Blood Lines (20 page)

“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.

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.”

The Leidolf Rho chose a wooden rocker about five feet away. It creaked gently as he sat. “You’re very sure a demon killed Randall.” He looked at Cullen, sprawled next to Timms on the closest couch. “Rule Turner’s Chosen works for the FBI, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Frey nodded and returned his attention to Cynna. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m wondering about the designs on your skin.”

“I used to be a Dizzy. Now I’m FBI, but things I learned then will help me Find and deal with a demon, if there’s one around.”

“There isn’t.”

“I’ll have to confirm that, I’m afraid. That young woman—Merilee—she’s family?”

“Not the way you would define it. She’s carrying my son’s child.”

Timms quivered with indignation. “She can’t be old enough to—”

“She’s of legal age,” Victor said without looking at him. “Is this what you wished to question me about, Agent Weaver? My grandchild?”

Cynna gave Timms a quelling look and promised herself she’d check with the chief about the girl’s age. “I’m told Randall was alone when he was attacked.”

“Randall likes—liked—to range for a while in wolf form most evenings. Sometimes someone goes with him, but last night he was alone. It apparently happened very quickly. He didn’t . . .” His breath hitched almost imperceptibly. “He didn’t have time to cry out, to call for help.”

“The attack took place on Leidolf land?”

“Your consultant keeps you well-informed. Most people would have spoken of it as my land, since it’s registered in my name. Perhaps you’ve begun learning our ways, even though you aren’t formally apprenticed yet?”

He was fishing, and she had to decide how to play this. Cullen could have let her in on his intentions ahead of time, dammit.

Keep it simple, she decided—and the truth is usually simplest. But there was no need to offer a lot of details. “I know a little more than the average person, but not much. Think of me as ignorant and you won’t go wrong. Was Randall attacked on Leidolf land?”

“Yes. We’re careful where we travel in wolf form.”

“Understandable. How did you learn about it?”

“He was my heir. When he died, I felt it.” His eyes, Cynna realized, were totally opaque. He moved slowly, like a man weighed down by grief; the very lines on his face seemed to sag beneath the emotion. But his eyes gave up nothing. “You may find that difficult to credit.”

“That’s why she has a consultant,” Cullen said. He looked at her. “That part’s true. If a Rho loses his heir, he knows.”

Either Victor Frey didn’t notice the innuendo in Cullen’s phrasing, or he didn’t care to react. He’d reverted to silent mode. Time for another question. “Did you smell the demon—try to track it? They have a distinctive odor, I’m told.”