Tempting Danger (14 page)

“Berserker. That sounds ominous. Is that a certain type of lupus?”

“More like a condition. Rare, fortunately.”

“Speaking of rare, here comes your burger. Hope she remembered mine.”

Sharon wafted up on a cloud of musk, smiling shyly, and delivered two enormous hamburgers on plates piled high with french fries. She lingered a moment, fussing with the condiments, asking if Rule wanted anything else. More coffee, maybe? Another customer called to her to bring the coffeepot his way. Sharon sighed and departed.

Rule waited until she was out of earshot to say, “I’ve often wondered why human men like women to smell like the musk gland of a male deer.”

“I take it you’re not fond of perfume.” Lily spread mayonnaise on the bun. “Hey. I’ve misjudged Sharon. She remembered my pickles.”

“She’s just a little starstruck. I’m probably the only lupus she’ll ever meet. Knowingly, at least.”

“Hmm.” The pickles were thick wedges, not slices. There were six of them. She cut them neatly to fit, then began layering them on top of the meat. “In every picture of you I’ve seen, you’re wearing black. You wore black last night. You’re wearing it today. That’s on purpose, isn’t it? You want people to recognize you. You want them to know they’re meeting a lupus.”

“Black is good theater,” he admitted. “Are you really going to eat that?”

“You like raw meat. I like pickles.” She set the top of the bun on her pickle mountain. “You do the mystery bit well—sex, sophistication, the allure of the forbidden or the dangerous. It’s on purpose, isn’t it? That’s the image you want people to associate with lupi. Glamour, not bestiality. You’ve made yourself into a poster boy for your people.”

His lip curled. “Why, thank you.”

She grinned. “Starting to believe your image?”

“Maybe I really am sexy, sophisticated and—how did you put it? Full of the allure of the forbidden.”

“Full of something, anyway.”

He grinned back, enjoying her, and reached for the ketchup. “What about you, Lily? Do you believe your image?”

“I don’t have an image.”

“Sure you do. The tough, cynical cop.”

“No, that’s the real me. No secrets . . . well, maybe one or two.” Suddenly all the fun leaked out of her expression. “But not on your scale. I don’t keep any kids tucked out of sight so they won’t spoil the image.”

TEN

LILY
thought he was going to jump her. The fury that leaped into his eyes looked like violence about to happen.

For a long moment he didn’t move, didn’t speak. At last he asked, low and silky, “How do you know about my son?”

Her mouth was dry. It infuriated her. “You don’t want the police to be aware of him?”

“I forgot I was talking to the police. Foolish of me. No, I don’t want the police to know about him. I don’t want anyone outside the clan to know about him—though not for the reason you suggested.” His lip curled. “What an interesting opinion you have of me.”

She’d hurt him. The notion shocked her, and immediately she tried to reason it away.

He wasn’t a serious suspect now. Too many witnesses placed him at Club Hell at 9:30, and Therese and her cell phone proved Fuentes was still alive at 9:50. So maybe she’d relaxed too much. She’d let things get too casual, too friendly. Maybe, for some ungodly reason, she actually liked this man. She’d felt bad for him, talking about how he missed the Change. What had happened to wrest his magic from him? Could he get it back? She couldn’t ask.

But she didn’t know him, not really, nor did he know her. Her opinion couldn’t matter. And yet . . . “I crossed a line,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“My son isn’t part of your investigation.” He tossed his napkin on the table, slid out of the booth, and pulled out his wallet.

She slid out and stood, too. “You don’t have to—”

“I invited you. I’ll pay.” He threw a couple bills on the table. “
Bon appétit,
Detective. If you wish to see Clanhome, be at your headquarters building at ten-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up.”

He left to the same silent chorus of stares that had greeted his arrival.

Okay,
Lily thought, picking up her hamburger and trying to take some interest in eating it.
Looks like I blew that one.
She was chewing a tasteless bite when Crowder came up.

“Lost your date?” He slid in across from her without asking.

“I’m trying to have supper here.”

“You go right ahead,” he said, and dragged one of the fries on Rule’s plate through the ketchup. “Got any mustard?”

“No.” She deliberately took another bite.

“Oh, there it is.” He pulled the squeeze bottle over and squirted a thick yellow stream on the bun. “Be better with some onion,” he said, fitting the bun on top, “but I’m not picky.”

“The meat’s rare.”

“Like I said, I’m not picky.” He took a huge bite.

She sighed and put her hamburger down. “You aren’t going away, are you?”

“Nope.” He chewed, then wiped his mouth. “Wanted to apologize for Tucker. Kid’s wet behind the ears, just like you said. Thing is . . . well, I thought you ought to know. Someone’s been shooting his mouth off. Tucker’s too green to take what he hears with a grain of salt.”

“Talking?” Her stomach felt tight. “About me?”

He nodded and disposed of another fourth of the burger in one bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Nothing that bad, just . . . you know. Talk. About you and Turner, the effect his kind have on women. That sort of thing.”

“Who?” she demanded. Dammit, she’d only been on the case since last night. “Who’s talking me down?”

Crowder shook his head. “I don’t like to say. You know how it is.”

Yeah, she knew. You were one of the guys—right up until you weren’t. Locker room talk was still governed by the high school code: don’t repeat it to the girls. Probably just as well, a lot of the time, or none of the women on the force would be able to stand working with a lot of the men.

Crowder had bent those unspoken rules by coming over here. “Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem.” He polished off the burger. “Would’ve been better with onions,” he said, and pushed to his feet. “You take care, now.”

“Yeah. Stay safe.”

Crowder ambled back to his table, leaving Lily thinking furiously. Crowder worked the same shift she did. Who knew about her case that might have been in the locker room at the end of shift, shooting his mouth off?

She grimaced. Too many possibilities. But she couldn’t help remembering the way Mech had tried to protect her from being alone with Turner.
Don’t jump to conclusions,
she warned herself.

But the ugly thought had destroyed any hope of forcing more of her meal down. She grabbed her purse and scooted out of the booth.

“The food wasn’t good?” The starstruck waitress stood in front of Lily, her eyes dark with anger and disappointment.

It wasn’t the food she was worried about. Lily sighed. “The food was fine, but he had to leave. And so do I.”

Sharon shook her head. “Take my advice, and don’t go running after him. Make him come to you. Not that I blame you.” She sighed. “That man just radiates sex. Like a stove. I’ll bet he—okay, okay!” she called to someone else wanting her attention. “Be right there.” She smiled kindly at Lily. “My momma always said, if you can’t play hard to get, then just play. Have fun.” She patted Lily on the arm and hurried off.

Lily stared after her. She had definitely misjudged Sharon.

She forced her mind back to business.

PAIN
was a dull, sullen presence, hardly compelling. But something else pushed at Cullen, telling him it was time. Time to wake up.

He stirred. Something hard beneath him . . . hard, it was so hard, to wake up. Shouldn’t be. He’d been . . . he was . . .

For a moment the knowledge simply wasn’t there. The spurt of panic pushed him the rest of the way to the surface. He opened his eyes.

Raw wood overhead. Wood beneath him, too. The cabin.
Yes,
he thought, relieved.
That’s right
. He was at the cabin. He’d come here to . . . the thought slid away.

His ribs hurt. He sat up carefully, letting the blanket that had covered him slide to his lap. He blinked. He’d been lying on the floor, fully clothed. And there was a large hole in the north wall.

Oh, yeah. He’d gone sailing through it when he got into a little disagreement with Molly’s friend. He touched his side, grimaced. Hadn’t won that argument, had he?

The memory was oddly fuzzy. He must have been slightly concussed, though his head didn’t hurt. Healed it while he was out, he supposed, and pushed to his feet. He’d had time for that. The light streaming in through the damaged wall told him it was early morning. He’d come to the cabin with Molly and her sorcerer friend yesterday about noon. They’d talked about exchanging spells, and then . . .

Had it been yesterday? He frowned. Must have been, he decided. If he’d been out for more than a night, his ribs wouldn’t still be this sore. And he’d be a lot hungrier.

Not that he wasn’t hungry. First things first, though. He touched his wards mentally, found everything secure, then went to check the damage to his ramshackle
pied-à-terre
.

He wasn’t much of a carpenter, but the repair seemed to lie within his skills. He’d have to get to it pretty quickly, though—the roof was sagging. Someone had wedged a couple of the broken two-by-fours across the top beam, temporarily reinforcing it, but a good wind could take it down.

Considerate of them,
he thought, ambling over to the ice chest he’d brought. They’d knocked him out, cracked a rib or two, but at least they’d kept the roof from falling in on him while he was unconscious. They’d tossed a blanket over him, too, before departing.

That had probably been Molly’s idea. She had a soft heart. But he didn’t think she was strong enough to have made the temporary repairs to his roof. That must have been . . . what was the man’s name?

Frowning, he took out the carton of eggs, then paused, trying to identify the mechanical
whup-whup
sound his ears picked up. A helicopter, he decided. Off to the south. Not a common sound up here—he was pretty remote. But not alarming, either.

He headed for the little propane-powered stove. He’d have to give Rule a call. There was some serious stuff going on, weird energies moving between the realms that he didn’t understand. Though he had an idea, from something the other man had said . . . something to do with the realms shifting?

Dammit, he really needed to remember. He turned on the burner and poured oil into the cast-iron skillet, scowling. What was his last clear memory?

The encounter with that pretty little detective at Club Hell was clear enough. Cullen grinned. Rule had a definite interest there. Should he tell his friend that his newest inamorata was a sensitive?

Maybe, but never mind for now. That memory was clear enough. So was the next morning, when Molly’s phone call had dragged him out of sleep far too early—and seriously aroused his curiosity. A few hours later, he’d gone to the airport to pick up Molly and her current lover, who was a sorcerer, like him.

Only not like him. Cullen frowned. That’s where things got fuzzy. He couldn’t call up the man’s face or much about what happened after Molly and what’s his name arrived. They’d argued, him and the other sorcerer. He remembered that much. He’d wanted more than the other man . . . Michael. Yes, he thought, relieved to have retrieved that much. The man’s name was Michael.

The one he’d used, anyway. Sorcerers were a secretive bunch, so it probably wasn’t his real name. Normally Cullen wouldn’t have invited another student of the
sorcéri
to his retreat. There was a small, untapped node beside the cabin, one he didn’t intend to share. But Molly had vouched for the man.

And Cullen had ended up unconscious for about twenty-four hours. Well, he thought, absently rubbing his side, maybe he’d deserved that. He and Michael had swapped a couple of basic spells—nice stuff, but nothing really new. When they started talking theory, though, it had been obvious the man was holding back. Cullen couldn’t recall exactly what had happened, but he had the notion he’d pulled something a bit underhanded.

It had worked, too. He grinned, elated, the two eggs in his hand forgotten as at last one memory kicked in, clear and sharp.

What was a cracked rib or an unplanned nap on the floor? He had a dandy new illusion spell, elegant and powerful. Far more sophisticated than anything he’d run across or dreamed up on his own. The setting sequence alone suggested all sorts of possibilities. . . .

Grease spat on his hand. He started to rub it, noticed the eggs he was holding, and cracked them into the pan, then added a third. Food first, and then—oh, then he’d settle into some serious study of his new acquisition.

He’d better not get too deep into it, though, or he’d forget to call Rule. Cullen sighed. Pity, but he couldn’t just drop out of sight and work on this, not now. Who else could tease out the truth? In this benighted age, so few grasped even the basics about magic. They didn’t burn to understand, the way he did. No, just as children afraid of the dark pull the covers over their heads, they burrowed into their ignorance—and cast out those who didn’t want to live trapped beneath their stifling restrictions.