Mortal Danger

by Eileen Wilks

  He smiled. “Of course. Until later, nadia.”

  FOURTEEN

  AT eight o’clock on Saturday night, Club Hell was packed and noisy. Rule felt the vibration from the music in the soles of his feet, even back in the cubbyhole Cullen used for a dressing room. He had no idea how the human patrons of the place could hear each other out there.

  Of course, that was one of the reasons he’d chosen Club Hell for the circle. They needed to come together on neutral ground, and the club had supplied that many times over the years for less formal meetings than the one tonight. No one could eavesdrop on them physically. “Max said the others are already here.”

  “I saw a few of them.” Cullen wiped his face with a towel. He was sweaty and as naked as the law allowed, having just finished his performance. “Including Leidolf.”

  That name jolted Rule. Max hadn’t mentioned that, damn him. “Who did they send?”

  “Dear Randy.”

  Randall Frey, the other clan’s Lu Nuncio. Rule’s counterpart. That was good, a sign they were taking this seriously … but he wouldn’t turn his back on the man.

  “I don’t put much stock in Leidolf ’s decision to participate,” Cullen said, tossing the towel on the shelf that served as his dressing table. “They want to know what you’re up to, that’s all.”

  Leidolf and Nokolai had a long, unhappy history. Most recently it included an attack on Rule’s father that had left him badly injured and one Nokolai dead … along with three members of Leidolf. “That’s true of others as well. We knew that once we convinced a certain number to come, others would decide they couldn’t afford to be left out. Leidolf did send the heir.”

  “Status.” Cullen grabbed his jeans. “Can’t let their representative be outranked by you.”

  “Perhaps.” Rule leaned against the wall, fighting an urge to fling open the door. Cullen was annoyingly impervious to the usual lupus distaste for small, enclosed spaces. “How many agreed to come tonight? Max was in a lather about something when he let me in the back door. He didn’t hang around long enough to give me a head count.”

  Cullen grinned and stepped into his jeans. “I can imagine. Poor Max. He likes to be in the middle of things almost as much as he likes to play it safe.”

  Rule’s eyebrows lifted. “You know something I don’t?”

  “Five more are attending this circle than came to the first one, in spite of the short notice—and they include a bumper crop of Lu Nuncios. Ought to make for a lively meeting. I can almost smell the seru now.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “Etorri is here.”

  Etorri … the most honored of them all. In the long centuries since the Great War, the clan had nearly winked out of existence more than once. The single Etorri who’d survived that conflict had been altered in ways that set him and his descendents apart; the magic was too wild in them, diminishing fertility. Somehow the clan had persisted, though. Equally amazing, perhaps, was their persistent integrity. They lived up to their du.

  Etorri. The clutch of pride-blinded, self-righteous fools who had expelled Cullen from their ranks for practicing sorcery, dooming him to life as an outcast … if he lived. The clanless usually committed suicide or went insane.

  For whatever reason, Cullen had done neither. Three weeks ago, his life as a lone wolf had ended when Nokolai claimed him with blood, earth, and fire. If Rule’s feelings about the Etorri were mixed, Cullen’s were volatile. “Who did they send?” he asked carefully.

  “Who else?” Cullen’s mouth twisted in what might have been meant for a smile. “My dear cousin. Oh, don’t look so wary. No need to tiptoe around my tender feelings.” Cullen yanked up his zipper and opened the door, not bothering with a shirt. Because he considered pants optional after a performance, that wasn’t surprising. “I’ll survive seeing Stephen again, and God knows he’s too pure to be harmed by contact with us lesser beings.”

  “I’m glad you’re not bitter.”

  Cullen gave a single bark of laughter.

  Rule was glad to leave the closet-sized dressing room. The hall they entered wasn’t a big improvement, though, being dim and narrow. One end opened onto the squalor Max called his office. They went the other way, into the scents and din of the club proper.

  The cavernous room occupied both the basement and first floor of the building, with its upper reaches vanishing in the overhead gloom. Max took great delight in the décor. He’d borrowed from every hellish cliché he could find, creating a three-dimensional cartoon of the underworld complete with stony walls, fake fires, and a scent he insisted was brimstone.

  Most of the club’s patrons were human, of course. That lupi frequented the place made it a draw for thrill seekers, and for seekers of another sort. Several women tried to claim Rule’s attention—some he knew, some he didn’t. Several more tried to stop Cullen.

  It must have been a good performance tonight. The two of them made their way between the tables, managing to get by with a smile, a word, a nod, looking for the ones who weren’t human.

  There, at the bar. Rule caught the man’s eye and gave a small nod. Across the room, another man saw them and gave the woman beside him a kiss and then stood. A pair of men at a table with several women created vast disappointment by taking their leave. All around the room, one and two at a time, men who resembled each other mainly by their unusual fitness began drifting toward the back of the room, where a spiral staircase wound up into a shadowed loft, invisible from below.

  Rule and Cullen reached the stairs first. Rule started up, with Cullen behind him.

  “Did you have any trouble getting away?” Cullen asked.

  “No.” He hadn’t even had to lie. Not that he’d told her the truth, but he hadn’t spoken a direct lie.

  “Even if the tracking spell doesn’t work—and I may have fixed it—Benedict’s got the panic button, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “My, but you’re in a monosyllabic mood all of a sudden. I suppose you’re feeling all squirmy with guilt. Bad habit, guilt.”

  “Shut up, Cullen.”

  “Right. You’re making too much of this, you know. Lily’s sensible. She’ll be upset, but once she thinks about it—”

  “Are we talking about the same woman?” Rule demanded. “The one who won’t have bodyguards, so you have to invent a whole new spell so I can be sure she’s protected? The one I had to trick into letting Benedict stay with her while I’m gone? She was attacked by a bloody demon last night, but oh, no, she doesn’t need protection. That’s sensible?”

  They’d reached the loft, an open, unfurnished stretch that ran the length of the back wall. All the pillows had been chased to the edges of the carpeted floor to make room. There were no lights; the only illumination came from below.

  With a glance, Cullen changed that. Twelve black candles set in a wide circle suddenly sported flames. Then he looked at Rule. “Maybe she doesn’t like Benedict. I don’t, myself.”

  Rule snorted.

  Someone was coming up the stairs, making more noise than strictly necessary. That was courtesy. Rule took note and stuffed his regrets—and yes, dammit, his guilt—down where it wouldn’t intrude on tonight’s business.

  Cullen took a white candle, still unlit, from a small tote and started for the head of the stairs. He stopped beside Rule and put a hand on his arm—a rare gesture. Lupi usually touched easily and often, but Cullen had spent most of his life apart. He’d stopped reaching out decades ago.

  He spoke under the tongue now, so low that, even this close, Rule barely heard him. “There’s no point in punishing yourself, you know. Lily will do a fine job of that when the time comes.”

  A smile ghosted across Rule’s face. “The funny thing is, you mean that as a comfort.”

  Cullen’s answering smile was swift and fleeting. He turned just as the first of the others reached the top of the stairs—Ben Larson of Ansgar, the largest of the Scandinavian clans. Ben was a fine fighter, but he could be ove
rly deliberate, seeking certainty when none existed.

  He frowned at the sight of Cullen. Perhaps he’d hoped Rule would have switched gatekeepers. Tough. They were all going to have to adjust to changes. The realms were shifting, and She was active once again.

  “A moment,” Cullen said to Ben. This time he waved his hand over the candle he held and murmured a few words to dance a flame onto the wick. That was theater, and Rule’s idea. He wanted the others to get used to Cullen but saw no point in rubbing their noses in just how different his friend really was. Some of the Gifted could summon fire through ritual. Cullen called it by mind alone.

  He held the candle out to Rule first. “Accipisne alios in pace?”

  “Accipio in pace.” Rule held his palm over the flame without quite touching it for a slow count of three—long enough to seal the pledge, briefly enough that by the time he left the burn would be healed. Then he moved to the nearest black candle and sat tailor-fashion, the candle at his back.

  Cullen held the white candle out to Ben. “Accipiaris in pace.”

  “Advenio in pace.” Ben held his hand over the flame as Rule had done and then took his place within the circle of candles.

  One by one the rest entered, held one hand to the flame, and pledged peace. Con McGuire of Cynir. Stephen Andros, the Etorri Lu Nuncio, with the oddly pale eyes typical of his lineage and hair the color of dust. Ito Tsegaye of Mendoyo. Randall Frey of Leidolf—a smiling villain, that one. Ybirra’s Javiero Mendozo, almost as dark-skinned as Ito. Rikard Demeny of Szós. The Kerberos heir, Jon Sebastian, who looked like an accountant and fought like a madman. Kyffin’s Sean Masters.

  Altogether, fifteen of the twenty-two dominant clans were directly represented, eight by their Lu Nuncios. One of the heirs and two of the nonheris sons had crossed an ocean to attend the first circle. For this one, Stephen Andros had traveled almost as far—the Etorri lands were in northern Canada.

  Rule tried not to resent the fact that it had taken Etorri’s lead to persuade many of them to attend. They were here. That’s what mattered.

  Once everyone was seated, Cullen extinguished his candle and sat apart, near the wall. He was responsible for guarding the circle from intrusions both physical and magical. She couldn’t spy on them directly, but her agents might be able to.

  Rule was responsible for what happened within the circle. No easy task, that. He began with silence, allowing them all a few moments to gather the inner stillness necessary for control.

  Candles burned behind each man, leaving faces shadowed and laying their waxy scent heavily on the air. Music and voices washed up from below. And yes, beneath the heavy scent of the candles and the mingled personal scents of those present, Rule found more than a trace of seru.

  Lu Nuncios were by definition dominant. Closing up so many together in a pace circle and getting them to listen, to cooperate, would be tricky. Outright violence was forbidden, as were challenges to later combat. But each of them would instinctively seek to dominate the others.

  Including him, of course. Cullen was right. It should be a lively meeting. “In pace convenio,” he said formally. “Let us begin.”

  “You can start with an explanation,” Rikard said. “Why is that one—” he jerked his head toward Cullen—“acting as gatekeeper?”

  Rikard was the oldest of them, but age had never mellowed him. He remained fiery and prone to saying what others might leave unsaid out of caution or simple courtesy. “Because Nokolai’s Rhej doesn’t leave Clanhome. Because Cullen has the necessary skills. And because I chose him.”

  One of the nonheris muttered something Rule ignored. Rikard snorted. “Obviously you chose him. But—”

  Stephen Andros interrupted. “We waste time arguing about what we’ve already accepted by sitting in circle. Nokolai called the circle. Nokolai therefore has the right to choose the gatekeeper.”

  Rule didn’t thank him. That would be insult, implying that Stephen supported him—a subordinate position. But he met the Etorri heir’s eyes for a moment in acknowledgment. Stephen Andros was built like a full-back, but he had the otherworldly eyes of a monk, a sage, … or a sorcerer.

  Rule had wondered if it was that taint of otherness in Cullen’s heritage that had made the impossible possible. There had never been a lupus sorcerer; their innate magic was said to crowd out any other type. He’d never asked. Cullen didn’t speak of his life as Etorri.

  “I would know more about why I am here.” That was Ito Tsegaye of Mendoyo—dark, thin, and very tall. His English was heavily accented, tuned to melodies distant and strange. The Mendoyo had lived apart from the other clans for centuries while Africa was cut off from the European world; more than their accents were strange to Rule.

  “You’re here to take information back to your clan—and, I hope, some of you are here to join the fight against Her. Something has changed, and the realms aren’t as distant as before. She’s able to reach into our world once more, and She intends to destroy us.”

  Randall of Leidolf smiled. “That She would destroy us if She could, I don’t doubt. But the rest of it … we’ve only your word about that.”

  Rule looked at him impassively. It took all his control to keep his own seru from spiking at the insult. “Yes, you have my word. All of you have heard of what happened—how Her followers were defeated and Her staff disappeared. But some of you have heard it only second-or third-hand. Do you wish to hear it from me?”

  They did, though it took some discussion to reach agreement. Lily, Rule thought with a small smile, would have wanted him to take a vote.

  “You are amused?” Ito asked.

  “A private thought. My Chosen finds some of our ways strange, and for a moment I saw things through her eyes.” Reminding the others of Lily wouldn’t hurt. The Lady had never gifted a Lu Nuncio with a Chosen—not, at least, since the times of legend.

  “Your Chosen … some say she’s a sensitive.”

  Rule looked at the man who’d spoken. Con was a friend, but more, he was of the same mind as Rule. They had to organize now, while Her power in their realm was still limited. “Yes, she is.”

  That raised eyebrows. “Uncanny,” Rikard announced.

  “Not since Magya of Etorri—”

  “Coincidence. It doesn’t mean—”

  “A Lu Nuncio with a sensitive Chosen—coincidence?” Con snorted. “Sure, and the Lady’s just having a little joke on us.”

  Ben flushed angrily. “So you’re an expert on the Lady’s intentions now?”

  “I’m saying it isn’t coincidence. We don’t call our mates ‘Chosen’ because the Lady hands them out at random.”

  “Very true,” Randall said, “but we don’t want to jump to conclusions, either.” He turned to Rule, smiling his toothpaste ad smile. He was a handsome man, younger than Rule by a decade, with streaky blond hair, a pianist’s long fingers, and more wiggles than a snake. “You aren’t trying to make us think you’re starring in a rerun of Senn and Magya, are you?”

  “Randall.” Rule smiled back gently. “I respect your character too much to try to make you think anything at all.”

  That brought grins and a couple of chuckles. Rule took advantage of the moment to begin his tale. It wasn’t their way to shear a story of its personality, turning it into the kind of impersonal report Lily might submit, so this took a while.

  There were a few glances at Randall when Rule spoke of the attack on his father—and later, more glances at Cullen, who’d played a heroic part at the end. And when he finished, the questions hit. The first few were easy, but inevitably someone asked about Lily.

  “She’s still a cop, yes, but with the FBI now.”

  “One of your federal police, you mean?” Ito asked.

  “That’s right.” Rule took a deep breath. He couldn’t put this off any longer—it was, after all, why he’d called the circle. “She’s in charge of the hunt for the staff. That’s how I learned today that the government doesn’t intend to destroy it.”

>   That brought outcries even from those who weren’t wholly convinced the staff existed. Rule gave them a moment before continuing. “Lily has been told to preserve it for study. I don’t know who wants the bloody thing, and it doesn’t matter. We can’t let them have it.”

  Even though “they” included Lily.

  FIFTEEN

  AT ten-fifty-seven, Lily took the elevator down with her eyes closed, leaning against the wall. She was beyond tired, into the lightheaded stage when giggles or tears are equally easily come by.

  Probably she should have left earlier. Okay, definitely she should have, but they had so little time—maybe a day. Then Harlowe would kill again.

  The good news was that Rule wasn’t around to nag. And the bad news … well, the bad news was that Rule wasn’t around. She’d grown used to curling up with him at night. She’d miss that, at least for the few seconds between getting horizontal and falling asleep.

  She got her eyes open and her back straight before the elevator door opened. The building had decent security, a mix of the old and the new—an electronically operated door plus a guard with a sign-in sheet. He teased her about having a “real patient date.” She looked out the heavy glass doors and saw Benedict waiting.

  It had been tempting to take a taxi home. Tempting, but stupid. If they made another try at her tonight, she’d lose precious seconds yawning. So she’d sucked it in and done the sensible thing, calling Benedict to let him know she was leaving. Just as she’d been told to do.

  Her lips tightened. Rule thought she was being stubborn about needing protection. There was a pinch of that, she admitted as the guard hit the button that unlocked the door. But it was his high-handedness that infuriated her. He’d made a decision for her this morning and then waited all day to spring it on her.

  She stepped out into air with barely enough snap to qualify as fall, air that smelled of concrete and car exhaust, yet it perked her up. It hadn’t been groomed and filtered and pimped into a consumable product. It was just air being air.