Tempting Danger (23 page)

THEY
never turned the lights off.

There were many things to hate about the metal hole they’d stuck him in, and some that weren’t so bad. Rule didn’t mind the lack of a bed. He couldn’t stop moving, so a bunk would only have been in the way. The sanitary facilities were sparse but decent; both sink and toilet folded up into the wall. The walls themselves, though, insulated everything. Rule could barely sense the moon through all the steel, but he’d developed a tolerance for that. Humans used a lot of metal when they built cities. The silence was harder to bear—he couldn’t hear a thing from outside his tiny cell.

But it was the unfaltering light that was making him crazy.

If he could have closed the darkness around him, he wouldn’t have been able to see the walls. He could have fooled himself that they were farther away. Darkness wouldn’t have kept him from pacing. He’d tried it for awhile with his eyes closed to see if that helped. It hadn’t.

Things could have been worse. Because lupi healed so well, they made prime targets for a certain type of cop. Any damage wouldn’t show for long. If someone did notice that the prisoner had a broken bone or two, it was easy to argue that he’d been unruly. It can take a lot of force to discourage an unruly lupus. And if some of the other cops suspected the truth, they didn’t tell.

Rule understood that. The police were like a clan, though an ill-run one, in his opinion. So much was expected of them, yet they were denied the status their work merited. It was no wonder some of them went off track.

He’d been spared the indignity of being struck when he couldn’t fight back, he reminded himself.

He would rather have been beaten.

Rule snarled at the metal wall and turned. Three steps one way, turn, three steps back. He’d been pacing since they locked him in here. Maybe in a day or two he’d tire himself out enough to sleep.

He’d used his one phone call to let Benedict know what had happened. His brother would arrange for a lawyer, and sooner or later they’d have to let that lawyer in to see him. Whether anyone else would be allowed to visit, he didn’t know. He didn’t know if anyone else would try.

His lip pulled back in disgust. No point in fooling himself; he wasn’t worried about “anyone else” trying to see him. He wanted Lily to come. He wanted her to care at least that much.

She’d looked at him as if she couldn’t stand him.

Three steps. Turn.

She’d kept her man from shooting him, though. No question in Rule’s mind that’s what the sergeant had meant to do—provoke Rule into Changing if he could. If not, force Rule to move, to make any action that could be interpreted as threatening. He’d wanted an excuse to kill. The others would probably have let him get away with it. Lupi had been fair game for a long time.

She’d walked
in front
of the damned gun.

What in God’s name had she been thinking? She’d cautioned him earlier that she didn’t heal the way he did. It wasn’t something he was likely to overlook, but she seemed to have forgotten that fact. If her sergeant had pulled the trigger on Rule, Rule would almost certainly have lived long enough to take the bastard with him. The other cop had been right about that. He might have survived beyond that, too, depending on how many others shot him and where their bullets hit.

Lily wouldn’t have. If that cop had pulled the trigger after she stepped in front of his gun . . .
Think of something else.

Three steps and turn.

What would happen to Nokolai if he were found guilty? What would happen to his son?

Not the best choice of alternate subject.

How long had he been in here, anyway? Usually he could tell time by the dance between earth and moon, but her pull was muffled by all the steel. It must be night by now, though.

They’d taken his watch, his shoes, pocket knife, phone, keys—all those dangerous objects that were nothing compared to what he could do with his bare hands. Fools.

He stopped and looked up at the bedamned lights.

Two fluorescent tubes were set in a recess in the ceiling protected by steel bars. The floor-to-ceiling measurement was the largest dimension of his cell, perhaps ten feet. He could jump that high. Jump up, grab one of the bars, get his other hand between the bars, and smash the bloody glowing tubes to bits. He’d cut his hand, but what of it?

They would come running, of course, with guns drawn, ready for him to make God knew what devious escape attempt. He was watched. He knew that. The round black eye of a camera perched high in one corner.

Had it been lower, he could have pissed on it. A childish but understandable desire, he thought. Barring that, the camera would also be easy to smash, if he chose to do so.

It would be a break in the pacing, wouldn’t it?

He bent his knees and launched himself straight up. Closed his fingers around one of the bars and hung there . . . and heard the snick of the lock.

He dropped to the floor, spun to face the door.

It swung open. “You okay?” a voice called. No one was visible in the doorway. “Door’s going to stay open. No need to trample anyone.”

He blinked. “Karonski? Abel Karonski?”

“Your memory’s working, anyway.” A bulky figure moved into view—rumpled suit, sour expression, stinking of those cigars he snuck. Definitely Abel Karonski, though it had been awhile since Rule last saw him.

“You weren’t on my list.”

“Would that be the good people list or the bad people list?”

“Of people I might see. I thought a lawyer might show up soon, or . . . but I wasn’t expecting MCD.”

“Well, you got us. Good news for you that you did. You’re free.”

Free. He took a step toward the door, hesitated.

Karonski stood back. Rule moved fast then. He shouldn’t have. When you move too fast it scares humans, and scared humans with guns were likely to put holes in things.

But . . . he stood outside his cell, looking around. The short corridor was empty except for Karonski and another man, one Rule didn’t know. Neither had their guns out. “Am I in your custody?”

“Nope. You’re free, like I said, thanks to your girlfriend. I’d like you to come with us, though. You might want to do that, considering there’s a dozen reporters salivating out front. They’ll pounce when you come out. We’ve got a car waiting.”

Rule nodded at the other man. “And this is—?”

“Martin Croft,” the other man said. He was taller and darker-skinned than Karonski, and much better dressed. He held out his hand.

Karonski elbowed him. “Not yet. He needs to settle more.” He scanned Rule. “You’re jittery but holding. Can you make it through the piranhas with microphones without biting off someone’s hand?”

“Of course.” Reporters. He should have expected that. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Rule ran a hand through his hair and wished for a mirror. He would perform for the cameras, but it had better be brief. “I trust someone plans to return my shoes. What time is it?”

“About ten. This way to checkout.” Karonski started down the short hall. The door at the end was blank metal, no way to open it from the inside. Rule concentrated on keeping his breathing steady. He was almost out. It wouldn’t do to crack up now.

The other man—Croft—smiled as he fell into step beside Rule. “If you’re wondering why we had the honor of letting you out of your cell, you can thank Abel’s descriptive abilities. He explained what happened once when a couple of cops released a lupus who’d been locked up too long.”

“For Chrissake, Martin, you trying to get me jumped?” Karonski growled. “Turner, I didn’t tell them why being locked up makes you folks twitchy. Let ’em think you just get put out at the injustice of it all.”

Obviously he’d told Croft, however. “You two are partners?”

“For my sins, yes,” Croft said.

Unexpectedly, Karonski chuckled. “He means that literally,” he said as he punched the button by the door.

A few minutes later Rule slid his feet into his shoes and his wallet into his pocket, having signed for his belongings. Two more cops were waiting to escort him; the authorities didn’t want him stopping for a press conference on his way home from jail, it seemed.

Lily wasn’t there. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted her to be until the disappointment hit.

It did his human side good to have his things restored, though. He wondered if humans experienced the same lessening of their civilized selves when they were stripped of the bits they normally carried on their bodies. “You said I was out ‘thanks to my girlfriend,’ ” he said to Karonski. “What did you mean?”

Karonski gave him a quick glance. “Explanations later. Let’s get through the media mob and go somewhere we can talk.”

“Damn,” Croft said as they reached the door. “It’s raining again. I guess reporters don’t have the sense to come in out of it.”

“You won’t melt. Come on.”

Rule walked out into a damp night with Karonski on one side, Croft on the other, and a cop in front and one behind to clear a path.

Lightbulbs flashed. Microphones were thrust at him. Voices called out questions. They crowded him—people, sounds, lights, all pressed in on him until it was hard to breathe. With darkness backing them, rain drizzling down, and lights held high for the TV cameras, they became a wall of people and sound, lacking individual faces or voices.

Easy,
he told himself.
You can get out, so you don’t have to.
He paused, formed a smile for them, and put on one of the best performances of his life. “Gentlemen. Ladies. I’m far too vain to allow you to interview me like this.” He gestured at his T-shirt and jeans, which were certainly more casual than he usually wore for a session with the press.

A couple of them laughed. Someone gave a wolf whistle.

“Thank you.” He hoped he got the grin right. “Allow me to get a night’s sleep and groom myself properly. I’ll give you a statement and take questions in the morning.”

They didn’t exactly give up, but, with the promise of an interview, they weren’t as insistent. Rule’s escort managed to get him to the dark sedan that waited. Croft got in behind the wheel; Karonski sat beside him, leaving the backseat to Rule.

He concentrated on breathing.

“You okay?” Karonski turned to look over the seat as they pulled away.

Rule hated the way he reacted. Lupi uniformly disliked small, enclosed spaces, but not all were as bloody sensitive as he was. But it couldn’t be helped. He was scrambled. “There’s a park a few blocks away. I’d like to go there.”

“In the rain?” Croft asked.

“Would you get over your thing about the weather?” Karonski turned back around. “My mama always said, don’t crowd a jumpy werewolf. No walls at the park. Tell him where to go,” he added to Rule, and chuckled. “I do.”

“All the time,” Croft murmured.

A few red lights later, they pulled up at the park. Rule got out. It wasn’t much of a rain, but the wind whipped it around, making a fuss. He tilted his face toward the sky and let the Lady clean him.

It helped. When the other two got out, he was able to say politely, “Excuse me a moment. I’ll be back.” And he ran.

Twelve minutes later he returned to the car. He’d kept to an easy lope, no faster than most humans could manage, and had seen two others out for a run, unwilling to let a little rain keep them inside. It was a good reminder. Not all humans closed themselves away from nature.

The FBI agents, however, had gotten back into the car to stay dry. When they climbed out, he apologized for having kept them waiting. “I wasn’t in good shape to ask questions or hear the answers. Now I am. Why am I not in jail anymore?”

“Just as well you ran off your jumpiness,” Karonski said. “Normally you wouldn’t shoot the messenger, but I’d rather you heard this with your head clear. You aren’t going to like it.”

CROFT
and Karonski had Lily’s address. They dropped him off.

She lived on the second floor of a small, overwhelmingly pink complex that might have begun life fifty years ago as a motel. A cement walkway on each floor connected the outside stairwells and gave access to the units.

The scent of the sea was strong and sweet in Rule’s nostrils when he got out of the car. Water and decay, salt and sand . . . he was encouraged by her choice. Surely a woman who picked a spot so close to the ocean didn’t automatically hide from the rain.

Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t hide from other things. “Go away,” she said through the door after he knocked.

“No.”

“Suit yourself. I’m not opening the door.”

“And I’m not leaving.” He settled himself on the damp cement, leaning his back against her door. No comment came through the door, but he knew she was still there. The door was too thin to hide her movements from him. “Do you go to the ocean often? You live close.”

Another pause. He imagined her shaking her head, perplexed by his subject. “I run on the beach. It’s good for the calf muscles.”

“And the soul. We don’t go to the ocean for anything as simple as happiness, do we? We go there to feel alive. Like life, the ocean holds chance and change, grief and terror and beauty. It promises mortality, not peace.”

“I’m not in the mood for poetry tonight.”

“I suppose not. You’ve had your life jerked out from under you. Hitting, screaming, and throwing things might be better. You can’t hit me through the door, though.”

A long pause, then: “You’re not going away, are you?”

“No.”

A second later the lock snicked. He rose to his feet and faced the door as it opened.

She wore old black sweatpants and a gray T-shirt that read, San Diego Police Dept. No bra, he thought. Her hair was pulled back in an untidy ponytail. Framed by the soft light from inside, she looked stark and untouchable.

It didn’t keep him from wanting to touch.

She shook her head. “I ought to call you in as a prowler and let them lock you up again.”

“I’m fortunate that you’re too kind to do that.”

“I’m not kind at all.” She stepped back. “Come in so we can get this settled.”

He stepped inside and looked around, breathing in the scents—plants and spaghetti and Lily. Everywhere Lily. Her scent had sunk into the pillows and carpet and walls of her space, and it made him happy.