by Eileen Wilks
Leidolf would try to kill Rule, of course. Not immediately; they couldn’t act until Rule had an heir, or the mantle would be lost, and with it, the clan. There would be a period of a few years when Leidolf would protect their new Rho zealously.
Once he made Toby heir, that would change. Some in Leidolf would Challenge; others wouldn’t bother with anything so formal, opting for assassination. It was possible the other clans would Challenge, too, which could drag Nokolai into outright clan war.
War was the worst-case scenario. Best case left Rule distrusted and dishonored. Leidolf, the other clans, even his own clan—all would consider it a blatant power grab. Rule could live with that. He could live with Challenges or assassination attempts. But the possibility that some in Leidolf might target his son . . . Oh, yes, that could happen. There was a certain cold logic to it.
Kill the man who was their Rho, and Leidolf’s entire mantle would go to a boy not yet old enough to control his wolf. They might do that, counting on being able to force Toby to give up the mantle to one of their choosing. But it was risky. No one could say whether a boy so young would be able to hold an entire mantle. It had never happened.
Kill the boy, though, then try to force Rule to choose an heir from within Leidolf . . . Yes, some would see that as safer for the clan. Those who underestimated the power of the mantle—and Rule.
Cullen understood these possibilities. He’d still urged Rule to do it. “You’ll just have to change Leidolf’s mind about you. You’ll have three or four years to do that.”
Change Leidolf’s mind about him. Rule smiled grimly, shut down his computer, and headed downstairs. Oh, yes, after centuries of ill feeling between Nokolai and Leidolf, all he had to do was persuade them that the heir to Nokolai could lead their clan well.
Assuming, that was, his father let him remain Nokolai’s heir.
Rule set that issue aside. He’d learned not to waste time and energy trying to guess which way Isen would jump, or what his plans truly included. If Rule became Leidolf Rho, his father might cackle with glee, having intended that result all along. He might revoke Rule’s heirship. He might kick Rule out of the clan.
Isen would do what he thought best for Nokolai, and Rule would accept that.
Toby was vacuuming the living room when Rule reached the first floor. In the kitchen, Louise was in full war mode. She pulled a pie shell out of the oven just as Rule entered. “Beautiful,” he told her. “And the smell is delightful.”
“Thank you. I have never used tofu. The recipe said to drain it, but . . . does this look right?” She’d put the tofu on a cutting board lined with paper towels and placed a heavy pot on top.
“I think so,” he said gravely. The paper towels were damp, so they must be soaking up the extra moisture. “What can I do to help?”
“Connie is bringing her fruit salad, so that’s covered. For a side dish, I was going to fix glazed carrots. I wasn’t thinking. That takes butter, and you said the store didn’t have any vegan butter—whatever in the world that is. I suspect it isn’t butter at all. Probably one more way to make tofu pretend it’s something else.” She glared at her pie shell. “Steamed carrots are so bland.”
“Why not roast them? All it takes is carrots, olive oil, and a little salt. The high heat caramelizes the sugars. Delicious.”
“Have you done that?” she demanded. When he admitted he had, she asked, “How long does it take? The quiche will be in the oven.”
“About twenty minutes, but they can go on the bottom rack while the quiche bakes above.”
She sighed in relief. “You’re in charge of carrots, then. Here.” She pulled two pounds of carrots from the refrigerator. “The quiche takes fifty minutes.”
Toby finished vacuuming and was immediately put to work setting the table. Rule was scraping carrots when his phone beeped. “Toby, would you answer that for me, please? My hands are messy.”
His phone was in its holster, hung from his belt. Toby retrieved it. “Hello, this is Toby Asteglio. My dad’s peeling carrots.” He listened a moment. “Okay. Dad, it’s Alex Thibideux. He wants to know if he should call back later.”
“No, I’ll take it.” Quickly Rule rinsed his hands. He gave Toby a smile. “Alex is the Leidolf Lu Nuncio. I am always available to him.”
Toby didn’t say anything, but the face he made when Rule said “Leidolf” spoke for him. It was a prejudice he needed to put a stop to—now more than ever. “You’d like Alex,” he said casually, drying his hands. “He’s an honorable man and an excellent fighter. Your uncle Benedict considers him one of the few who can make him work for a win.”
Toby perked up slightly. “Yeah?”
Rule nodded. “He probably saved my life during the, ah, commotion following the Turning. Thank you,” he added, taking the phone. “Yes?”
Alex’s gravelly voice greeted him. “What’s this ‘probably,’ Nokolai whelp?”
Rule grinned. He and Alex got along well these days. Odd as it seemed, they might be on their way to real friendship. “Probably, Leidolf runt,” he repeated. The “runt” was carefully chosen. When on two legs, Alex was six feet and well over two hundred pounds, all of it muscle. His wolf was equally outsize. “I wasn’t, perhaps, in the best shape at the time—”
Alex snorted.
“—but my nadia was present. She might well have retrieved one of those rifles before Brady finished me.”
“She doesn’t lack guts, I’ll give you that. Here’s the deal. I drove up so I could look over the area you’ve proposed for the gens compleo. Been in those woods before, but it’s been years. Thought I could give you a hand selecting the spot.”
“I’d appreciate that. You’re in Halo now? Where are you staying?”
That’s when Rule lost control of the situation. He couldn’t say later how it happened, except that Louise overheard and would not hear of Rule’s friend eating in “some burger joint,” especially when he would make their numbers right. They’d sit eight at the table if he joined them, she said, as if that were the clincher.
When Rule gently pointed out that Alex would make them nine at table, not eight, she immediately switched course and nine was the magic number; and besides, her table had two leaves, so there was plenty of room, and she’d already decided to make two quiches. So Rule ended up inviting the Leidolf Lu Nuncio to dinner with his son, his friend, his mate, his son’s mother, his son’s mother’s new husband, his son’s grandmother, and his son’s grandmother’s neighbor.
He began to see what Toby meant about his grandmother and parties.
“Rule, do vegans drink wine?” Louise called from the pantry.
“As far as I know.”
“Vegans,” Alex repeated, his voice lacking all inflection. He would, of course, have heard Louise—who probably didn’t realize that.
“Yes, Louise’s new son-in-law is vegan. She’s making a wonderful spinach and tofu quiche that should work for him.”
Alex was silent a moment. “Thanks, Turner. I’ll be sure to eat a couple burgers first.” He disconnected.
So did Rule. If he became Alex’s Rho permanently, there would be no chance of friendship between them. Alex would despise him. Rule regretted that possible loss keenly.
“The spoons go with the knives, right?” Toby called from the dining room.
“Yes. The blade should face the plate, not out.” But that regret was nothing, nothing at all, compared to what he felt as he watched his son align knives and spoons carefully on the wrong side of each plate.
LILY blasted through the door at six twenty. Connie Milligan was in the kitchen with Louise; the other guests hadn’t arrived yet. Rule had just come upstairs to shrug into his suit jacket, so he heard her rapid-fire apology to Louise as she streaked for the stairs. Apparently she believed six thirty meant six fifteen at the latest.
He met her at the head of the stairs. She handed him a folder. “Here. It’s incomplete. Ruben had one of his hunches.”
He looked
inside. His eyebrows lifted. “You asked Ruben to run the check on James French?”
“Not exactly. Like I said, he had one of his hunches. I’ll explain later. I’ve got to get ready.” She cast a regretful look at the door to the bathroom. “Not enough time for a shower.”
“We don’t have to be down at the stroke of six thirty.”
“Yes, we do. In my mother’s eyes, tardiness for a family dinner is a decapitation offense.”
He ran his hand along her neck. “Hmm. Still attached.”
“My father routinely commutes the sentence.” She laid her hand over his. Her eyes darkened with feeling, but her voice was quiet. “Rule? Did Cullen . . . What did he say?”
He jerked his head, indicating their room. She followed him in; he shut the door. And she put her arms around him, bringing him the rightness of her scent, the living heat of her body. She didn’t speak. She just held him.
And undid him. A slow tsunami shuddered up his spine, all the crammed feelings unwinding in a mudslide of fear and fury, razors and sludge. All, all at once, rolling up through him so that all he could do was hold on. Hold on.
He wrapped himself around her and inhaled hard, bringing the citrus of her shampoo inside him, the musk of her skin, the slight tang of cinnamon from her breath . . . red hots. She loves those cinnamon red hots. The thought was absurdly comforting, unleashing another flood, this one of fondness for all the small pieces of her he’d picked up along the way, like shells washed ashore by the ocean.
He rubbed his cheek against her hair, resting in her, man and wolf leaning into love as if it were a pillow, a bed, a stream he could float on.
Overload, then release. It was no wonder his eyes filled. That was all right. He was safe here. He didn’t have to hide.
Except that he did. Not the feelings, but some of the facts. Some, he realized, not all. And there can be enough space between some and all to wedge in some truth.
Hadn’t Toby done the same thing? “Nadia,” he murmured to her hair, then straightened so he could see her face. Worry, fear—he saw those plainly. She’d held them close, held herself silent, so she could give him what he needed.
He touched her cheek. “I’ve convinced you Cullen’s news was bad. It wasn’t, not wholly, but it was difficult. It brings me a choice that’s all edges, and—Lily, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you what he said. He needed my word not to repeat him, and I gave it.”
A carefully chosen promise, he understood now, and wanted to hug Cullen—and slap himself for not catching on earlier. Cullen had steered the conversation so that Rule promised specifically not to repeat Etorri’s secret. He hadn’t promised to keep that secret. Keeping it would mean safeguarding it, doing all he reasonably could to be sure no one learned of it through him.
Learned of it—or figured it out. He stroked his thumb along the curve of Lily’s cheekbone. “I can’t repeat what he said, but because of it, I may choose to retain Leidolf’s mantle when Victor dies.”
She stared. Frowned. “You don’t want to be Leidolf Rho.”
“No.”
“But you might retain their mantle, because of what Cullen told you about Toby.”
He nodded.
Her breath gusted out. “Huh. That would cause problems, wouldn’t it?”
And this he could certainly tell her, so he did. Briefly, because six thirty must surely be upon them, but even a brief telling of the possible consequences was grim.
“So your choice,” she said, “is to do nothing and hope Toby doesn’t contract the cancer, but the odds aren’t good. Or you can accept leadership of Leidolf for reasons you can’t tell me. The latter could cause trouble and turmoil, possibly even including some kind of war between the clans, and could well endanger Toby. Yet you consider it a valid option. Obviously, keeping the mantle somehow guarantees that Toby won’t get the cancer.”
He did appreciate her mind. “I cannot confirm or deny what you’ve said.”
“Hmm.” That came out almost amused. “You sure you aren’t a lawyer? Never mind. Are you honestly thinking you haven’t made the decision yet? Because I know which you’ll pick.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Do you?”
“Sure. You’ll go for Door Number Two. It gives you some control, some options. If you can get Leidolf to stop hating you, for instance—”
“Cullen’s suggestion,” he murmured. “Not that he knows how I might stop generations of distrust and hatred.”
“As to that—”
The doorbell rang.
“Damn.” She pulled out of his arms and dashed to the closet. “How much money have you made Nokolai over the years?” She grabbed another of her pretty jackets, this one yellow, and a black silk camisole.
“I do a good job with our finances, but—well, to put it bluntly, lupi are not humans. We don’t base our loyalty on money.”
“Humor me. How much?” She slipped out of the black jacket she’d been wearing and unbuckled her shoulder holster.
“We did well in the boom. I suppose that, allowing for inflation, Nokolai’s assets have roughly tripled since I began handling the majority of our financial matters. Certainly we need less drei than Leidolf does.”
“Drei? Oh, yeah, I remember. That’s your head tax. Now, Leidolf’s relatively poor, though it’s a bigger clan than Nokolai, right?” She tugged off her tee.
This distracted him, naturally, but after a moment’s silent appreciation, he said, “That’s right. Leidolf is the largest clan.”
Cami in place, she grabbed her ankle holster and strapped it on. “I need more clothes,” she muttered. “I didn’t pack for this.”
He considered asking if she meant to shoot Alicia, but decided she wouldn’t appreciate the humor right now. “I’ll take some things to the cleaners tomorrow, if you like.”
“That would be a help.” With her backup weapon hidden beneath the full leg of her black slacks, she added the yellow jacket to her outfit. “I know you’re not exactly human. I know that, but you’re awash in our culture, and your people are very conscious of power. I can’t believe lupi are oblivious to the power and security money represents. I know your father isn’t.”
Rule shrugged. “That’s one of the ways Isen differs from many of the Rhos.”
“Money makes Nokolai more secure. It can do that for Leidolf, too. Add increased security to the fact that you aren’t crazy and mean like Victor . . . plus the Leidolf Rhej likes you. Her opinion carries weight.”
“She won’t like me if I break honor and . . .” Wait. Cullen had told him the Rhejes knew about the way the Etorri mantle was shared. The Leidolf Rhej might guess what he was doing—especially if he did exactly what he’d already planned to do: have her examine Toby for any trace of the cancer.
The doorbell rang again.
“Shit.” Lily glared through the floor at whoever had arrived. “Why is there never enough time?”
“We have to make time for the important things. Like this.” He took her shoulders and kissed her as thoroughly as he thought she’d allow, given the guests accumulating downstairs. Long enough for her to soften against him and his own body to ready itself for something that, unfortunately, was not happening.
Not happening yet, he promised himself. Not yet, but soon.
He lifted his head, smiling and tasting cinnamon. “You make me clear to myself.” Because she was entirely right. He’d choose the option that gave him options, however difficult, rather than surrender his son to fate.
She smoothed her hands down his shirt. “I could use some clarity, so I’m hoping you can return the favor later. I, uh—sorry, but I’ll have to go back to work after dinner. Maybe I can bring you up-to-date, get your input. Not now, though. Now we have other dragons to face.” She grimaced and ran a hand through her hair. “Lip gloss. I don’t have time to redo my makeup, but lip gloss, at least.”
He handed her purse to her. She delved inside. “Oh, one more thing. You have to start saying ‘we’ instead of ‘th
ey’ when you speak of Leidolf. They’re your clan, too.”
“It doesn’t work that way. Even if I wanted to—to be Leidolf . . .” And oh, but saying that left a sourness in his gut that warned him of just how much would have to change. “I underwent gens compleo with Nokolai, not Leidolf.”
“That’s when you’re accepted into the clan, right?” Her lips now shiny, she capped the gloss. “Which is accomplished when the mantle recognizes you, or something like that. Well, I’d say the Leidolf mantle recognizes you now.”
“Holding part of a mantle isn’t the same as being held by the mantle.”
“Is it a difference in degree, or kind?”
He opened his mouth . . . and shut it again. There was a flaw in her reasoning. Somewhere. There had to be. “I . . . There is a difference.” But was it a difference that mattered as far as clan membership went? If Etorri had, for centuries, been recognizing its members by investing them with a portion of the mantle . . .
“Rule.” She slid the tube back in her purse and looked at him. “I admit I don’t understand about mantles, and I know you’re mostly Nokolai and are accustomed to tracing your descent through the male line. That makes sense, since only males are lupus. But your great-grandmother was Leidolf. That’s why Victor was able to force the mantle on you. Which means you’ve always been part Leidolf, by blood. Now that you’ve got both the blood and the mantle, you’re Leidolf as well as Nokolai. It’s time you accepted that.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
DINNER could have been worse. Lily pointed that out to herself more than once as the meal progressed. The wraith could have shown up, for example, and a possessed Alicia might have stabbed Lily in the back literally instead of settling for verbal jabs. That would have been worse.
But easier to defend against. Alicia was smart enough to keep her digs under the radar—more like sprinkling too much salt than openly dumping poison. Lily didn’t think any of the others noticed. Normally Rule would have, but beneath his impeccable manners, Rule was distracted. Shaken, she suspected. Probably she’d picked a bad time to point out that he had two clans.