by Eileen Wilks
Time passed. She did not know how much. Eventually she was able to straighten and resume her wait.
She owed them this much. It wasn’t her gift, the ability to speak with the dead. But if any of those dear ghosts lingered—if they could reach her and wished to scream their anger or cry or simply be close—why, she could give them this.
Such an easy gift, when she herself wanted it so much! Wanted it in spite of her fears. She couldn’t help but wonder if her father blamed her for what had befallen his family . . . but she did not think he would. Surely madness didn’t accompany the dead into their land, and in life Wu An had never been one to make a sauce of blame to serve others while leaving his own plate unsauced.
But she had thought so herself, when she first heard. When Sam told her what had befallen Luan, and that her family was dead, she had feared the sorcerer had struck them down because he sought her.
Li Lei’s mother had been beautiful and fierce, yes. And if she’d passed all that ferocity and very little of the beauty to her daughter, that was just as well, for great beauty could be a trap. But along with her nature, she’d passed a more rare gift to her daughter. Magic.
Ya Bai had grown up in the tiny mountain village near the mine that produced much of Wu An’s wealth. Many there had some trace of demon blood; it was not unusual. Ya Bai had had more than a trace. No one was sure the type of demon, or else they would not say; nor did they know how far back the mating had occurred. But Li Lei’s mother had carried strong magic in her veins.
The sorcerer would surely have killed Li Lei with the others who possessed magic, but she hadn’t been here. Anyone could have told him she’d been gone for some time. His own vision would have told him that. He hadn’t set the Chimei to destroy her family in an effort to kill Li Lei.
She was almost sure of that.
One year and seven months ago, Li Lei’s stepmother had brought to their house the man she meant for Li Lei to marry—a merchant’s son, bashful and dull. A man she could easily have ruled. That was her stepmother’s thinking, and it was kind in its way, for Li Lei would infuriate most men.
But he lived in Beijing. So far away! Yet even that she might have forced herself to accept, were it not for the other gift from her mother, one which was bound up in the magic. Li Lei had seen the man and known she could not blend her bloodline with his. Not would not. Could not.
Perhaps her stepmother could not have been expected to believe her. Her father should have. She’d told him she would never bear children to that man. Just as her mother had known she would bear Wu An’s daughter, and only the one daughter, Li Lei had known she would never have babies if she married as she was bid.
She had to have babies—at least one baby. Her mother’s blood demanded it. As did her own heart.
And bah, how tedious that she circled back through that stale story now. She’d learned better than to let her thoughts run her, hadn’t she? Li Lei settled herself, body and mind, to the moment. However bitter and hard, she had this moment.
Her left knee ached. She’d banged it yesterday while avoiding the blow of a carter who had at least given up beating his beast to aim a fist her way. Her middle hurt, tight with grief. Her mind slowed.
After a time, the acrid scent of smoke tickled her nose. Smoke was a common scent, with so many cook fires in the city, but along with the smell came another sensation. One she knew well, but had no name for.
Several streets to the east, the darkness glowed red. Another fire had bloomed, this one in a good quarter of town. It was still small, but it would grow, for neighbors would not act together to extinguish the blaze. They didn’t dare. What if the sorcerer himself had caused it? Instead they would bundle up what they could of their belongings and flee, hoping the fire was dealt with before their own houses burned.
They were right in one way—the fire would be dealt with. The sorcerer did not want his city to burn down. He did not object to a chance to strut his power, either, Li Lei thought. She’d been among the crowd who gathered to watch him attend the other fire, which was huge and roaring by then, having engulfed several houses.
He’d made a show of it, arriving in a litter carried by six slaves, his silk robe so heavily embroidered with gold thread one might have mistaken him for the emperor. Li Lei had asked herself: why did he not ride on a showy stallion or fly through the air, as sorcerers were said to do?
She had answered the second question by adding her own extrapolation to what Sun Mzao had told her. The sorcerer could fly, but not through his own arts. That skill belonged to his demon lover, and while she could carry him, she would be unlikely to make the effort in such a cause.
The answer to the first question was even easier. The sorcerer did not know how to ride. He was known to be a commoner. She believed he was actually a peasant.
Now, Li Lei believed commoners were no more stupid than the nobility, and were perhaps a shade smarter, on the whole. But much of the peasantry existed in such profound ignorance and need that they were forever warped in their thinking. Whatever the sorcerer’s innate intelligence might be, his thoughts, plans, and goals were distorted. He behaved as a child—shrewd in his way, but always grabbing for whatever shiny object caught his attention, lashing out when it broke, then moving on to the next bit of glitter.
At the fire he’d made himself impressive, raising his arms and commanding the flames in a loud voice—and fire answered him, yes, but sluggishly. He had triumphed over the blaze, but he had used a great deal of power to do so.
Fire was not his by nature. So Sam had said, and so her own observation confirmed. Li Lei smiled at the dark house where she had once lived, where so many she loved had died so horribly.
No, fire was not his. But it was hers.
THIRTEEN
NETTIE put Cullen back in sleep, left Jason some instructions, and went to get some regular sleep. Rule had a word with Jason, too, then called Max. Lily called her boss, Ruben Brooks, though at this hour she used his office line, not his mobile. He’d get her message in the morning. Cynna patted her tummy and went to use the bathroom. Jason left.
When Cynna came out, Lily had a question for her. “Blood magic, Cullen said. Could it be Vodun? Nettie said the spell reminded her of a Vodun curse.”
“Vodun uses a lot of blood magic, but they aren’t the only ones with blood spells. Some traditions consider blood magic just plain bad, like Wicca—though some Wiccans argue that it’s okay if you use your own blood. Wicca isn’t uniform like Catholicism. The Catholic Church ties itself up in knots on the subject, but that’s par for their course.” She lowered herself into the chair by the bed and heaved a sigh. “You think a single cup of coffee would hurt the little rider?”
“I think you don’t like coffee, so you must be getting desperate.”
“I’m not going to sleep,” Cynna said.
Rule put away his phone. “You’ll lie down, though, while we wait for Max to get here. Jason’s gone to arrange for a bed. That chair isn’t comfortable.”
“Well.” After a moment she grinned tiredly. “Guess I won’t argue. Max is coming?”
“He’ll be here in half an hour or less.” Rule glanced at Lily. “I asked him to sneak in. He’s rather distinctive. I don’t want him associated with this room.”
“Good thinking.” And it hadn’t occurred to her, which meant she probably needed either coffee or sleep, too. “Cynna, what can you tell me about blood magic? Anything might help.”
“It’s pretty much what it sounds like—magic that’s sourced in part or whole on blood. Blood is highly magically active. Doesn’t matter if it’s from a null or a big, bad werewolf—it’s got juice.”
“I don’t get that. Lupus blood carries some of their magic. Blood from a Gifted person might, too, I guess. But blood from a normal human? How is that magic?”
“Magic’s everywhere. Or potential magic, maybe. Thing is, mostly it’s sort of transmuted into being instead of acting. That’s what spells are for. They
take a bit of that being and make it acting.”
“I know you think that makes sense.”
Cynna ran a hand over her hair, making the spikes stand up straight. “Cullen’s better at explaining than I am. Say you use a rose in a spell—and it’s a good spell, and you know what you’re doing, because if it’s a poorly crafted spell, nothing happens. But this is a workable spell cast by someone with a bit of magic to feed into it. Some bit of that rose stops being rose and acts as rose. It’s like the difference between a noun and a verb.”
“And blood has lots of potential magic?”
“You could put it that way.” Cynna yawned hugely. “Sorry. One reason blood spells have a bad rep is that a person’s blood can be used to power a spell against them. A hex or curse, in other words. That’s what someone’s done to Cullen, though it isn’t like any hex or curse I’ve ever heard of.”
“He said the spell was powered from his blood. That’s what any blood curse does, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly. The way he said it . . . I’m guessing, but it sounded like it’s drawing power from him now. Not like it was initially powered by blood someone stole from him somehow, but like it’s powered from his blood while it’s in him. That’s real tricky. I never heard of a spell that could do that.” She shook her head, sighed. “He’s going to want to figure it out, and not just the way a sane person would, so he can get rid of it. No, he’ll want to understand it.”
She sounded gloomy, but not for the reason Lily’s anxiety spiked. A spell like Cynna described would be hard to defeat. It wouldn’t run out of power as long as Cullen was alive. “Nettie said the spell made Cullen’s body fight against his magic.”
“That fits. Healing—ordinary healing—is delivered through the blood. The spell either interferes with that or makes the blood actively toxic. Cullen’s magic keeps fixing things, but it can’t get rid of the spell, and the spell keeps messing up his blood again.”
Lily’s phone sounded. It was the chime that meant the call had been forwarded from her official number, so she answered it. “Yu here.”
“Hey, babe.”
The gravelly voice was immediately familiar. Funny. She’d thought she didn’t remember Cody’s voice that clearly. Lily felt a smile tug at her mouth. “I never did break you of that habit. What’s up?”
“Not a damned thing.” He sounded tired. “We’re winding up here. Thought I’d let you know. Oh, and the big boss wolf said to tell you one of his people picked up a scent, but it petered out. He wants to know how the vic’s doing. I’d like to know, too.”
“He’s alive. He’s also still reacting to a nasty spell that damn near killed him, which makes this case mine.”
Cody was silent for a long moment. “Guess I can’t argue with that. Never thought I’d see you on the fed side of the fence, though.”
“It feels weird sometimes.” All at once she had a dozen questions to ask him. Questions that had nothing to do with the case. Nothing to do with the present at all. With an effort she shoved them away and asked the ones that mattered.
Still no sign of the weapon. No physical evidence at all, basically. They were talking about what role the sheriff’s department would have in the investigation when someone knocked on the door. “Got to go,” she said quickly, drawing her weapon and sliding her phone back in her pocket.
Rule opened the door. It was Jason. At her nod, he wheeled in a folded-up rollaway bed with one hand. Under his other arm he carried a large bundle of blankets.
The blankets spoke. “Can’t goddamn breathe in here.”
“Hang on a sec.” Jason set the bundle down, unwrapped the top blanket, and revealed four and a half feet of scowling gnome.
Max had beady little eyes sunk beneath hairy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows. His nose dripped toward his chin like a blob of melted wax. His mouth lacked much in the way of lips, and his skin was the color of mushrooms. His shoulders were wide, his neck barely there, and his suit could have come from the 1920s. The black fedora covering his bald head went with the suit. The neon pink socks, not so much.
He straightened his suit jacket, muttering under his breath about idiots and assholes.
“Love the socks,” Lily said.
He regarded his feet with satisfaction. “Gan gave ’em to me. Stupid female has the worst taste in the thirteen realms, but she sure can fuck. Say, you want to—”
“No,” Lily said firmly.
“Guess not, you being Chosen.” His gaze went to Cynna, still sitting in the room’s only chair. Instead of asking if she wanted to fuck—his usual greeting, if he was feeling friendly—he looked from her to Cullen, lying motionless in the bed. He walked up to the bed.
“Crazy bastard,” he muttered. “Got you good, didn’t they? Good thing Rule had the sense to call me. You say the assassin changes his appearance?”
It took Lily a second to realize he was asking her, not Cullen. “It may be that he fuzzes people’s minds.” Briefly she described what the various witnesses had seen. “If it was a real illusion, he’d look the same to everyone, wouldn’t he?”
Max turned to her. “Not dumb all the time, are you? Not exactly right, but not entirely dumb. Yeah, a true illusion would look the same to everyone. This guy’s doing something a lot simpler. Sounds like he told everyone to see someone they expected to see, and everyone’s brains filled in whatever appearance fit the bill.”
“Why didn’t he just tell everyone not to see him at all?”
“Because he’s not a goddamned idiot. In a crowd like that, he needed to be seen so people wouldn’t bump into him.” The eyebrows clenched in what might have been a thoughtful frown. “That’s some powerful mind-magic the bastard’s got. Big range. Real damned big.”
Worry bumped at Lily. “Can that kind of mind-magic work on you?”
Max snorted. “Not hardly. That’s close to compulsion, see—telling me to see something other than what’s there. I don’t like being told what to do.”
“Neither does my father,” Rule said dryly, “but the mind-magic seems to have worked on him.”
“Poor bastard lacks my genetic advantages.” He turned to Cynna with the oddest expression on his face. After a moment Lily recognized it. He was smiling.
Not at Cynna, Lily realized. At her belly.
Max marched up to Cynna and put both hands flat on her stomach.
“Hey,” Cynna said. “You’re supposed to ask before you touch.”
“Didn’t give you a baby present yet,” Max announced. “I’ll do that now.” He stared hard at her belly. After a moment his eyebrows flew up. “Son of a bitch.”
“He’s my son,” Cynna said, “so that means you’re calling me a bitch.”
“Don’t be so touchy. Also shut up. I need to pay attention.” He began muttering again, but not in English. Or any other language Lily had ever heard. It sounded kind of like someone with the hiccups speaking a mix of Russian and German, and it went on for several moments.
“There.” Max sounded deeply satisfied as he pulled his hands away from Cynna’s belly. His forehead was sweaty. “Gave him a birthing name.”
“You don’t get to name my baby!”
Max rolled his eyes. “I said birthing name, not call name. You’ve already given him one of those.”
“No, we haven’t. We’re still deciding. What’s a birthing name?”
“Well, he thinks he’s got a name already, so take it up with him if you don’t agree.”
Cynna’s eyes were wide. “You can talk to him?’
“Of course not. He’s not even born yet. The birthing name will help with that. Bend down.”
“What? Why?”
Another eye roll. “How’s the birthing name going to help if you don’t know it? Bend down so I can give it to you.”
Looking mystified and slightly cross, Cynna did. Max moved to her side and whispered something in her ear, and her expression changed. “Oh . . .”
Faintly a voice came from the bed. “You gav
e my son a birth name.”
Cullen was awake. He’d turned his head on the pillow and was watching Max.
Max scowled. “I should’ve asked. Was going to, but you went and got yourself damn near dead.”
“Thank you, my friend. K’recti afhar kaken.” Cullen’s hand moved slightly, reaching.
Max took it. Did he flush? Hard to say with that pasty skin. He said something back in the hiccupy not-quite-Russian tongue, adding in English, “Thought I’d better. Poor little tyke will be as puny as a human at first.”
Cullen smiled faintly. His gaze shifted to Cynna. “The birthing name . . . If the little rider gets in trouble—sick or badly hurt—you use it. Lets him draw on Max’s strength. Wears off after . . .” His gaze shifted back to Max, his eyebrows lifting slightly.
Max shrugged. “Don’t know, with a lupus babe. A year, anyway. Maybe more.”
“Wow.” Cynna heaved herself up, grabbed Max’s face with her two hands, bent, and kissed him on the mouth. “Thank you, Max.”
He definitely blushed this time. “You are most welcome. Say, you want to—”
“No.” Cynna grinned. “But thanks, anyway.”
Cullen’s gaze switched back to Cynna. He smiled—just before his eyes rolled back in his head.
Jason bent over him. “He’s okay. Back in sleep. I don’t know how he managed to wake from it in the first place.”
“The ward, I guess.” Cynna rubbed her stomach idly. “He and I put one up around the little rider last week.”
Max’s eyebrows climbed. “I didn’t think that was possible, not in living flesh.”
“Hey, I use my flesh for magic all the time. Seems to have worked. You triggered it when you did your naming thing, and the ward woke him.”
“Hmph. Well,” Max said, pulling a deck of cards from his pocket, “who’s up for a few hands of poker?”
“We’re leaving and Cynna’s going to lie down as soon as Jason gets her bed ready,” Rule said. He looked at Jason. “Don’t play for money. Max cheats.”
