by Eileen Wilks
The idea of a lupus prince hooked on a television cop show had her grinning as she finished descending the stairs. Enough about Turner, she told herself as she headed for her car. There was another man she needed to know better: Carlos Fuentes. He’d arrived at the playground shortly after 9:49. But why had he gone there? Who had he met? And how had he really felt about his wife’s affair?
One of the last people to speak with Fuentes before he died was the Most Reverend Patrick Harlowe. So her next stop was the Church of the Faithful. She could eat on the way.
“WHAT do you mean, he can’t talk to me?”
The pudgy little man was upset. “I didn’t say that. Oh, no. The Most Reverend will certainly talk to you, Detective, but he isn’t here right now. He had to go to our Mother Temple in Los Angeles. He should be back tomorrow.” He smiled at her hopefully.
“Tomorrow.” Lily frowned. When was Turner planning to get her into Clanhome? Her gut was telling her she might find some answers there. This was beginning to look like some kind of lupi-against-lupi deal, for all that the victim had been human. “What time?”
“In the evening, I think. Father Hidalgo will be handling the morning services.”
“You have two fathers?”
“Two priests,” he corrected her. “There are several degrees of priesthood—father, reverend father, most reverend, holy, and the most holy, who’s rather like our Pope.” He beamed at her. “He’s in England normally, but he’s been visiting our new Mother Temple. That’s why the Most Reverend Patrick had to be away.”
“That’s a lot of structure for such a new religion.” And were all the priests male? In a religion centered around a female deity, that seemed odd.
“No, no, the church isn’t new. Well, it’s new to America, but the faith has been around a long time, a very long time. It originated in Egypt in . . . oh, my, I’m not good with dates. The Second Dynasty? We were dreadfully persecuted during the Middle Ages.” He shook his head. “We had to go underground. That’s why you won’t have heard about us, but the rituals weren’t lost. Not entirely. Many of them can be traced back for thousands of years.”
The battier the cult, Lily thought, the more they liked to claim an ancient lineage. And there was nothing like a little persecution—preferably in the past—to lend their beliefs a certain cachet. “You seem pretty knowledgeable. Maybe you could help me out, answer a few questions.”
His smile faltered. “I don’t see what I could tell you. I knew Carlos, but not well.”
“You spoke to him Thursday night.”
“Briefly.” He was unhappy. “I told your officer that.”
“I just need to confirm a few things, get some background.” She gave him a trust-me smile. “You know how it is. I have to be able to answer anything my superior might throw at me.”
He nodded, but doubtfully. “I suppose we could use the secretary’s office.”
They were in what she assumed was the sanctuary, though it looked rather like the bank lobby it used to be, only with pews. “You don’t have an office?”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head, smiling again as he started toward the back of the building. “I’m just a lay brother. A carpenter—or was. Retired now, you know, so I help out, but I’ve no official status.”
“Did you do some of the work here?”
“I did.” His face shone.
“Used to be a bank, right?”
“That’s right.” He glanced around with proprietorial pride. “Built in 1932, but it was empty for years. We take pride in the restoration we’ve done here. The building was in dreadful shape, truly dreadful.”
“Mmm.” Took a lot of money to restore an old building. This one was small, as banks go, but it still seemed an odd choice for a church. But apparently the Church of the Faithful wasn’t hurting for money.
As it turned out, the chubby lay brother and retired carpenter really didn’t have much to tell her. He confirmed that Fuentes had been at the church Thursday night—he’d seen him arrive—but not to rehearse with the choir. He’d been closeted with the most reverend fellow, receiving some private counseling.
Tomorrow, she promised herself as she unlocked her car, she’d talk to the Most Reverend Patrick Harlowe. Tonight . . . her lips curved up. Tonight she’d have dinner with Rule Turner. She was looking forward to seeing his face when he walked into Bishop’s.
NINE
RULE knew he’d been set up before he’d been in the place ten seconds.
Bishop’s was more bar than restaurant, with all the ambiance of a locker room. Photographs in cheap plastic frames hung on paneling from the seventies. The wooden booths lining the narrow room looked as if they’d been through a couple of minor wars and would still be around after the next one. The place smelled of fried fish, hamburgers, and hostility.
As Rule made his way to the back of the room, heads turned. Conversations paused. Being watched was nothing new, but the expressionless gazes that tracked him weren’t the reaction he usually received.
Bishop’s was a cop hangout.
Lily Yu sat at the next-to-last booth on the left. She wore an icy yellow jacket with a black tee and slacks. The jacket, he knew, hid a shoulder holster. No jewelry. Her hair—shoulder-length, lustrous, as black as the inside of his eyelids on a moonless night—hung loose.
He wanted to run his fingers through it. To nuzzle her neck beneath that shining curtain and soak up her scent.
Fat chance. That didn’t keep his heart from pounding as he slid into the booth across from her. He could feel the wanting in his fingertips, a tactile need for her. He smiled crookedly. “Maybe I will behave. There are a lot of guns in this room.”
Amusement lit her eyes, that fugitive humor he’d glimpsed before. It gave him hope. The Lady knew he needed some.
“You guessing about the guns?” she asked.
“Gun oil has a distinctive scent.”
She nodded. “It’s weird to think you’re getting information all the time that’s not available to me. Just how sensitive is your sense of smell when you’re . . . well, like you are now?”
“Not as good as when I’m four-footed. Then, the air has weight and texture, and scent moves through me like a shifting tapestry.”
“You miss it.”
“Yes. It’s been awhile.”
It was the sort of place where the flatware comes wrapped in a skimpy paper napkin. Lily unwrapped hers, giving the task more attention than it rated. “I’ve heard that lupi have to Change every so often. That you can only put it off so long, and the full moon . . . damn.”
The young woman who’d glided up to their booth wore baggy jeans that hung low, showing off her belly button ring. Her hair was short, as was her T-shirt. Her nipples were hard. She held an order pad, and she smelled excited—and frightened. “I’m Sharon,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. “What can I get you?”
Automatically his smile gentled. “Hamburger, rare, made with two patties. Serve it dry, please. Is your coffee any good?”
“It’s okay. I’ll make some fresh,” she promised.
“Thank you. Lily?” He quirked a brow at her.
“I think you mean ‘Detective Yu.’ ” She looked at the waitress. “I’ll have a hamburger, too, but make mine well done with extra pickles. Lots of extra pickles. And coffee, blond.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be right back.” She stared at Rule a moment longer before giving a little sigh and hurrying off.
“You feeling more welcome now?” Lily asked dryly.
“As welcome as a man can be when he’s having dinner with a lovely woman under the eyes of a couple dozen of her big brothers.”
She chuckled. “Testosterone practically drips off the wall in this place, doesn’t it? But you’re from a male-dominated culture. Ought to feel normal.”
“Lupi are male, yes. But our culture isn’t male-centric. We treasure women.”
“Funny, that’s what the men say who lock their women up in purdah.”
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“It’s not like that.” He studied her a moment. There was something different about her tonight. More relaxed. That was exactly what he wanted, but he’d expected to have to work for it. “It must have been difficult for you, succeeding in a field that, ah, drips testosterone. You would have had to prove yourself over and over.”
“They want to know you’ve got their backs, that’s all. You know what it takes to really join the gang? Get in a fight.” She shook her head, amused. “One good knock-down-drag-out, and you’re one of the guys.”
He went still. “You’ve fought? Hand-to-hand?”
“You can’t always avoid it, though I . . . you’ve got a funny look on your face.”
She was so small. Tough in spirit, physically fit, but no match for nine out of ten men. “I’ve a strong protective instinct. All lupi do. We see Deity as essentially female.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “The Great Mother, you mean?”
“Something like that.”
“Who probably doesn’t need big, strong males to protect her.”
His lips twitched. “Point taken.”
“I’ve been talking to some other people who worship a female deity. Supposedly her name is too sacred to be spoken except by priests consecrated to her service.”
“Talking in connection with your investigation?”
She ignored that. “They’re the Church of the Faithful, officially, but like to call themselves the Azá. It’s supposedly from some ancient language—Babylonian or something. Ever hear of them?”
“Can’t say that I have.” He spread his own napkin in his lap. “You said you were interested in seeing Clanhome.”
“I am.”
“There will be a ceremony tomorrow that I must attend. I believe I can arrange for you to accompany me.” She had to be there, of course. At least, she had to be close to Clanhome, or he wouldn’t be able to attend, either.
“You’re the heir, the crown prince. How much arranging does it take?”
He shook his head. “My position is . . . you’d call it high-status. And that counts among lupi, certainly. But I’ve no real authority. That rests with the Rho.”
“Your father.”
“Yes. Can you give your word to hold confidential everything you observe that isn’t directly applicable to your case?”
“I’ve never heard of an outsider being allowed, much less invited, to attend a lupi ceremony. Why me?”
Rule gave her the truth—or part of it. “I want you to trust me.”
Her index finger tapped the table as she thought it over. Not much given to impulse, his nadia. Finally she gave a brisk nod. “All right. You have my word. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
“No, I’ll pick you up. Where will I find you?”
“I prefer to drive myself.”
“So do I.”
Why did that not surprise him? “We don’t always get what we want, do we? You won’t—ah, thank you.” The waitress was back with their coffee and water. She’d spritzed herself with a musky scent. Long practice kept him from wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Sharon, I think you forgot my companion’s cream.”
She blinked. “Oh. Oh, right.” She dug into a pocket on her thigh and pulled out two containers of a substance that had never been within shouting distance of a cow. “Here. Be right back with your burgers,” she told Rule with a smile and started to move away.
A man in the table nearest their booth grabbed her arm. He was young, with buzz-cut brown hair. The two other men at the table were slightly older. “Sharon, if that guy gives you any trouble,” he said loudly, “you let me know.”
She blinked, confused. “Uh, sure. But he isn’t—”
“I know what he is.” The young cop gave Rule a hard look, then turned it on Lily, though he still pretended to be talking to the waitress. “I also know you’ve got too much self-respect to hang out with his kind.”
Rule tensed. Lily wouldn’t thank him for smashing the pup’s face in, but—
“Hey, Crowder,” Lily said loudly. “Got a tissue?”
One of the older men at the table looked taken aback but recovered quickly. “Nah. Didn’t bring my purse.” The other man snickered.
Lily shook her head sadly. “You ought to be better prepared.” She pulled her purse onto the table and ostentatiously dug inside it. “Here,” she said—and tossed him a packet of tissues. “Wipe behind your trainee’s ears, Crowder. He’s dripping.”
That brought a round of laughter—and not just from the three men at the table. The young cop flushed and released Sharon’s elbow.
“You handled that well,” Rule said.
She grimaced, broke open the coffee creamer packet, and emptied it into her coffee. “I didn’t realize it would be this bad. I wonder if this is how a white woman felt in Alabama thirty years ago if she ate with a black man.”
“Not quite that bad, I hope. Our fellow customers aren’t likely to drag me into the alley and beat me up.”
“I don’t suppose they could, unless they drew on you. There are parallels, though, aren’t there?” She sipped her coffee, eyeing him over the rim of the mug. “The civil rights movement opened doors for lupi that would have remained closed otherwise.”
“True. If people hadn’t started refusing to sit in the back of the bus, measures like the Species Citizenship Bill wouldn’t be possible now. I need to talk to you about that. First, though, have you given any thought to going out with me?”
She sputtered into laughter. “Does the head-on approach usually work for you?” She shook her head, amusement fading. “It’s not going to happen, Turner. You’re lovely to look at. Charming, too, if a bit cocky.”
“Cocky is for puppies.”
“Did I mention arrogant? Never mind. It doesn’t matter how pretty or charming you are—you’re not worth tossing my career out the window.”
“Is that what would happen?” He paused, then nodded. “I see. That makes things difficult for both of us.”
“There is no ‘us.’ I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I hope they’re personal.”
“About lupi. Does the full moon force a lupus to Change?”
The temptation to keep pushing her was almost irresistible, but he wasn’t here to indulge himself. He sighed. “To business, then. The full moon affects all of us, but only forces Change on young lupi. Like most adolescents, they have to learn control.”
“So the Change is volitional?”
“Generally.”
The pucker between her brows suggested she’d marked his evasion, but she didn’t pursue it. “What about very young lupi? Children lack control.”
“The Change arrives with puberty, not before.” That startled her. Good. “I hope you won’t put that in your report. It’s not exactly general knowledge.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said slowly. “Why did you tell me?”
“I’m cooperating. Would it be possible for me to see Fuentes’s body?”
“Good grief. Why?”
“There’s an outside chance I might be able to scent his killer. If not, I could still pick up information that wouldn’t be obvious to others.”
Her finger began tapping the table again. “What sort of information?”
“The wounds might give me some idea of the nature of the killer—first, whether he really was a lupus, as you are assuming. Also whether he was an adolescent or a berserker.”
“Berserker. That sounds ominous. Is that a certain type of lupus?”
“More like a condition. Rare, fortunately.”
“Speaking of rare, here comes your burger. Hope she remembered mine.”
Sharon wafted up on a cloud of musk, smiling shyly, and delivered two enormous hamburgers on plates piled high with french fries. She lingered a moment, fussing with the condiments, asking if Rule wanted anything else. More coffee, maybe? Another customer called to her to bring the coffeepot his way. Sharon sighed and departed.
Rule waited until she was out of earshot to say, “I’ve often wondered why human men like women to smell like the musk gland of a male deer.”
“I take it you’re not fond of perfume.” Lily spread mayonnaise on the bun. “Hey. I’ve misjudged Sharon. She remembered my pickles.”
“She’s just a little starstruck. I’m probably the only lupus she’ll ever meet. Knowingly, at least.”
“Hmm.” The pickles were thick wedges, not slices. There were six of them. She cut them neatly to fit, then began layering them on top of the meat. “In every picture of you I’ve seen, you’re wearing black. You wore black last night. You’re wearing it today. That’s on purpose, isn’t it? You want people to recognize you. You want them to know they’re meeting a lupus.”
“Black is good theater,” he admitted. “Are you really going to eat that?”
“You like raw meat. I like pickles.” She set the top of the bun on her pickle mountain. “You do the mystery bit well—sex, sophistication, the allure of the forbidden or the dangerous. It’s on purpose, isn’t it? That’s the image you want people to associate with lupi. Glamour, not bestiality. You’ve made yourself into a poster boy for your people.”
His lip curled. “Why, thank you.”
She grinned. “Starting to believe your image?”
“Maybe I really am sexy, sophisticated and—how did you put it? Full of the allure of the forbidden.”
“Full of something, anyway.”
He grinned back, enjoying her, and reached for the ketchup. “What about you, Lily? Do you believe your image?”
“I don’t have an image.”
“Sure you do. The tough, cynical cop.”
“No, that’s the real me. No secrets . . . well, maybe one or two.” Suddenly all the fun leaked out of her expression. “But not on your scale. I don’t keep any kids tucked out of sight so they won’t spoil the image.”
TEN
LILY thought he was going to jump her. The fury that leaped into his eyes looked like violence about to happen.
For a long moment he didn’t move, didn’t speak. At last he asked, low and silky, “How do you know about my son?”