by Eileen Wilks
“There’s a chance, but it’s extremely slim.” First because wraiths were really, really hard to make. Second because a wraith wouldn’t have left so much tasty death magic behind on that dagger. Wraiths ate the stuff.
“We’ve got a human perp, then.”
“Perps. Five is considered the minimum necessary for a death magic ritual. One for each of the four compass points, and one to direct the ritual and do the actual killing. In all of the known rituals, the killer uses a blade, usually to cut the victim’s throat. The ritual allows the person in charge to absorb or contain the power released when a soul transitions from life to whatever comes next.”
Turned out Mullins did have a voice—a gravelly baritone at odds with his size. “Soul?” He loaded plenty of scorn into the word. “You believe in souls?”
“You don’t like the word, pick another one. Something persists after the body dies. We don’t know how long it persists or what happens to it, not in any definitive way, but souls are fact, not belief.”
Mullins’s chin jutted pugnaciously. “You can’t prove that.”
“Death magic itself proves something other than the purely physical exists.”
“All that crap about transitions! You sound like a TV psychic. Obviously death magic uses the life energy of the victims, not some holy-baloney transition.”
“What’s life energy?”
“The energy it takes to keep a body alive.”
She snorted. “Talk about an undefinable term! If you stick to the purely physical, a subsistence diet consists of twelve hundred calories. That’s the equivalent of about five Btus. If all a death magic practitioner could access was the purely physical, he’d do a hell of a lot better figuring out how to eat the energy from a blow-dryer.”
Drummond broke in impatiently. “Enough metaphysics. To make death magic, someone’s got to kill someone else. That’s where we start.”
“It’s still death magic when the sacrifice is an animal,” Lily said, “but people give the bigger bang. I suspect our perps needed a human death, but . . .” She drummed her fingers on her thigh. “I need to consult an expert.”
“You’re supposed to be the damn expert.”
“You wouldn’t ask a blood splatter specialist to analyze fiber. I’m a touch sensitive. I can’t work magic, so I’ve never learned spellcasting. I need to talk to someone who knows it all—casting, theory, history.”
“You got someone in mind? One of your Unit people?”
“No, he’s a consultant.” Cullen Seabourne, lupus and sorcerer. Sorcerers were rare enough that some people didn’t think they existed. A lupus sorcerer was supposed to be impossible.
Cullen did like to break the rules. “He’s got clearance,” Lily added. “The Unit uses him often. I’ll need you to approve his fee.”
He grunted. “I need your request in writing—name, contact information, fee scale. Did Croft tell you—” His phone buzzed. He took the call, said he’d be right there, and told Mullins, “You brief her. I need to talk to Armistead.”
“All of it?”
“Hell, yeah. She has to know why she can’t shoot her mouth off.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Mullins looked at her. “I hear you’ve got homicide experience.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” He pulled a small pad from an inside pocket on his jacket and looked over his notes. “Bixton was a man of regular habits. Up at seven every weekday, according to the maid. Name’s Sheila Navarette—unmarried, thirty-two, lives in. She has his breakfast ready at seven thirty every weekday, and that’s when he arrived to eat it today. Eggs and toast, coffee, apple juice. While he ate, she ran the vacuum downstairs—she does that every damn day—then went to wash up the breakfast things. Passed him on her way to the kitchen about eight fifteen. She thinks he went to his office then because that was his routine, but she didn’t actually see.
“So she cleaned up the kitchen and went upstairs, where she made the bed, tidied up, and collected the laundry. She took that down to the basement. That’s where she was at between nine thirty and ten when the doorbell rang. The doorbell rings on all three floors—basement, first floor, and second floor. She answered the door and showed the visitor in to the senator here in the living room. After determining that they didn’t want coffee or tea, she returned to the basement, where she remained, ironing the senator’s shirts, until she went upstairs to fix lunch around noon and discovered the body.”
He looked up from his notes. There was an odd, mocking gleam in his eyes. “That’s the only visitor the senator had this morning.”
“Are you saying we already have a suspect? Or at least a witness. You have a description? A name?”
“Both.” He consulted his notes again ostentatiously. “Thin, average height, wore a dark gray suit with a white shirt. Pale blue tie. He was not carrying a briefcase or laptop or other object. She estimates his age as between forty and fifty. Dark hair and eyes, large nose, glasses. She hadn’t seen him there before and he didn’t have an appointment, but the senator saw him anyway.”
“And the name?”
Mullins smiled thinly. “Ruben Brooks.”
ELEVEN
AT eight twenty that night Rule heard a car in the alley, followed by the sound of the garage door opening out back. He was in the kitchen, his laptop on the table, his ass in one chair, his feet in another, wearing his headset. “Okay, Andor, thanks. I appreciate your not asking us to wait for the All-Clan.”
“Chad is unemployed at the moment. It is no difficulty for him to fly to D.C.”
“He’ll stay here, of course, and Wythe will pay his airfare.” The Rho of Szøs clan snorted. “You speak for Wythe now as well as Leidolf and Nokolai?”
“My father speaks for Nokolai,” Rule said mildly. He listened to the car pull into the garage, glad that Lily hadn’t worked too late. She’d texted him a couple hours ago not to wait supper on her, which could have meant she’d be home at eight or at midnight. Or later. “No one speaks for Wythe at the moment, but my nadia and the Wythe Council agree that the clan will reimburse others for expenses incurred in this search. Let Walt know how much and who the check should go to—you or your young man—and he’ll send it immediately. You have Walt’s number?”
“Szøs will pay Chad’s expenses,” Andor said gruffly. “It is not good for a clan to be without a Rho. This would be true at any time, but in time of war, we do not bicker over a few dollars.” Andor paused. “Of course, if Chad does turn out to be capable of holding the Wythe mantle, he will no longer be Szøs. Wythe will owe us reparation for the loss of a clan member.”
Rule’s mouth twisted in wry amusement. “A matter you can discuss with the new Rho, if that happens.”
“So I can. T’eius ven, Rule.”
“T’eius ven.” Rule removed the headset and went to unlock the back door for Lily. He swung it open.
She had her key out—because, of course, she never let the guards unlock the door for her. She claimed this was so they’d be free to do their job. He suspected she preferred to pretend they weren’t there. She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. “You are not a suspect.”
Amusement lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Even if Croft were willing to put me on an investigation where you were a suspect, Drummond wouldn’t let that stand. But I’d really like to know if it was Dennis Parrott who alibied you.”
“It is, though it seems, since you are part of the investigation, that you should know this already. Come in. I saved you some supper.” He turned to get it. “Shepherd’s pie. It’s keeping warm in the oven.”
“I’m probably hungry, but I’m too tired to tell.” She followed, closing the door behind her. He heard the dead bolt click. Lily cultivated useful habits such as locking doors automatically, squeezing the toothpaste tube from the bottom, and cleaning her weapon every time she used it.
“Wine first, then.” He’d ope
ned a nice Syrah to go with his own supper, so he retrieved the bottle from the cooler.
“Wine sounds good, but I’d better follow it with coffee after the meal or I’ll fall asleep.” She set her laptop on the table next to his and sat down. “I didn’t ask Drummond about your status in the investigation and he didn’t volunteer anything. He isn’t completely shutting me out, but he isn’t treating me like a colleague, either.”
“Drummond is the one in charge of the investigation into Bixton’s death?” He set the glass he’d poured near her elbow. She nodded and sipped without, he thought, noticing the bouquet at all. “Special Agent Al Drummond considers me an unfortunate necessity. He has to have someone from the Unit on his team, given the nature of the crime. But that’s a problem, given the identity of his chief suspect.” She slid him a glance. “Funny, you don’t look at all curious about who that is.”
“It’s difficult to keep secrets from a dragon.”
“Mika did hear me, then? I mindspoke to him, but didn’t know if he’d peeked inside my head to find out what I couldn’t tell him.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that, but—”
“Lily.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t violate your orders or do any damage to the investigation. Unless you’ve decided there really is a chance that Ruben is guilty?”
She snorted. “Of killing Bixton after making abso-damn-lutely sure he’d be IDed as the senator’s only visitor? Not hardly.”
“Well, then.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and went to get the shepherd’s pie from the oven. “What do you think of Special Agent Drummond?”
“Intense, angry, irritating. A control freak, but that’s not unusual in a good cop. I called Steve Timms.”
“Oh?”
“Looking for gossip. Steve’s MCD, which isn’t exactly regular Bureau, but he knows the people on that side of things a lot better than I do. Turns out Drummond’s sort of a rock star, but with a rep as a maverick. Steve says he’d have advanced a lot further, but he kept getting held back because he slithers around the rules so often. Which makes it damned odd that he’s using the rules to block me, doesn’t it?”
“How so?” He set the warm casserole on a place mat on the table and sat across from her.
“Maybe he’s not really blocking me. We’ll see. He’s sure slowing me down. I had to send him a request in writing to consult with Cullen. In writing.” She shook her head and scooped out a serving of the meaty stew topped by mashed potatoes. “His minion can’t stand me. That’s Doug Mullins,” she added, taking a bite. She paused, looked at her plate. “This is pretty good.”
“I thought so. I was talking to Andor just before you arrived.”
“Andor? Oh, you mean the Szøs Rho.”
“He’s got a possible candidate for the position you’re longing to see filled.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Someone with Wythe founder’s blood?”
“His mother was Edgar’s granddaughter.”
It took her a moment to unpack the genealogy of that statement—proof, if she’d needed it, that she was tired. Edgar had been Rho before Brian. “I guess his father was Szøs. What’s he like?”
“He’s a dominant, of course. Andor says he’s bright, self-assured, and cocky as only a very young man can be. Unemployed at the moment, but he has a degree in telecommunications. He’ll be here Saturday. Tell me about the minion.”
She grimaced. “At first I thought Mullins was pissed because I didn’t kowtow properly to the boss—he thinks the sun shines out of Drummond’s ass—but I think it’s mostly because I’m Unit. Mullins is one of those who are deeply, personally offended by magic.”
“A religious zealot?”
“You could say that. A devout atheist.”
“Atheism and the magic aren’t antithetical.”
“You missed the devout part. With Mullins it’s a creed: thou shalt not partake of the irrational, with irrational defined as anything he can’t sense directly. Magic screws with his worldview. Aren’t you going to have some wine?”
“In a moment.” He’d poured himself a glass, but left it on the counter to breathe. Lily didn’t object to red wine straight from the wine cooler, but Lily had very little nose.
Silence fell for a few minutes. Lily ate. Rule thought about how foolish he’d been. He’d thought that once Lily knew about the Shadow Unit, he wouldn’t have to hide things from her anymore.
Being wrong was a bitch.
Mika was not Sam. He couldn’t screen hundreds of minds simultaneously, looking for a particular one, nor could he read the minds of those distant from him. Even those close to him were difficult for him to decipher. He could, however, pick up and understand Lily’s thoughts better than most. He’d flown close enough to do that several times today so he could keep Rule and Ruben informed. He’d also passed word back and forth between Rule and Ruben.
Ruben had spent a wearying afternoon being questioned. He’d denied leaving his house that morning. Deborah confirmed that, but neither prosecutors nor juries took a wife’s word as gospel. At the moment, Ruben’s best defense was the sheer stupidity it would have required for him to commit murder in such a way.
He had one more defense. At the moment, he didn’t intend to use it. Rule wasn’t sure that was wise, but it wasn’t his call.
Lily was nearly finished eating. He stood and retrieved his glass of wine, holding it close to savor the rich, complex scents of the wine before sipping. Time to probe a bit. “I’m wondering if I should tell you something, or if it will just complicate the dilemma you find yourself in.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He sat across from her once more. “You’ve talked about your superior on this case. About this Mullins person. You haven’t said anything about the investigation itself. Were you told not to discuss it with me, or is there some question in your mind about whether you can, given my connection to the Shadow Unit?”
She put her fork down. “I hope to hell this place isn’t bugged.”
“It isn’t. You’d know better than I if someone could eavesdrop with one of those long-distance devices.”
She glanced at the kitchen window. “Probably not. They’d have to park in the alley, and I suspect José would notice that and check them out.”
“He would.”
She sighed. “I was told not to discuss the investigation with anyone not on the team. That came from Croft, not Drummond. It’s a reasonable order, under the circumstances.” She drummed her fingers once on the table. “I’m going to violate it.”
“I don’t have to—”
“This is about what I need. What the investigation needs. I don’t know what the deal is with Drummond. Maybe he’s obstructing me because he doesn’t trust me, given my connection to Ruben. Maybe he’s going all regulation because it’s such a high-profile case and he’s nervous. Maybe he’s the damn traitor in the Bureau. Although,” she added with a sigh, possibly regretful, “that’s unlikely.”
“Oh?”
“I talked to Croft, too. He says Drummond was in D.C. on the day of the attempt on Ruben’s life, but not in Headquarters, and I’m to take that as definite. So unless Drummond’s part of a greater conspiracy within the Bureau, he’s out as a suspect. Most likely he’s a control freak who doesn’t trust me.” Her fingers drummed again. “Do you know what he had me doing most of the day?”
“Mika didn’t go into that kind of detail.”
“Knocking on doors. And it’s not that I think I’m too important for that sort of—”
“Was it Mullins who said that or Drummond?”
“Mullins.” She grimaced. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t let the little shit get to me. He was in Wyoming when someone dosed Ruben with that potion. Never mind. What happened today was that I followed the perp’s trail—”
“There was a trail?”
“That’s one of the things I need to discuss with Cullen. The perp seems to have leaked quite a bit of magic on his or her
way into the house. The trail stops at Bixton’s body. I traced it the other direction and ended up at the little park across the street. The trail went right up to a bench, then stopped. That doesn’t make sense. If the perp was loaded up so much he leaked, why would he only start leaking at that bench? Anyway, Drummond decided that once I’d done that, I’d served my main function. He had me knock on doors the rest of the damn day. It’s not like finding wits isn’t important, but it’s a poor use of my time. He doesn’t have anyone other than me who knows shit about tracking down a death magic coven—”
Rule’s eyebrows shot up. “A coven?”
“Not a Wiccan coven. A group of practitioners who used ritual killing to create death magic. Um. The ‘death magic’ part should be news to you, but I guess it isn’t. I should ask what you know from Mika.”
“I know Senator Bixton was killed sometime after 9:30 with a dagger imbued with death magic. His maid believes she admitted Ruben at that time. Ruben says he never left his house. Ah . . . that’s the detail I was considering telling you. Ruben has a witness who can testify to that. Two, actually.”
“What? Why hasn’t he said so? Or has he, and Drummond didn’t tell me?”
“Ruben is holding them in reserve. They’re lupi.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then thinned. “I should’ve guessed. He’s been attacked once. When that failed, he should’ve had bodyguards at home as well as at Headquarters. I wasn’t thinking. But why lupi instead of Bureau bodyguards?”
“Budgetary constraints,” Rule said dryly. “Croft had guards at Ruben’s house at first, but he was told by the director to remove them two weeks ago. Given how important our Lady considers Ruben, the clans were willing to share the duty of protecting him and Deborah. Today’s team was Cynyr.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “From Wales. They came all the way from Wales. You couldn’t handle it among the U.S. clans?”
“The Lady named Ruben our ally. Guarding him is an honored duty. No one could be left out without giving offense.”
“So why hasn’t Ruben mentioned his alibi?”