Mortal Sins (20 page)

“Not really. Thérèse just laughed and shook her head and said, ‘That Baron, he’s something, isn’t he?’ She’s got a weird sense of humor. Well, she did say something about you having sex at midnight near an open grave, but that’s just her trying to get white folks to do stupid stuff so she can laugh about it.”

“White folks? You tell her my last name? Never mind.” Lily rubbed her face. “Do you think this Baron shares her sense of humor?”

“Well . . . some of the Loa are kind of twisty, but he was straight about catching the wraith. It’s his province, after all—graves and death. He takes this shit seriously.”

“You think I should take what he said seriously, too, then.”

“Yeah, I do. Sorry. I know it won’t be fun persuading some judge to let you salt graves.”

Lily had to laugh. “Fun isn’t the word I’d use, no. I need to go, Cynna. You want to talk to Cullen some more?”

“Has he stopped pacing yet?”

Lily smiled. Cynna knew her man pretty well. “He’s slowed down.”

“Close enough. Hand me over. Bet I can have him grinning in under a minute.”

“You’re on.” Lily crossed to Cullen, told him the crazy woman wanted another word with him, handed him back his phone—and turned when someone cleared his throat.

Deacon stood there, looking grim. “Seabourne says we’ll be looking at people who died on the Turning. That this wraith was created from a death then.”

“That’s right.” A quick glance told her Cullen was still scowling.

“My grandfather died that day. Right when it hit. He was in the hospital, waiting on a heart bypass operation.”

That got her attention, but she shook her head. “If you’re thinking you’re under suspicion, Sheriff, you don’t have to worry about it.” A sharp crack of laughter from Cullen made her glance at him. Sure enough, he was grinning. “I just got some new information. Our perp is probably a medium.”

That drew Deacon’s face in even grimmer lines. “My granny’s a medium.”

DEACON’S
granny lived with his parents in a small frame house on the east end of town. His folks were both at work. His granny was tucked up in a hospital bed in the living room, the TV remote in her hand and a troop of kittens clambering around on her.

Marjorie Abigail Deacon was a wrinkled little raisin of a woman with a sweet, toothless smile—her dentures were on the table by the bed—and milky cataracts. She was delighted to see Deacon, and Lily, too, though she thought Lily was someone named Sherry.

Lily was introduced to each of the four kittens and to Harold, Marjorie’s husband . . . the one who died seven months ago. Of course, it was possible that Mrs. Deacon really did see Harold. Her wits might be wandering, but Lily confirmed with a touch that she retained her Gift.

She spoke happily about the garden she’d planted and about her children, who were sometimes grown, sometimes still small and “full of mischief.” Twice she called Deacon by his father’s name. She was obviously too far gone to be capable of the kind of spellwork that might create a wraith, but seven months ago she’d been much keener, Deacon said.

It didn’t matter. She’d been bedridden for the past year, and Lily very much doubted someone that frail could have handled the kind of power needed to create a wraith. She’d check that with Cullen to be sure, but for now she wasn’t putting Mrs. Deacon on her suspect list.

When Lily got up to leave, Mrs. Deacon spoke to the air on her left. “What’s that? Oh, yes.” She turned that sweet smile on Lily. “Harold wants you to tell your wolf he’s got a might pretty lady. Oh, and he’s to trust her, no matter what, and pull on that robe of his hard as he can.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

IT
was a long, muddled afternoon for Rule.

Cullen left as soon as they returned to the house. Lily needed him for the investigation, and it was just as well. Rule needed time to absorb what Cullen had told him, time without his brain hopping on the hamster wheel and spinning, spinning, without going any-damned-where.

He kept busy. He checked Toby’s math, made phone calls and received one, even got some work done. There was solace in the simplicity of numbers, so he focused on the proposal for a company that a clan member wanted to start, with Nokolai’s backing. He also went to the grocery store for Louise, who didn’t keep tofu, soy milk, or fresh basil around. He must have behaved correctly, because Louise didn’t seem to notice anything wrong.

Rule assured her he didn’t mind the grocery run. He didn’t. It gave him a chance to grab a double-meat hamburger. The spinach and tofu quiche she was planning would doubtless be delicious, but tofu was not meat.

But always, always, the question beat against his mind. Could he abandon honor for the sake of his son? Of course, when he tossed the question on its head, the answer seemed obvious: Could he abandon his son for the sake of honor?

No, no, and no. But it wasn’t that simple.

He desperately wanted to talk to Lily about it. And couldn’t. He’d given his word. And perhaps it was just as well, for she was stretched to the limit with her investigation, and she wouldn’t understand, would she? She wouldn’t grasp the repercussions of his assuming leadership of Leidolf permanently. Or of his making Toby heir of that clan.

Leidolf would try to kill Rule, of course. Not immediately; they couldn’t act until Rule had an heir, or the mantle would be lost, and with it, the clan. There would be a period of a few years when Leidolf would protect their new Rho zealously.

Once he made Toby heir, that would change. Some in Leidolf would Challenge; others wouldn’t bother with anything so formal, opting for assassination. It was possible the other clans would Challenge, too, which could drag Nokolai into outright clan war.

War was the worst-case scenario. Best case left Rule distrusted and dishonored. Leidolf, the other clans, even his own clan—all would consider it a blatant power grab. Rule could live with that. He could live with Challenges or assassination attempts. But the possibility that some in Leidolf might target his son . . . Oh, yes, that could happen. There was a certain cold logic to it.

Kill the man who was their Rho, and Leidolf’s entire mantle would go to a boy not yet old enough to control his wolf. They might do that, counting on being able to force Toby to give up the mantle to one of their choosing. But it was risky. No one could say whether a boy so young would be able to hold an entire mantle. It had never happened.

Kill the boy, though, then try to force Rule to choose an heir from within Leidolf . . . Yes, some would see that as safer for the clan. Those who underestimated the power of the mantle—and Rule.

Cullen understood these possibilities. He’d still urged Rule to do it. “You’ll just have to change Leidolf’s mind about you. You’ll have three or four years to do that.”

Change Leidolf’s mind about him. Rule smiled grimly, shut down his computer, and headed downstairs. Oh, yes, after centuries of ill feeling between Nokolai and Leidolf, all he had to do was persuade them that the heir to Nokolai could lead their clan well.

Assuming, that was, his father let him remain Nokolai’s heir.

Rule set that issue aside. He’d learned not to waste time and energy trying to guess which way Isen would jump, or what his plans truly included. If Rule became Leidolf Rho, his father might cackle with glee, having intended that result all along. He might revoke Rule’s heirship. He might kick Rule out of the clan.

Isen would do what he thought best for Nokolai, and Rule would accept that.

Toby was vacuuming the living room when Rule reached the first floor. In the kitchen, Louise was in full war mode. She pulled a pie shell out of the oven just as Rule entered. “Beautiful,” he told her. “And the smell is delightful.”

“Thank you. I have never used tofu. The recipe said to drain it, but . . . does this look right?” She’d put the tofu on a cutting board lined with paper towels and placed a heavy pot on top.

“I think so,” he said gravely. The paper towels were damp, so they must be soaking up the extra moisture. “What can I do to help?”

“Connie is bringing her fruit salad, so that’s covered. For a side dish, I was going to fix glazed carrots. I wasn’t thinking. That takes butter, and you said the store didn’t have any vegan butter—whatever in the world
that
is. I suspect it isn’t butter at all. Probably one more way to make tofu pretend it’s something else.” She glared at her pie shell. “Steamed carrots are so bland.”

“Why not roast them? All it takes is carrots, olive oil, and a little salt. The high heat caramelizes the sugars. Delicious.”

“Have you done that?” she demanded. When he admitted he had, she asked, “How long does it take? The quiche will be in the oven.”

“About twenty minutes, but they can go on the bottom rack while the quiche bakes above.”

She sighed in relief. “You’re in charge of carrots, then. Here.” She pulled two pounds of carrots from the refrigerator. “The quiche takes fifty minutes.”

Toby finished vacuuming and was immediately put to work setting the table. Rule was scraping carrots when his phone beeped. “Toby, would you answer that for me, please? My hands are messy.”

His phone was in its holster, hung from his belt. Toby retrieved it. “Hello, this is Toby Asteglio. My dad’s peeling carrots.” He listened a moment. “Okay. Dad, it’s Alex Thibideux. He wants to know if he should call back later.”

“No, I’ll take it.” Quickly Rule rinsed his hands. He gave Toby a smile. “Alex is the Leidolf Lu Nuncio. I am always available to him.”

Toby didn’t say anything, but the face he made when Rule said “Leidolf” spoke for him. It was a prejudice he needed to put a stop to—now more than ever. “You’d like Alex,” he said casually, drying his hands. “He’s an honorable man and an excellent fighter. Your uncle Benedict considers him one of the few who can make him work for a win.”

Toby perked up slightly. “Yeah?”

Rule nodded. “He probably saved my life during the, ah, commotion following the Turning. Thank you,” he added, taking the phone. “Yes?”

Alex’s gravelly voice greeted him. “What’s this ‘probably,’ Nokolai whelp?”

Rule grinned. He and Alex got along well these days. Odd as it seemed, they might be on their way to real friendship. “
Probably
, Leidolf runt,” he repeated. The “runt” was carefully chosen. When on two legs, Alex was six feet and well over two hundred pounds, all of it muscle. His wolf was equally outsize. “I wasn’t, perhaps, in the best shape at the time—”

Alex snorted.

“—but my
nadia
was present. She might well have retrieved one of those rifles before Brady finished me.”

“She doesn’t lack guts, I’ll give you that. Here’s the deal. I drove up so I could look over the area you’ve proposed for the
gens compleo.
Been in those woods before, but it’s been years. Thought I could give you a hand selecting the spot.”

“I’d appreciate that. You’re in Halo now? Where are you staying?”

That’s when Rule lost control of the situation. He couldn’t say later how it happened, except that Louise overheard and would not hear of Rule’s friend eating in “some burger joint,” especially when he would make their numbers right. They’d sit eight at the table if he joined them, she said, as if that were the clincher.

When Rule gently pointed out that Alex would make them nine at table, not eight, she immediately switched course and nine was the magic number; and besides, her table had two leaves, so there was plenty of room, and she’d already decided to make two quiches. So Rule ended up inviting the Leidolf Lu Nuncio to dinner with his son, his friend, his mate, his son’s mother, his son’s mother’s new husband, his son’s grandmother, and his son’s grandmother’s neighbor.

He began to see what Toby meant about his grandmother and parties.

“Rule, do vegans drink wine?” Louise called from the pantry.

“As far as I know.”

“Vegans,” Alex repeated, his voice lacking all inflection. He would, of course, have heard Louise—who probably didn’t realize that.

“Yes, Louise’s new son-in-law is vegan. She’s making a wonderful spinach and tofu quiche that should work for him.”

Alex was silent a moment. “Thanks, Turner. I’ll be sure to eat a couple burgers first.” He disconnected.

So did Rule. If he became Alex’s Rho permanently, there would be no chance of friendship between them. Alex would despise him. Rule regretted that possible loss keenly.

“The spoons go with the knives, right?” Toby called from the dining room.

“Yes. The blade should face the plate, not out.” But that regret was nothing, nothing at all, compared to what he felt as he watched his son align knives and spoons carefully on the wrong side of each plate.

LILY
blasted through the door at six twenty. Connie Milligan was in the kitchen with Louise; the other guests hadn’t arrived yet. Rule had just come upstairs to shrug into his suit jacket, so he heard her rapid-fire apology to Louise as she streaked for the stairs. Apparently she believed six thirty meant six fifteen at the latest.

He met her at the head of the stairs. She handed him a folder. “Here. It’s incomplete. Ruben had one of his hunches.”

He looked inside. His eyebrows lifted. “You asked Ruben to run the check on James French?”

“Not exactly. Like I said, he had one of his hunches. I’ll explain later. I’ve got to get ready.” She cast a regretful look at the door to the bathroom. “Not enough time for a shower.”

“We don’t have to be down at the stroke of six thirty.”

“Yes, we do. In my mother’s eyes, tardiness for a family dinner is a decapitation offense.”

He ran his hand along her neck. “Hmm. Still attached.”

“My father routinely commutes the sentence.” She laid her hand over his. Her eyes darkened with feeling, but her voice was quiet. “Rule? Did Cullen . . . What did he say?”

He jerked his head, indicating their room. She followed him in; he shut the door. And she put her arms around him, bringing him the rightness of her scent, the living heat of her body. She didn’t speak. She just held him.

And undid him. A slow tsunami shuddered up his spine, all the crammed feelings unwinding in a mudslide of fear and fury, razors and sludge. All, all at once, rolling up through him so that all he could do was hold on. Hold on.

He wrapped himself around her and inhaled hard, bringing the citrus of her shampoo inside him, the musk of her skin, the slight tang of cinnamon from her breath . . .
red hots. She loves those cinnamon red hots
. The thought was absurdly comforting, unleashing another flood, this one of fondness for all the small pieces of her he’d picked up along the way, like shells washed ashore by the ocean.

He rubbed his cheek against her hair, resting in her, man and wolf leaning into love as if it were a pillow, a bed, a stream he could float on.

Overload, then release. It was no wonder his eyes filled. That was all right. He was safe here. He didn’t have to hide.

Except that he did. Not the feelings, but some of the facts. Some, he realized, not all. And there can be enough space between
some
and
all
to wedge in some truth.

Hadn’t Toby done the same thing? “
Nadia,
” he murmured to her hair, then straightened so he could see her face. Worry, fear—he saw those plainly. She’d held them close, held herself silent, so she could give him what he needed.

He touched her cheek. “I’ve convinced you Cullen’s news was bad. It wasn’t, not wholly, but it was difficult. It brings me a choice that’s all edges, and—Lily, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you what he said. He needed my word not to repeat him, and I gave it.”

A carefully chosen promise, he understood now, and wanted to hug Cullen—and slap himself for not catching on earlier. Cullen had steered the conversation so that Rule promised specifically not to repeat Etorri’s secret. He hadn’t promised to
keep
that secret. Keeping it would mean safeguarding it, doing all he reasonably could to be sure no one learned of it through him.

Learned of it—or figured it out. He stroked his thumb along the curve of Lily’s cheekbone. “I can’t repeat what he said, but because of it, I may choose to retain Leidolf’s mantle when Victor dies.”

She stared. Frowned. “You don’t want to be Leidolf Rho.”

“No.”

“But you might retain their mantle, because of what Cullen told you about Toby.”

He nodded.

Her breath gusted out. “Huh. That would cause problems, wouldn’t it?”

And this he could certainly tell her, so he did. Briefly, because six thirty must surely be upon them, but even a brief telling of the possible consequences was grim.

“So your choice,” she said, “is to do nothing and hope Toby doesn’t contract the cancer, but the odds aren’t good. Or you can accept leadership of Leidolf for reasons you can’t tell me. The latter could cause trouble and turmoil, possibly even including some kind of war between the clans, and could well endanger Toby. Yet you consider it a valid option. Obviously, keeping the mantle somehow guarantees that Toby won’t get the cancer.”

He did appreciate her mind. “I cannot confirm or deny what you’ve said.”

“Hmm.” That came out almost amused. “You sure you aren’t a lawyer? Never mind. Are you honestly thinking you haven’t made the decision yet? Because I know which you’ll pick.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Do you?”

“Sure. You’ll go for Door Number Two. It gives you some control, some options. If you can get Leidolf to stop hating you, for instance—”

“Cullen’s suggestion,” he murmured. “Not that he knows how I might stop generations of distrust and hatred.”

“As to that—”