by Eileen Wilks
“I’ll assume you’re not suggesting we make common cause with banshees.”
“I think that was a joke.”
“Let me know when you’re sure.”
They turned together just short of the road, automatically moving against the wind. The ground along the shoulder was hard and dusty. Rule’s footfalls were soft; Benedict’s were all but silent, even to Rule’s ears.
“We’re used to hiding,” Benedict said. “All of us. Plus there’s a few centuries of dislike and distrust involved in some cases. There are reasons for that.”
“Some of those reasons should have stopped mattering after the Sundering. Most of the rest have been asleep for centuries.”
“You’d have me believe that’s no longer true.”
Rule nodded. “Not that I’m certain, but Cullen is.”
“You have some reason other than friendship to believe him?”
“You remembered his cat. She was his familiar.”
“He’s not a witch. He can’t be. He’s of the Blood.”
“Not a witch, no. A sorcerer.”
Benedict’s breath sucked in. “I take it you mean a real one, not some idiot dabbler. But . . . how? That path is closed to us.”
“I don’t know, except that his mother was a witch.”
“Which also shouldn’t be possible. A lone wolf sorcerer . . .” He shook his head. “You’re scaring me.”
“I haven’t gotten to the scary part yet,” he said grimly. “Cullen came to me a few weeks ago. He’d noticed some odd things about the energies he uses—turbulence, he called it. I won’t go into detail. Well, I can’t, because I didn’t understand the half of it. But basically he suspects a conflict between forces in other realms is being reflected here, and Nokolai is somehow involved—or our enemies are, with the same result.”
Benedict shook his head. “There’s not enough congruence between the realms for that. Not anymore.”
“That’s what we’ve believed. But there have been rumors of things sighted that shouldn’t have been able to cross—a banshee in Texas, a gryphon in Wales.”
“Rumors,” Benedict said dismissively.
“I know, I know—rumors don’t prove anything. But Cullen came to me because . . . damn. I almost forgot to tell you.” Rule inhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. Movement had only helped for a few moments. The restlessness was back, and getting worse. There was an odd crawling sensation in his belly. “In return for Cullen’s warning, Isen extended him the aid and comfort of the clan for a month. I doubt he’ll show up, but if he does—”
“I’ll see he gets in. Finish explaining.”
“Right.” Keep moving, he told himself. But he was going the wrong way. He was headed for Clanhome, and he wanted . . . needed . . . “Cullen came to me after an elemental took up residence in his scrying flame. It was frightened.”
Benedict made a scoffing sound. “Isn’t that how scrying works? In return for the flame—or water, or whatever is used—the elemental shows pictures. Mostly lies,” he added. “Or useless. Elementals are too simple to sustain a thought or much of an emotion.”
“Normally, yes. But this was a very old, very large elemental. And, according to Cullen, it was not from our earth.”
“You’re right,” Benedict said after a moment. “That’s scarier.”
Rule’s head was growing light, as if he weren’t getting enough air. His feet drifted to a halt. “Last night Cullen cast the bones. I saw them afterward, Benedict. Snake eyes, every one, on every side.”
Benedict never cursed, but his expression suggested he wanted to. “I’m not swallowing his story whole, understand, but if even half of it—what’s wrong?”
“I can’t . . .” Breathe. Can’t . . . “I have to go back.” He turned—and wobbled so badly he might have fallen if Benedict’s hand hadn’t closed over his arm, steadying him. “I have to get back.” He started walking. Yes, this was right—this was the right direction. The dizziness eased, but the urgency increased. He picked up his pace until he was running, with Benedict running silently beside him.
He must think I’m crazy. He’d be about half right. But Rule didn’t stop to explain. Seconds later he reached his car and stopped, bending over with his hands on his thighs, dragging in air in gulps.
Such a brief run shouldn’t have elevated his heart rate, much less winded him. Damn, damn, damn . . .
Benedict scowled. “You’re going to tell me what’s wrong. Now. Right now.”
“Sorry.” Rule straightened. He had to call Lily—to change the time for their lunch, for one thing. And to make sure she was okay. If she’d been driving just now . . . “I can’t enter Clanhome. You’ll have to bring Jasper here. No, maybe he’d better come to my apartment in the city. We have to settle how we’ll handle the ritual.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I wasn’t sure until now, but . . . it seems the Lady has chosen for me.”
Benedict’s eyes widened. “Who?”
He took one more breath and held it, letting it out slowly as his heartbeat settled. “The police detective investigating the murder I’m supposed to have committed.”
“Bloody hell,” said the man who never cursed.
EIGHT
THE neighborhood where Carlos Fuentes had been shot looked just as seedy by day, but Lily noticed that the area immediately surrounding Club Hell was a wobbly notch above the rest.
Most businesses had bars on the windows, true, but at least they were open, not abandoned. The usual clutter of sullen young men dotted the sidewalks, but there were women out, too, and not just the working girls. Ahead of Lily two old women moved slowly, casting baleful glances at the young men and chattering at each other in fierce Spanish.
Today Lily’s feet were silent on the sidewalk, no awkward clicking of heels. No ugly cop shoes, either. Running shoes were one of the perks of moving out of uniform.
She was glad to have them. She felt itchy, on edge. As if she might need to run. “Did you pull her sheet?” she asked.
“No sheet.” Officer Larry Phillips sauntered along at her side, still tall, skinny, and sarcastic. “Juvie might have something, but it’d be sealed. She’s been on the street awhile, but not as an adult. According to her ID, she just turned nineteen.” He snorted. “Gonzales thinks she’s clean.”
“Mmm.” It was theoretically possible for a prostitute from this neighborhood to avoid using drugs. Just not likely. “You did good finding her.”
He shrugged. “She’s not exactly ironclad, but who else was I gonna find who’d been out at night around here? Pimps, whores, pushers, and users. That’s about it.”
“You left out gang members.” There was a tugging beneath the itchiness, as if she needed to go somewhere, fast. What was the matter with her? She knew very well she wasn’t a precog, so it wasn’t some kind of psychic shit.
“The gangs mostly stay away. It’s that one on the end,” he added, nodding at a run-down brick building at the west end of the street. “Third floor. You seem awfully damned pleased about this. Doesn’t her story mess up things with your prime suspect?”
“It fits with other testimony. We have Fuentes leaving a church in La Mesa around eight-thirty.”
“That’s thirty minutes away, tops. So what else did he do between then and nine-fifty?”
“Don’t know yet.” Lily walked on a moment before adding, “Tell me something, Phillips. You’ve got experience with lupi. Why would one of them change to wolf to kill?”
“I dunno.” He sounded surprised. “Instinct, maybe. Fuentes had a gun.”
“From what you’ve told me, and what I’ve read, a .22 pistol isn’t much of a threat to a lupus.”
“If he’d been shot, it would have fingered him pretty clearly for us. They heal quick, but not so fast you wouldn’t have seen the wound when you went to Club Hell.”
“I wouldn’t have gone to Club Hell right away if we hadn’t known a lupus was responsible. It’s like he
posted a sign for us: Killer lupus on the loose.”
“Or else he just wanted to get his teeth into Fuentes. Hell, could be all kinds of reasons no human would think of.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe she was being steered. Why had the killer turned wolf to attack Fuentes? Had it been deliberate or instinctual? The instinct argument didn’t hold up unless there was something unusual about the circumstances she didn’t know. Other lupi hadn’t been driven by instinct to Change and kill, not in the last eleven months.
But killing in wolf form would have been necessary if the killer wanted the lupi blamed for it. Or one lupus in particular.
The one she’d see at lunch.
A weird little spasm in her gut left her feeling hollow. She rubbed it absently. Had she eaten breakfast?
“This it?” she asked when they reached the dilapidated brick building on the corner.
“Yeah.” He reached over her shoulder and pushed open the door. The vestibule was tiny and dirty. She started up the stairs ahead of him. “What did you mean about the gangs staying away?”
“The wolves,” he admitted grudgingly. “Word is they put the fear into a couple gang leaders so customers at the club wouldn’t get hassled. Or maybe that weird little guy that owns it has ’em spooked. For whatever reason, none of them claim the immediate—hey! What is it?”
She’d stopped, her hand tight on the rail. Trying to keep from tumbling back down the stairs. “I . . . give me a second.” But the dizziness that had hit so quickly wasn’t easing. It seemed to be squeezing the air out of her chest.
“You don’t look good.”
“Dizzy,” She put her hand on her chest, as if she could push more air in that way. And breath by breath, the spell began to pass, until she was standing there feeling foolish. “Whew. I don’t know what that was, but . . .” She caught a glimpse of Phillips’s expression. “I am not on anything,” she said sharply.
“You’re a little young for a heart attack. Low blood sugar?” He sounded skeptical as only a cop can.
“Maybe. I forgot to eat breakfast.” She’d never had a problem before, though. She thought of the way she’d bruised her hip last night and frowned. Maybe she was coming down with something. “Never mind. I’m fine now, and we’ve got a witness to talk to.”
THE witness’s room was tiny and crowded with dolls.
Baby dolls, Barbies, porcelain-headed dolls with lacy dresses and shining, perfect hair. They filled two bookcases, cuddled into corners, sat on the coffee table, and lay on the pillow on the twin-size bed. And every one was blonde.
In addition to dolls, the room also held an ancient refrigerator, a two-burner stove, a chest of drawers, and a lumpy blue love seat without legs. Therese Martin had waved them to the love seat. She sat on the bed, a skinny little waif in an oversize blue T-shirt and nothing else—no pants or bra, certainly. Lily didn’t know about panties.
Therese had shiny blonde hair like her dolls, though the color was a result of better living through chemistry. If Phillips hadn’t sworn the girl’s ID was valid, Lily would never have taken her for legal. “I oughta be sleeping, you know,” Therese said, eyeing her hostilely. “This is the middle of the night for me.”
“I appreciate your willingness to help us out.” Lily took the photo of Carlos Fuentes from her purse.
“Don’t know why you’re here. I already told him every-thin’.” She jerked her chin in Phillips’s direction.
“He didn’t have a photograph to show you. I do.” Lily didn’t have any illusions about the girls and women on the game. Prostitution was survival at its grimiest, a life based on using and being used. It didn’t allow much room for morals or standards. But those dolls . . . the hard ache of pity had Lily clearing her throat. “Is this the man you spoke to last night?”
Therese took the photo Lily held out, looked it over, and handed it back. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Officer Phillips said you knew him.”
She shrugged one thin shoulder. “Not by name. I’ve seen him around. Helps to have an eye for faces in my business.”
“I can see where it might. What time did you talk to him?”
“I already told him. Oh, all right. I’ll show you.”
She scrambled off the bed, which answered the underwear question. She wasn’t wearing any. She snagged a cell phone from the lap of a doll on the coffee table and handed it to Lily. “See? I’ve got Caller ID. It records when I get calls. Last night, I was headed for my spot when Lisa called. I wasn’t workin’ yet, see? So we were talking when I saw this guy pull up by the playground.”
Lily looked at the phone, which did indeed show that a call had come in at 9:49 P.M. the night before. She made a note of the number. “You say he pulled up. Was he alone?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of car?” They’d found Fuentes’s car parked just down from the playground—a big, dark blue Ford, several years old.
“Dunno. Big, ugly car, four doors. Dark color.” She went back to the bed, this time sitting with her feet dangling. “So anyway, I was talking to Lisa an’ I watched him for a minute. You can ask her about that, ’cause I told her. Then I thought, why not give him a try? So I told Lisa bye and went to see if he was, you know, lonely or something.”
“He arrived at the playground shortly after nine-forty-nine, then.” Which meant he’d still been alive between nine-fifteen and nine-thirty, which was when seven witnesses had Turner arriving at the club.
Therese rolled her eyes. “That’s what I said.”
“You talked to him for how long?”
“Hardly any time at all.” She grimaced. “He wasn’t buying, an’ I got a living to make, don’t I? I headed for Proctor—that’s my regular spot.”
“You didn’t see anyone else approach him?”
The girl shook her head.
“Was anyone else in the area?”
“Maybe some people got out up at the club.” She squinched her face up. “Yeah, I think so. They parked in that lot.”
“They? How many were there?”
“I dunno. They were women, see, so I didn’t pay attention. Didn’t see no one else till I got to Proctor.”
“All right. What about this man?” Lily took out a picture of Turner. “Did you see him that night?”
“Not then. Seen him around a few times, talked to him once.” She sighed. “Just talked. His kind, they don’t pay for it. He’s okay, though. Real respectful.”
“What about this man?” The photo Lily offered this time was of the dancer, Cullen Seabourne.
Therese’s tongue darted over her lip. She looked greedy. “Course I’ve seen him. He dances there, you know. Takes off all his clothes. Just like me.” She giggled. “Told him that once, that he and I had sorta the same job, only mine was more hands on. He laughed.”
“Did you see him last night?”
“I told you who I saw—that first guy, and some women. That’s it.”
“One more thing, Ms. Martin. Have you spoken to anyone about seeing that man arrive at the playground?”
She snorted. “Hell, no. Think I’m an idiot? Around here, you shoot off your mouth, you get in trouble.”
“That’s good. Just keep thinking that way. What about your friend—the one who called you? Did you tell her?”
“Just said I might have some business, then hung up. She don’t know who it was.”
Lily stood. “Thank you for your cooperation. Officer Phillips will bring you a statement to sign so you don’t have to go to the station house. I’m sure you don’t want anyone to know you’ve spoken with us. I don’t, either.”
Lily gave Phillips a few instructions—he’d follow up with the friend, get that confirmed, and make sure she didn’t know anything. Then she left.
She checked her watch as she started back down the stairs. Twelve-oh-five. Plenty of time to make it to Bishop’s. She was looking forward to the look on Turner’s face when—
Her cell phone rang. She fished it
out. “Detective Yu.”
“This is Rule.”
Oh, she wished her heartbeat hadn’t done that skip-jump thing. She spoke sharply. “Yes?”
“I deeply regret this, but I can’t make lunch. Some clan business requires my attention. Can we get together about two-thirty?”
“I’ve an appointment at three.” Lily stepped onto the sidewalk. Dammit, she was not disappointed.
“What about dinner, then?”
“What about four-thirty? We don’t have to eat while you tell me about lupi.”
“Why not, though? We both eat. You can ask questions about lupi pertinent to your investigation, and I’ll have the opportunity to hit on you again.”
The laugh was out before she could stop it. Oh, he was dangerous, all right. “This isn’t social.”
“You’re free to continue thinking that.” He hesitated. “There’s a chance I can get you into Clanhome, if you’re interested. There would be conditions.”
“I’m interested.” For years, most people had thought the Nokolai enclave outside the city belonged to a nutty, pseudo-religious group who didn’t allow outsiders on their land. Though the clan had come out of the closet after the Supreme Court ruling, they remained unwelcoming—and outside the city limits. A city cop didn’t stand much chance of getting a toe across their boundaries without a warrant.
“We can discuss it over dinner.”
“All right. I’ll be working late. Eight-thirty okay?”
“Dum alius hora, delicia.”
“What does that mean?”
He chuckled. “So suspicious. Eight-thirty is fine.”
“At Bishop’s,” she reminded him.
“At Bishop’s. Be safe,” he said and disconnected.
Be safe? She frowned at the phone in her hand. One of her instructors at the academy had ended every lesson with a similar phrase, but she’d never heard a civilian use it. They used to say it on that cop show, too. . . . What was the name of it? Maybe Turner had been a fan.