World of Lupi 10 - Ritual Magic (34 page)

But the officer . . . she felt bad about him. Dafydd understood her regret, but he didn’t share it. Not really. To him, they were all so ephemeral, so insubstantial . . . he took delight in them, as she might in the beauty of flowers or sweet-smelling herbs. But if you need rosemary for your dinner, you pluck it. So with that officer. He’d been needed to anchor her lord in this realm until she could take over that task. But he hadn’t been prepared for it, as she had, and he worshiped elsewhere. By the time she had removed the anchoring energy, he was badly damaged. Poor man. She wondered if her lord might do anything to fix him . . .

You have a saying about eggs and omelettes, my love . . . the man’s shell is too badly cracked. Even I can’t get the yolk back inside.

She giggled. Wasn’t it just like him to think of it that way? Perhaps later she’d go back to the hospital and finish the man off. It would be a kindness. She hadn’t dared do it before. She couldn’t afford to draw that kind of attention to herself.

But everything would be different soon. Everything. She reached over and stroked the knife that lay in the passenger seat. Delight shimmered through her . . . and power. Ageless, endless power. It was true that at first the feel of the knife had unnerved her. But the knife was like Dafydd. The more she touched it, the more she wanted to touch it.

What couldn’t she do with this much power?

THIRTY-EIGHT

T
URNED
out Cullen had been right.

Armand Jones’s ski mask had been acrylic, but polyester would work, too. Not perfectly, and nothing would help if any of them were fool enough to touch the knife. Friar was the only one who could do that safely. Or so he claimed, and Rule hadn’t smelled a lie, so probably Friar believed that. But he claimed that synthetic fibers did offer some protection.

So they headed for Walmart.

There was one not too far out of the way—that is, as much as they knew which way they were going. Friar wouldn’t tell them; he wouldn’t even say how far away the cursed knife was. No surprise there. The bastard wanted to make sure they took him along, didn’t he? It would be hard to double-cross them if he wasn’t close by. He told them what road to take, when to turn. Otherwise he sat in grim silence, his injured leg stretched out on the seat.

Rule sat back there with him, watching him. He’d wanted Cullen watching Friar, too, in his own way, and he didn’t want Lily crowded in between him and their enemy. So it was Lily behind the wheel when they pulled into the parking lot of a Walmart just off I-805. Scott and the others were behind them in the van. One of the men would run in for their synthetic headgear.

Persuasion, compulsion, and corruption. Those were the powers the knife conveyed. Friar had only talked about two of those. Lily was thinking about that as she parked the car on the outside edge of the lot. The van went on by, heading for the front of the store.

Compulsion she was pretty clear about. That was the instant, violent overthrow of free will. Persuasion and corruption were more slippery, but corruption had to be about morality. Doing wrong when you knew it was wrong. Friar didn’t know the difference between right and wrong, so maybe he discounted the knife’s corrupting power as meaningless. He’d maxed out on corruption already. Persuasion . . . that would be more like trickery, wouldn’t it? Becoming convinced that the sky was yellow instead of blue, that up was down. Making a mistake because you weren’t thinking clearly.

When she was under spiritual attack during the fight with the dworg, had that been persuasion or corruption?

Her mind had felt clear. She hadn’t been tricked into making a tactical mistake. But for a few moments, it had seemed okay to kill Santos if he didn’t obey her. Maybe that would have been right and moral behavior for Rule. It wasn’t for her.

It sure sounded like corruption.

Cullen spoke suddenly. “Let’s stretch our legs a minute.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Friar said dryly. “Oh—you didn’t mean me, did you?”

Cullen rolled his eyes and opened his door. Lily climbed out on her side, and Rule, frowning, did the same. “I don’t know how good his hearing is,” he said, “but I don’t want to move far from the car.” He headed for the back of the car, stopping a few feet from the trunk.

Lily followed. As Cullen joined them she said, “Does anyone else wonder if he’s laughing at us? I mean . . . I know Jones wore a ski mask, so Friar’s probably telling the truth, but the idea that cheap ski masks or knitted caps will stop this god he says is so powerful . . . it seems ludicrous.”

“Hmm?” Cullen was clearly preoccupied. “No, that makes sense. It’s not the magic they stop. It’s the vector.”

“Unpack that,” Rule said.

Cullen was surprised. “I didn’t explain already? I got that figured out finally. The compulsion is magical, but it has a spiritual vector. That’s the only thing that fits. The contagion couldn’t travel through inorganics because it’s vectored—mobile—only through spirit. It’s like the plague that way, where fleas were the vector. Maybe one in a million people were actually immune to the plague the way Lily is immune to the compulsion, but the trick to avoiding the plague wasn’t having a superpowerful immune system. It was avoiding flea bites. That’s what we have to do—block the vector. Keep those spiritual fleas away from our crown and brow chakras. I’m pretty sure the brow chakra is the key,” he added, “but best to protect them both, just in case.”

“Just those two chakras need to be protected?” Lily said dubiously. “The contagion didn’t have to get rubbed over Crown’s third eye to take him over.”

“That was like someone catching the plague by sticking their fingers in diseased tissue instead of through a flea bite. And that’s not a great analogy, but . . .” Cullen ran a hand over his hair. “If I tried to really explain, we’d be here all night. Just take my word for it, okay? This isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

“Okay. Talk.”

“Friar doesn’t heal the way we do.”

“What do you mean?” Rule asked.

Cullen waved toward the car and the man in it. “The magic’s the wrong color, for one thing. And he’s using way more power than a lupus would. Spending power like crazy.”

“
Her
power.” Rule’s lip curled with distaste. “I feel it, sitting so damnably close to him. Are you sure he’s using it for healing?”

“He’s got shields. One of them makes it hard to see details, but I can see the general flow, and huge amounts of active power are localized at his injuries. So yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s doing. Only I’m not sure I’d call it healing.” Cullen frowned, tipping his head. “It’s almost as if he’s remaking his body instead.”

This time it was Lily who asked what he meant.

“I think he’s using what the elves call body magic. Healing and body magic are . . .” Cullen wobbled a hand. “The magic is similar, but they aren’t the same. Like, ah . . . you can do lots of things with your hands, but catching a ball and painting a picture are very different skill sets. Body magic’s not the same skill set as healing. And using body magic to heal is like having a hole in the drywall and, instead of patching it, you take down the whole wall and rebuild it.”

Lily could relate to that metaphor. She’d been living with it for over a month now. “Maybe the Big B’s power can’t be used for healing. Given the way she likes to gobble down death magic, that would make sense.”

“Yeah, probably, but the point is that I don’t know much about body magic. I’ve never watched someone using it and I don’t know how long it will take him to finish. He might be all rebuilt a lot sooner than we’re expecting. I can keep an eye on him, see if he stops spending power in the injured areas, but he could be healed enough to be a problem before that happens.”

Rule frowned. “I’d hoped we could simply walk off and leave him when we got near the knife. If there’s a chance he’s healed or mostly healed, we’ll have to keep him with us so we can watch him.”

“We don’t have to guess how much he’s healed,” Lily said. “We just take the bandages off and check.”

Rule shook his head. “Only with his permission. The terms of the deal don’t allow me to search him a second time.”

She stared. “They don’t say we can’t, either!”

“If he doesn’t cooperate with the search, we’d have to hold him down. That’s a clear violation of the terms.”

Oh, God. No wonder Friar had wanted Rule’s word instead of hers. She wouldn’t have a problem bending that part of the deal. If it saved all of them from a sneak attack by someone who didn’t just want to kill them, but make it last? No problem at all. But for Rule, the line was clear and absolute. “If you changed your mind about that,” she said slowly, “it would probably be corruption talking.”

Rule’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Earlier I was thinking about the difference between persuasion and corruption. Our, uh, our source didn’t exactly define the terms, did he?” She didn’t want to mention Sam in case Friar could hear them. As far as they knew, his hearing was only human . . . but maybe Her Bitchiness had upgraded that, too. “The way I’ve got it figured, persuasion messes up your thinking. Makes you lose your common sense. Corruption would make us lose our moral sense. For you, bending your word would mean a loss of moral sense.”

“My word, once given, has no ‘bend.’ I keep it or I break it.”

“That’s what I mean.”

Rule thought that over, then nodded. “We can use that as a canary in the coal mine. If, once we’re close to the knife, I suddenly decide it’s okay to break my word, we’ll know that is corruption speaking.”

“That would be one . . .” Lily’s eyes widened in sudden dismay.

“Lily? What is it?”

She swallowed and reminded herself to keep her voice down. “You know what Drummond said about when I was fighting the dworg. There was a spiritual attack. Was the knife nearby?”

After a moment Cullen said, “Oh.” And, “Shit. No one acted like they were under compulsion, did they? The dworg would’ve bloody won if, say, Scott had been compelled to stop fighting.”

“Which means,” Rule said slowly, “the knife was not nearby.”

“Yeah,” Lily said. “But someone was able to mount a spiritual attack anyway.” And if the knife or the god could do that, how did she know any of her decisions tonight were truly hers? She wasn’t corrupted. Surely she’d notice if she made a decision that ran counter to her understanding of good and evil . . . wouldn’t she? But persuasion was a sly and sneaky bastard. Persuasion crept in and put thoughts in your head.

Could she trust her own thoughts? How could she tell?

* * *

M
IRIAM
slowed as she neared the gate, pleased with herself for finding the place. She’d only been here that once. A barbecue, that had been. Rule had invited her and others from her coven, and his people had been very welcoming . . . one of them in a most personal way. Memory made her smile, but it faded. A pity, what would happen to them all.

The guard was quite young and looked serious as only the young can. He also looked very fit. No shirt, so she could see just how deliciously fit he was. He had pretty blond hair, and she did have a weakness for blonds, so the little leap of lust didn’t surprise her. Its echo did. “You want him, too? Oh, that would be lovely.” She sighed. “The time’s wrong, though, isn’t it? Priorities, priorities.” She pulled up to a stop and shut off the music.

The fit young man came up to her window. She lowered it and smiled at him. “I’m Miriam Faircastle. I need to see Isen about something I learned when I was trying to help that poor officer.”

“Ma’am, I’ll check, but we’re not admitting anyone with weapons except for officers of the law. You’ll have to either leave the gun and knife with me or lock them in your trunk.”

Oh, rats, she’d forgotten how well they saw in the dark. But how did he know about the gun? It was under the seat. Had he smelled it? She reached for the knife and laid her fingers lightly on the hilt. Power surged up her arm, filling her. “Forget about the knife and the gun.”

He blinked. “You need to see Isen?”

“That’s right.” She could just make him admit her . . . that was a giddy thought. She could make him do anything at all. Priorities, she reminded herself. She mustn’t alarm Isen Turner by showing up unannounced. Dafydd said the knife wouldn’t work properly on a Rho. He hadn’t said why, but it didn’t matter. Isen Turner would have to be put to sleep, and that would go so much more smoothly if he wasn’t wary of her. “Oh, before you call . . .”

He’d taken out his phone but paused, waiting just like she wanted him to.

She beamed at him. “You’re such a nice young man. You want to help me in every way possible.” Her fingers tingled where they rested on the knife. “Are Lily and Rule at their house?”

“I don’t know. They were here, but they left about an hour ago.”

Well, they’d planned for that. Or Dafydd had. “Thank you. Now you can—”

Ask if the sorcerer and the old woman are here.

“One more question. Is Madame Yu here? Or Cullen Seaborne?”

“No, ma’am, they left.”

“Thank you. Forget that I asked all that.” Not that she understood why Dafydd was worried about Lily Yu’s grandmother.

Not worried, love. However, we would need different tactics if they were present.

That made sense, she supposed. The old woman had some kind of Gift. Miriam doubted that she knew much spellcraft, but Gifts could be difficult to counter. As for Seaborne . . . he did know a great deal about magic, but he didn’t have the kind of power available to her now. Nor did he have a god to guide him in its use. She stroked the knife again and savored the thrill.

The guard put away his phone. “Isen says you’re to come ahead. You know where his house is? Just keep on the road. It dead-ends at his place.”

“Thank you. Touch your nose and stick out your tongue, please.”

He did.

She giggled.

F’annwylyd,
Dafydd said, rebuke mixing with amusement in the Welsh endearment. She didn’t know why he favored Welsh, but it was certainly a beautiful language to listen to while making love.
You will have time to play later.

He was right, of course. She smoothed her expression to an appropriate solemnity. Reminding herself that this guard would probably be dead soon helped. “Forget about that, too,” she told the lovely young man and put her window up. A moment later, he’d opened the gate and she drove through.

Her face felt chilly. How odd. She touched her cheek. It was wet. She was crying? But that made no sense, no sense at all. Soon, very soon, her Dafydd would be with her, in the flesh and forever . . . or for the rest of her life, anyway. Which might be short, given how careless her love could be even with those who mattered to him. Like her.