Blood Lines (4 page)

“Ni culpa, ne defensia,”
Rule said.

Slowly the wolf backed off, allowing Rule to stand.

Lily’s breath shuddered in. The violinist glided from one sonata to another, slowing from allegro to adagio, her music drifting out across the stage and audience like foam from a retreating wave.

And the uniformed asshole with the gun took aim again.

TWO

9:52 P.M. December 19 (local);
2:52 A.M. December 20 (Greenwich)

CYNNA
Weaver stood on a corner in Washington, D.C., that would never be featured on visitor tours or political photo ops. The temperature was supposed to be above freezing, but her fingers suspected it had dropped below that mark. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket. She’d remembered her jacket, her room key, phone, wallet, and weapon. No hat or gloves. Dumb.

She didn’t know where she was. That was more than a little embarrassing, considering the nature of her Gift. Somewhere in Southeast D.C.—she’d switched to the Green Line at some point—but she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she’d gotten off. Or why.

Probably Anacostia, Cynna thought, looking around. Which just showed how little she could trust her subconscious, but her conscious mind wasn’t coming up much except
Get out of here.

She chose a direction at random and started walking.

Her current lodgings weren’t much different from a hundred other hotel rooms she’d stayed in since jumping sides in the law-and-order game seven years ago. The room had a decent bed, cable TV, plenty of hot water, and no trace of personality. Midway through a room service hamburger, she hadn’t been able to stand it anymore.

Not that she knew what “it” was. The impersonal room? The too-personal dreams plaguing her? Or the dreams that had died . . .
Stubborn sons of bitches
, she thought, scowling. Those long-dead dreams kept throwing ghosts.

Whatever the cause this time, the feeling itself was familiar. She never had been able to put a name to it. She just knew that when it hit, she had to
do
something. Anything. Back when she was young and stupid, that had usually meant partying. Nowadays she tried to work it off physically.

Tonight she’d hopped the Metro, then started walking. Unfortunately, she’d been too busy chasing her thoughts round and round their hamster wheels to pay attention. When she’d finally woken from her stupid-induced trance . . . Well, this wasn’t the worst street she’d ever been on, but it came close. And she’d been down some pretty badass streets.

A lowrider truck cruised by, windows down, stereo up, the bass thrumming the soles of her feet through her Reeboks. One of the wits in the backseat leaned out the window to make her an offer easy to refuse. She did, using sign language that would be recognized in any high school in America.

Not exactly professional, but she wasn’t here professionally. She was here because . . . nope, couldn’t come up with a single good reason.

Just ahead, a neon sign saying simply Bar fizzed over a scarred door. The door opened, spilling rap music, the scent of weed, and two young brothers in cargo pants onto the sidewalk. One of them staggered, giggling. The other one looked straight at her.

Uh-oh.

“Hey, ho,” he said in a soft voice. “What you be doin’ heah? Dis not yo’ block.”

It wasn’t a friendly inquiry. Not with his eyes set on empty that way.

Middle-class people made a lot of assumptions about neighborhoods like this. They thought everyone did drugs, the only occupations were pusher, pimp, or hooker, and if you set foot in the hood, you’d be mugged, raped, or worse.

Like most assumptions, those were wrong. The people who lived here weren’t assaulted every time they walked down the street, and many of them hated the crime and violence a lot more than any soccer mom watching a condensed version on CNN. But a woman alone, after dark, who wasn’t from the hood . . .

Cynna stopped, rolling her shoulders to loosen them. She trickled a little power into one of the tattoos on her forearm, but left her jacket zipped so she wouldn’t be tempted to draw on these idiots. Ruben would shit if she shot someone. “Bone out, bogart.”
Get lost, tough guy.

“Lissen dat!” Giggles straightened, still grinning. “White Cheeks here be talkin’ flash. She a mud shark, fink?”

“Mebbe she white, mebbe banana.” Dead eyes took a slow trip up and down her body. “Hard to say, all dat scribblin’ on her face.”

“I’m plaid.” She sent more power to the spell on her right arm. “Your mamas know you’re out this late, boys?”

He took a step forward. “Mebbe I find out what you are.”

Wanted a fight, did he? Cynna’s blood hummed. She settled her weight on the balls of her feet and opened her shields.

And staggered at the sudden onrush of power.
What the hell
—
?

The bar’s door opened again. Another young black male stepped out. He was snake-skinny and taller than the first two. “You blockin’ traffic, man,” he said, giving Giggles a shove. “Move it.”

Giggles stepped aside obligingly. “Jo-Jo’s gonna check out White Cheeks, see if her snatch is pale like her hair. Can’t tell ’bout her skin wif all dat magic marker on her face.”

The newcomer glanced at her. Then he pimp-slapped the back of his friend’s head. “Fool!”

Jo-Jo spun, ready to explode. “What the fuck?”

“She’s Dizzy.”

Giggles snorted. “Dem Dizzies be old news. Dey all show, no blow.”

“Some had juice.” The tall young man looked at her. There was someone living behind these eyes, someone with a working brain. “She do.”

Jo-Jo scowled. “You readin’ her tea leaves, bro?”

“Asshole. Lookit her. You ready to jump her, yeah? Well, she waitin’, not shakin’. She
wants
you to try it.” He spoke to her directly for the first time. “Jo-Jo’s assed-out, an’ Patch here don’ mean nothin’—he jes’ dumb. No harm?”

She held his eyes a moment, then she gave a small nod. “No harm.”

The three of them made room for her to pass—Tallboy and Jo-Jo quietly, Giggles with a flourished arm. She walked on by, not looking at them—confidence was half the battle—but with every sense alert in case the hopped-up Jo-Jo changed his mind.

Nothing happened.

Just as well,
she told herself. Normally, her hands-off spell would give anyone who touched her a nasty jolt. Somehow, though, she’d pulled in a lot of extra juice. If she’d used the spell, she might have seriously injured one of those idiots.

Speaking of extra juice . . . She made another block and stopped. A few muttered words, a moment of focus, and some of the extra power crawled along her skin to a pattern that served as a storage cell. Couldn’t keep it all there, though. There was too much.

She pressed her palm against the old brick of the nearest building and gradually discharged the rest. It made her think of Cullen. Wouldn’t he have just loved to be around to soak up all that free magic?

Annoying man. Equally annoying was the way thinking about him gave her a sexual buzz. Which would really have pleased that big, fat ego of his, wouldn’t it? If he knew about it, which of course he couldn’t. Though he was conceited enough to think she’d get hot thinking about him, except he wouldn’t, because she undoubtedly never crossed his mind at all. But if he did . . .

Shut up,
she told her brain. Better to think about where that power had come from. Magic didn’t just float around loose, ready for anyone with a bit of a Gift to suck up.

Not that Cynna had only a bit of a Gift. She tried not to be smug about it, but she was the strongest known Finder in the country. She was also pretty good at spellcraft. Theoretically, any Gifted could use spells, but most didn’t. Some couldn’t find a decent teacher. Others lacked the interest, the patience, or the knack of it, just like some people couldn’t do math to save them.

Like her. Cynna sucked at math. But when it came to spellcraft, she had the knack, the desire, and the patience.

The air had broken out in a cold sweat, emphasis on the cold. There wasn’t enough precip to call it a drizzle, just a clammy dampness that fuzzed the streetlights and numbed her cheeks. Great weather for staying inside. That’s where respectable citizens were, no doubt—comfy and cozy at home, maybe with a fire burning in the fireplace and a glass of wine in hand.

Well, she couldn’t manage the fire, but wine sounded like a fine idea. Something fizzy, maybe. Another two blocks, and she’d hit a busy intersection. She’d get a cab, get back to the hotel, and order something from room service. Even after years of prosperity she got a kick out of room service. Maybe that would wipe out this stupid, let-down feeling.

For God’s sake. Let down? Had she wanted a fight?

Yes. She had. That’s why she’d headed for the worst neighborhood in Washington.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. When was she going to learn? Cynna scowled at her feet and walked faster.

Some people had the whole good-and-bad thing down. She was working on it, but when the shit hit the fan and there wasn’t time to think things through, she didn’t have the right instincts. Her default setting hit a lot closer to
kill the bastards
than
turn the other cheek.

Not that she went around killing people. That had only happened twice, both times in self-defense. The Bureau had agreed she’d handled the second situation correctly. They didn’t know about the other.

Well, Abel Karonski did. He was a friend as well as a fellow agent, and she’d spilled the story to him years ago. He might have told Ruben. But the deets weren’t in any official file. She’d checked.

But she did like a fight. Especially on nights like this, when the nameless feeling clawed its way up from her gut and wrapped her in its barbed-wire coils, there were only two things she really wanted to do: fight or fuck.

That wasn’t the way good people dealt with a bad mood.

She stopped at the light, scowling. The neighborhood had improved some in the last three blocks. The four corners at this intersection were held down by a Mexican food place, a car wash, a resale shop, and a convenience store.

Okay. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She couldn’t control what she wanted to do, so she’d settle for controlling what she did. And what she was going to do now was get back to the hotel. Skip the wine, get some sleep. She could borrow a phone book at the 7-Eleven, call a cab, and let the driver figure out how to get from here to there.

Halfway across the street she noticed the church.

It was on the other end of the block, separated from the 7-Eleven by a couple of small stores and a big parking lot.
Bound to be locked up this time of night,
her reasonable side pointed out.

It wasn’t that late, though. Just after ten. And there were cars in the parking lot. As soon as she hit that side of the street, her feet veered that way.

Probably isn’t a Catholic church
, the voice of reason said.

Probably not. Couldn’t hurt to check, though. It wasn’t like she had something important to . . . hey, look. People.

The side door had opened. An older couple and a younger one emerged, followed by another small knot of folks—Hispanic, looked like, though with everyone bundled up for the weather, she wasn’t sure. The last one out wore a black cassock.

Sure looked like a priest. And . . . yes, she was close enough to read the sign now: Our Lady of the Assumption.

Ha. Take that, voice of reason.

People called cheerful good nights; car doors slammed and cars backed out of their parking spots. But one older couple seemed uninterested in leaving. They stood on the narrow porch by the side door, and the woman was talking a mile a minute to the priest about flowers and tables and the number of guests.

Wedding rehearsal. That’s why they were here at this hour. Damn, she’d make a detective yet.

As Cynna drew near, the husband told his wife to let Father Jacobs go inside—it was freezing out here. One by one, they noticed her and fell silent. The woman clutched her husband’s arm, eyes wide. He rose to his role as protector by giving Cynna a go-away frown.

At least this bunch wasn’t likely to jump her. “Father Jacobs?” she said tentatively.

Despite the cassock, he looked more like an altar boy than a priest. He was a true towhead, with white-blond hair and skin the color of an old parchment, slightly reddened now from the cold. His smile was surprisingly sweet. “Yes? May I help you?”

“I was hoping . . . I know it’s late, but can you take my confession?”

INSIDE,
the scent was wood, incense, flowers. The kneeler was hard. Cynna could have gone around the screen to sit in an upholstered chair, but she’d take sore knees over face-to-face confession any time.

She crossed herself, wishing she’d waited and gone to her home church in Virginia. This priest didn’t know her history.

His voice came quietly from the other side of the screen. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, may the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow.”