Tempting Danger (20 page)

“But . . .” Her voice drifted off, then she said, “All right. I guess I’ve made some dumb assumptions. Lupi are always male, so I thought you only had male offspring. Some of the women I saw at Clanhome would be related to clan members, then?”

“Rather than being our sex slaves, you mean?”

“Actually,” she said dryly, “I was thinking more in terms of domestic slaves. Men have a tendency to keep women around to do the dishes and the laundry.”

“I think everyone at Clanhome today was of one of the clans.” He had to slow then, as they were approaching the turn onto 67. He glanced at her briefly. “Did you think we drowned our female children at birth? Our daughters and sisters are Nokolai, too, though they aren’t lupi.”

“I admitted that some of my assumptions are showing. I’m working on it. What about your mothers, aunts, and grandmothers? Are they clan?”

“That’s rare.” How rare, and why, he couldn’t tell her. Not yet.

“Hmm.”

Traffic was light this far from the city. Rule slowed but didn’t stop, accelerating strongly into the turn.

“Hey!” Lily cried, grabbing the dash as she lurched to the side. “We are not in hot pursuit.”

“I love it when you talk cop,” he murmured, and floored it. “Do you get to do this often?”

“No. And the purpose here is not for you to live out your fantasies.”

“Newly developed fantasies. I didn’t play cop as a kid. You folks were the bad guys.”

“Times change. I—hey!” She grabbed the dash again.

He’d zigzagged around a couple of semis that were dawdling along at eighty or less. “You did want me to hurry.”

“Try to remember that I don’t heal the way you do. Or you could distract me from my imminent death by explaining the parts about blood and combat.”

He chuckled. “Blood means I’m of the correct bloodline. Combat means exactly what you think it does.”

“You fought your brothers?”

“I fought Mick and two others who challenged my fitness.” One combat had been largely ceremonial, because no heir could be accepted without having proven himself in formal combat. The other had been deadly serious. But it was the battle with Mick that had troubled Rule’s sleep for a long time afterward. Not the challenge itself—that had been inevitable, given his brother’s nature. Even Mick’s attempt to kill rather than merely defeat could be forgiven; some were more taken by the wolf than others.

What Rule couldn’t put behind him was the suspicion that Mick’s man part had been willing to kill, too.

“But not Benedict?’ Lily persisted. “Your oldest brother didn’t challenge you?”

“Benedict supported our father’s decision.” Had he not, Rule wouldn’t be Lu Nuncio. He couldn’t have defeated Benedict.

She shook her head. “Voting would be better.”

“Voting works for humans. We are not a democratic people, but neither are we passive enough to be ruled autocratically. Custom provides some checks on the Rho’s power. The Challenge supplies the rest.”

“Your father said something about a challenge before we were interrupted. How does it work?”

“Challenges are common, both within the clan and between clans, especially among the hot-blooded young. Think of them as duels fought with teeth instead of swords or pistols. When we say
the
Challenge, however, we’re referring to a clan member challenging his Rho.”

“Your father’s not young anymore.”

“There are cases where a Rho must fight his own battles. Usually, though, if the Rho is challenged, the Lu Nuncio defends.”

“That’s you.”

He nodded.

“This kind of challenge—is it to the death?”

“It can be. Don’t worry, Detective. We fight in wolf form, so it’s quite legal.”

“That was certainly my only concern. If you—Rule, for God’s sake, watch where you’re going!”

“I am,” he said, passing the tanker truck that worried her. He cut it a trifle close, perhaps, but the Datsun in the other lane gave him little choice.

Lily was cursing under her breath. He glanced at her, and his pleasure fled. “I’ll slow down. You’re pale.”

“I turn Caucasian at ninety miles an hour and up. Pay no attention.”

He gave a quick bark of laughter and stole another quick glance. She was frowning slightly, that quick mind turning over what she’d learned.

“Your challenges won’t be legal if the Citizenship Bill passes,” she said.

“My father believes that only challenges to the death will be affected. Those involving lesser woundings simply won’t be reported.”

“And you? What do you believe?”

“The Lu Nuncio doesn’t express opinions. It would be like an army general publicly approving or disputing the policies of his commander in chief.”

“Do you express opinions to your father?”

“To my father, yes. To the Rho—no.”

“Tricky, when they’re the same person.”

“He lets me know which one I’m addressing.” They’d reached the city limits, and traffic was too congested for real speed. He did the best he could. “We should reach your scene in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“Good. What do you think of the conspiracy angle your father brought up? He seems to consider Nokolai’s support vital enough to the bill’s passage that someone might kill him to stop it.”

“Without Nokolai, the other clans are unlikely to support the bill.”

“The clans don’t have that much political clout.”

“Mmm. Not all lupi are as open about their nature as I am.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Are you saying you’ve got people in high places? People with a furry secret?”

He smiled.

“The mystery bit is getting old,” she observed. “So you think that taking out you and your father could affect the way things go in Washington?”

“The idea wasn’t just to remove me, was it? They wanted me arrested, imprisoned. If the, ah, poster boy for lupi is proved to be a murderer, will the public support a bill making us full citizens?”

“Citizens kill each other all the time, unfortunately. But I get your meaning.”

She fell silent then, which was just as well. He needed to give his driving most of his attention. But driving, even in this traffic, didn’t require his entire mind.

She’d called him Rule.

Such a small thing, a name. But she’d never said his. Yet it had come out in a moment of stress, as if she were beginning to think of him that way. Personally. Warmth spread through him. She was beginning to open up with him about her investigation, too. Discuss the possibilities.

Such as the chance there was a dirty cop involved. Someone she knew, worked with, trusted. Someone who’d sold out the law she upheld, either for money or some twisted ideal that endorsed murder in the right cause. The warmth evaporated.

A dirty cop could plant evidence or hide it. Not a happy thought, considering he seemed to be someone’s favorite pick for suspect. But if one cop was working against him, another one was on his side. At least, he amended mentally, on the side of justice.

How was she going to react when he told her the truth about them?

He’d never expected this to happen to him. Never wanted it, to tell the truth, even as an adolescent. But he’d had Benedict’s example and Nettie’s warnings, so he knew the dangers. And being chosen was so rare . . . he’d felt safe. But he had at least known it was possible, had been taught what it meant. Lily didn’t even know such a condition existed.

She was not going to take it well.

He wanted time to court her. Time for her to begin to know him, for trust to send down its first roots. But his body was urgent for her, insistent in a way that denied delay. She thought she could choose whether or not to act on what she felt; he knew better. And he knew he had to tell her the truth before they lay together.

That’s what young lupi were advised—if the Lady blesses you with a Chosen, be honest with her about what is happening. And be patient.
“It would be your responsibility,”
Nettie had told him once,
“to make it as easy on her as possible. But don’t gloss over the difficulties If she’s young and idealistic, she may romanticize it, see it as some sort of perfect union, a merging of soul.”
She’d snorted.
“Don’t let her get away with that.”

Rule crept along behind a bus occupying more than its fair share of the road, and glanced at Lily. She was young, yes, and possessed very high ideals, from what he’d seen. But she was not going to romanticize her situation. He’d give odds she would fight it, and him, like crazy—and the Lady only knew how much damage she’d do them both.

Tonight, he promised himself. He would tell her tonight.

FOURTEEN

THE
street outside Therese’s walk-up was cluttered with cars: two black and whites, the ambulance and the coroner’s car, Mech’s blue sedan, and O’Brien’s battered Chevy. Lily had Rule drop her at the corner.

“I’ll leave word to let you into the building,” she said as she climbed out.

“Good enough. I’ll park at the club. Max’s reputation discourages local entrepreneurs from treating his parking lot as a parts supply warehouse.”

He spoke lightly, but he looked grim. She felt the same. She didn’t throw up anymore when the scene was messy, but her stomach wasn’t happy. It was always worse if she’d known the victim, even slightly. “Are you okay with this?” she asked abruptly.

“I’ve seen death. Go. Do what you have to.”

She nodded, closed the door, and headed down the street.

Lily recognized the uniform stationed at the entrance to the dingy lobby—the rookie from West Texas. She nodded at him. “Gonzales, right? Detective Yu. Is Sergeant Meckle in there?”

“Yes, ma’am. He has a witness. He’s using the manager’s quarters for interviews. It’s behind the stairs.”

“I understand she was found just before noon. Who found her?”

“A juvenile name of Abel Martinez. Fourteen years old. Your sergeant took his statement and let his mother have him. She lives in number ten, same floor. No father in residence. Two sisters, both younger.”

“Number ten’s right next to twelve,” Lily said, remembering from her previous visit. “The walls are thin. No one heard anything?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. Phillips talked to a couple people before Sergeant Meckle arrived and took over, but I’ve been handling access.”

“Any Feds shown up? There’s a couple that have taken an interest in the case.”

“No, ma’am.”

Her mouth tightened. This didn’t eliminate Croft and Karonski, but it suggested she’d better look hard at Mech and the captain.

Oh, Lord, she didn’t want it to be the captain. “I’ve got someone coming who will act as an expert consultant. Rule Turner. When he arrives, let him into the building to wait for me. He’s not to go up the stairs. Just into the building.”

His eyebrows went up, but he nodded. Lily started up the stairs. The sour smell of vomit hit her about halfway up. Might be Abel Martinez’s contribution, she thought. She’d have to make sure a social worker talked to him.

Phillips had the door to apartment twelve. He was talking with the ambulance attendants. She could hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner inside the apartment. “Damned if this isn’t getting to be a habit, seeing you around here,” he drawled.

“I could break it, given a chance. You were first on scene again. Tell me what happened.”

“I got the call from Dispatch at twelve-oh-seven, checked the scene from the door. No question she was dead, so I called it in. While I waited, I talked to the kid who found her. Seems Abel stayed home from school today with an upset stomach but had an amazing recovery and decided to shoot hoops. When he left his apartment, he noticed that the door to number twelve wasn’t closed. He says he went inside to check on her.” Phillips shrugged. “Probably thought he could lift something. Poor kid. He found more than he bargained for.”

“O’Brien’s inside?”

“Yeah. Detective—she didn’t deserve what that damned were did. I want to know how he found out about her.”

“So do I.” This was going to be bad. Lily could smell the blood from here, and something nastier. She opened her purse and took out disposable gloves and booties. “Gut wound?”

“Smells like one.” That was from one of the ambulance attendants. “Haven’t seen her yet.”

“Gut wound,” Phillips confirmed. “Among others. Bastard ripped her up.”

Lily pulled on the last glove. The door was open a few inches. She pushed it wider.

Therese was on the love seat. The one that used to be blue.

“Bag your feet,” O’Brien told her. He was crouched on the floor near the body, his back to the door. An evidence tech was on her knees in the tiny kitchen area, using a handheld vacuum.

“I did.”

“Oh, it’s Yu.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Get it? You—Yu.”

“I get it.” O’Brien’s humor was even lamer than usual, but that may have been because his heart wasn’t in it.

The bastard had ripped her up, all right. She’d been dead awhile—ten, twelve hours, at a guess. Most of the blood had dried . . . but there was a lot of blood.

She lay on her back, her head propped up on two pillows and turned slightly to her left. Her throat had been torn open. One arm hung off the side of the love seat, the fingers touching the floor. Some of her guts touched the floor, too. They had the look of hamburger left uncovered in the refrigerator—crusty brown on top with glimpses of moist red underneath. He’d slashed her repeatedly, opening the bowel, among other things.