Death Magic wotl-8

by Eileen Wilks

  “I thought—they seemed to be after you, Cullen. First one wolf, then the demon Lily, then another wolf.”

  “Oh.” Rule could hear the shrug in his friend’s voice. “A demon will usually go after a sorcerer if it can. They never know what one of us might be capable of, so they like to take us out quick.”

  Funny that Cullen was just now mentioning this.

  “Something changed,” Cullen went on. “They seemed to be acting on their own at first. When they came for Rule, they weren’t. They were under someone’s control.”

  “Chittenden,” Lily said. “He sent them. He must . . . I think at first he stuck to the original plan, turning the demon-ridden dopplegängers loose. The more people they killed, the better. Lupi would be blamed. It sounds like he changed his tactics when he realized he wouldn’t be getting an on-site delivery of victims to feed to the elementals. I don’t know what he’d planned to do with the elementals, or how he planned to sacrifice twenty-two people right out in public. Maybe he thought everyone who saw him slitting throats would end up dead, so it didn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, that fits,” Cullen said. “By then he’d seen Rule, though, so he sent the dopplegängers after him. It must have seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. Is Chittenden dead?”

  “I knocked him out. I wanted to . . . but I didn’t. He’ll live to stand trial.”

  “That’s something, I guess.” Cullen was silent a moment. “You want to tell me what happened with that enormous elemental? I saw the brownies scaling it like it was a climbing wall, but I don’t know what they did.”

  She told them. Rule felt a smile stretch across his face. It hurt, but so did everything else.

  Someone—Mike, it sounded like—called Cullen to come help with setting a bone. Cullen told Lily to “call me if he starts bleeding again, but he won’t”—and moved away.

  The wail of one of the sirens peaked, then shut off. Some kind of help was here. Rule needed to speak before they lost this brief privacy. “Lily.”

  She bent closer. Close enough that he could breathe her in, the sweet, comforting scent of her ... and her tears. She’d worked so hard to keep those tears from her voice, but she’d been crying from the moment she settled down beside him. He must look bloody awful. “You did the right thing. If you’d obeyed . . .” Obedience was not something his nadia was inclined toward, no, and he was so glad and grateful for that. “If you’d heeded me when I tried to forbid you, we’d all be dead.”

  “I did what I had to do, but I was just guessing. It was all such a guess.”

  “A guess backed by great courage.” He made the effort and raised one hand to touch her hair. He didn’t touch her face, though he wanted to. But she didn’t want him to know about the tears, so he avoided discovering them. “I knew you had to go, to do what you could. I just couldn’t . . . you’re braver than I.”

  His beautiful, brave nadia snorted. “Yeah, right. Why did you send Scott with me instead of coming yourself?”

  “I couldn’t.” That moment rose up and choked him again—Lily racing off into God knew what, her very motion a lure to whatever wolfish instincts lived in the demon-ridden doubles of his people. “Scott isn’t fully healed yet. He couldn’t fight properly. Too many would have died if I left. I had to stay.”

  “I know,” she said softly, and miraculously found the one spot on his face that didn’t hurt, and stroked it. “I know. Which means you did what you had to do, just like me, doesn’t it?”

  TWO hundred fifty-nine people died at the four Humans First rallies—one hundred and twelve of them in D.C. alone. That had been by far the largest rally, so there had been a great many targets. Plus it was the only rally where elementals had been summoned, and estimates put the number of demon wolves there at more than twice those at the other rallies. The second highest number of fatalities occurred in Albuquerque, mostly because Manuel and his clansmen had had the farthest to travel, and had arrived late.

  Of those two hundred fifty-nine people killed, thirty-seven were lupi . . . which didn’t sound too disproportionate until you looked at all the numbers. Which Arjenie did, because her mind worked that way. She sent Rule an e-mail with those numbers, which he read while being given the last of the four pints of blood he’d needed.

  He immediately called several of his media contacts and arranged to speak to reporters from his wheelchair as he was being released from the hospital. One of his eyes was covered by a gauze pad. The swelling had gone down around the other one, just as he’d said it would.

  At that press conference, he told reporters and their cameras that there had been an estimated thirty-five thousand humans altogether who’d attended the four rallies. Seven-tenths of one percent of those people were killed. There had been one hundred sixty-four lupi who raced to save the humans at those rallies.

  One-fifth of them were killed. Nearly a third of them died in D.C.

  Rule’s press appearance garnered attention for several hours, until an announcement that night by the Secretary of Defense eclipsed everything else for a while.

  A nuclear warhead had been accidentally deployed that morning due to a mysterious series of glitches that no one was able to explain. The missile had apparently been on course for the West Coast when—with even greater mystery—it had vanished from sight and radar. No trace of the missile or the warhead was ever found.

  WITH everything that happened that day, it wasn’t surprising that no one noticed that four of the U.S. cities with dragons were temporarily without dragons. Since they were gone a single day, people might not have noticed even without the dramatic events.

  It was the next day when six women boarded planes at the Denver airport at various times, headed back to their various homes.

  The seventh woman didn’t need to catch a plane. She’d left as soon as her work was done. An enormous black dragon had flown her home already, his talons wrapped carefully around the empty body, her bright muumuu flapping merrily in the wind of their passage.

  Dragons cannot open gates on their own. They can manipulate them, power them, even close them, but they can’t open them. For reasons they do not explain, song magic alone isn’t enough. The Rhejes could open a gate; that knowledge was held in the memories. They couldn’t shift one in front of an ICBM boosting at thousands of miles an hour, so they needed the dragons as much as the dragons needed them.

  It takes a godawful amount of power to open a gate. The dragons supplied much of that, but the Rhejes had had to channel it. An eighty-one-year-old heart, however valiant, can only take so much strain, and the two healers present couldn’t stop chanting to help. She’d held on, though—held on until the gate opened and the missle shot into a realm that had held no life for over three thousand years.

  Nokolai clan had a new Rhej.

  TWO days later, Lily was called to Croft’s office to “discuss the results of the administrative hearing.” The sound of his voice told her it was good news, so she was hopeful, really hopeful, that she was going to get to keep her job. Maybe there’d be a black mark on her record, but she could live with that.

  “They want to what?” she said, dumbfounded.

  “It’s a great honor. The Presidential Citizens Medal is the second-highest civilian award in the country. The president will, of course, present it herself.”

  It made her furious. “I’m no hero. I showed up. That’s about it. Oh, and I did manage to give Chittenden a skull fracture, which makes me personally very happy. But if the president wants to hand out medals, I can name a dozen who deserve it more. Harry and his troop. Chris, Mike, Scott, Rule, Isen—” She had to stop, her breath hitching. Not everyone she spoke of was still around to receive a stupid medal. “That old woman with her handbag—now, there’s a hero! It’s not right to single me out this way. It’s not right.”

  “Sometimes showing up is what it takes. Showing up over and over and over in spite of how hard it gets.”

  She shook her head, out of words.

/>   “Besides, I disagree about you not doing much. There are twenty-two other people alive today who’d disagree, too. And if you hadn’t acted on that tip . . .” Croft paused a moment, clearly uncomfortable. He knew who had tipped Lily about Chittenden’s possession of the amulet, though it wasn’t in her official report. He always avoided mentioning it, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of ghostly tips. “If you hadn’t acted, the brownies couldn’t have done what they did.”

  “So give the brownies a medal.”

  “The president wanted to. Their spokesperson said they respectfully declined to receive any sort of award, and besides, they never leave their reservation, so what were we talking about?”

  That startled a laugh out of her. “I’m told they don’t like to have a fuss made about bravery.”

  He smiled. “Apparently not.” The smile faded. “As for publically honoring the heroism and sacrifice of the lupi . . . I hope that happens eventually, but right now the country is too divided. There’s a great uneasiness, even among some who agree that they were heroes—a feeling that if the country didn’t harbor lupi in the first place, none of this would have happened. And, of course, there’s that vocal minority that believes the government is engaged in a massive cover-up and the lupi really were behind it all, not Paul Chittenden.”

  Lily grimaced. The Humans First movement hadn’t died. It was diminished, but not dead.

  “Lily.” Croft leaned forward earnestly. “People need heroes. Let them have one.”

  “Yeah, don’t be a dick,” Al Drummond said. He was sitting in the other visitor chair, looking his usual pallid self. “Take the damn medal.”

  She wanted to tell him it was physically impossible for her to be a dick. She wanted to tell him to go away—which he had so far refused to do. Not that he was around every minute, but every so often, he popped up, usually with unwanted advice.

  But people look at you funny if you start talking to your invisible friends, so she didn’t. And in the end, Lily agreed to accept the medal. It would be months, maybe a year, before they did the big presentation ceremony. Who knows? She might still end up dismissed and disgraced and not have to go through with it.

  THREE days after that, on the night before Lily and Rule were scheduled to fly home—at last—they were in their bedroom at the Georgetown house, getting ready.

  Rule sat on the bed as he slipped on his shirt. He could stand without using the crutches; it had taken some insistence on his part, but they’d casted the leg as soon as the outer wound closed, and having it casted helped. But standing hurt more than he liked to admit, so he stayed seated as much as possible.

  The femur had barely begun healing; his eye hadn’t started. He kept a square of gauze taped over it, knowing it was an ugly sight. His healing had prioritized the internal injuries. That was normal. But it was taking forever for him to feel normal.

  So many dead. Too many, and the war had only begun.

  “Am I the only one who thinks it’s just weird to be going to a dinner party?” Lily asked as she turned away from the closet, a necklace in one hand. “Or for Deborah and Ruben to be giving one, for that matter.”

  “Deborah wants to feel normal. And it’s just us and Isen, not really a party.”

  “Fasten this for me?” Lily said, and held out a necklace. The one he’d given her . . . gods, was it only two weeks ago? “No, don’t stand up.” She huffed out an impatient breath and dropped to her knees in front of him. “Here.” She pulled her hair aside. “I’m hoping Fagin’s right about those white stones.”

  He took his time fastening the necklace, enjoying the slight, involuntary shiver his touch gave her. He’d been too damaged for them to make love, but his guts were healed now, so tonight, that would change. He promised himself that. “What about the stones? They’re agates, by the way.”

  “That’s what he said. He also said that white agates are supposed to offer protection against malign or confused spirits.”

  That made him grin. “You’re hoping to keep Drummond from dropping in while we eat our steaks?” Lily said the ghost wasn’t around constantly. Just now and then—usually with some sort of unwanted advice.

  “Damn right. If it works, I’ll wear this all the time.” She stood. “I’ll get your shoes. No, stay there,” she told him firmly. “Why was it okay for you to help me constantly when my arm was messed up, but you don’t want to let me help you?”

  That was apparently a rhetorical question, for she went back to the closet without waiting for an answer. Rule finished buttoning his shirt and waited obediently.

  Coming to First Change as an adult had made a big difference in Ruben’s adjustment. He’d returned to Washington yesterday in his two-legged form—but only temporarily, and not alone. In addition to Isen, he’d brought five Wythe guards. Isen had judged that Ruben’s control was good enough for him to make an appearance around the two-legged crowd, as long as he was with Ruben. Ruben still had trouble with speech sometimes when the wolf was too much present, but he could hold it together pretty well.

  They’d decided to keep Ruben’s transformation as much of a secret as possible. The president knew. Croft knew. But even the head of the Bureau was unaware that his briefly disgraced, newly reinstated head of Unit 12 was the werewolf who’d helped lead the fight against the demon dopplegängers in Albany.

  The charges against Ruben had been dropped. He would remain in command of Unit 12 . . . but Croft didn’t get to give up his desk job. Ruben wasn’t close to being ready to resume hands-on control of the Unit. He and Deborah and Isen would be leaving for Wythe Clanhome tomorrow.

  The story was that they were going to a secret location where the privacy-obsessed healer who’d helped Ruben right after his heart attack could continue treatment. That treatment would be seen to have worked in another few weeks when the Brookses returned home. Their swimming pool would have been filled in by then and construction finished on the two-story “guesthouse” they were going to add . . . which would in fact be a barracks for Wythe guards.

  The Brookses would be spending a great deal of time in upper New York State, of course. But Ruben should be able to resume control of Unit 12.

  Lily returned from the closet carrying Rule’s favorite loafers in one hand ... and a small box wrapped in shiny white paper in the other.

  “What’s that? My birthday’s not for another four days.” And he would spend it with Lily and Toby. His heart lifted slightly. This was the first time he’d have his son with him on his birthday—and Lily to share that with.

  “Three days,” she corrected him. “You mean you forgot? It’s our eleven month, one week, and, uh . . . three days anniversary.”

  He smiled. “Eleven months, two weeks, and five days.”

  “Don’t be difficult.” She sat on the bed beside him. “The point is, this is not an early birthday present. You know I don’t believe in those. It’s just a thing.” She handed him the box.

  There was a big silver bow on top, dwarfing the little box, which was very lightweight. He pulled off the bow and ripped the paper.

  She’d given him an eye patch. A black silk eye patch.

  “So you can look piratical instead of like a patient,” Lily said. “It sucks being a patient, but a pirate—well. That’s dashing.”

  “I’m not vain.” But he handed her the patch so he could yank off the gauze pad, suddenly eager to be rid of it.

  “Yes, you are.” The eye patch was attached to a strip of silk, elasticized in the back. She tugged it on. “Good. It fits.”

  It did. His fingers told him that the patch covered his eye from brow to cheekbone. “Am I dashing now?”

  “Absolutely.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly. “A man in a cast and bandages looks injured. A man in a cast and an eye patch looks dangerous. So I’ve been thinking.”

  “It’s a habit of yours, I’ve noticed.” He slipped on his shoes. “Pass me the crutches, will you? I want to see how this looks.”

  She
handed them to him. “About the wedding.”

  He stopped. “Yes?”

  “We still haven’t settled who’s going to perform the ceremony. Maybe we should talk about that.”

  The last time Rule brought that up, she’d all but run in the other direction. Lily had an issue with religion in general. What was she . . . oh. He smiled.

  She was making things normal for him, or trying to. What had he told her two weeks ago? She’d asked how he could spend time planning a wedding and picking out a necklace for her, and the answer had been so clear to him then.

  How else could he live?

  Nothing seemed as clear to him now . . . except for Lily. Who had picked out a present for him, and suddenly wanted to talk about wedding plans. He levered himself to his feet with the crutches, bent, and kissed her. “Perhaps Sam would conduct the ceremony for us.”

  She stared at him. “Sam? But he isn’t—that is—I don’t think that’s legal.”

  “Or we could ask Father Michaels. He did a nice job with Cullen and Cynna’s wedding.” He swung himself over to the full-length mirror and smiled. The patch did look rather good.

  “But we aren’t Catholic. And he lives here, and we’re getting married in San Diego.”

  “That could be a problem, I suppose. I have another idea. I think Carl was a minister at one point. It was under a different name, but that shouldn’t matter.” He got himself turned around. “Would you like to be married by Carl?”

  “Your father’s cook.”

  “Yes, and I’ve been wanting to talk about the doves.”

  “Doves.” Her eyes widened in horror. “My mother wanted doves.”

  “Perhaps she had a point. Wouldn’t it look splendid, releasing a few dozen white doves all at once to carry our message of hope and love up to—”

  “You are so full of shit.” But she started laughing. “Doves, sure. Our guests would love some flying hors d’œuvres. Maybe we should have some cute little bunnies for them to chase after the ceremony instead of cake, sending our message of fuzzy, yummy love to flesh eaters everywhere.”