Blood Lines (18 page)

“He’d have to have done it the other way around, but yeah. And I’ve no idea why. I’ve dug up some other snatches of memory—stuff that had been . . . overwritten, not erased. It’s not complete.” In fact, the memory bits were tooth-grindingly fragmented. “But I think Molly brought her friend to see me because they needed help. There’s something about an active node and the FBI taking an interest.” He flashed Lily a grin. “Which brings me to you, luv.”

“You want me to find out what the Bureau knows about him, or her, or both.”

“Yep. Molly Brown, Galveston, Texas. She isn’t there now—I checked—and she’s probably changed her name. The nodal activity would have been on or shortly before the seventeenth of October.” He stood and stretched. “Lord, but all that flying, followed by all this sitting, has me stiff. Do you still take care of the clan’s finances?” he asked Rule.

Rule hiked his eyebrows. “I do.”

“Invest in silk. The price is bound to shoot up—it’s a magical insulator. Gold and silver probably will, too, but—”

“Those aren’t insulators,” Lily said.

“No, they conduct or carry magic, which is why those won’t shoot up in price for a while. Well.” He twisted, ridding himself of the kinks. “Guess I’d better be going. Get that poison removed,” he added, nodding at Rule. “Nasty stuff.”

“Wait a minute,” Lily said. “You just got here. Where are you going?”

“To give you a hand with your little demon problem, of course. That’s fair—you help me, I’ll help you.”

She huffed out a breath. “I haven’t agreed yet. What will you do with any information I pass on about Molly Brown or Michael no-last-name? Assuming there
is
something to pass on.”

“Bound to be a report—bureaucracies thrive on ’em. Cross out anything too terribly secret and pass it on to me. Shouldn’t take long. As for what I’ll do . . .” His frown came and went. He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Find him, obviously. Don’t you want to know the whereabouts of a sorcerer the Azá—and, by extension, our enemy—were interested in?”

Lily didn’t speak, but he could almost hear her busy little mind totting up possibilities. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll see what I can find out. In return, I want your promise that you won’t take off on a vendetta.”

“I’m not after revenge.” A flash of honesty mixed with anger made him add, “Not major revenge, anyway. I wouldn’t mind bloodying the bastard’s nose, but anything more would depend on his reasons for messing with me, then taking off to leave me to deal with his chums.” A yawn overtook him.

“You can have the west bedroom,” Rule said.

“Thanks, but I’d rather borrow your car.”

“I need my car.”

“Then Lily’s.”

“Cynna’s using it,” Lily said. “I thought you were going to give me a hand with my little demon problem.”

His eyebrows flew up in surprise. “I am. I’m off for Nutley. Cynna might be up to handling a demon, but a demon
and
Victor Frey? And maybe Brady. He could be around, too.” The woman didn’t know half as much as she thought she did, and her much-decorated skin smelled too good to let a demon rip it up.

Or anyone else.

There was a beat of silence. “I’ll rent a car for you,” Rule said.

THIRTEEN

“WELL,
now, if there is a demon around, it’s the quiet type.” Chief Mann leaned back in his creaky office chair and laced his hands over a stomach Cynna could have used for an ironing board. If she ironed, that is. He treated them to a laid-back grin. “Hasn’t stirred up any trouble.”

Nutley was small. The town boasted a single traffic light; the speed limit was twenty-five. Jail and cop shop shared space in the basement of the courthouse, a stout redbrick building that held down one end of Main Street.

Cynna felt as if she’d accidentally wandered into Mayberry.

Not that Chief Mann resembled Andy Griffith. No, he was a manly Mann, six feet of the sort of sculpted muscle body builders love to see in the mirror. But he had the folksy bit down pat, and he was sure white enough for Mayberry. So was every other cast member she’d seen so far. Kind of weird in a little Southern town. “Aside from killing Randall Frey, you mean.”

“Don’t know exactly what happened to Randall. His father didn’t say.”

Agent Timms snapped, “And you didn’t think it was worth asking.”

If Nutley’s boss cop was Andy, then Cynna had brought Opie with her—a quarrelsome, grown-up version of Opie, that is. On uppers. MCD Agent Steve Timms was short, wiry, and wired. His boyish face, complete with red hair and freckles, clashed with his passion for weapons. She’d heard more than she ever wanted to know about the properties of the M72 LAW they’d borrowed from the Army—LAW being one of those cute acronyms government types adored. This one stood for Light Anti-Tank Weapon.

But he also knew how to use a dart gun. He used to shoot lupi with one, back before the Registration Act was ruled unconstitutional—and he’d survived, which said a lot for his skill. Darts were their fallback weapon. If the demon had possessed someone, they’d need to tranq the host.

Cynna didn’t think they’d need it. Some demons loved the opportunities afforded them by possession, but if this one was like the one she’d killed last night, it was all fight, no stealth.

She’d been wrong about one thing, though. Timms didn’t dislike her. Not when she was his ticket to the biggest, baddest quarry he’d ever sighted down on. He was all aquiver over the prospect of bagging a demon.

Chief Mann shrugged those impressive shoulders. He wore an old flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. “None of my business. The law’s got nothin’ to say about what happens to a wolf.”

“So Randall was killed in wolf form.” Not surprising; Rule had Changed, too, when faced with a demon. Still . . . “Did you see the body?”

That amused him. “Yes, ma’am, I did. It was pretty torn up, but a torn-up wolf doesn’t much resemble a human.”

Cynna fought the urge to tell him to quit calling her ma’am. He’d probably just start calling her honey or sugar, and then she’d have to hit him. That was not the way to get along with the locals, and besides, she had a headache.

She was no healer, couldn’t do a thing about her swollen jaw. But she did have a nifty little spell that blocked pain, though it only worked on her. Had to be careful with it, since pain was nature’s way of saying, “Watch out,” but a little more power should be okay. She upped the trickle feeding the spell. “Did you ask Victor Frey who or what killed his son?”

“Course I did. Told that other FBI agent I would, didn’t I? Victor said he didn’t know.”

“Did you get a description?”

“He didn’t see the killer.”

Cynna nodded as if he’d said something reasonable. “Did you ask any of the others? Like, say, someone who’d actually witnessed the killing.”

“Appears Randall was alone when it happened.”

Timms snorted. “And you believed that.”

Chief Mann looked at him. “They’re always alone when one of ’em kills another one, son. Doesn’t pay to get your panties in a twist about it.”

Timms leaned forward, all but vibrating with intensity. “It seems to me you’ve got a pretty cozy relationship with this werewolf, Chief. Makes me wonder if you’re getting paid to look the other—”

“Hey.” Cynna tapped his arm. “Chill. You’re out of line.” She’d never been the one to put on the brakes when it came to harassing the local cops. Wouldn’t Abel just bust something laughing if he could see her now?

Timms gave her a hard look, but he settled back in his chair.

“I’m hoping you can drive out to the Leidolf clanhome with us, Chief,” Cynna said, trying a big smile to see if that helped.

Ouch. Apparently big, wide smiles were out for the time being. She resisted the temptation to pump up the power into the pain-blocking spell. “I’d appreciate being introduced to the Rho. I’ve got a warrant, but I’d rather not use it if I don’t have to. I’m hoping he’ll cooperate.”

“Well, that’s good thinking—Victor doesn’t like feelin’ pushed around. But . . . clanhome? Rho? You speakin’ English?”

Could he really know that little about the lupi living so close to his town? “Victor Frey is the Rho or leader of the Leidolf clan, which has its clanhome—uh, the land owned by the clan—just outside Nutley.”

“Victor’s in charge, all right,” he said, nodding. “And he owns a few acres. I don’t know about that clanhome stuff, but I can take you out to see Victor.” He reached for the Stetson hat on the corner of his desk, unhooked the bomber jacket draped over the back of his chair, and shot a glance at Timms. “Y’all be polite, though. He’s suffered a loss.”

Cynna snagged her tote and followed. The tote held several vials of holy water packed in a foam wedge. The vials were specially made, designed to shatter on impact. It was usually best to apply holy water to a demon from a distance.

Pity she hadn’t done it that way with Rule.

They stepped outside into light burnished to gold by the setting sun. The air was chill and dry, and winter-bare trees and white clapboard buildings dragged long shadows behind them. Somewhere a dog barked, over and over, in tired repetition. On three sides of the little town a rolling stack of browns and greens climbed the mountains to a lumpy blue horizon. In the west the hills were dark, blackened by the glare of the descending sun.

Dammit. It was nearly five o’clock. The drive down here had only taken a couple hours, but before leaving D.C. she’d had to change into something better for hunting demons than her got-a-meeting clothes, pack a bag, and collect Timms and his arsenal. By the time they finished talking to Victor Frey, it would be fully dark. Cynna wasn’t crazy about chasing a demon at night.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to. So far she hadn’t Found any lurking demons. Surreptitiously she raised a hand and did a cast, not putting all her power behind it, just running a quick check. Even with only a partial pattern, she ought to Find it if it was within a mile or three.

“You tryin’ to flag a taxi, ma’am?” Manly Mann was amused.

“No.” Still no trace of a demon. Maybe Timms was destined for disappointment. “We’ll follow you out,” she said, “if that’s okay.”

He gave an amiable nod and headed for his cop car in the middle of the reserved spaces in front of the courthouse. Cynna spoke firmly to Timms as they made for the public lot across the street. “We’re not here to investigate the chief.”

Timms scowled. “If he’s in bed with those werewolves—”

“Our assignment is the demon,” said Cynna, who had been in bed with a werewolf and had liked it very much, thank you. “If it’s still around, we kill it. Whether it’s here or not, we need to talk to those who saw it, check out the scene, examine the victim’s body . . . you know. Investigate. We’ll need Victor Frey’s cooperation for that, and the chief can help us get it.”

Timms muttered something under his breath Cynna pretended not to hear.

A few courthouse employees had jumped the gun on quitting time. A dumpy woman was cranking up her shiny red Mustang as Cynna and Timms reached the parking lot; two men carrying briefcases got into matching SUVs. A battered pickup pulled out of the lot.

One car was arriving, not leaving. A white, late-model Camry with D.C. plates turned into the lot and parked in the empty spot two spaces down from the Ford Cynna had borrowed from Lily. Cynna glanced at the driver as he climbed out, then stopped dead. Her hormones did the Snoopy dance.

Cullen Seabourne stood there grinning at her. His T-shirt was old and tight, his denim jacket in worse shape than hers, and his jeans worn threadbare in interesting places. Two days of stubble decorated that impossibly gorgeous face, and he’d needed a haircut at least a month ago.

At least one person here was dressed worse than she was, even if shabby looked a lot better on him than it did on her. She parked her hands on her hips. “Well, hell.”

“Been there, done that,” he said cheerfully. “You going to introduce me to your sidekick?”

“What are you doing here?”

His eyebrows climbed. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to help you bag your demon.”

“It’s not my demon, and you are not—”

Timms spoke right over her. “Who is he?”

She rolled her eyes. “Agent Timms, Cullen Seabourne. Cullen’s a lupus,” she added, not sure which of the two men she wanted to needle but figuring they both deserved it.

Timms narrowed his eyes at Cullen. “You don’t look like part of the Unit.”

“Oh, no,” he said blithely. “I help out when I can, but the FBI isn’t interested in my professional skills. I take my clothes off for a living.”

CYNNA
told Cullen he wasn’t going with them to speak to the Leidolf Rho. She told him to go back to D.C., where he might be of some use. She was firm. She let him know his help was not needed.

So why was he sitting next to her in the backseat of Lily’s Ford while Timms drove?

Well, she did know why she’d let Timms get behind the wheel. She wanted to be free to do a cast every so often. But how, exactly, had the man with the face of a god and the morals of an alley cat ended up in the car with them?

Surely she hadn’t caved in to her body, which really appreciated being close enough to reach out and touch. Because she was so not touching him. No way, no how. She was working, dammit.