Blood Lines wotl-3

by Eileen Wilks

  Timms breathed his way through a few moments of silence. He sounded more grumpy than truly pissed when he spoke. "If I slow down, I'll lose sight of the chief's car."

  "Not a problem," Cullen said. "The road leads to Victor's place. Can't miss it."

  Cynna looked at him. "You've been here before."

  "Not lately, but yeah, I have."

  He didn't signal discomfort—no frown, tensed muscles, averted eyes. His voice didn't go flat or sharp, and every luscious inch of his body stayed easy, announcing how little the subject mattered. So why was she struck with the notion that this rutted tree tunnel was memory lane for him, and damned unpleasant memories at that?

  She thought of a neighborhood in Chicago and how she'd feel if she returned there accompanied by people from her new life. People who thought she was basically okay. The last thing she'd want would be for anyone to notice her reaction. "Is it normal for there to be this many trees?"

  He blinked. "You've heard of forests?"

  "I've even been in one." They'd been looking for an eleven-year-old girl… She pushed that memory aside. "But it had space between the trees, and those trees were a lot taller. These are all tangled up together. They lean out over the road."

  "Leaving aside whether we can call this a road—" They hit another bump for emphasis. "This is a deciduous forest that's been logged in the past. What you're seeing is new growth, which includes a lot of shrubby stuff. Older forests, especially conifer forests, have less competing growth."

  "Yeah, these trees are so into competition they've decided to take on the road. They're trying to push it right out of here."

  "Oh, please. Don't tell me you're one of those idiots who personifies everything."

  "Hey, personification is a tool in some magical systems. And Wiccans and other pagans say plants do possess intent, so—"

  He snorted. "You've been watching Saturday morning cartoons. Plants lack the sense of self it takes to form independent will, though en masse they sometimes develop an accreted version of consciousness. But it's ridiculous to ascribe human motives to them."

  She settled in to enjoy the argument. "I'm a simple kind of a gal. Even if these trees aren't aware in the sense we understand it, they might have a dryad or something guarding them."

  "A dryad?" he repeated, disbelieving. "In a new-growth forest this close to civilization?"

  She waved a hand. "Okay, not likely. But a number of African, Celtic, and American Indian traditions claim trees have spirits that people can communicate with, right? There are tons of legends about it."

  "Legends are mostly allegorical. Which means," he explained kindly, as if to a three-year-old, "that they're not meant to be taken literally."

  "I kind of get the difference between symbolic and literal truth. Hard to work a spell without some grasp of symbolism, isn't it? But maybe the tree spirit bit is literally true. I know a shaman who sacrifices to the oak in his backyard every new moon by burying tobacco leaves at the roots."

  "Shamanic practices connect the practitioner to major and minor earth spirits or gods, not individual trees."

  "He says he's contacting the tree, not some all-purpose spirit."

  "He's mistaken. Oh, his oak probably does have power. Trees soak up a fair amount of magic over the years, but not everything that possesses magic is sentient. Or do you think crystals are alive and plotting against you?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Sarcasm doesn't prove anything. Don't you feel something menacing about these trees?"

  Not only did he not sense any menace, he thought she was an idiot. Which she was perfectly willing to debate, too.

  Cynna had known Cullen wouldn't need much encouragement to argue. That's what they usually did. It made for a nice distraction the rest of the way to the clanhome, and not just for Cullen. Timms was so busy eavesdropping that he drove slower and didn't say a word.

  Maybe she wasn't completely inept at the in-charge thing, after all, even if her methods were unconventional. They reached their destination without a drop of blood being spilled.

  Leidolf's home territory didn't look much like Nokolai's version. The road took them to a clearing about the size of two football fields laid end to end. She saw four buildings, total: a barn, a long, one-story structure like a bunkhouse, and two houses. The first house was small and built from gray stone. Smoke trickled up from the chimney. Across from it, three pickups and a car were parked in front of the bunkhouse-type building.

  They were headed for the larger of the two houses, a two-story structure at the far end of the clearing. Two vehicles sat in front of it-—a two-year-old Bronco and the chief's cop car.

  "Are there any more houses?" she asked Cullen. "Hiding back in the trees, maybe?"

  "Not that I know of. Leidolf is poor compared to Nokolai, but they could afford more housing here. Victor doesn't want that. He doesn't trust the mainstreaming movement, doesn't want his wolves coming out of the closet, and anyone living here is admitting he's lupus."

  Victor Frey's house had all the charm of a big, white box. The wide front porch was its only grace note. There was a detached garage on the near side, and she caught a glimpse of a swing set on the other side before they pulled to a stop.

  Chief Mann was leaning against his car, chatting with another man—tall, blond, and bony, with a tidy mustache and old jeans. No shirt, no shoes, nice chest. He looked about thirty. Had to be a lupus, but not the one she'd come to see.

  "Shit," Cullen said.

  "What?" She paused with her hand on the door handle.

  "That's Brady, the local sociopath. Timms—"

  "What?" Timms snapped.

  "Brady's nuts, but he knows how to hold a grudge. If he can't get you now, he'll get you later, and he thinks an eye for an eye isn't nearly enough. Don't insult him."

  "I'm a federal agent. He'd better be polite to me."

  Cynna shook her head. "So does testosterone make fools of you all. Behave, or at least be quiet."

  Cullen cocked an eyebrow. "You've read Shakespeare?"

  "Hey, I'm not illiterate. No warnings for me?"

  "You're a woman. His expectations will be different. But if he asks you for sex and you turn him down, do it with regret."

  She snorted and opened the door.

  FOURTEEN

  CHIEF Mann turned to nod at her, still leaning casually against his car. "Brady, this is the federal agent I was telling you about. Agent Weaver, this here's Brady Gunning. He's the brother of the deceased."

  "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Gunning."

  "Randall's no loss to me. Couldn't stand the bastard." He gave her a thorough once-over. "I never saw anything like you before. What are you?"

  "An FBI agent." Cullen and Timms got out. "And this is—"

  "My, my. Cullen Seabourne, and on Leidolf land." Now he smiled.

  Nasty, she thought. Maybe Cullen hadn't exaggerated. "I'm here to speak with your father, Mr. Gunning."

  Gunning's head turned toward her slowly, as if he were reluctant to take his eyes off Cullen. But he didn't look angry. Instead, his face was snake-empty.

  A second later he'd slipped on a smile, as if remembering that was what people did. "But does he want to speak with you?"

  "Why don't we find out?" She started for the porch.

  He stepped in front of her, moving a little too fast for a human. His smile was warmer now, frankly sexual. "I didn't hear you say 'pretty please,' pretty lady."

  She raised her brows. He was a full head taller than her, which was unusual and annoying. Made it hard to look down her nose at him. "It's my understanding that this property belongs to your father, Mr. Gunning. Not you."

  "So?"

  "So I don't need your permission." She stepped aside to go around him.

  "He does." Gunning didn't look at Cullen, but it was obvious who he meant. "He needs my permission to go on breathing."

  "Brady," Chief Mann said mildly, "you see anyone here who isn't shaped like a human?"

  "
I smell something that—"

  "The law doesn't take account of what you smell." He straightened, moving away from the car. "You remember that. Agent Weaver, is this one of your people?" He nodded at Cullen.

  Great. If she said no, she could ditch Cullen now… leaving him out here with a sociopath who didn't like the way he smelled. "Mr. Seabourne's a consultant."

  Chief Mann sighed. "Wish you'd told me about him ahead of time. Let's go see if Victor's up for company." He headed for the house.

  Cynna and the others fell in behind him. She was conscious of the blond lupus standing perfectly still, watching them with those dead-empty eyes. Stone killer, she thought—the kind that scared her worst, because you couldn't handle them, reason with them, get on their good side. They didn't have one.

  She told herself that big, tough FBI agents didn't break out in a sweat when they walked within grabbing distance of death. But death reached for Cullen, not her.

  Only Cullen wasn't there.

  She'd never seen anyone, human or lupus, move that fast. She wasn't sure she'd seen it now. Cullen stood three feet away, smiling. "No touching, Brady. You're not my type."

  "From what I hear, anything's your type, if it stands still long enough," Gunning said. "Stay away from the dogs while you're here."

  Cullen kept smiling. "Vesceris corpi."

  Gunning lunged for him.

  It was like trying to track a hummingbird. Cullen slid aside so fast he seemed to teleport. "You want to Challenge, Brady?"

  "Boys," Chief Mann said from the porch, "I don't think Victor would appreciate your squabbling right now."

  Cullen looked at him incredulously.

  Gunning spat in the dirt. "I don't Challenge a cow turd if I accidentally step in one. I just scrape it off my boot." He turned and stalked off.

  Cynna remembered to breathe. The manly Mann had gone up in her regard.

  "Think Gunning will try something?" Timms sounded hopeful. No doubt the possibility of shooting something cheered him up.

  "Oh, yeah," Cullen said. "But not here and now. Too many witnesses."

  "Come on," Cynna said, starting for the house. As Cullen fell into step beside her, she muttered, "Be polite, he says. Don't insult the crazy man. Remind me to kick your ass later."

  "Sure. Did you say kick, or lick?"

  "Maybe I'll do it now." That was just talk, of course. This wasn't the time for ass-kicking. Or for questions, and she was accumulating a goodly pile of questions for Cullen Seabourne.

  As they reached the porch she caught the tune Timms was whistling: "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Just the thing to endear him to Southerners.

  Maybe she should shoot them both.

  The porch was painted, wooden, and empty. "Sorry about that," she said to the chief. "I didn't realize my consultant had a history with Gunning."

  Chief Mann pressed the doorbell. Dimly she heard it chime inside the house. "You want to watch out for that Brady," he told her seriously. "He's a bit wobbly."

  A bit?

  "As for you," Mann said to Cullen, "I don't know who you are, but I don't want you provoking Brady anymore."

  It was one of those man-to-man moments, with Cullen and the chief holding each other's gazes without speaking. Cynna could almost smell the testosterone. She knew Cullen was about to say something flip and insulting, and then she really would have to hurt him.

  Instead, he asked, "You the sheriff?"

  "Chief of police."

  He nodded. "I'll do my best not to make your job harder, Chief."

  Huh. Who would have guessed Cullen could actually show some respect?

  The door opened. The middle-aged woman who stood there wore her dark hair short, her June Cleaver dress belted, and flip-flops on her feet. Her voice went with her expression—soft and sad. "Hello, Chief. Did you wish to speak with Victor?"

  He nodded. "Brought someone who needs to talk to him."

  The woman gave Cynna a disinterested glance, let her gaze linger a bit on Timms—and then she saw Cullen. Her eyes widened. "Oh, my."

  "Hello, Sabra," Cullen said gently. "It's been awhile."

  "I… yes." Her hand flew to her chest and fluttered there uncertainly. "Yes, it has. Uh… come in. I'll let Papa know you're here."

  They were left standing in a large foyer while Sabra retreated down the hall, her flip-flops slapping the wooden floor. A staircase faced the door; on the right a closed door suggested a coat closet. On the left an arched opening led to the living room they hadn't been invited into.

  Everything was very clean and about sixty years out of date. Cynna was getting a real lost-in-the-fifties feeling.

  She turned to Cullen, keeping her voice low. "She's Victor's daughter?

  "One of three. The youngest girl married out—caused quite a fuss. The oldest one died several years ago. Suicide."

  Chief Mann shook his head. "If you're thinking of Marybeth; she was Victor's sister, not his daughter. Happened better'n twenty years ago, and Marybeth was over forty when she died. Sad story. She drove herself onto the train tracks one night, then just waited for the train."

  "Sounds like I had some of the details confused," Cullen said.

  "I'm surprised you've heard about it."

  Cullen smiled. "We're great gossips. Talk about each other all the time."

  Cynna gave him a curious look. Cullen had many faults, but his memory was excellent. Shouldn't he have known how many children the Leidolf Rho had had? Seemed like that was the sort of thing all the lupi would keep track of.

  Cullen didn't notice her quizzical glance. He was looking at the wall. "I'll be right back," he said suddenly and reached for the door.

  "Wait a—" Too late. He was gone. Some consultant he was, taking off like that. If he didn't…

  A board creaked on the stairs. She looked up.

  A young woman—really young, Cynna thought, maybe late teens—descended slowly, holding on to the rail. Her smile was shy, her eyes blue, her hair a soft brown. She wore low-slung jeans with a snug blue sweater.

  Interesting fashion choice, considering she was at least seven months pregnant. Didn't all that exposed belly get cold?

  "Merilee. Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

  Cynna jumped. The man who'd spoken had come up the hall so silently she'd had no idea he was there.

  Victor Frey looked more like a professor than a tyrant. Maybe it was the old sweater with leather patches at the elbows, or the wrinkled slacks. He was tall—well over six feet—and skinny, with bony wrists and big hands.

  The girl smiled down at him uncertainly. "I wasn't sleepy."

  Sabra came up behind her father. "I could use some help in the kitchen, Merilee, if you're feeling up to it."

  "Of course." She finished her descent at the same careful pace.

  Victor watched her as if he weren't sure of her balance. He'd probably been as golden as his wobbly son when he was younger, but his hair had faded to white-streaked straw. His eyes were the pale blue of a winter sky, and his face bore a friendly assortment of lines. Right now, the lines drooped with weariness, and he looked older than the sixty Rule had mentioned.

  Grief can do that.

  "You doin' all right, Merilee?" Chief Mann asked.

  "I'm okay." Now that she was closer, Cynna could see that the girl's eyes were red and puffy. "Half the time I can't believe he's gone. He'd be… he was so proud…" Her hand went to her swollen stomach, and her lip quivered.

  "Come on, sugar," Sabra said, putting an arm around the slim shoulders. "Staying busy helps, and I've got a bushel of apples that need to be peeled."

  As the two women left down the hall, Victor Frey turned to the chief. "I thought we covered everything yesterday, Robert. What now?"

  "I'm just here to introduce you to this young lady. Agent Cynna Weaver." He nodded at her. "She and Agent Timms are with the FBI, and they believe it was a demon killed your boy. She needs to talk to you."

  The door opened, and in came Cullen.
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  Victor Frey's face went from tight to furious. "What the—"

  "Accipiaris in pace," Cullen said.

  The old man looked at him a long moment. The anger didn't so much drain out as get packed up, put away. He smiled a hard little smile. "Accipio in pace. I didn't expect to ever see you on Leidolf land again."

  "Life confounds us all," Cullen murmured. "I'm helping our lovely demon hunter—who, by the way, is also the chosen apprentice of the Nokolai Rhej, though not yet formally installed."

  Several heartbeats passed while Cynna considered once again the need to kick Cullen's butt. He had no business revealing that. Finally Victor spoke, his tone precise, though his words were oblique. "She's an FBI agent."

  Cullen smiled. "Life confounds us all."

  Victor turned his attention to Cynna. "Agent Weaver." There was an old-world courtliness to his nod that somehow suggested a bow. He barely glanced at Timms. "Agent Timms. Excuse me for failing to greet you right away."

  "No problem."- Dammit, Lily would've known how to talk to this guy, how to use the formal courtesy his manner seemed to require. Cynna didn't. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Frey."

  He nodded again. "Our Rhej will wish to meet you. Perhaps after you've fulfilled your official duties, you'll visit her." He gestured at the living room. "We might as well be comfortable. May I offer you something to drink?"

  "No, thanks."

  "I won't be staying, Victor," Chief Mann said. "You let me know if I can do anything to help, though."

  "Thank you. Ah… Agent Weaver?" He waved again at the arched doorway.

  The living room was huge, maybe twenty feet by thirty, with an oversize stone fireplace and three big windows that let in what was left of the daylight. It held two couches, a love seat, a piano, and an assortment of chairs. Overall, the decor looked straight out of Leave It to Beaver.

  Cynna sat in a big, square armchair upholstered in a nubby beige fabric. "Mr. Frey, I know this is a difficult time for you. I'll try not to take long. I mainly need permission to check out your land. There's a chance that the demon that killed your son is still around."