by Eileen Wilks
"Rule's the one with demon stuff in him, right?" Timms said, frowning. "You sure you want to stay there? I don't have a spare room, but you could have the couch."
Amused, Cullen shot him a glance. "Thanks. I may take you up on that."
Cynna spoke. "Shouldn't we drop Timms off first?"
"He took one of his painkillers, which he seems to have a strong reaction to. He's flying. I don't think he'll mind waiting a little longer to go home." And he probably shouldn't be left alone until the medication wore off. He might shoot his neighbor's cat. Or his neighbor.
"But—"
"I'm okay," Timms said. "Uh… where are we going, again?"
Cullen explained one more time. You'd think the head injury victim would be the one with a short-term memory deficit, but Cynna remembered everything—including any number of questions she was forced to sit on with Timms around. She'd pointed that out during a brief period when Timms was asleep and she wasn't. She'd also pointed out that Rule wouldn't want to discuss clan stuff in front of Timms.
"I thought you felt responsible for him," he'd said. "What with him being wounded under your command."
That had pissed her off. He gave her points for knowing when he was dancing around the truth, but she jumped to the wrong conclusion. She thought he was using Timms to avoid her questions, but he didn't need the man around for that. He never answered questions he didn't want to.
It was five minutes after eleven when they finally parked on the street just down from the Nokolai house. Cullen helped his two wounded out of the car—at least, he tried to. Timms was wobbly, but not feeling any pain. Cynna insisted her nap in the car had done wonders for her headache.
"You think they're in bed?" she asked as they approached. "The porch light's off."
"Rule's bodyguards arrived. The ones outside won't want their night vision messed up."
"I don't see anyone."
"You wouldn't." Cullen had amused himself by using his other vision, so he knew his assumption was correct. The unmistakable aura of a lupus hovered faintly over the front seat of the two-year-old Mercury parked in front of the house.
He was surprised, though, at who opened the door. Surprised enough to stare.
The man facing him filled the doorway. His black hair was short and shot through with silver; his hands were the size of dinner plates. He had his mother's dark eyes and coppery skin, and he almost never left Clanhome.
"You coming in?" Benedict said.
"That's the idea." Cullen waved Cynna through. "Cynna Weaver, this is Rule's brother, Benedict. Rumor has it he does have a last name, but, like Madonna, he doesn't use it."
Rumor—or at least Rule—also claimed Benedict had a sense of humor, but Cullen had never seen evidence of it. He didn't tonight, either. "Come in, then. I don't want to leave the door open."
"She's a little slow tonight," Cullen said, using one hand to urge Cynna through the door. "It may be the depressed skull fracture. It may be your chest. Did you know that people in cities usually wear shirts?"
Benedict, of course, ignored the irrelevancies. It was as impossible to insult the man as it was to joke with him. He looked at Cynna. "Lily said the Leidolf Rhej performed a healing."
Cynna recovered from her startlement, which had probably been caused as much by what Benedict did wear as what he didn't. Benedict liked sharp objects. Twin knives were sheathed on his forearms, and a sword rode in its scabbard on his back. She shot Cullen an annoyed glance. "She did. I'm fine, aside from a bit of a headache."
Bit of a headache. Ha. "Who's watching over Isen?" he asked as Benedict secured the door.
"A number of people." Benedict turned to Timms. "I don't allow weapons in the Lu Nuncio's presence."
Cullen shook his head. "You won't part him from his gun, but I'll vouch for him." He looked at Timms. "No shooting my friend."
"That must be Timms," Rule said, entering the little hall from the rear. "I understand his arm was broken while fighting the demon-possessed. I'm not sure why…" He let that trail off, cocking an eyebrow at Cullen.
But it was Timms who answered. "Saved my life."
"I beg your pardon?"
"He did. Your friend." Timms nodded several times for empha-sif, "I tranked her. Made her mad. The other two froze. Woman's body, you know? Threw them for a second. Seaboard didn't freeze. Pulled her off when she got hold of me. You're Rule Turner?"
"I am." Rule looked fascinated.
"Got demon stuff in you. Not your fault, but… thought I'd better come along, keep an eye out."
"I see." Rule was amused but hid it well. He crossed to Cynna—not limping, Cullen noticed—and took her hands in his. "How are you, really?"
That intent, caring gaze had flustered women more confident than Cynna. She didn't quite stammer. "I'm okay. Really. My head hurts, but it's no biggie. But are you okay?"
He grimaced and dropped her hands. "Let's adjourn to the kitchen. Lily's there."
Benedict didn't like it. "He's got a weapon."
"Cullen will see to it he doesn't shoot me." Rule waved them on, waiting until Cullen passed him to murmur, "Collecting strays again?"
Cullen felt the tips of his ears heat, dammit. "I always say you can never have too many FBI agents around."
Rule chuckled. "I'm not keeping this one for you."
The way the house was laid out they had to go through the parlor and dining room to get to the kitchen; Rule was still grinning as they reached it.
Lily was pacing, her cell phone held to her ear. Her eyes flashed up. She grimaced. "I know, but… no, I didn't. I didn't say that. Look, I'm sorry, but I have to go."
She disconnected.
Rule cocked an eyebrow at her. She gave a tiny shake of her head, then said to the rest of them, "My sister. My older sister," she added with a grimace, as if that explained something.
"Problems?" Cynna said, pulling out one of the chairs at the big, round table.
"Family. Problems." Lily flipped her hand once. "Two sides of the same coin, aren't they?"
Cullen watched Cynna's face. Nothing showed, but he wondered what she was thinking. He'd never heard her mention any family and suspected she didn't have one. "Lily, this is Agent Timms. Timms, Lily hangs out on your side of reality most of the time—her aka is Agent Yu of MCD."
"We've spoken," Lily started to hold out her hand, then realized the cast was on his right arm. She settled for a nod and gave Cullen a questioning look.
"Cullen vouches for him," Rule said dryly. He moved to the coffeepot. "Anyone care for a cup?"
Timms was the only taker—seems he thought the pain meds had his mind a bit fuzzy.
"Oh." Lily reached for a folder on the table. "This is a copy of that report you wanted." She handed it to Cullen.
Cullen's hand closed tightly on it. He needed to read it right now, needed to find the one who'd tampered with his mind. Instinctively, he hid the strength of that need, saying the first thing that came to mind. "What's Benedict doing here?"
Rule handed Timms a mug. "Isen believes I'm in more danger than he is right now."
Benedict spoke. "He also believes you won't argue with me. Hard to get one of my people to guard Rule properly," he added to the rest of them. "They have a bad habit of obeying him."
"Not a flaw you're prone to," Cullen said. "Tends to run the other way with you." Lily hadn't said a word about what was in the report. Was it useless? Or did she not want to comment in front of Timms?
"I'm sorry you raced back this way," Rule said, apparently addressing the coffeepot as he poured his own coffee. "I told Lily there was no point."
Cullen spoke sharply. "Don't give her grief about this. Rule, I can see it now."
Rule's head jerked up. He scowled at Cullen.
"It's in your aura. The change is slight, small enough that I wouldn't notice if I didn't know you so well. But it's there."
"I don't want to be pushy," Cynna said, "but what are you talking about? Cullen said you were worse, Ru
le—that something went wacky with your memory. But even he couldn't see that."
Lily answered, her voice low. "The demon poison. It's metas-tasized, or something like that. I knew it the second I touched him."
"What?" Cynna demanded. "What did you feel?"
"It didn't stay in the wound. It's spread throughout his body."
TWENTY-THREE
"WOULD you slow it down?" Cynna said.
"No." Cullen knew he was driving too fast. He didn't care. He was back in the Mother-damned car when he needed to run.
The Wiccan healer—one of Sherry's people, so she was among the best—had checked Rule out earlier that evening. She couldn't do anything, with or without the coven's backing. It wasn't a matter of power, but knowledge.
They had a Catholic archbishop in their task force. He couldn't do a damned thing, either. Whatever was happening to Rule, it wasn't possession. It wasn't anything anyone knew a goddamned thing about.
Including him. They rocketed around a corner, tires squealing.
"Deja vu all over again. Every time I let a man behind the wheel today, he goes too fast. Slow down, Cullen. Now."
He glanced at her—and yelped. "You pulled a damned gun on me!"
The barrel of a snub-nosed revolver stared at him. So did a pair of tired but determined brown eyes. "I'm not in the mood to splatter all over the pavement tonight. I'm not in the mood for stupid men who won't listen. And I am so not in the mood to argue. Slow down."
He gave a quick bark of laughter and eased off on the accelerator until they were going a sedate forty. "Better?" he asked mildly.
"Much." She holstered her weapon. "Ah… you're pretty cheerful about being drawn on."
"I needed a good laugh."
"You find it funny to have people point guns at you?"
"You weren't going to use it. Shooting the driver at seventy miles an hour is a tad risky, even for you." He grinned. "Silliest thing I've seen in years. Got to love a woman who knows how to overreact."
"Glad I could improve your mood. Want me to brighten things even more and put a bullet in your leg?"
He chuckled. "You're pissed."
"You're just full of insight. That's my hotel."
"Right." He slowed further and pulled into the parking lot. "Where now?"
"Use the side entry—it's closer to my room." She twisted to check on his other passenger.
"Sleeping Beauty still out cold?"
She nodded. Cynna had the front seat this time, Timms the back. He'd fallen asleep the moment he curled up back there and didn't seem likely to wake for anything short of the last trumpet. Cullen marveled at his ability to sleep so soundly with a freshly broken bone, having experienced a few breaks in his time. Maybe the man had fewer pain receptors than most people.
Of course, Timms's body didn't flush out painkillers within minutes the way Cullen's did. There were advantages to being human, Cullen conceded. Not many, but a few.
He pulled to a stop near the side entry and shut off the engine.
"Cullen." Her. hand on his arm was almost as big a surprise as the gun had been. "We're going to fix Rule. Just because we don't know how yet doesn't mean we can't do it."
"Right." He took a deep breath, let it out. He was too old to believe in fairy tales. Right didn't make might, bad things did happen to good people, and determination didn't always win the day.
But you didn't get far without it. "Right," he said again, meaning it this time, and opened his door.
"For crying out loud. I make it safely inside all the time, you know."
"I'm going to kiss you. I could do it here, but—"
"If you get any mushier I'm going to tear up." But she didn't object to the idea. She didn't object when he took her hand, either.
Weird. They were holding hands. He might wonder if he was going through a second adolescence, but he hadn't been much for holding hands in the first one. He wasn't even going to go to bed with the woman—yet. He just wanted a little taste. A kiss.
How long had it been since he stopped at kissing?
But it felt good to hold her hand. He'd forgotten how good a simple touch could be. He'd trained himself not to need it; a clan-less wolf couldn't afford that need, because humans didn't understand. If you touched one of them, male or female, they thought it meant sex.
Or, in his case, they hoped it did. His lips quirked.
She dropped his hand to dig out her key card, which she needed to unlock the side door at this hour.
"How can you afford to stay here?" he asked.
"Hey, I negotiated. I get off-season rates year-round, and only pay for the nights I'm actually here, which averages about ten a month." She located the card and stuck it in. "There's a lot of demand for a good Finder. I fly all over the country, then when I come back, I get maid service, room service, laundry facilities, a gym, a pool, cable, Internet—"
"I get it. You like staying here."
"What's not to like? I guess someone who's into owning stuff wouldn't be happy, but it works for me."
The lock snicked. He leaned around her to open the door and hold it for her.
She gave him a funny look.
"I've got manners. I don't always bother with them, but they're around when I want them." His position put him close to her, close enough for her scent to stir him. Heady, familiar, and welcome, arousal began tightening his body.
It had been a long time since he took the time to anticipate going to bed with a woman instead of just doing it. He decided he liked it. He trailed his free hand down the side of her neck. "Besides, ladies first has always been my motto." He wasn't referring to doors.
She got that. Her eyes smiled at him—pretty eyes, he thought. The color of whiskey. The rest of her face stayed solemn. "Good motto, but some ladies like to go second and third, too."
"Greedy, aren't you?"
"When my head isn't hurting." She walked through the door, and he let it close behind them. "I guess you do know how to flirt."
"Meaning?"
She gave a one-shoulder shrug. "I didn't think you were interested. Until I asked about sex, you didn't flirt, didn't give me any looks… you know."
He'd hurt her feelings. Cullen considered that as they headed down a hall—hotel standard, with beige carpet, beige walls. Did she prefer to live someplace where nothing of her showed? "You're going to accuse me of being an arrogant ass."
"I already have, lots of times. Not always when you were around."
"Been thinking about me, huh?" He flashed her a grin. "Lots of women do."
"We're getting to the arrogant part already, I see."
He shrugged. He knew what he looked like. That Was reality, not arrogance. "My looks tip the scales too much in my favor, so I have a rule. No-flirting, no seducing, no come-ons unless a woman gives me the green light."
She stopped. "You're saying you're chivalrous?"
"Hell, no. Chivalry is sick—men pretending to moon chastely after ladies, when we all know there's no such thing as a chaste moon."
"Your own, twisted version of chivalry, then." She was delighted. "Is that why you're letting Timms hang around?"
"I can promise you he doesn't have designs on my body. Or vice versa."
She waved that off. "No, I mean he's like a feral puppy trotting around after you. I can't get over it. He couldn't stand you before."
"Timms doesn't know it, but he's looking for a pack. He's accepted me as dominant—not that he thinks of it that way, but he's not able to deal with other men as equals. He'll bully those beneath him and think of those above as his friends."
They'd reached her door, apparently, because she stopped in front of it—1014. She snorted. "He's not a lupus."
"Humans need packs, but you think you aren't supposed to, which is why you're all so confused—the XY half of you, especially. Drink, drugs, gangs, outdoing the Joneses—all symptoms of the need for a pack, and a defined status within the pack. The American cult of rugged individualism makes human m
en think thty're all supposed to be alphas, but it doesn't work that way."
She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms and hiking her eyebrows. So skeptical. It made him smile. "Cult of rugged individualism?"
"Sure. It's a myth, a story people tell each other to make modern isolation more tolerable. America wasn't founded by rugged individualists but by people who didn't like the packs back home and wanted to form their own—religious packs in the northern colonies, wealth-based packs down South. They weren't a bunch of loners. They couldn't be—they needed each other to survive."
"What about all those rugged Westerners? Cowboys, wagon trains, frontiersmen—"
"The settlers relied on each other to survive, too. As for cowboys—rugged individualists, my ass. They're a perfect example of human-style packs. Ranch hands were sometimes misfits, but there were no real loners on a ranch. They banded together beneath a strong leader to tend cattle, care for horses and gear, and fight."
"Gunfighters—"
"Were outcasts, but still sought status, which is another way of saying they needed a place within the pack, even if it was based on fear. Trappers were the one exception. Some went native, living with one tribe or another, but others did live completely alone . for months at a time. And they were often a little nuts." He shook his head. "Humans aren't loners by nature."
"Neither are lupi." She tilted her head. Her eyes met his. The cool curiosity he saw there was less abrasive than sympathy would have been. That didn't make it welcome. "You lived like that for a while, though, didn't you? As a lone wolf."
"Shut up, Cynna."
She gave that wry, one-sided smile, neither offended nor, he felt sure, accepting his suggestion to avoid the topic. He took her face in his two hands, running his thumb along the sensitive hollow just beneath the jawbone. Her skin was a soft surprise. The filigree covering it, so obvious to the eye, was invisible to the touch.
He lowered his head slowly, enjoying the droop of her eyelids as her body consented to the kiss. Her musky scent pleased him, though her hair products did not; a whiff of bleach clung to the short, spiky strands, its smell masked by that of industrial-strength gel. And another scent…