was familiar . . . but he looked solid, she thought, bewildered. Why did she think he was a ghost?

  “Lily,” he said, “that bastard is lying to you.”

  She knew his voice, she knew she did. “My name is Lily?”

  “Son of a bitch.” That came out with such vehemence she took a step back. “No, don’t move. It’s really important you stay where you are. You can get lost in this place way too easy.”

  “Lily,” that other one said. The god. He was off to her right now, only ten feet away. She hadn’t seen him move. “Why are you listening to him? He tried to kill you once. You don’t remember? You listen to bad counsel all too often, don’t you?” He smiled and whispered, “It’s all right to kill Santos. He deserves it.”

  A flash of memory shivered through her. A face, a man’s face. Her hand holding a gun to him, the barrel jammed in his throat. Had she shot him? What had she done?

  “You killed him at my suggestion,” the god said in his wonderful voice. “You’re mine, Lily. You made yourself mine the first time you listened to me. You’ve been mine all along.”

  “He’s lying to you,” the ghost said again, moving so he was in front of her. “He’s trying to persuade you, but all he’s got is lies.” He stretched out a hand beseechingly. “You have to listen to me.”

  A gold ring glowed on that hand. On the third finger, the one connected to the heart, according to the old tales. A glowing gold ring . . . memory cascaded in on her, so swiftly she gasped. Rule. Isen, her mother, Toby, Cullen, Cynna, her father and her sisters . . . and Rule. Oh, God. “Drummond. You’re Drummond.”

  “Part of him, anyway.” His grin was quick and feral. “That shiny bastard behind me sliced a bit of me away from the rest. Thought he was being clever, but we tricked him. The bit he cut out is the part you need. I’ve been waiting here for you.”

  “Do you remember him now, Lily?” The god was on her left now. He spoke mockingly. “He tried to kill you. You and so many others. And you trust him?”

  “I . . .” But she did remember. Drummond had done terrible things, but he’d redeemed himself. He was on her side—and the beautiful god most definitely wasn’t. She remembered the fight now. She remembered Friar and Toby and a hot, terrible pain and being sucked out, away . . . “He got me with the knife. Friar did. I’ve . . . been cut out of time.”

  The god chuckled. “That’s where we are. Out of time. You’ve worried about running out of time for so long, and now you’ll stay out of time. With me.”

  “No.” Dru
mmond came closer. “He cheated. He’s sidhe. What do sidhe do best?”

  Her eyes widened. “Illusion.”

  “This”—he gestured widely—“this is real to him and me, because we died. But you didn’t.”

  That terrible, slicing pain—it had been in her thigh. Not her chest, not her head—

  “He had enough power to suck you here, but he can’t keep you. See how he pops here and there, but never gets close? He can’t touch you because you’re still alive and he isn’t, and as long as you don’t believe in him—”

  “Believe in the god of chaos?” She snorted. She’d spent her life fighting against chaos. “Not happening. But I—can I get back? How do I get back?”

  Drummond grinned again. “You’ve got a heavy hitter of your own. One who operates on your side of things, so she can’t come here, but she can help. She’s waiting to help. Just focus on that bond of yours.”

  Lily felt a sudden warmth on her hands and lifted them . . . both rings were glowing, just like Drummond’s did. The engagement ring Rule had given her glowed a soft sunshine yellow, and the toltoi charm on her other hand shone with the moon’s pale white light. She reached out with her mate-sense—and found Rule. He was right beside her. Never mind what her eyes said. She felt him.

  She knew what to do. She held out her hand. “Come with me!”

  Drummond hesitated. “It won’t work. You can’t—”

  “Hurry!” The gray land was starting to fade.

  Drummond put his hand in hers. It felt solid and real and warm, and the shock of that rippled through her. She closed her fingers tightly around his and closed her eyes and focused on what the mate bond was telling her . . .