Death Magic

TWENTY-THREE

“. . . BE there in about five minutes.” Lily finished leaving a message for Rule and disconnected.

“He didn’t answer?” Scott said.

“Maybe they’ve got a phone Nazi in charge at the ER.” Her fingers were tingling. An odd sensation was rising in her, as if she had bubbles in her brain. Which was a deeply scary thought. She clenched both hands. They worked fine. “Turn right at the light.”

“GPS says to go straight.”

“And I say to turn right.”

“Okay. You want me to park a couple blocks away or out back or something?”

“No time.” Her toes were tingling now, too. Was she hyperventilating? Lily tried holding her breath. “I’ll deliver the news and we’ll clear out.” She should have time. Sjorensen had called Lily when Drummond left to talk to the federal attorney. There was a possibility the attorney wouldn’t want to go to a judge—but that was slim.

“Okay. Pretty nice acreage along here. Lots of room between the houses.”

She let her breath out so she could talk. It hadn’t helped, anyway. “Yeah. The Brookses’ place will be on the right about a mile, just past a scrap of woods. Old brick, two stories, circular drive.” Would Ruben run? Was that what he should do—what she wanted him to do?

She didn’t know. He might choose to sit tight, let them arrest him, let the system work. A couple weeks ago, she would have known that was the right thing to do. But he had this whole Shadow Unit thing going. In his visions, the country fell apart, riven into bloody chunks, part of it falling into anarchy, part into dictatorship. Lupi dead, Gifted dead . . . maybe Ruben had foreseen his own arrest and was expecting her. Maybe he was already gone. Maybe he knew exactly what he must do to keep his visions from becoming reality.

One thing was crystal clear. Ruben’s arrest was part of her plan.

“You trust this woman who called,” Scott said. “You believe her about Brooks getting arrested.”

Of course he’d heard both sides of that phone call. “Ninety-five percent trust, I guess.” Not that Lily knew Anna Sjorensen all that well, but what reason would she have to lie? Other than getting Lily to expose herself by racing to Ruben’s house to give him a chance to evade arrest. “Maybe eighty-five percent,” she corrected herself as Scott turned where she’d told him to. She clenched both hands again. They worked, but they didn’t feel right. Her head didn’t feel right. “But we’ll play the odds.”

THREE to one was not bad odds, not with only one gun aimed directly at him—and that by a man only ten feet away.

Ten feet increased the chance that Rule would catch a bullet if he leaped, but a head shot was highly unlikely—and it would take a head shot to stop him. There was a good chance he wouldn’t be injured at all. Most people couldn’t hit a moving target even at this range. There are humans here, he reminded himself. Bullets that missed him could hit the more fragile humans around him. Or Cullen. Best not to give idiots with guns a reason to start shooting.

He fought to appear calm and gripped Cullen’s shoulder. “Hold,” he said soothingly, feeling the wire-tight readiness in his friend. “Hold.”

“Get your hands back up!” the guard barked.

“I’m not going to do that. Do you have a dog, Officer?”

A fine tremor went down the guard’s arms. He reeked of fear. “Don’t talk shit. You people don’t turn into dogs. I worked MCD back when they rounded y’all up. I know what you’re capable of.”

Rule doubted that. Not when the man thought ten feet was a safe distance.

One of the other guards kept his gun trained on Cullen, while the third had holstered his and was reaching for the cuffs clipped to his duty belt.

Rule’s voice roughened. “Handcuffs are a very bad idea. My friend is seriously injured. He might panic if someone attempts to restrain him.”

“Cuff him,” the gray-haired guard said hoarsely. “Do it.”

Rule looked at the EMT standing closest to him. He reminded Rule a bit of LeBron—tall, muscular, with dark skin and a shaved head. LeBron, who’d been killed last month. “I don’t want anyone hurt,” he said quietly. “I can keep Cullen calm, but I’ve failed miserably to calm your gun-wielding associate. You and your friend should move away from the gurney.”

“Like hell they will,” said a raspy female voice from within the ER. “Their contract says they deliver ’em inside the doors. They’ll wheel him in here like good boys. That your man?”

“They both are,” said a second woman in a thick, warm drawl. The Rhej, Rule realized with a rush of relief as two women stepped out through the ER doors. “But I’ll share the one on the gurney with you soon as we get him moving again.” She came toward Rule. “I can take Cullen in while you get things straightened out with these boys. They’re scared,” she said, her voice balanced nicely between sympathy and scorn. “You might try looking a little less like you plan to rip out their throats.”

He’d thought he was. “I’ll stay with Cullen. He isn’t in any shape to be around so many strangers at the moment.”

“Ma’am,” said the guard with the cuffs, “you have to get back right now.”

The Rhej ignored him and looked down at Cullen, who lay motionless, his eyes bright and intent and not at all human. She nodded. “I see what you mean. You know me, though,” she told Cullen reassuringly. “I won’t leave you with strangers, no more than Rule will. Belle? We need Rule to stay with our patient.”

The other woman wore scrubs. She was shorter, heavier, and older than the Rhej, with skin a half shade darker and a face whose lines mapped out weary cynicism. She was light on her feet, though, as she came forward. “Harold, put up the damn gun.”

“Get back, Belle! You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“I know what you’re capable of, and it don’t include putting a bullet in me just ’cause you’re feeling twitchy.” So saying, the woman put her broad body between the guard and the gurney. “Take him in, boys.”

“LILY!” Deborah’s pretty eyes widened. “Is it—is Fagin—”

“Fagin?” It took Lily a second to figure out what Deborah meant. Of course—she’d have seen it on the news. “No, he’s fine. Or he will be, I guess. I haven’t heard anything lately. I need to see Ruben. It’s urgent.” The wind had picked up. Lily wished for a heavier jacket and tried not to shiver.

“Of course.” Deborah’s gaze flicked to Scott, who stood behind Lily. He’d insisted on going in with her. Couldn’t guard her from the car, he’d said. It wasn’t important enough to argue about, so Lily hadn’t. “This is Scott. Scott, Deborah Brooks.”

“Ma’am,” he said.

Deborah opened the door wider. “Come in.”

Lily walked into warm air that smelled like chocolate chip cookies.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Deborah said, and started down the hall. Her low-heeled shoes clicked on the hardwood floor. “What’s going on?”

“Trouble. I need to tell him about it quickly.”

“I see. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee, and cookies in the oven. You take your coffee black, I think?”

“I do, but I haven’t got time. But thanks.”

“I’ll pour a cup. You can ignore it, if you like.”

Hinting wasn’t working. “I need to talk to Ruben alone.”

“We don’t always get what we think we need, do we?” Deborah’s voice remained pleasant. She didn’t turn around.

Should she insist? God knew her news would affect Deborah as well as Ruben, so maybe the woman had the right to hear it. But Lily didn’t know Deborah well. She didn’t know how she’d act or react, especially if Ruben did run. She’d be questioned relentlessly. If she gave Lily up . . .

“We have company,” Deborah announced in an overly bright way as she entered the kitchen.

Lily began to think she’d interrupted an argument.

“Lily!” Ruben sat at the breakfast nook at the west end of the room. A built-in-banquette curved around the table; two chairs were tucked in at the front. He looked tired.

A timer dinged. “Ah, that’s the cookies.” Deborah veered for the oven, grabbed a hot pad, and opened the oven door. Scent washed out. “She says she comes bearing trouble. I’m going to pour her and her friend some coffee.” She smiled at Scott as she set the cookie sheet on a cooling rack. “Do you like cream or sugar?”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Scott said.

“You’ll have cookies, at least.”

“Deb,” Ruben said as he eased out of the banquette and stood. “They’re not here for cookies. Ah—Scott, is it?”

Lily nodded. “Scott White. He’s one of Rule’s people. Ruben . . .” Lily glanced at Deborah, who was pouring the coffee she was so determined to offer. “I got a call from Anna Sjorensen ten or fifteen minutes ago. They traced the dagger used on Bixton.”

“That ought to be good news. I’m guessing it isn’t.”

“They traced it to you.”

Ruben’s face went blank. Deborah dropped the cup she’d just filled. It smashed loudly.

Ruben spoke slowly. “I assume there’s a warrant for my arrest. Are you serving it?”

“No! No, I came to warn you because, ah—because of everything we discussed the night of the barbeque.”

He nodded. “Deborah knows about my visions.”

“They can’t arrest you,” Deborah said blankly. “That doesn’t make sense. They can’t think you could do such a thing. Not unless one of them is one of the bad guys.”

Ruben rubbed his face with one hand. Tired, yes—maybe beyond tired. He looked halfway beaten. “With sufficiently damning evidence, they’ll have little choice. Someone has seen to it that such evidence exists.”

Deborah bit her lip. Straightened her shoulders. And spoke firmly. “You’ll do what you have to, of course.”

He looked across the kitchen at her. Their gazes held for a long moment. “I love you,” he said. “Beyond reason or measure, I love you.”

A small smile played over her mouth. “And I love you. But I would really like to have some clue just what you’re going to do.”

He gave a half laugh. “So would I. Lily.” He looked at her with the oddest expression—puzzlement and dismay mingled with a peculiar, hard focus. “Why are you here?”

She blinked. Shock had rendered Ruben stupid? “To warn you. Like I said. I don’t know what you’ll do, what you should do. I was hoping you’d seen this. Foreseen it, I mean, or something like it, and maybe had plans to . . . but I guess not.”

He shook his head. “Why are you here? My phone works.”

“Your . . .” A cascade of shocks swept through her like electricity—pop! pop! pop!—no, it was magic, magic fizzing on the inside, not on her skin, magic like a hundred bottles of Coke shaken and spewing and that’s all she saw, too—magic cascading behind her eyes, a phosphorescent explosion smearing a rainbow of whites across her eyeballs.

The floor reached up and smacked her in the back. She felt that, felt her breath whoop out at the blow, felt her legs twitching and her arms jerking and heard voices calling her name . . .

No, only one voice, a beautiful voice, compelling as starlight. A woman’s voice. She called Lily’s name, the name only Sam knew, the one the black dragon had sung to her once. Only once.

Her true name. Stillness flowed from that calling like spilled ink seeping into the rug, staining the frenzy of magic with quiet.

“Okay,” she said, or maybe she didn’t, because she didn’t hear herself. The white was bleeding out of her vision, leaving a face hovering above hers—fuzzy for a second, but turning sharp and clear. Ruben’s face. His eyes were dark and worried. His hair had fallen onto his forehead. His mouth was moving. Dimly she heard his voice, but she didn’t know what he was saying.

Okay, she said again, but this time she knew she hadn’t said it with her mouth, hadn’t said it to those who heard with their ears, and she knew what she agreed to—knew without hearing or sight or senses or words, knew in a way that didn’t impinge on her physical self at all, that would leave no trace behind on her brain to be later retrieved through memory.

She reached up, gripped the back of Ruben’s neck with one hand. Pushed herself up with her other arm. And breathed into his mouth.

Magic moved through her, a smooth, tickly, tingling wave of pine and fur and midnight and song—song she could taste but not hear as it rolled out of her gut, up her throat, into her mouth . . . and out. Into Ruben.

Who jerked back, eyes wide, mouth a round oh! of amazement before it stretched, contorting along with the rest of his face in a grimace of pain, then froze in that contortion for a second, two, three . . .

He clutched at his chest. Tried to shove to his feet, but fell over, screaming. A scream cut off as the reality he’d been born to and lived in all his life splintered—reality contorting as his face had, a sundering of flesh and form that shuffled rules and shapes and meaning into Other.

As he began to Change.