by Eileen Wilks
“No. If you see the wraith, you run. Period. If you get away and can’t see it anymore, you call Lily and let her know where you saw it. The circle is to protect you from the screaming ghosts.”
Talia sighed heavily. “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”
“Well, duh,” said her sympathetic brother. “At least you’ll see this wraith if it comes around.”
Cullen switched his focus to the boy, his voice and smile light. “One thing that may help the rest of us is that this wraith is not good at acting like a person. If someone you know acts a little bit funny, well, he’s probably okay. If he were possessed, he’d be acting a whole bunch funny.”
The kids giggled, as much from pent-up feelings as humor. Cullen began describing the casting of a circle to Talia. And Rule’s thoughts went back to the sodden lump of fear squatting at the front of his mind.
He’d had time to think . . . or perhaps had at last begun to think instead of obsessing over the lump or denying it existed. Cullen had assured him that the anecdotal evidence of a link between a too-young sensing of the Change and the wild cancer was highly exaggerated. Very well. But Rule could see no connection between that assurance and Cullen’s sudden need to fly here and speak to him in person.
Unless Cullen could see the early appearance of the cancer. That was possible. The cancer was magically wrought. Cullen saw magic. Maybe the assurances he’d offered were true, but he still wanted to check Toby out.
Wouldn’t he have told Rule that, though? Why would he—
“Mr. Turner?”
Rule dragged himself back to the present. They’d reached the gate to Justin and Talia’s yard, and it was just as well his protection hadn’t been needed. He’d been too deep in thought-circles to notice anything less than a machine gun fusillade.
At the moment Cullen was handing Talia a piece of chalk and talking about the need for a physical component. Rule looked down at her brother’s worried face. “Yes?”
“Do you believe in God?”
Oh, God, Rule thought—and noticed the irony of his irreverence, but didn’t smile. “Yes.” Probably not the human-like deity the boy had been taught to believe in, but there was certainly a Source.
“Why does He let bad things happen? I asked Mom and she said everything happens by His will, but I don’t see why He’d want those people to get killed or Mr. Hodge to get possessed. Daddy said we’re not supposed to question, but have faith, but that doesn’t help.”
“Well.” If there was a God—the sort of personal, got-a-plan-for-you God so many people believed in—Rule felt sure She was having a good laugh at him right now. “As I said, I believe in God. I don’t try to define Her.”
“Her?” Justin was shocked.
“A personal bias,” Rule explained. “I tend to think of deity in the feminine, which I’m sure is no more accurate than defining deity in the masculine.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
Rule grinned and tousled the boy’s hair. “I used fancy words to say that I don’t know why bad things happen.”
“Oh. Me, neither. Do you believe in prayer?”
“Ah...”
“Daddy says God always answers prayers, but sometimes the answer is ‘no.’ I think,” Justin confided, “the answer is mostly no, ’cause God hardly ever does what I ask Him to. But Mr. Seabourne told Talia to pray when she sets her circle. He said God always helps if you ask Him to when you’re making a circle.”
Rule managed not to shoot Cullen a startled look, but it was a near thing. “I wouldn’t turn to Cullen for spiritual advice, but he knows magic. If he says prayer will help her, it will.”
“Oh. Okay.” Frown and worry faded. “I didn’t know if he—wow!”
Cullen was turning in a quick circle, pointing at the ground—and drawing a thin ring of fire with that pointing finger. “There. Come closer, and don’t be distracted by the fire—that’s just the quickest way for me to set a circle. Concentrate on the air around me. What’s different about it?”
Talia squinted at what looked like perfectly ordinary air to Rule. “I don’t see anything,” she said, disappointed.
“Different Gifts respond to a circle different ways. You might hear it, or feel warmth or discomfort, or just sense a different energy.”
“Oh—you mean that humming? I can barely hear it. That’s your circle?”
“Yes. Now put your hand through the air above the circle.”
She stretched out a tentative hand. The fire vanished. “It’s gone!”
“Very few circles can withstand anything physical, and once something crosses a circle, the magic dissipates. But now you know how to tell when you’ve set your circle correctly. That’s your goal—to set a circle that hums to you.”
She looked dubious. “Okay.”
“You won’t set your circle the way I did. I draw on Fire. Your element is spirit.” He smiled. “I want you to try it now. Draw your circle . . . Wait.” He grabbed a stick from the ground and handed it to her. “Use this. Draw your circle, sit in its center, close your eyes, and ask for help. Then imagine that humming sound coming from you, surrounding you, protecting you.”
Talia did as he said, scraping the outline of a circle in the dirt, then folding thin, caramel-colored legs to sit tailor-fashion in the red dirt. She closed her eyes. To Rule’s vision, absolutely nothing happened.
Justin frowned, fidgeted, and said, “What’s she doing?” “Hey!” Talia’s eyes snapped open. “You ruined it. I had it—at least, I think I did . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“You cast a circle.” Cullen was as certain as the girl wasn’t. Of course, he’d have seen it. “It was thin and dissipated quickly, but to get one on the first try is excellent. Now all it takes is practice.”
“Why do I need to practice if God’s helping me?”
“Didn’t say God would do it for you, did I? Do you know how to ride a bicycle?”
“Of course I can!”
“You weren’t born knowing, though. I’ll bet someone taught you, helped you. Your mom? Your dad?” She nodded to the second guess. “He didn’t help by hopping on your bike and riding it himself. What did he do?”
“Ran along behind me and pushed until I could balance and pedal at the same time.” Her eyebrows squinched down. “You mean that’s how God will help, too. I have to get on the bike—I mean, cast the circle—myself, but He’ll push.”
“More or less. For now, I want you to work on balance, not worry about pedaling.” He gave her the easy smile that charmed females of every age. “The good news is that it doesn’t take much pedaling to keep out a ghost. They’re weak.”
“Even the screaming ones?”
“Even them. I told you, Talia, the ghosts are using your Gift to speak to you—even when they scream instead of talking. With a circle you deny them access to your Gift. Without it, they can’t do much.”
She got up, dusting off the seat of her shorts—a useless effort, since the damp red clay stuck like glue. “I can do this.”
“Certainly. You started up a circle right away. You’re a natural.” He bent and whispered something in her ear. She grinned.
Rule watched his friend talk with the girl. He’d made her comfortable with her Gift, comfortable enough to cast a spell she’d need for protection. He would, Rule thought, make a good father when the time came. With children, the notoriously impatient sorcerer had endless patience.
Normally Rule did, too. Today he wanted to drag Cullen away. The girl needed instruction, but it could wait until after Rule spoke to Cullen and heard . . . whatever it was he had to hear.
He didn’t grimace. The habit of concealment went deep enough to prevent that, but he gave himself a mental bitch-slap. Sure, Talia could wait, and Cullen could come back here later . . . knock on her parents’ door and explain that he needed to see their eleven-year-old daughter alone for a while. Yes, that would work.
Rule took a slow breath. And waited.
He knew he couldn’t run away, not figuratively or literally, but movement helped. Still, the first question he asked was, “You didn’t want the girl to try casting a circle to protect her from the wraith. Would it be capable of crossing circles, then?”
“Any she could cast, yes. I could set one it couldn’t cross, but to be sure of that, I’d want prep time. Spur-of-the-moment circles wouldn’t be strong enough.” He glanced at Rule, easily keeping up. “Are we going somewhere in particular?”
“No. You told Talia to pray before setting her circle.”
“Certainly. First, it helps her accept that her Gift isn’t evil, and neither is the circle she’ll cast. Second, there’s my original training. Wiccans believe mediumship is a Gift connected to the spirit element, so prayer should help her connect with her Gift. Third, with a new practitioner, confidence is half the battle. If she believes God is helping her set her circle, she’s a lot more likely to do it.”
“Did you lie to me about the risk to Toby?”
“More or less.”
Rule stopped and swung. Cullen—damn him—ducked and danced back, ending up several feet away. Rule stood, chest heaving, hands clenched.
Cullen’s face was as carefully blank as his voice. “You need to scrap a bit before we can talk?”
“No.” It took another minute, though, to fight back the need to attack something. Anything. “Maybe afterward. It’s a good thing you’re fast.”
“I think so, too. Are you able to listen?”
Rule nodded once.
“First, the part I lied about. Lupus boys who feel the pull of the Change well before puberty do have a much greater chance of incurring the cancer when they reach First Change.”
Rule’s lips were numb. “How much greater?”
Cullen shook his head. “Insufficient data. Back when I was researching the cancer, I did find two adult lupi from different clans who’d experienced an early pull but did not go on to develop the cancer. No doubt there are others I didn’t find, but there’s no way of telling how many. But among the young lupi who did develop the cancer, the correlation seems to be one to one. I spoke with the families of thirty youngsters who developed the cancer. All of them said the boy had experienced an early pull.”
He paused. “You know that Etorri are especially prone to the wild cancer, but the bump in occurrence at adolescence is very small.”
Rule nodded. It was all he could manage.
“There’s a reason for that. Before I tell you, I’ll have your promise not to repeat this to anyone. That includes Isen.”
“What?!” Rule stared at his friend. Cullen’s face was stony. He meant it, meant that he’d go no further without Rule’s word to keep this from their Rho. Why would . . .
Because it was an Etorri secret, of course. A secret that Cullen had kept all these years, even as a lone wolf rejected by the clan. “Does Isen know you’ve held back Etorri secrets from him?”
Cullen nodded stiffly. “Before the gens amplexi, I told him there was an Etorri matter I was honor-pledged to withhold from him, but that it posed no threat or trouble to Nokolai. He allowed it.” A very small smile. “He did ask me not to go out of my way to reassure Etorri. He was amused by the notion they would be wondering if their secret was out.”
That sounded like his father. “Very well.”
“You promise not to repeat what I’m about to reveal about Etorri?”
“I do.”
“Etorri has a way of reducing—almost eliminating—the incidence of the cancer at First Change.”
“They what?” Etorri the honorable—the most revered clan, the most trusted. “They can keep it from happening and they haven’t told anyone?”
“Their method is not available to anyone except Etorri. You know what the Lady promised Etorri after Liguri’s sacrifice at the end of the Great War.”
“That his clan wouldn’t die.” And it hadn’t. Liguri—the single Etorri who’d survived that conflict—had been altered in ways that set him and his descendants apart; the magic was too wild in them, leaving them even less fertile than other lupi. In the long centuries since, the clan had nearly winked out of existence more than once. Yet Etorri persisted. It remained by far the smallest clan, yet it never died out.
An idea hit so hard that Rule felt it in his chest, stealing his breath. “Are you saying . . . Liguri of the Three Mantles? He’s the only lupus to have carried more than one, and he—his descendants—have suffered greatly from the cancer. Is Toby in danger because I’m carrying more than one—”
“No. Listen. Listen to me. After Liguri’s sacrifice, the Lady altered Etorri’s mantle. Among other things, this alteration makes it possible for them to save those of their youth who might otherwise succumb to the cancer at First Change.” He drew a breath. “The Etorri Rho holds about half the clan’s mantle. The rest is held by all adult male Etorri.”
For a moment Rule couldn’t take it in. If Cullen had said, “All adult Etorri are female,” it would have made about as much sense. Women couldn’t Change. Mantles couldn’t be held by anyone except the Rho and his heir. “You mean it’s held by them?” he said at last, speaking carefully. “Not that they are part of the mantle. That they hold part of the mantle.”
“That’s right. At First Change, the mantle is . . .” He paused, scrubbing a hand over the top of his head. “Words don’t fit well, do they? But as I understand it, in other clans a youth at First Change is exposed to the mantle by being surrounded by clan. With Etorri, the mantle is actively shared. That’s what keeps the cancer away, Rule. Holding a bit of mantle.”
Rule was still trying to get his mind around the impossible. It wasn’t just that he’d been told it was impossible, though he had. As one who carried parts of two mantles, he knew it was impossible. “Mantles despise division. They are . . . Their very nature is to unite.”
“I told you,” Cullen said, “the Lady altered Etorri’s mantle. Ah . . . it may ease your conscience about keeping this from your father to know that the Rhejes are aware of the nature of Etorri’s mantle. That part’s in the memories.”
“I don’t see how it could be altered so much it accepts division. I don’t see how the clan functions when members don’t have their places clearly set by the mantle.”
“But they do. Everyone holds part of it, but not equally. The mantle itself decides how much each one will hold.”
Rule shook his head. “I don’t disbelieve you, but I don’t . . .” Realization hit. “Good God. You carried a portion of the mantle, then. When you were kicked out of Etorri—”
Cullen had gone white around the jaw and eyes. “Yes. Until then, I held part of the Etorri mantle.” His smile held nothing resembling humor. “Actually, I was third in line for the Rho’s job, based on how much I held. That’s one of the reasons they were so strongly disinclined to allow me to remain clan. Can’t have a sorcerous Rho.”
Rule struggled to understand. How could they have done that to Cullen? To make him outcast was terrible enough. To take away the portion of mantle he’d held . . . “Just how different is the Etorri mantle?”
Cullen’s shrug lacked its usual fluidity. “Put it this way—the mantle was willing for me to remain Etorri. Never mind that.” His quick gesture banished the past. “The point is, Rule, Toby needs to be given a portion of mantle to hold at his First Change. The mantle will reinforce his pattern, not allowing the cancer to get a start.”
“Holding a Rho’s portion didn’t reinforce the pattern for Victor Frey.” Frey was dying of the wild cancer even as they spoke—slowly, yes, sustained by the Leidolf Rhej’s healing Gift, but dying.
“Victor is 160 years old. I’d say the mantle did a pretty good job for the first 159 years of his life.”
Rule took in a slow breath. Relea
sed it just as slowly. “Very well, then. The Nokolai mantle won’t accept splitting the way Etorri’s does. My father will have to be persuaded to make Toby his heir instead of me. It’s a break with tradition, naming an heir too young to function as Lu Nuncio, but—”
“Rule.” Cullen shook his head, sighing as if Rule were a slow pupil. “You have two heirs’ portions. By the time Toby hits First Change, Victor will be long dead. If you’re Leidolf Rho, you can give Toby the heir’s portion of that mantle.”
TWENTY-SIX
AT two o’clock, Cullen sauntered into Lily’s temporary field office in the sheriff’s building. Two of her people were there—Brown and Brown Two—and a couple of deputies. She’d just finished briefing them on their new hunt: for a death. One that occurred on the day of the Turning.
Deacon, who’d been out of his office since before lunch, escorted Cullen in. “Ran into this guy downstairs. He claims he’s one of your people.”
“He is. I told you to expect him. Everyone, this is Cullen Seabourne. He’s consulting for me.”
“Yeah?” Deacon gave Cullen a head-to-toe look-over. “Looks like a Hollywood type, not a cop. An actor, maybe.”
Cullen smiled sweetly. “No, I’m a stripper.”
Lily rolled her eyes. Cullen never tired of his favorite punch line. “Retired stripper, and currently a consultant for the Unit, Sheriff. Like I told you.” She felt like the kid who’d been followed home by a disreputable mutt.
Not that Cullen resembled a mutt, but he had the disreputable part down.
“Christ, woman, would you close your mouth?” the male Brown said to the female Brown. “You’re getting drool on your chin.”
Brown Two shot him a venomous look—but she did take up the slack in her jaw.
“Okay, could we talk about the case for an eensy moment here?” Lily said. “Cullen’s going to brief you on wraiths.” She’d skimmed that explanation earlier, waiting for the expert.
The expressions on her team’s faces ranged from skeptical to incredulous. Except for Brown, of course, who remained as generically disgusted as ever. “Never thought I’d be taking ghost lessons from a goddammed stripper,” he said, stuffing another piece of gum in his mouth.