Blood Lines (37 page)

DAWN
broke cold and clear. Lily learned that by twitching aside the bedspread Rule had draped over the curtain rod for privacy. The window was cold to the touch; the sky was wiped clean of the clouds that had drizzled on them for days.

It was also quiet, for which she thanked any gods who might be listening.

They’d ended up eating in their room. If that offended Sabra, Lily figured she could live with it. She’d had this irrational certainty that she shouldn’t let Rule out of her sight, and maybe he’d felt the same way, because he hadn’t argued. After dinner, Cullen had taken off—planning to listen to gossip, he said. Needing to get rid of the fidgets, she thought.

The rest of them had played poker. Neither of the men had been concentrating on the game. She was up $10.75 and Cullen was still gone when they turned out the lights.

She hadn’t slept well. Cuddling with Rule generally soothed her, but generally they cuddled after making love. That hadn’t been an option with his brother sleeping on the floor beside the bed, and her body hadn’t appreciated the neglect.

Funny how fast her body had turned greedy on her. Not long ago it was entirely used to that sort of neglect. She’d given it a stern lecture and done her best to relax.

The lupi camped outside had other ideas about how to relax. For them it was party time.

Oh, not with alcohol. It was possible, Rule said, for a lupus to get drunk if he really worked at it, but since the effects wouldn’t last more than ten or fifteen minutes, it wasn’t worth the effort. But the clan had been glad to get together, and they’d expressed that loudly—fighting, singing, yelling, laughing, dancing around a huge bonfire . . .

Yipping. Howling.

Cullen had returned about two A.M. She’d still been awake.

Hygiene got a bit of a pass that morning; people, people, everywhere, and only two bathrooms in the house. She and Rule dressed first. Beneath jacket and shirt, he wore the charm Cullen had made for him. It may have been working. He hadn’t had a blackout since putting it on.

She went into the hall so Benedict and Cullen could dress. Not that any of the men would object to her remaining, but she felt better not knowing what Rule’s brother looked like naked. Rule chose to wait out there with her, mostly so he could offer an opinion on whether she should leave her weapon in the room.

It was a short discussion. No way in hell was she stirring out of their room unarmed. She slid her phone in her jacket pocket and changed the subject. “Is that charm Cullen made helping?”

He gave her a sharp look. “I didn’t tell you about the charm.”

“You didn’t tell me about your other blackouts, either, but I’m a detective. I detected them. And you don’t usually wear a chicken feather around your neck, so I deduced that it came from Cullen.”

He was silent a moment. “No memory gaps. Not since I put on the charm. I, ah, expected you to be angry that I didn’t tell you about the blackouts.”

“It was stupid, but I understood. You need to protect me just like I need to protect you.”

“You make me feel better and worse at the same time.”

She smiled. “Good.”

Benedict came out, looking like a well-dressed mountain in new jeans and a midnight blue shirt with a gray sports jacket. Then Cullen emerged.

She’d been surprised to learn that Cullen owned a suit. She’d never seen him make any effort with clothes, and God knew he didn’t have to—he was eye candy in his usual ratty jeans and T-shirts. Even so, once she knew he was going to dress like an adult, she should have been prepared.

Or maybe not. Maybe the sight of Cullen Seabourne in a black, custom-tailored suit with a black tuxedo shirt was more than any woman with a functioning heartbeat could prepare herself for.

It was just as well Cynna wasn’t here to see him. She’d trip him and beat him to the ground, and Lily was far from sure the tangle those two were headed for would end well.

He grinned. “What do you think?”

Her dumbfounded stare had already told him, which she thought was more than enough ego food for the man. She opted for damning with faint praise. “Nice. Sort of Johnny Depp meets Johnny Cash.”

“Johnny who? Cash I’ve heard of, but the other guy . . .”

She rolled her eyes, put on her coat, and they set off for the field.

The sky was pinking up in the east. Dawn looked different on this side of the continent, less prone to the vivid hues she was used to. Pretty in its way, but she preferred the desert. There, beauty wore barbs so you’d know where to step.

Their destination was obvious. No one else seemed to be awake yet, save for the small cluster of people—all male—at the north end of the field. They headed that way. The grass was wet, the dampness promising to soak through the thin leather of her shoes. The air was cold enough to make her glad she wore a coat . . . she just wished it wasn’t
this
one.

They weren’t quite the only ones up. As they started across the field, so did a woman in a long white dress. She came from the south end, where the chimney of a small stone house leaked a thin plume of smoke. White meant that was the Rhej, the only one who would wear the moon’s color today.

Not a dress, Lily realized after a second look—a long white robe that seemed to glow in the early light. “The Rhej is part of the ritual?” she asked. Her breath puffed white in the still air.

“She’ll observe, not participate. She’s the clan’s memory. Her presence at the ritual is rather like recording a document at the courthouse.”

Lily nodded at the men waiting at the far end. “Are any of them Victor?”

“No, and I’d expected him to be present for this. He’s not needed, strictly speaking, but it’s the sort of thing a Rho generally attends. Either he was hurt worse than the Rhej indicated, or he’s avoiding us.”

“Didn’t smell right,” Benedict put in briefly.

“Meaning?”

Cullen picked up the explanation. “I didn’t smell illness on him before. Admittedly, he took care not to come too close, but I’d have picked up the scent if the disease was out of its earliest phase.”

“He was injured,” Rule said, “which means his body kicked into healing mode. That can accelerate the course of the disease.”

“And this matters to Nokolai because . . . ?”

“With a healer like the Rhej on call, the disease can sometimes be arrested for years in its earliest phase. No scent then. Once it crosses into the next phase, though, little can be done. If that has happened, Victor has a year at most.”

Cullen added, “Many don’t care to hang around once the disease goes into that phase. The magic is no longer following its organizing principle, and the results aren’t pretty. Multiple tumors, bizarre growths—”

“Brain tumors,” Benedict said. “Uncontrollable rage. Hallucinations.”

All of which would be very bad news for Leidolf. For Nokolai . . . “I guess you need to know what’s going on with your enemy.”

Rule nodded, but lowered his voice even more. “We’re getting too close to discuss this further.”

Lily squelched the question quivering at the edge of her tongue. She could see why they couldn’t talk about Victor’s illness when members of Leidolf might overhear, but there were things she needed to know. What did Cullen hope to learn from seeing Frey that he hadn’t been able to see a few days ago?

As they drew near, the waiting men—there were five of them—turned to watch them approach. Lily saw faces for the first time. She recognized Paul’s father but none of the others.

“Shit,” Cullen said. “That’s Brady.”

Rule was calm. “With the Rho not attending, it makes sense for his son to be here.”

“Let’s hope he’s in a sane mood today.”

“Hush,” Rule said softly.

When they reached the others, no one spoke. Lily took her cue from Rule, but the thick, nervy silence bugged her. She occupied herself studying the others, especially Gunning.

Brady Gunning was all angles, as if he’d never filled out after his last growth spurt. His dark blond hair made her think of her mother’s old stove—harvest gold, that’s what they called it. His face was narrow, with a long nose and a short forehead, and his pretty blue eyes were watching her study him.

He didn’t look like a sociopath. Neither had the guy she’d arrested a couple years ago for killing his neighbor over some daylilies.

The Rhej arrived, and still no one spoke. Silently they formed up in two rough semicircles.
Them versus us,
she thought, standing between Rule and Cullen, with Benedict on Rule’s other side. They faced the Leidolf clan members while the Rhej stood apart, her dark face expressionless.

“Leidolf,” Brady said suddenly. “Brady Gunning.”

“Leidolf,” said the man on his right. “John Ellis.”

And so it went, with each of them naming his clan, then himself. Rule kicked it off on their side; Benedict spoke next, and that’s when she learned his surname: Two Horses, the same as his daughter. Which sparked a flash of curiosity. He wouldn’t have been married to Nettie’s mother, so how did they come to share a name?

One more question she couldn’t ask. She spoke her part: “Nokolai. Lily Yu.” Then Cullen spoke his.

The ritual itself was brief. That seemed to be the case with most lupus ceremonies. Roland Miller walked to the center of their not-quite circle and spoke in a quiet but clear voice. “I am Roland, father of Paul. Those with me know this to be true. Let the one who was
en susmissio
to my son when he died meet me.”

Rule moved to stand in front of Paul’s father. He was a full head taller than the older man, strong and straight. “I was
en susmussio
to Paul and was present when he was killed. I failed to protect him. I offer you a son’s duty.”

Lily waited, her breath catching in her throat. Rule thought it quite possible the older man would refuse the offer—likely, even, since it made a tie between Leidolf and Nokolai that neither clan wanted.

Roland Miller inhaled suddenly, loudly, as if he, too, had forgotten to breathe. His voice was louder than before. “I accept.”

If Rule was startled, he didn’t show it. Swiftly he flowed to one knee, bowing his head. This was conditional submission, she’d learned. Rule’s bared nape indicated respect, not personal submission, as well as his willingness to be bound by what was said next.

Not that she understood what was said next. Roland Miller spoke, then Rule, but they used the Latin that lupi had been using for centuries as a common tongue among the clans. Kind of like the Catholic Church had done during the same period, uniting its many parts through a single tongue.

She knew the gist of it, though. To receive a son’s duties, Roland had to offer a father’s duties in return: financial support, if needed; advice, if requested. Rule would promise much the same: financial support, if needed; attendance at certain clan functions, if requested.

Listening to the formal cadence, since the words meant nothing to her, she looked at the men opposite them. And caught an expression on Brady Gunning’s face that worried her.

The hate she understood, based on what she’d been told about the man. But why was the Leidolf Rho’s crazy son so damned happy?

THIRTY

CYNNA
supposed this was one of God’s little jokes. How else to explain the way the investigation had brought her here?

The deli was gone, she noted, striding down the cracked sidewalk, her heavy trench coat flapping around her ankles. A Vietnamese take-out joint had replaced it. But the laundry was still there, and the buildings looked the same—old, dingy, gray. Everything on this street was gray. When you spoke of color here you meant skin or gangs.

There were more white faces than there had been in her youth—integration coming to the ghetto at last; she’d really stood out as a kid. But most were some shade of brown.

The street had changed, Cynna decided, but not enough. She hoped the same wasn’t true of her.

The weather was bitter as only a Chicago winter could be. Funny, that, because she’d been in colder places, but something about Chicago in December went right to the bone.

Mounds of filthy slush made crossing the street an adventure. Cynna survived that, keeping her gloved hands jammed in her pockets for warmth . . . and to keep from worrying at the mysterious
kilingo
Jiri had placed on one of them. It hadn’t woken yet, but it would. Jiri hadn’t planted it for laughs.