by Eileen Wilks
She disconnected quickly.
“You don’t need your shoes now,” Deirdre informed her. “It’s Tuesday. You’re going to the dojo. You don’t do kung fu in wedges.”
“I don’t do kung fu at all, and I wear shoes to get to the class, which is not held in a dojo. Today I will wear those shoes. Which are mine.”
Deirdre rolled her eyes and stepped over two newly redistributed piles of clothes. “You weren’t this selfish in college.”
“I wasn’t buying my own stuff in college. Do you know what I paid for those?”
“They were on sale.” Still, Deirdre sat on her bed—and a red sweater, a yellow and green skirt, and a pair of jeans—and unbuckled one shoe. “So who’s the target?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Deirdre waved a vague hand. “You’re wearing a new sweater—which I love, by the way, and when did you get it?—and you’re desperate for your fuck-me wedges. There is a target.” She handed Beth one shoe, and her narrow face lit in a grin. “Oooh. Are you finally moving on Sean?”
Beth slid the shoe on. “Sean and I are just friends.”
“These are not just-friends shoes.” Deirdre dangled the second shoe by its skinny strap.
“Anything more would be inappropriate, now that I’m working for him.” Beth reached for the shoe.
Deirdre jerked it back, out of reach. “Nuh-uh. Not until you come clean. And you aren’t working for Sean. He’s a client, or his firm is, which is not the same thing at—hey!”
Beth had tackled Deirdre back onto the bed, snatching her shoe in the process. Beth rolled off, sat up, and bent to fasten the shoe in place. “He doesn’t see it that way, plus he’s hung up on the age difference.”
“Hence the shoes and the sweater.”
Beth couldn’t help sliding her friend a grin. “Hence the shoes and sweater. “
Deirdre squealed. “Go you! He’s one heavenly hunk of man, and what’s a couple of years? Besides, older guys can be so considerate.”
It was twenty years, not a couple, and Beth knew that ought to matter. It didn’t. It just didn’t. “He’s picking me up in…Jesus. Any minute now.” She bolted to her feet and hurried to the bathroom. She needed to check her makeup.
Deirdre pattered after her. “You need a spritz of my Opium—no, too obvious. He’d get his defenses up, and this is clearly an ambush. I know! That ‘come hither’ spell!” She dashed back to her room.
Beth didn’t roll her eyes because she was redrawing her eyeliner. “I don’t have time.”
“It’s super quick. I just need to find my grimoire—oh, here it is!” A muffled crash suggested she’d pulled it out from under something that hadn’t been entirely stable. She appeared in the bathroom door a second later, leather-bound book in hand. “And don’t give me any shit about not wanting to take unfair advantage. You know I only do white magic.”
Beth wouldn’t object on those grounds at all…since this spell was no more likely to work than any of her friend’s spells. Deirdre was a complete null. On some level she had to know that, but she didn’t believe it. Plus her “spells” were derived more from her own freewheeling creativity than any existing tradition. Beth had to smile. “I know you do. No compulsion involved, huh?”
“This is no more of a nudge than those shoes,” Deirdre assured her, and began chanting what might have been Latin. Or maybe Sanskrit. She’d gone through a Sanskrit phase awhile back.
Just as Beth finished her mascara, Deirdre slapped the journal closed. “There!” she said happily. “He’ll be paying attention now.”
And that was Deirdre. A flake, but so openhearted you couldn’t hold it against her. “Thanks,” Beth said, and gave her a quick hug just as her phone chimed that a text had arrived. She checked and, sure enough, it was Sean, letting her know he was there.
Be right down, she sent, and grabbed the backpack with her workout clothes. Sean was courteous, but not insane about it. The apartment she shared with Deirdre and Susan—and wasn’t it funny that one of her roommates had the same name as her oldest sister? They were alike in other ways, too. The apartment the three of them shared was on the fifth floor and parking was impossible, so Beth didn’t really miss her car. Much.
Five floors hadn’t seemed bad when her old college buddy mentioned needing a new roommate just when Beth decided she had to get out of San Diego. San Francisco was so crazy expensive she’d thought she couldn’t swing it, but splitting the rent three ways made it work. Their third roomie was a complete workaholic—hence the likeness to Beth’s oldest sister— so they didn’t see her much.
After she moved in, Beth had realized she wasn’t in as good of shape as she’d thought. But stairs made for a cheap workout. She could run up all five flights now. Running down them was easy.
When she hit the sidewalk, Sean’s Beemer was nowhere in sight. He’d be circling the block. He hated it when others double-parked, so he wouldn’t do it himself.
San Francisco was a lot colder than San Diego. Beth set her backpack down and slipped on her jacket, but didn’t zip it. That would negate the effect of the sweater. She petted the buttery smooth leather and smiled. It was brand-new. A Christmas gift from Sean, and if he wanted to believe it was just a friendly way of looking out for her, he could go on thinking that…for a little longer, anyway.
A bicyclist whipped by, legs pumping. Two high school girls hurried across the street. An older man and woman walked past, talking about where to eat that night, and a young, dark-skinned guy with hair frizzed out to his narrow shoulders stopped, scowled at nothing, and turned and went the other way. The supremely well-built if rather homely man who lived two doors down came out of his building and glanced at his watch. Beth’s eyes were busy, keeping track of all of them, as she picked up her backpack.
The particular flavor of martial art she’d picked was called Bojuka, an amalgamation of boxing, jujitsu, and karate. You wore street clothes to practice, not a gi, and it was strictly for self-defense, not sport. Bojuka was all about repelling an attack, and the first step was learning to stay aware, to spot danger before it was on top of you. She was getting better at that.
One year, one month, and two weeks ago, Beth hadn’t been able to repel any kind of attack that went beyond verbal. Snark she could handle. People with guns, knives, and muscles that had received a testosterone boost, not so much. She’d been kidnapped through magic, but held by brute force to be used against her sister.
She didn’t want to ever feel that helpless again.
A shiny black and chrome Beemer turned onto her street at the light. It was a monster of a motorcycle, brawny and tough and sleek all at the same time. A lot like its rider.
Beth’s heart gave a happy little jump as she slipped her backpack on. She couldn’t see Sean’s face—the helmet’s visor obscured everything but his jaw and that lovely mouth of his. But she didn’t have to. She might not know his body in the thoroughly tactile way she wanted to, but she knew the look of it.
He pulled up to the curb, the Beemer’s motor rumbling like a ton or so of happy cat. “Hi, geek boy,” she said, swinging her leg over the seat. “You looking for a good time?”
He flashed her a grin over his shoulder. “Helmet, party girl. We don’t play till the protection’s in place.”
She rolled her eyes but twisted around to unfasten the spare helmet that was hooked to the tail. As soon as she’d strapped it on, he took off…slowly. He drove carefully when she was aboard, though she had talked him into taking her out of the city and opening it up twice.
Beth slid her arms around Sean’s warm, solid middle and leaned with him as he took the corner. Their class was held in a strip mall a good twenty minutes away, so she settled in to enjoy the ride.
She was glad she’d picked Bojuka in spite of the inconvenient location of the class. In spite of the fact that it had been Lily’s recommendation, too. First because she had to quit resenting her sister. Both her sisters, really, but she was used
to resenting Susan. Susan was the oldest, the brain, the good girl, who’d become a doctor and married a man with the right kind of ancestors. It was traditional, really, for the younger kids in a Chinese family to resent their overachieving eldest sibling, and who was she to buck tradition? But Lily…for years, Lily had been the rebel. The one who’d disappointed their mother, the target of Julia Yu’s anxiety and nagging. Lily hadn’t rebelled by getting in trouble—she was way too straitlaced for that—but by becoming a cop. An awesomely good cop. One who went around catching bad guys and saving people, and the country, too. One who was supposed to get a medal from the president herself in a few months.
In short, both of Beth’s sisters were incredibly competent women. She was the cute one.
She did cute very well. It just wasn’t enough anymore.
But the main reason she was glad she’d picked Bojuka was warm and solid along her front. If she’d gone for judo or something, she’d never have met Sean Friar. And that didn’t bear thinking about.
FIVE
NIGHT checked in early at the end of December. It had been dark for hours by the time Lily curled up on one of the long leather couches with her warmed-up lasagna. The news was on—something about the sidhe trade delegation that had recently arrived in Washington via the Edge Gate—but the sound was turned down low, so Lily could ignore it. The air smelled of spices and tomato, ashes and woodsmoke.
The fireplace was dark and cool now. She’d missed the fire, just as she’d missed sharing dinner with the man now sitting at the big dining table, surrounded by paper piles and focused on whatever business shit he’d called up on his laptop.
Lily ran her thumb along the band of her engagement ring. She had to quit putting this off. The wedding was two months, one week, and two days away. Tonight, she promised herself, after she ate. She’d bring it up tonight.
Rule looked pretty involved with his business shit. “Where’s Toby?” she asked, taking her first bite of lasagna.
“He and Emmy are spending the night at Danny’s.”
“But he had a spend-the-night here just last night.”
“It’s Christmas vacation,” Rule said without looking away from the computer.
Until recently Lily hadn’t known she had a parenting style. After Rule gained custody of his son last summer, she’d learned that she did, and it was very different from Rule’s. Her parents had seen sleepovers as a privilege to be earned, certainly not something that could happen two nights in a row. As for mixed-sex slumber parties…Lily had to grin, thinking of her mother’s reaction to that notion.
But Toby was not interested in girls as girls. He liked Emmy the same way he liked Danny and Michael and half-a-dozen others. That would change, and Rule would know when it did. The hormonal tumult of puberty was as unsubtle in its scent, Rule said, as it was in its effects.
Lily stopped shoveling in pasta long enough to sip some of a Merlot Rule had thought she’d enjoy. This was the lasagna’s second warm-up, but it was still good. After all, it was, as Toby would say, Carl’s lasagna. Isen’s houseman kept the freezer stocked with dishes like this for when he was off, like tonight.
Having Carl around was a huge perk, she admitted. Not enough of one to entirely balance out the loss of privacy, but a huge perk all the same.
There were others. She didn’t have to dust or vacuum or scrub the bathroom—was, in fact, strongly discouraged from doing any of that. Carl had a roster of young clan members eager to earn spending money who did most of the cleaning. Plus she could grub around in the dirt whenever she had the urge and the time, and if the gardens here weren’t born of her planning or planting, destroying weeds was always satisfying.
In spite of the obvious perks, Lily didn’t want to live with Isen. She didn’t like the long commute. She didn’t like the sense of being a perpetual guest, and she couldn’t get used to the lack of privacy. But Rule would be much more at risk if they stayed at his San Diego apartment. So would Toby. So would the guards who tried to keep the three of them safe. That’s why, three weeks ago, Rule had sublet his old place.
No going back. The only direction anyone had was forward.
At least here she could go for a run without wondering if someone was going to shoot her or the guard keeping pace with her…and that was the point, wasn’t it? She and Rule were prime targets for the enemy, and Friar was still out there, plotting and planning on her behalf.
Which was why she needed to talk to Rule. They were targets, and they were getting married in two months, one week, and two days, and the whole world knew about it. The guest list included her entire family, of course. Also a state supreme court justice, a U.S. senator, and a few more state movers and shakers plus some Washington types—including Lily’s boss, the head of both Unit Twelve and the Shadow Unit dedicated to fighting her. Plus a whole lot of lupi. Nokolai’s Rhej would be one of Lily’s maids of honor; their sorcerer was Rule’s best man.
Rule wasn’t an idiot, she told herself. He must have thought about how dangerous it was to hold the wedding at the posh resort where they’d put down that huge deposit. He’d probably be relieved she brought the subject up.
Why didn’t she believe that?
Maybe because the invitations had already gone out. Then there was the spreadsheet he’d created. And the detailed seating plan. Lily sighed and took a healthy swallow of wine.
Unlike her, Rule was happy here. When she first realized that, it had disconcerted her considerably, but once she thought about it she understood. He’d probably prefer to have his own house, but living at Clanhome…yes. He spent a lot more time surrounded by clan now, and lupi need to be around clan.
He didn’t seem very happy tonight.
Lily studied her lover, friend, and mate as she finished her meal. He wore what he usually did at Clanhome: jeans. Period. No shirt, no shoes. She was used to seeing him in dressier clothes, but he was eye candy either way, long and lean and powerful. His dark hair was untidy, as if he’d been running his hand through it a lot, and as usual was overdue for a trim.
As she watched, he ran a hand through it again. Gold glinted on one finger.
Lily smiled. A couple months ago, she’d said something to Rule about him wearing an engagement ring, too. She’d been joking. He’d loved the idea. She ended up telling him he didn’t get to buy it for himself and he’d have to put up with whatever she could afford. She’d had to dip deep into savings, but she’d gotten a custom ring for him, gold and platinum with a little diamond, and given it to him for Christmas.
He freaking loved that ring. “I talked to Arjenie today.”
“Oh? She’s well, I hope.” His eyes remained trained on the computer screen…both of his lovely, dark eyes. No more pirate’s eye patch. The other wounds he’d received in October were healed, too, leaving not a trace of scar tissue to mark that battle.
But not all scars showed, did they?
“Yeah, she’s fine.” He seemed fine, too. Preoccupied, but fine. He’d kissed her when she got here, told her about the lasagna, and said he was digging through a stack of reports he’d been putting off. Between arranging the upcoming All-Clan and his duties as Ruben’s second in the Shadow Unit, Rule didn’t have much daytime left for handling the finances of two clans.
He hadn’t asked what made her so late.
She’d told him anyway. He’d listened and nodded and poured her the glass of wine she was still sipping. There’d been no magic at T.J.’s scene or on the body; it looked like the coroner would have to determine cause of death. Maybe it really had been a heart attack that hit right after a major argument with T.J.’s suspect. She’d told Rule about Drummond’s reappearance, too, though not in depth. More like a teaser to see how he responded.
He’d agreed that it was good to know Drummond couldn’t show up here at Clanhome, poured a glass of wine for himself, and dived into his neglected reports. Where he’d been buried ever since.
Lily swirled the dark red wine in her glass. One of the t
ricky things about being part of a couple was knowing when to poke and probe and when to leave the other one alone. Truth was, she was better at the poking. She wasn’t chickening out on the talk she needed to have…
Yes, she was. Lily sighed, took a last swallow of wine, and put down her glass. “I need to talk to you about the wedding.”
“Oh?” He did at least look up.
“I think we need to move it here, to Clanhome.”
“No.”
“That’s it?” Her voice rose. “That’s it—‘no’? Not ‘I don’t agree, but let’s talk.’ Not ‘I don’t agree, and here’s why.’ Just ‘no.’ ”
He tunneled a hand through his hair. “Hell. I did that all wrong. I don’t agree because that would be letting the bastards win. And I don’t want to talk about it tonight. Not tonight, but we’ll talk.”
She looked at him a long moment. “Okay.”
“ ‘Okay’? That’s it?”
“We’ll talk, but it can wait a day or two. Where’s Isen?” Rule got along well with his father, but there was some strain, living in his father’s house. His Rho’s house. Maybe they’d argued.
“He went for a run.”
“Training or four-footed?”
“He Changed first.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Again? Is he…Hannah’s death hit him hard.” Harder than Lily had expected, but she hadn’t known that the previous Rhej had been Isen’s oldest lover as well as his friend, not until after she died. Ham and eggs, Laurel and Hardy, lupi and secrets—they went together every damn time.
“It did, but that’s not the reason.” He sighed and, at last, really looked at her. “Today is Mick’s birthday.”
Mick…Rule’s half brother, several years older. Mick, who’d killed and conspired to frame Rule for it, longstanding envy ripened into madness by an ancient staff and the crazy telepath who’d wielded it. Mick, who had died the same night Lily killed Helen. Died saving Rule’s life.