by Eileen Wilks
He’d probably pick them up in the morning. He knew disorder bothered her, so he usually remembered. Maybe, she thought sleepily, it worked out better for kids if their parents—the ones they started out with, or the ones they collected along the way—didn’t agree about everything. Might as well hope that was true, because that’s what most kids got.
The mattress dipped. Automatically she rolled onto her side so Rule could curve his body around hers. He kissed her ear, sighed, and sank onto the pillow, lazily draping one arm over her waist to cup her breast. “We missed our moment, didn’t we?”
She nodded without opening her eyes.
“Not going to tell me I was wrong about Toby?” he murmured.
“Nope. Too tired.” Though she couldn’t resist adding, “I don’t think this is the first time he’s slipped out.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. We’re looser about some rules than you’re used to, in part because our children can’t lie to us. We don’t allow disobedience about the important things.”
She suspected they defined “important things” differently. “You would have been a lot more upset if he’d broken his word.”
“Yes.” He nuzzled her hair. “He’s my only son, nadia. He will almost certainly be Rho someday. His word will bind the entire clan, and lupi will die to uphold it if necessary. He must understand the weight of his promises.”
It was a cold, scary ideal to impose on a boy, but he was talking about himself as much as his son. And, she realized, his father. She had a glimmering of what it meant to be Rho. The head of a clan was, in an essential way, separate from the rest, set apart by a responsibility the others couldn’t share.
Did Isen, in holding the clan’s mantle, enjoy the comfort of it that the rest of the clan shared? Or was it another burden? Or some combination of the two?
Mantles . . . something she was going to ask . . . but sleep dragged at her. As her mind shut down, she snuggled closer to Rule so he would know he wasn’t alone. But her last thoughts, oddly, were about his father.
She had no doubt Isen Turner could have sex as often as he wished. But did anyone simply sleep with him? Or was he alone in that way, too?
TWENTY-ONE
RULE slept in the next morning, which annoyed him. Normally he needed no more than five hours of sleep, but he’d done without entirely the night before. It was just past six thirty when Lily slipped out of bed, waking him—and spoiling his plan for how to wake her. She was in a hurry, unfortunately. She’d called a briefing for seven thirty.
Ah, well. One of the pleasures of their bond was knowing there would be other mornings. He spoke firmly to himself about the value of delayed gratification as he showered, having seen Lily off with a decent kiss, followed by a mug of decent coffee to take with her.
He finished his own coffee while shaving, then headed downstairs, carrying his laptop and the empty mug. His business wasn’t as urgent as Lily’s, but still needed tending. Financial matters, mostly—he handled the investments for the clan—plus some details concerning the All-Clan. Plus he needed to speak with the Leidolf Lu Nuncio again about the gens compleo.
Toby was still asleep, but his grandmother wasn’t. He exchanged “good mornings” with her while refilling his mug. She’d applied her makeup already, as was her habit, which he took as a good sign. Yesterday’s violence had been hard on her. “You slept well?”
“Surprisingly so.” She took down a large mixing bowl. “I’m making pancakes this morning. How many will you want?”
“Pancakes.” He smiled with pleasure. “I’ll take as many as you care to offer. I’m good with eggs, but have never mastered pancakes. May I help?”
“You can get the eggs and buttermilk out. Lily doesn’t make pancakes?”
“Lily butters a mean slice of toast.”
She chuckled. “Toby told me you do almost all of the cooking. I must say, I was surprised. I’d imagined you with an endless stream of women cooking for you.”
“Mrs. Asteglio, I haven’t—”
“Louise. I should have asked you to call me Louise years ago. And I know you haven’t exposed Toby to that endless stream I imagined flowing through your . . . kitchen.”
Surprised, amused, he acted instinctively, bending to kiss her cheek. “Thank you. Does this mean I’m no longer Mr. Turner?”
Her cheeks pinked. “Of course.”
“Are you all right this morning?” he asked softly. “Yesterday was . . . difficult.”
“It reminded me of why I never worked in the ER. Blood doesn’t bother me, but violence . . .” Trouble overtook her eyes, and bafflement. She shook her head sharply. “Never mind. I deal best by staying busy. You can separate out the whites, if you like, and whip them—soft peaks. The mixer’s in the second drawer by the sink.”
He retrieved the mixer. “You trust me to know about soft peaks?”
“I expect you’ve the sense to ask if you don’t. It’s good for Toby to see that men can be handy in the kitchen.”
“Lily’s learning. It offends her sense of fair play for me to do all the cooking, so she’s—” The doorbell rang. Rule didn’t allow himself to frown, but it wasn’t likely to be good news. Not at seven fifteen in the morning.
Perhaps Cullen had caught an earlier flight? “I’ll get it.”
“No, you won’t.” Mrs. Asteglio set down the bowl and started for the door. “My house, my door. You mean well, but I don’t need to be shielded.”
He considered not following her, which he thought she’d prefer. But not for long, so he was only a few paces behind her when she opened the door—without using the peephole he’d had installed years ago, dammit. She just swung the door open to whoever was there.
And said not a word.
Into the silence came another voice, one Rule hadn’t heard in person in nine years. “Hi, Mom. I’m not sure if I’m the bad penny turning up or the prodigal daughter to be welcomed with . . . Oh, hell, that’s cloying. Never mind. May I come in?”
LILY briefed her four borrowed agents along with the sheriff, the chief of police, and a couple of local detectives with homicide experience. She gave them both outline and details, omitting the source when she said there was “reason to think” the perp was male. “Not necessarily a human male,” she added. “As I said earlier, my consultant thinks it could be some creature accidentally blown here at the Turning.”
“Your consultant.” The chief of police had a good sneer going in his voice, though he kept his face bland. “Would that be someone who turns hairy once a month and howls at the moon?”
She’d already realized the chief was going to be a pain. Idiots usually were. He’d glared at her throughout the briefing, asking the occasional dumb-ass question, implying that anyone who claimed to possess magic was by definition stupid, untrustworthy, and probably evil.
This time she just looked at him a second, then went on as if he hadn’t spoken. He wanted to make her angry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I’m hoping that the sheriff’s department and the city police will concentrate on learning everything there is to know about Meacham and Hodge. We have to figure out what they have in common. Why those two men instead of two others? This is your town, your people. You’re the best ones to handle that end.”
“Yeah, but is that going to tell us anything about who or what is doing this?” Deacon asked bluntly. “Seems like we need someone who can figure out the magic end of things.”
That would be nice. “My boss has experts looking into the possibilities, but the more information we can give them, the more help they can give us.”
“And what will your people be doing?”
“Visiting veterinarians.” Her people looked surprised by that. At least, three of them did. Nothing dented Brown’s doughy cynicism. “Human practitioners work up to human sacrifice. We need to know if animals have gone missing or been found mutilated or dead of unexplained causes. There’s also the possibility our perp isn’t human and came through at the Turn
ing. If so, what has he been doing the last seven months? Again, there could be a connection with missing or dead animals.”
“Miss Yu.” The chief was one of those people with features too small for his face. He had narrow eyes, a dainty little nose, and a small mouth just made for pursing in disapproval, all crowded into the bottom half of his face and overwhelmed by the expanse of freshly shaved pink skin. “You talked about wanting our input, so here’s mine. You’ve built a whole huge hullabaloo out of nothing. These murders aren’t related. Meacham went nuts and killed his family. Hodge hated weers—”
“You have evidence of that?” she asked sharply.
“Not yet, but I’m betting we can confirm it pretty easy. It’s obvious, isn’t it? He went after your lover and maybe his boy.”
“There are no reports from witnesses at yesterday’s shooting to suggest Hodge aimed at Rule Turner or his son. I’m one of those witnesses. In addition, physical evidence confirms that the victims were not in a line of sight between Hodge and Turner. There is nothing to suggest that he was the intended target.”
“The old man could be senile, could be using, could be just plain nuts. You never know. But the plain fact is, there’s nothing to say these two killers are connected, nothing to say they were under some weird-ass compulsion, and nothing to prove there’s death magic involved.” Such a little mouth made for tight smiles, one of which he offered now. “If death magic even exists. I’m thinking it’s as much hogwash as demonic possession.”
Lily nodded. “I see. We’ll skip the part about demonic possession being hogwash, save to mention that the Catholic Church, several Protestant denominations, the FBI, the Secret Service, Congress, and the President of the United States disagree. Otherwise, you might have a workable theory—if I were willing to stipulate that I’m a liar.”
“Well, now, I didn’t say that. Anyone can make a mistake. All this magic stuff—people make mistakes with that all the time.”
She leaned forward, looking him right in the eye. “I’m telling you that I’ve touched death magic. I know what it feels like, and there is no possibility of a mistake. Those bodies have death magic on them. So does Meacham. So does Hodge. So did the damned dogs that attacked me and Sheriff Deacon. Am I lying?”
Apparently he was unwilling to commit to that. He fell back on glaring.
“Is your department going to cooperate with this investigation?”
“Cooperate! You call this cooperation? You’re just telling us what’s what while you ignore what we say.”
“When you disagree with the evidence of my senses, I do. I hope the police department will participate in the investigation. We could use the manpower. But if not, Sheriff Deacon has good people.”
He was silent, fuming.
Nathan Brown stirred. “Horace—it is Horace, right? I nearly forgot to give you a message. I was talkin’ to Marianne Potter over in Charlotte just last night. She said to tell you hello. Asked after that pretty little wife of yours.”
Half the color drained out of the chief’s face, leaving it blotchy. “You—you—”
Brown had a particularly nasty smile. He used it now. “Now, Horace, I know what you’re thinkin’. Agent Yu isn’t one of us. She’ll head back off to D.C. or the West Coast or somewhere. But I won’t. I’ll still be in Charlotte, less than a hundred miles from here. You might want to think about stayin’ on good terms with your local FBI office.”
Ten minutes later, the door closed behind the chief and his detectives—who hadn’t been precisely thrilled to learn that Brown would be handling the coordination of city, county, and federal officers.
Deacon paused on his way out. “You think that’s a good idea, putting him in charge?” A jerk of his chin indicated Brown, still seated at the conference table.
“Agent Brown assures me he’s good at working with the locals. Though I’ll admit,” she said with a glance his way, “at the time I made the decision I hadn’t realized he was referring to the use of blackmail.”
Brown actually had a real smile. His lips curved up and his eyes lit with amusement. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Marianne Potter?” Deacon cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.
Brown waggled a hand. “Friend of a friend.”
“Your friend is a friend of the owner of a, ah, real well-known escort service?”
At this interesting point Lily’s phone buzzed. That meant a call forwarded from her official number. She grabbed it. “Yu here.”
“I sure am,” a cheery male voice said. “How’d you guess?” A chuckle. “I suppose you’ve heard that before. My sense of humor is, alas, very basic. Oh, this is Dr. Alderson. I conducted the autopsy on your dogs.”
“Right. Thanks for calling, Doctor.” She glanced at her watch. “You’ve learned something? Given the way magic screws up lab results, I wasn’t sure how much you’d be able to find out.”
“Your dogs weren’t intrinsically magic, so the magic still present doesn’t seem to be interfering with tests. And of course the visual exam is unaffected.”
“But you did treat the bodies as biohazards?”
“Oh, yes. Quite a nuisance, but I don’t want to catch whatever those poor beasts had. I’ll skip the gross physical findings for now, save to confirm that they had indeed ingested human remains prior to death. Oh, and there was a chip in one animal—the Doberman—so we were able to get a name and address for the owner, or at least the person who owned him at one time. Do you want that now?”
Hot damn. “Absolutely.” Lily grabbed a pad and pen. “Shoot.”
He gave her the name and address—a Halo address—then said, “The part I thought you might find interesting concerns the brain damage.”
“Brain damage.”
“Oh, yes. There’s significant generalized damage superficially similar to that caused by encephalitis, most extensive in key structures—the hippocampus, the prefrontal lobe, the frontal and temporal cortexes, with lesser damage to the amygdala. Specimens from those regions exhibit intrusions strikingly similar to Negri bodies, though the dFA was negative, precluding rabies.”
She understood the last two words. “So it wasn’t rabies.”
“That’s what I said. We’ve just begun the lab work, but there seems to be significant alteration in rostral linear nuclei and in periaqueductal gray neurons. Also, there is a notable loss of Purkinje cells—a condition that, in humans, is associated with ocular motor apraxia.”
“You do realize I have no idea what you’re saying, right? Except the ocular part. That means eyes.”
“Oh, dear.” He chuckled. “The layman’s version, then. I found extensive inflammation of the brain which was particularly severe in the regions associated with memory and emotional control. I understand the dogs attacked you? Poor things had no choice. They would have been flooded with rage.”
“And the part about the eyes?”
“There’s damage in the area of the brain that controls movement of the eyes.”
“Blinking?” she said, suddenly urgent. “Could it cause someone to blink a lot, or not at all?”
“Hmm.” He was silent a moment. “Possibly. One study suggested that synaptic plasticity occurring in Purkinje cells might be involved in—oh, dear, I’m descending into technobabble again. Suffice it to say that we don’t know enough about the brain and blinking to be sure, so my answer must be ‘possibly.’ I’m sorry I can’t be more definite,” he said, his relentless good humor momentarily eclipsed by apology. “I was reluctant to call with such a preliminary report, but your Mr. Brooks assured me you’d want to know.”
“My Mr. Brooks was right.” Ruben usually was. “You’ve already told him about this?”
“Yes, and faxed a copy of—oh, that’s right. He wanted me to tell you he’d see that Georgetown University Hospital received a copy of my preliminary report. He assumed you would know what that meant.”
“Yeah, the obvious is finally biting me in the ass. Give me a min
ute to think this through.” She tapped her fingers on her thigh, scowling, as she did just that. “Okay. One more thing I need you to do,” she said. And told him.
He agreed, asked a couple of questions, and refined her original suggestion. Lily disconnected.
“That’s just gross.”
The agent who’d spoken was almost as short as Lily and ten years older, with fluffy blond hair and twenty extra pounds. She was also named Brown—Mirabelle Brown—and the others called her Brown Two.
“It is,” Lily agreed. “But it’s the surest way to find out if my initial assumption about those dogs was wrong.”
Brown Two’s nose wrinkled. “And feeding bits of them to some other poor animal will tell you what, exactly?”
“Whether the death magic can be ingested along with the flesh.” She glanced at Deacon, who still hovered near the door, determined to hear whatever she’d learned. Looked like she owed him one. “I assumed that’s what happened to the dogs.”
“I recall that,” he said levelly.
“Unfortunately, we all know what ‘assume’ makes of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ The vet who autopsied them is going to—”
At that moment the fax machine began chattering.
“The vet is quick,” she said wryly. “Very briefly, Dr. Alderson found a pathology in the dogs’ brains that relates to symptoms exhibited by Roy Don Meacham. I want to know where those dogs came from.”
“Oh, sure,” Brown Two said dryly. “Two of them had collars, but no tags. Be a cinch to find out who owned dogs that lack tags.”
Lily mentally gave the woman points for attention to detail—and verbally gave her another assignment. “No tags when we found them doesn’t mean their owners didn’t register them. That’s why you’re going to talk to Animal Control. Get a list of all the registered dogs in the area and start tracking owners of those particular breeds. But first, talk with these people.”