by Eileen Wilks
How much of what she’d thought of as “Rule being weird” had been because he was lupus? Not because he turned into a wolf and she didn’t, but because he knew he could not go back on his word. No matter what. And she . . . well, she’d never consciously factored in the possibility of breaking her word, but that might be because she hadn’t thought the issue would come up. Rule was supposed to be safe in D.C.
Easy enough to risk herself. So much harder to risk him. Yet she’d expected him to be able to risk her, hadn’t she?
Lily scowled at an innocent tree, turned, and started back. She knew how to set aside fear for her own life. She’d thought she’d gotten a handle on how to keep moving when she was scared for Rule, too. She’d faced that fear more than once . . . but she’d always been in a position to do something about it. To act.
Well, she was still supposed to act, wasn’t she? Only not in a way that helped Rule, dammit all to hell. He’d be okay, she told herself. He might do better if she was there, but he’d manage. Assuming he wasn’t locked up too long . . .
What was that? Lily stopped. And stared.
Once was odd. Twice was too damn much for coincidence. “What the hell is she doing here?”
SIXTEEN
RULE stank. Surely even human noses would wrinkle at the smell clinging to his skin and clothes. Not the noses near him, however. The drunks, gangbangers, and drug users sharing space with him were the reason he stank.
Lupi didn’t have the same scent aversions as humans. Most smells were either pleasant or interesting, including many of those humans considered offensive. To Rule, urine smelled interesting, most perfumes stank, and sweat smelled good . . . except for alcohol sweat. He heartily disliked the smell of stale alcohol oozing out through human pores.
It was neither the first nor the worst time he’d spent in jail, but this incarceration was unusual in one respect: he’d been placed in a holding cell with the general jail population. Normally authorities were very cautious when they locked up lupi, using a high-security cell if possible, often with the addition of shackles. Rule was glad to do without shackles, but a crowded holding cell was not a good place for a wolf. Though it did have one advantage: it was larger than a regular cell would be. He was locked in, but at least the walls weren’t unbearably close.
His fellow prisoners were, however. Though they kept away from him as much as they could, they were still too close. And they smelled like . . .
Yes, he told his wolf, but do not think about it. Instead he’d count up his advantages. No one had beaten him—always a plus. And he’d been fed. Not well and not enough, but the sandwich had kept hunger at bay. For a time anyway. He hoped supper would arrive soon. When it did, he would need to acquire extra portions. Preferably meat. He could simply take what he needed from his cellmates, but his jailers were apt to react poorly to that. Perhaps he should explain to his fellow prisoners how much more comfortable he’d be if he was well fed. They weren’t an altruistic bunch, but they knew who and what he was. Phrased properly, such a request might motivate them to share.
Best if they did. Best if he didn’t spend the long hours of the coming night pushing away thoughts of how much those around him stank of fear and sickness. Perfect prey. Easy.
He dragged his mind away from wolf thoughts, focusing on the man’s concerns. Those were complex enough to require concentration. The main question: why was he here?
Two Justice Department agents had questioned him once his lawyer arrived. His lawyer’s associate, that is. The interview had been fairly perfunctory, since the associate advised him not to answer any questions until Ms. Stockard could discuss the case with him. Miriam Stockard was handling the issue of bail herself.
That raised questions, too. Rule had dealt with the criminal system on behalf of clan members often enough to know what to expect, and the most junior of legal associates could have gotten his bail hearing on the docket. The hearing itself wouldn’t occur for at least another day, probably longer. He might hope for twenty-four hours, but realistically he had to expect it to take longer.
Maybe by then Lily could be here. Maybe she’d be waiting for him when they released him, and he could touch her, hold her. And be touched and held.
No, he told himself firmly. She was in Ohio, and there she’d stay until she’d fulfilled the terms of the deal. She’d want to come to him, but she couldn’t break her word.
Lily, his wolf pointed out, didn’t see the giving of one’s word that way.
He was not going to wish for her to break it, however.
His wolf wished very much that she was here now.
But then she’d be trapped, too. Locked up with people who might be a danger to her.
I would protect her. And she doesn’t mind being trapped the way I do.
She does mind it, however. This is a bad place. Better that she isn’t here.
She wouldn’t agree. She’d rather be trapped here and be together than be separated, knowing I need her.
His wolf could be a selfish bastard. Accurate maybe, but selfish. And he was sliding too much toward the wolf. He yanked his thoughts back to the man.
Perhaps the enemy who’d framed him had somehow arranged for him to be placed in a holding cell? That was possible, he supposed. His enemy might hope he’d lose control and rack up more charges against him. More likely, though, that reality lay behind door number two, where bureaucratic inertia overwhelmed all reason.
The locals were holding him as a courtesy to the feds, so they’d put him where temporary jail residents always went—a holding cell. And the feds seemed in no hurry to take him into their own custody. No doubt there was paperwork involved. In his time with Lily he’d learned that law enforcement ran on coffee and paperwork. Cops drank gallons of the former and loathed the latter.
Rule would have killed for a cup of coffee right now. He sighed and leaned against the wall of the cell and reminded himself to breathe through his mouth.
It didn’t help as much as he would have liked. One of the ways in which lupi differed from humans was a fully functional vomeronasal organ, meaning that he smelled through his mouth as well as his nose. Not as intensely, however. He’d gotten one good whiff through the nose of the pungent man passed out on the floor a few feet away. One was enough.
If an enemy had arranged for him to be here, he’d miscalculated. Rule could put up with the smell. He’d endure the lack of privacy, too, though he wouldn’t sleep. That was too much to ask of his wolf, who was quite . . . restless. One might even say agitated. Doing without sleep was annoying, but better than the way his wolf was apt to react to being startled awake if he did doze off.
He wouldn’t be here long, surely. Twenty-four hours tops, he was guessing, and he’d either make bail—if he was very lucky—or be moved to a private cell. That was likely to be much smaller than this one. The last time he’d been held in one, they’d left the lights on constantly. Between that and the extremely small space—
Don’t go there, he told himself firmly. He’d survived. He’d survive this, too.
The smelly man groaned. Rule hoped the man wasn’t going to throw up. Again.
The holding cell held twelve people at the moment. All of them except the smelly man—who hadn’t woken up enough to realize what Rule was—kept away from him. That helped. The fear-scent he inhaled with every breath did not.
Earlier, before his wolf had grown quite so agitated, he’d interacted with a couple of his cellmates. A pair of gangbangers. Not because they’d tried to give him a hard time; they seemed well aware of the stupidity of taking on a lupus. No, their target had been a skinny kid, barely eighteen, who’d been all too visibly terrified of them. Rule had explained to the larger of the two gangbangers that he disliked bullies. He’d been pinching the man’s inner elbow at the time. Done right, that grip causes a great deal of pain, but no lasting damage.
Rule remembered well the first time that grip had been used on him—by his brother, course. Benedict had an
active teaching style. When he—
“Rule Turner,” a correctional officer said as he approached the door. Another officer—a woman—was with him. She watched Rule closely, one hand resting on her holstered weapon.
Rule stood. “Here.”
“You’re out. The rest of you, step back from the door.”
“Out? I’m being transferred?”
“Released. You must have one hell of a lawyer.”
He did, but he was still surprised. He couldn’t imagine how Miriam Stockard had gotten a bail hearing so quickly.
They wanted him handcuffed. He tolerated that and the gun the female officer held on him while he was cuffed. Out. I’m getting out. Both officers were afraid of him. The smell was very interesting to his wolf, who growled and paced inside him. But he was getting out. His wolf understood and tried to settle.
They took him to a dingy room with a table and four chairs where his lawyer awaited him. Miriam Stockard was a small woman, even shorter than Lily, with an outsize presence. Rule had met her twice before. She liked immaculately tailored suits, basic black glasses, and winning. Today’s suit was a shade of rose that hovered between pink and red. She looked smug. She did not smell of fear.
“Good to see you, Ms. Stockard. Lovely suit. I’m being released on bail?”
“No. You’ve been remanded to house arrest at the Brookses’ home. You’ll wear a monitor, of course.”
His eyebrows shot up. “That’s . . . unusual.”
“Judge Carter dislikes incompetence.”
Whatever she’d meant by that remained a mystery, for they were joined by another officer, who carried the small bin Rule had emptied his pockets into when he was first brought here, and someone in civilian clothes. One of the officers read Rule a list of terms and conditions and required him to sign a form. This was awkward with the cuffs still in place, but he managed. The civilian placed a monitor on Rule’s right ankle and explained all the ways it was impossible to circumvent the system without setting off an alarm. The officer with the bin needed Rule to sign another form stating that he’d received his belongings. His phone wasn’t among them. It was being held for evidence.
Signing that last form achieved the necessary bureaucratic magic: they removed the handcuffs. And they left.
He looked at his lawyer. “I’m not being escorted in handcuffs to the Brookses’ home?”
“As an officer of the court, I’ve been entrusted with your transport.” A very small smile. “I explained how tense you were likely to be after being incarcerated and advised them to use female officers to transport you to the Brookses’ home, since lupi are much less likely to offer violence to a woman. We discussed the wisdom, or lack thereof, in having placed you in a holding cell. The result of that discussion was the decision to charge me with your transport.”
“It must have been an interesting discussion.”
“Moderately, yes. I’ve been advised by your father on several points. He said to tell you that you are instructed to respond honestly to the following question. What kind of shape are you in?”
“Tense,” he said, surprised to find himself smiling as he echoed her word. “But I’m in control. It wasn’t a lengthy incarceration.” No matter how long it had seemed. “What time is it?”
“Six fifty-two. Will you be all right riding in a car? It will be driven by one of your men, with another along for security.”
“I’m eager to ride in that car.”
“Very well. We’ll leave a roundabout way. Reporters.”
As they moved quickly through a large common room, she told him how she’d been able to spring him so quickly. It all came down to paperwork. “The locals messed up yours,” she said dryly.
“It seems like that would slow things down, not speed them up.” His stomach growled. That sandwich had been a long time ago.
They’d left the large common room for a short hall that ended in a door he thought opened on a stairwell. Miriam stayed two brisk paces in front of him. He allowed that. She was a woman who needed to be in control. “Normally, yes. But Judge Carter, as I said, dislikes incompetence. He agreed to hear me after I got word to him that you were being kept in a holding cell.” She snorted, opened the door to the stairs before he could, and headed down. Her heels clicked on the stairs. “That was stupid of them. Using locals for the arrest so they could drag things out might have seemed clever, but putting you in a holding cell infuriated the judge. He knew right away what they were up to.”
“He knows more than I do, then.”
“They wanted to delay bail. Can’t hold the bail hearing without all the paperwork in order. Officially, the marshals who were supposed to take custody of you were temporarily delayed, so the arresting officers placed you in temporary detention in the holding cell. Unofficially, you were dumped there because it was the simplest way to slow things down. There’s a fair amount of paperwork involved in transferring a prisoner from local detention to federal.”
At the bottom of the stairs was another door. “Easy to forget some small bit, I suppose?”
“And then they can drag things out correcting the mistake. They do that sometimes, usually because their case isn’t really ready for prime time.”
Rule chewed on that a moment. They were below ground, he thought, and approaching a steel door. An exit. The sign said so. “Why arrest me if they weren’t ready?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Rule tried to step around her. “Let me get the—”
She slapped the bar on the door and shoved it open before he could. Miriam Stockard was not accustomed to having anyone open doors for her. She didn’t care for going second, either. She charged through the doorway as if it led to the promised land.
It did. Today’s version of that fabled place was an underground parking garage.
This wasn’t freedom, not really. He wore a damn monitor on one ankle, and once he’d been delivered to the Brookses’ house, he wouldn’t be able to leave it. But the garage smelled of exhaust, concrete, and gasoline instead of fear, sweat, and vomit. There were no locks. No one stood by, weapon drawn, ready to shoot him if he took off running. For a moment he savored that thought. He could run. He wouldn’t, but he could. “This seems to be for official vehicles only.”
“It is. Your men should be—ah, here they come.”
A white Mercedes cruised toward them. Paul was driving. Mike rode shotgun. Another knot of tension in Rule’s guts unwound. He’d feel better with his people near.
Both men were Leidolf, not Nokolai. Rule didn’t know Paul well yet, aside from the basics: he was thirty-nine, thin, a bit jumpy—not a good trait in a guard—but he had a good tactical sense and excellent reflexes, which made him a good choice for driver. Rule nodded, approving Mike’s decision.
With José gone, Rule had put Mike in charge of the guards here. A year ago that would have unthinkable. In addition to the very large chip on Mike’s shoulder where Nokolai was concerned—many Leidolf clansmen were like that, the two clans having been enemies for so long—he’d been damaged more than most by his previous Rho. Rule had had to take him down hard.
He’d followed that discipline by placing Mike with the guards entrusted with Lily’s protection. It had worked out well. All the guards knew that only the best of them were entrusted with Rule’s mate. And Lily, in turn, had taught Mike to respect her—not easy with most of Leidolf lupi, and especially difficult with one as stubborn as Mike. Lily couldn’t toss him into a wall the way Rule had, but she didn’t need to. She was a natural dominant. Lupi couldn’t help responding to that. And even hard cases like Mike eventually understood that she was also a warrior, and a damn fine one.
Mike proved his worth this day by handing Rule a sack containing four roast beef sandwiches the moment he slid inside the car. Miriam Stockard got in on the other side without speaking. “The others?” Rule asked.
“They’ll fall in behind us when we leave the parking garage,” Mike said.
Rule closed his eyes in pleasure as he inhaled the fragrance, then took a sip.
Stockard let him finish half the cup before she spoke. “Better?”
“I’m much improved, thank you.”
“Good.” She scowled. “Then tell me what the hell is going on.”
His eyebrows lifted. “I’ve been framed for distributing child pornography. I rather thought you knew that.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about—though we will. The government’s case is surprisingly flimsy. I’m tentatively willing to accept that it’s a frame—”
“I gave you my word on it.”
“Your word means something to you, so it meant enough to me to take you on. It does not prove anything. Never mind that for now. I want to know why Ruben Brooks has been arrested, too.”
Rule went still. “You need to tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Two hours ago, Brooks was picked up by Homeland Security.”
Rule’s mind spun, settling slowly into the obvious. “That’s too much of a coincidence.”
“I agree. Which is why I asked what the hell is going on. If you and Brooks are together in this—if you’re part of some conspiracy against the government—”
“We are not.” Rule spoke with the easy conviction of truth. The Shadow Unit was a conspiracy, but against the Great Bitch, not the government.
“If you are,” Miriam repeated inflexibly, “I need to know. Now. It won’t affect my decision to represent you, but it will strongly affect whether I’ve got any chance of winning this case.”
“We are not involved in anything that might harm the government or the country,” he repeated. “What is Ruben charged with?”
“He hadn’t been charged with anything when I spoke with his wife, but one of the agents used the word ‘conspiracy’ in her hearing.”
