Tempting Danger

by Eileen Wilks

  Ginger’s apartment was on the other side of the city. They were halfway there when her cell phone rang again. This time it was Karonski.

  “I turned up some interesting connections between the Church of the Faithful and the little church your Sergeant Meckle attends. We’re leaving now to have a chat with Harlowe.”

  “Good luck. I struck out at the church and his home.” There was a moment’s silence. “Right,” she said, rubbing her neck. “I should have checked in with you first. I’m still thinking this one’s mine. Sorry. We’re headed for Ginger Harris’s apartment,” she said, conscientiously filling him in this time. “She thinks someone’s watching her.”

  “I was going to ask you to join us for the meet with Harlowe.”

  “You mean you got hold of him?”

  “Reached him on his cell phone. He’s driving back from L.A. We’re meeting him in Oceanside in twenty minutes.”

  “Damn.” Lily wanted in on that interview, but Ginger might be in real trouble—or spooked enough to cough up a few more facts. “Guess I’ll have to read your report.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll fill you in. I’ve left a key for you at the front desk here. If you finish up before we do, let yourselves in, get comfortable. Order anything you like, as long as it’s coffee.” He disconnected.

  IT was nearly five when they left Ginger’s. She’d been drinking. It didn’t bring out her best side. She’d alternated between abusing them for putting her in danger and begging them to stay there and protect her.

  They hadn’t found any sign of a watcher.

  “What do you think?” Lily said as she climbed back in the car. “Was she for real, or was she playing us?”

  “I don’t know. Ginger is a good liar, but I don’t think she can make herself smell scared.” He started the car. “She’s frightened, but her watcher could be the product of guilt and alcohol.”

  Lily was uneasy. “I wish she’d agreed to a safe house. Not that I have the authority to arrange one, but Croft could. Maybe we should stick around, keep an eye on her place.”

  “Neither of us can protect her from sorcery. As she pointed out, a safe house wouldn’t, either.”

  “Yes, but . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Something’s not adding up.” She couldn’t put her finger on what was bothering her, though.

  “You want to give Karonski a call and see if it’s too late to join them?”

  Oh, yeah. But . . . “If they’re still talking, it could throw things off for us to show up this far into things. I’m going to pretend I’m a grown-up and know how to let someone else run with the ball once in awhile.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Karonski mentioned coffee. Let’s head to their hotel and see if caffeine will wake up a few of my brain cells. I need to think.”

  RULE decided he’d had too many unpalatable cups of coffee in the last few days. He stopped at a small speciality food store and bought coffee beans, a grinder, and a French press. Lily seemed torn between amusement and exasperation until he pointed out that he wanted to have decent coffee at her place, too. Then she fell silent, no doubt brooding over the way he’d been forced on her.

  Between that stop and the traffic, the other two beat them there. Croft and Karonski were on the tenth floor of a hotel that specialized in suites for business travelers. The small sitting room was pleasant enough in its generic fashion, with the usual amenities, including a round table with four chairs. An improvement over the conferencing arrangements at Lily’s apartment, he thought with a smile.

  The hotel’s housekeeping services left something to be desired, however. As soon as he stepped inside he noticed a faint, unwholesome odor. Nothing the humans with him would be aware of, he thought. A dead mouse in the closet, perhaps.

  “How’d it go?” Lily asked. “And what’s the connection between Mech’s church and the Church of the Faithful?”

  “There isn’t one,” Karonski said gloomily. “We had it wrong.”

  Rule went to the table and began taking out his purchases. “Who wants a decent cup of coffee?”

  “Ah—none for me.” Karonski had an odd look on his face. Sheepish.

  Croft frowned at Karonski. “What my partner is avoiding saying is that we’ve been barking up the wrong tree. There’s no connection between the Azá and the killings.”

  Lily stopped dead. “What do you mean, we’re barking up the wrong tree? You talked with this Most Reverend guy for a few minutes, and he persuaded you that he and his entire organization are lily pure?”

  Croft looked annoyed. “A certain degree of coincidence does occur, you know. I’m afraid we jumped to conclusions.”

  “Coincidence!” Lily looked ready to bust something. Maybe Croft’s nose. “Of course they’re connected. Finding out how is what police work’s all about.”

  Croft just shook his head. “We’ve come at this all wrong.”

  Rule spoke before Lily could incur charges for slugging a federal agent. “Harlowe was the last one to speak with Fuentes, I understand. What did he say about that?”

  “He cooperated fully.”

  Rule stared. “That’s all you have to say? He cooperated fully?”

  “Look.” Karonski ran a hand over his head, making a bad haircut worse. “Like Martin said, we jumped to some conclusions. Got a little carried away. We don’t have evidence that Therese Martin was killed by sorcery, much less that the Church of the Faithful is implicated. A few old legends, a similar name . . .” He shrugged. “It’s not much, when you get right down to it.”

  Rule couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Abel,” he said quietly, “how did they get to you?”

  Karonski scowled. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Just a minute,” Lily said. “Hold on a minute. We don’t want to let our tempers take over.”

  He glanced at her, puzzled by the sudden change.

  She looked calm. She didn’t smell calm. And he heard, muffled, “Get ready. They may go for their guns.”

  She’d subvocalized it. A trick used often among lupi—not one he’d expected her to be aware of.

  She smiled at the other two. “Rule and I were taken aback, that’s all. I thought we were all on the same page, but it looks like you’ve skipped to a different chapter and don’t want to fill us in on the details. Am I right?”

  “That’s about it.” Croft was apologetic.

  “Okay. I don’t agree with your assessment, but you’re the ones with the badges. I take it you don’t want me on the case anymore.”

  “We’ll be leaving ourselves in the morning. There’s no case here for us.”

  “Well.” She shrugged. “Guess we’ll take our coffee and go, then. No hard feelings?” She held out her hand—and finally Rule caught on. He eased closer to the two agents. And stood ready.

  “Of course not.” Obviously relieved, Croft stood and shook her hand.

  Rule heard the slight catch in her breath.

  “Karonski?” She turned and held her hand out to him. “No hard feelings?”

  Karonski seemed more confused than relieved. “You don’t have to . . .” He shook his head and looked at her hand, still outstretched, then took it and gave it a brisk shake. “Sorry. I’m not sure what I was going to say.”

  Lily pulled her hand back, holding it slightly away from her body. Her eyes cut to Rule, making sure he was with her. He nodded. She backed up a step, putting space between herself and the agents.

  Then she spoke. “You’re bespelled. Both of you.”

  “What?” Karonski laughed. “You’re joking.”

  “It’s the same feel. The same ugly feel as the magic used to kill Therese Martin is all over you.”

  “Can’t be.” Karonski was humoring her. “I know my protection spells. Martin and I can’t be tampered with that way.”

  “Think about it. Think about what you believed before you spoke to this man. Compare that to what you think now.”

  Croft
frowned.

  Karonski looked puzzled. “I changed my mind.”

  “Abel,” Rule said softly, “you performed your own tests at the murder scene. Why would you say there’s no evidence that it was done by sorcery?”

  “Because . . .” Karonski’s face screwed up as if he’d bitten into bad meat. “My spells aren’t admissible as evidence except in certain rare and strictly defined instances.”

  “But they did show that the woman was murdered by sorcery, didn’t they?”

  “Definitely. The traces were strong, unquestionably the result of sorcery, and . . .” His voice drifted away. “I forgot what I was going to say.”

  Lily looked at Rule. “A persuasion spell, maybe? What do you know about persuasion spells?”

  “Not much.”

  Karonski answered. “They’re pretty weak stuff, generally, even when used by someone with a Gift of charisma . . . huh. That’s funny. I remember thinking when I met Harlowe that I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a touch of that Gift.”

  “We were there too long,” Croft said suddenly. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead, as if he’d been exerting himself. “We arrived at three-thirty. We got back here at five-thirty. But I don’t remember enough. I can’t account for enough of the time.”

  “Shit,” Karonski said. “You’re right. We interviewed him for about ten minutes, then . . . I can’t remember. Was someone else there?” He looked at Croft. “Did someone come in while we were talking to Harlowe?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Croft looked at Lily. “You’re right. We’ve been tampered with. You can’t trust us.”

  WHAT do you do with a pair of special agents who’ve lost their minds—or parts of them?

  Lily tried to determine the extent of the tampering. The two agents were willing, and they tried to cooperate, but it was soon obvious they couldn’t reason their way past what had been done to them.

  Twenty minutes later, Rule put a hand on Lily’s shoulder. “I think we’d better stop. Pushing them any further might do permanent damage to their minds.”

  Croft was staring at his hands, clasped on the table. His face was chalky with strain. Karonski was muttering to himself, reciting a litany of reminders about why he couldn’t trust his own mind. Every time he stopped, he reverted to the programmed thoughts.

  “They need medical help,” she said. “Or some kind of help. I’m out of my depth here. If only we could get them to call their boss, he could—”

  Croft looked up. “Brooks, you mean? I already called him. He knows we’re pulling out.”

  “Right.” Lily nodded. “That’s good. You know, you aren’t looking so hot. Maybe you should lie down.”

  “I’m not . . .” Croft rubbed his forehead. “Have we been drinking? I can’t seem to think straight.”

  “Not pulling out,” Karonski said suddenly. “Need to be out, though. Sedate us.”

  “I can arrange that,” Rule said.

  Karonski met his eyes. “Do it. Do it while I still remember why.”

  Rule took out his phone. “While I arrange things, Lily, talk to them about anything other than the case. Karonski likes basketball.”

  KARONSKI had no trouble talking about basketball. Croft wasn’t interested, though, and was in worse shape than his partner, his short-term memory scrambled. They needed to engage both men’s minds as completely as possible, so once Rule got off the phone, they played poker.

  Croft was deadly at poker. Whatever had been done to him hadn’t affected his ability to think and plan—as long as he wasn’t trying to think about the case. The strain didn’t disappear from his face, but it eased when he had something else to focus on.

  By the time help arrived, he’d fleeced Lily for thirty bucks and taken more than that off Rule and Karonski.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Nettie Two Horses said as she came inside. “Where are my patients?”

  “Right here,” Lily said. She hoped they knew what they were doing, too.

  Two muscular young men followed Nettie into the room. Lily recognized one—the redheaded lupus who’d been at the gate when she visited Clanhome. The two of them looked at Rule for a moment, then fanned out.

  Croft had risen to his feet when they entered. He had a tense, ready-for-trouble look. “What’s going on?”

  “You weren’t feeling well, remember?” Lily said. “This is Dr. Two Horses. She’s going to examine you.”

  “I’m feeling better. No need for a doctor.”

  Nettie set her bag on the table. “Why don’t I check you out, just to be sure, since I’m here?

  Croft moved closer to Karonski. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s all right, Martin,” Karonski said. “We asked them to come.”

  “I don’t remember that.” His forehead glistened. The strain was back.

  “Yeah, well, we’re having a little trouble with our memories, aren’t we? That’s why they’re here.”

  “I don’t know . . .” His eyes darted around the room. Nettie and Lily stood closest to him, at the table; Rule was walking their way. The two young men were working slowly closer, coming from the sides. “We weren’t having any problems until they showed up.”

  He went for his gun.

  “Martin, no!” Karonski cried, hitting his arm—and the other three men turned into blurs of speed.

  Two seconds later, Lily had her weapon out, but it wasn’t needed. One of the two young lupi held Croft’s arms; he sagged, dazed. Lily thought the other one had hit him, but it had happened so fast. . . .

  “All over?” Nettie Two Horses said. She was on the floor, where she’d dropped with admirable alacrity.

  “Pretty much,” Rule said. He stood next to Karonski. “You okay, Abel?”

  “No.” He was white and shaking. “Hell, no. Hanging on by my teeth . . . can’t remember why we’re letting you do this. It’s like swimming in butter to try to think, dammit.”

  “You get the first dose,” Nettie said briskly, standing and taking a syringe from her bag. “Don’t worry—your partner will be fine. Sammy didn’t hit him too hard. Sammy, you can get the trunks now. Lily, you can put that up.”

  Lily glanced at the gun still in her hand, shrugged, and holstered it. The redhead went out the door and came back in with a large, empty trunk. Then he brought in a second one.

  They put the agents in the trunks. Sammy and the other young man each carried one out, handling it as easily as if it were empty—which is what they hoped anyone watching would assume. Once they reached the panel van they’d arrived in, the agents could be removed from their cramped quarters.

  Lily began gathering up the papers and folders on the table. “Your men are alarmingly well-versed at getting bodies out of hotel rooms.”

  “They watch television,” Rule said. “I take it we aren’t leaving things for whoever comes to see why Kronski and Croft don’t return to headquarters?”

  “We’re taking temporary custody of everything. We’ll turn it over when the time comes. Get the laptop, will you?”

  He moved to help her. “Are we going to tell anyone about this?”

  “When someone comes asking, yes. Not now. I’d rather not spend the next twenty-four hours or so locked up. We know at least one SDPD officer is with the bad guys, so they’re out. And the local Feds would pretty much have to take us into custody and holler for someone from MCD to come sort things out.”

  “I have a few questions before I go,” Nettie said. “I understand you’re a sensitive, Lily.”

  She glanced quickly at Rule, then away. “Yes.”

  “What can you tell me about the feel of the spell on these two?”

  “Ugly. Raspy and sort of rotten-mushy. Like . . . like touching fresh shit with ground glass in it. Will you be able to help them?”

  “I don’t know. I can keep them sedated, but I’ll need to know more about the spell before I try removing it.”

  Rule spoke quietly. “I smelled it.”


  “What?” Lily turned. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “At first I didn’t know what I was smelling. It was faint, and I’d never encountered its like before. Later I didn’t have a chance. Unfortunately, subvocalizing only works one way between us.”

  “That was weird, by the way,” Lily said. “Handy, but weird. That’s how you told those two men of yours what to do? Subvocalizing?”

  He nodded.

  “So what does the spell smell like?”

  “Putrefaction.”

  Nettie looked at him sharply.

  “Yes. I’m told that death magic has the same reek.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THEY left the hotel at twilight. The air itself seemed gray, as if all the color had bled out of it. Everywhere buildings were opening yellow eyes on the approaching night, and the dash lights stood out crisply against the muffled charcoal inside Rule’s car. Lily rubbed her temple and tried to organize her thoughts.

  “One thing I don’t understand,” Rule said as he pulled out into traffic. “Why did Harlowe tamper with them? He should know by now that you’re sensitive. He took quite a risk.”

  She frowned. That hadn’t occurred to her. “There might be a communications problem in their camp, and he didn’t know. More likely, though, he didn’t realize I’d be able to tell. I’m . . . well, I’m a lot more sensitive than most.”

  “I don’t know much about it,” Rule admitted.

  “Most sensitives don’t pick up secondary magic unless it’s really strong. They’d be able to shake your hand and know you were a lupus, but they wouldn’t feel the lingering magic on the floors of your father’s house, left by the feet of many lupi.”

  “You felt that?”

  She nodded, her mind on the question he’d raised. “Harlowe might have thought that even if I picked up on the spell, no one would listen. I’m off the force, discredited. Croft and Karonski were the only ones who’d believe me—and they’re the ones bespelled.”

  “Not a comfortable thought, considering we’re likely to be visited by someone looking for them.”