Blood Lines (9 page)

“You’re obeying the speed limit. You’ve got to be either vastly preoccupied or exhausted.”

He smiled because she’d expect it. “A bit of both, I think. When will—”

“There’s something—” she said at the same time.

They stopped, exchanged a smile. His was more genuine this time. “Ladies and federal agents first. You have questions.” Questions were the way she dealt with the world’s cruelties and confusions.

Lily said, “Yes, and my first one is, what were you about to ask?”

“I should have seen that coming. All right. When will Paul’s body be released?”

“Hard to say. The lab won’t be able to learn much, but they have to go through the motions.”

Rule nodded. Those of the Blood—lupi, gnomes, and others—had magic woven into their cells, which played hell with laboratory results. That didn’t mean the authorities would omit one jot from their usual procedures. “When it is, I’ll escort it back to his people.”

“But . . . you? They won’t release it to you. His family will have to claim the body.”

“Isen is arranging matters with the Leidolf Rho. He’ll see that your legalities are observed, and I will take Paul’s body to his clanhome. You’ll have to accompany me, but you won’t be in any danger. Leidolf is ruled by a cur, but even he doesn’t make war on women.”

“Well, that was certainly my first concern.” She shoved her hair back with both hands. “Why? Why do you want to do this?”

“The
susmussio.
” That was part of the serpent in his belly, the coils of need and rage and ragged ends. “Paul died because of it. Because of me.”

“You don’t know that! He might have helped us even without the, uh,
susmussio.
Or he might have figured the fight was too good to miss, or that the demon would come after him anyway. Or that he had to protect the female—your crowd is bent that way.”

Rule shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Even if I’m wrong about his motives, his actions were those of an honorable lupus who’d accepted submission in combat. He was exhausted, ill-equipped through training or experience to fight a demon, yet he came to my aid.” Rule bit out the next: “He felt
responsible
for me.”

“But . . .” She was silent for a long moment. Rule knew the problems she’d be ticking off in her head: the investigation, the enmity between Nokolai and Leidolf, the enemy who’d apparently reached out from hell to attack them.

To attack
him.
It was her poor luck to be nearby . . . but that wasn’t something either of them could change.

Her voice was quiet. “You don’t feel you have a choice.”

“No more than you could choose not to hunt whoever sent the demon that killed Paul.”

“All right, then.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “We’ll work something out.”

He touched her hand briefly, a thank-you. “You’re in luck on one count. Our trip won’t take long. Leidolf Clanhome is in Virginia.”

“How far is it from Halo?”

Halo, North Carolina . . . where his son lived. “It doesn’t matter. You know I can’t go there.”

“I know you’re convinced of that. We’ll have to ditch the press anyway so they don’t follow us to Leidolf ’s Clanhome.”

“The press are only part of the problem. Any of his friends or neighbors could recognize me. His grandmother agrees. She doesn’t want me there.”

“Toby does.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Toby had come up to spend the weekend with them shortly after they arrived in D.C. They’d spent their time together indoors, unable to see the sights together. Toby hadn’t liked that. “He’s a child still. He doesn’t understand what the consequences would be if he were known to be my son.”

“The clans don’t harm children.”

“His neighbors might. Some of those he thought were friends suddenly wouldn’t be, or their parents wouldn’t let them be. His life would never be the same. It would be different if . . .” If he could be raised at Clanhome, surrounded by his clan.

Rule shut the door quickly on that thought. Toby’s mother would never agree. She might not want to raise their son herself, but that didn’t mean she’d let Rule have him.

“His life won’t be the same anyway,” Lily said quietly, “once he hits puberty.”

“That’s years away still. Leave it alone.”

She said nothing, but held out her hand. After a second’s hesitation, he took it. For a time they were both silent.

She spoke again as they passed the Arlington exit. “About this
susmussio
thing . . . you didn’t get to undo it. What does that mean? Are there consequences for you or for the clan?”

She was learning, he thought with a flick of pleasure. She was beginning to think of the clan. As his Chosen, she was Nokolai, too, though she sometimes forgot. “Though things are never simple between Leidolf and Nokolai, there should be few consequences to the clan.” As long as he handled things correctly, that is. “For myself . . . there are two rituals that may be observed. One is part of the burial service. Normally I would be expected to present an account of Paul’s death in a formal response to questions.”

“Normally?”

“Paul’s people may not want Nokolai present.”

“You mean his clan won’t want you there.”

“Not precisely. The Leidolf Rho would probably like to bar me from the ceremony, but the decision belongs to Paul’s father, if he’s alive. If not, his other male relatives will make the decision.”

“Male?” she said sharply. “What about his mother? His sisters, if any?”

“Leidolf ’s customs are different from Nokolai and most of the other clans.” He paused, choosing his words. “You won’t care for some of their ways.”

“That’s two.”

“Two?”

“Topics you’ll need to go into more later. You said there were two possible rituals. What’s the other?”

“If Paul’s father is alive, I owe him a son’s duty. I will offer it. He may not accept. Pride could hold him back, or a desire to shame Nokolai. Or pragmatism. In accepting, he would also take on certain responsibilities.”

“What do you mean, ‘a son’s duty’? What sort of duty?”

“Nothing so different from what you probably feel you owe your father. Not obedience, but respect, financial support if needed. My presence, if he wishes it, at certain occasions.”

“Since your presence means my presence, too, I’d like to know . . .” She stopped to frown at her purse. Her phone was buzzing from its depths. She retrieved it, glanced at the caller ID, and sighed. “Of course.” She thumbed it on. “Hello, Dad. It’s after one in the morning here, you know.”

Rule smiled faintly. Lily’s father was well aware of the time difference. He was a stockbroker, and the Street was in their time zone. “Tell him we’ll still try to fly back for Christmas.”

She shot him a frown. “Yes, that was Rule. He’ll be—I know she is, but with what happened tonight . . .”

They were nearly home. The street was quiet, the area thoroughly urban but more upscale than where Paul had lived. Here the row houses were brick or board or stone, the window boxes tidy, the Christmas lights tasteful. The tiny restaurant on the corner served decorative little seafood entrées with mango chutney or saffron aioli.

In some ways, Rule preferred Paul’s neighborhood.

“Tell Mother we’ll try. That’s the best I can do.” Lily paused. “Well, how can I? She isn’t speaking to me.”

While Rule was trapped in hell with another Lily, something had gone wrong between this Lily and her mother. She’d told him little about it. He’d been patient, thinking their return to San Diego would shake things loose, but if they didn’t go home for the holiday . . .

“You know I can’t tell you much,” she was saying. “You’ll read about it, though. There was a demon, and—no, no, I’m fine.” A pause. “He’s okay, too, but someone else was killed. That’s why . . . no. No one you know.”

Rule passed the elegant little bed-and-breakfast where he’d spent a few pleasant nights on other trips to D.C. Whether here or in San Diego, he’d seldom brought women home. A few, yes—those few who’d become friends as much as lovers.

That life was over. There was only Lily for him now. After a lifetime of many women, there was only Lily. He wouldn’t have changed that if change were possible, but tonight . . .

He felt it still. The moon’s song throbbed through him, a bass drumming played on his bones, carried by his blood.

He shouldn’t have. She was nowhere near full, and though he’d fought the Change once—and won, by a margin so small it shamed him—in the end he had Changed. That should have diminished the pull. Yet power still pooled in his belly, tangling with the other needs, and the wolf was close. So close.

He wanted sex.

The house where they were staying had a detached garage at the back of its narrow yard. He didn’t look at his mate as he turned down the alley. What he wanted now had nothing to do with love or tenderness. He wanted a body to pound into, the smell of an aroused female filling him, the mindless rush to release.

Sex dissipated the strength of the Change need. Nettie called that “evolution in action,” encouraging behavior likely to result in more children. Considering the low fertility rate of his people, Rule supposed that could be true, though he wasn’t sure evolution applied to those of the Blood. Whatever the reason, though, sex worked. Even in adolescence, when control was all but nonexistent, a bout of hot, sweaty sex could reseat a lupus firmly in his human form.

But it was risky if the wolf was too close. A wolf in rut didn’t care about the female’s pleasure . . . or even consent. With true wolves, an unwilling female could keep a male from mounting her. Men, however, had been raping women since the species arose.

He wouldn’t risk Lily that way. He had to regain control on his own.

“Sure,” she said into her phone. “I’ll let you know.” She disconnected and sighed. “I should have known he’d call. Unlike Mother, Dad actually reads his e-mail and text messages.”

“He’s upset that we might not be back for Christmas.”

“He claims it’s Mother who’s upset. No matter what, I’m still supposed to show up so she can refuse to speak to me in person. God knows my job is no excuse.”

There was too much bitterness in her voice . . . and he was more sledgehammer than scalpel tonight. Too preoccupied with his own needs, he admitted, to deal with hers with any delicacy. “That’s one,” he said, reaching up to hit the remote for the garage door.

“One?”

“Topic you’re going to fill me in on later.”

“Oh.” She gave a slow nod. “That’s fair.”

The garage door slid up, the lights inside came on, and he turned in.

The garage smelled like most—of oil, hot metal from the car, exhaust. There were mice here, too, which pleased Dirty Harry. The cat spent a fair amount of time in the garage.

Rule breathed in more deeply as they left the garage to walk to the house. Though city smells still dominated, humus and cedar sweetened the air, too, and the hint of a breeze carried the scent of the old tom who’d been engaging in territorial disputes with Harry. He smelled the German shepherd next door, too. The dog was following them along the fence line.

Rule wanted to pace the darkness on four feet, too. To tip his nose toward the moon and join her song, mourning a life cut off young. So very young.

“Are you coming in?”

Until Lily spoke from the doorway, Rule hadn’t realized he’d stopped. He mentally cursed his inattention. “Of course.”

“You don’t have to, you know.”

He couldn’t read her expression. Sadness? Pity? Something solemn and annoying, he decided, and moved abruptly toward the house.

She didn’t step aside when he reached the doorway. He stopped, scowling. “I thought you were inviting me in, but if you prefer to bar the door—”

“I’d say it’s the other way around. You’ve been shutting me out.”

“Is my every thought supposed to be joint property? Move aside, Lily. I’m in no mood for hand-holding.”

“Good, because I’m running low on sympathy. Why are you working so hard at pushing me away?”

“I’m not—”

“Especially since you’d like to toss me on the floor and rip my clothes off.”

Her bluntness stripped him of words.

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Rule, do you think I’m blind? You aren’t
that
different, you know.”

“Except that I might suddenly develop very large teeth and the appetite to go with them.”

“So we add turning furry to your list of ways to cope with stress.”

“Stress?” he echoed in disbelief. “Is that what you think this is about?”

“You’re right. Discussion is a bad idea.” She moved up to him, put her hands on either side of his face, and brought his head down to hers. She didn’t kiss him. Instead, she rubbed her cheek along his.

He went still. The smells of her flooded him—citrus from her shampoo, the slightly tinny scent of her cosmetics. Blood. Arousal.
Lily.
He shuddered. “I’m not . . .”
Safe,
he wanted to say. Not safe, not whole, not in control, not . . .

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her fingers threading his hair. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay. Nothing was . . . nothing but this. He scooped her close, some thread of sanity warning him to mind his strength. She was small, crushable . . .

Fierce. Her hands roamed him. Her mouth demanded his.

He gave it to her. And took hers in return.

Taste joined scent, tangling with touch and heat to burst inside him in kinesthetic pinwheels. He turned with her in his arms—once, twice, spinning the two of them inside the darkened house. He slapped the door, shutting it. The lock clicked. Her purse slid from her shoulder. Her coat spilled to the floor.

Within seconds, he forgot everything he knew about a woman’s needs, how to tend them, build them. Her breath, her hands, told him he could, that she neither needed nor wanted tending. She wanted him.

He needed her. Needed inside. Beneath the black dress she wore panty hose. Damnable stuff, but it ripped easily.

The sound of it tearing nearly hid the catch of her breath, but he caught it. He flung his head up, nostrils flared, searching her face. No, that was hunger he saw, not fear.
Good, yes, good . . .
He kissed her again to thank her. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging in hard.