Blood Lines (14 page)

“I learned this morning,” Lily said quietly, “that the demon’s other victim—the man from the adult theater—died on the way to the hospital. They couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

“I believe he was human.”

“Which is probably why he’s dead and you’re alive. But you’re not healing.”

His mouth flattened. For a second she thought he’d refuse, but he shrugged one shoulder. “Very well.” His hands went to his belt.

Rule had about as much inherent modesty as her cat. He stepped out of his slacks as casually as Lily would slip off her shoes. At least he’d worn boxers today. “Do I need to remove the bandage?” he asked.

“Probably better.” Cynna put her satchel-sized purse on the table and began rooting through it. “I need to get holy water directly on the wound.”

So much for the boxers.

The demon had clawed his flank. Translated to this form, the wound ran from the top of his buttock diagonally across his hip, ending a few inches down his thigh. Awkward to bandage. She’d taped a pair of sanitary pads over it, that being the most absorbent thing she could find at six A.M.

There was only one pad now, taped on differently than before. And it was bright red, saturated with blood. “How many times have you had to change the bandage?” she asked quietly.

“Once. Which does not mean that I’m bleeding to death. Even a human wouldn’t be bothered by such a small blood loss.”

Lily bit her lip to keep back the sharp words she wanted to use and bent to pick up the slacks he’d dropped on the floor. Fear didn’t bring out her best side.

Maybe he was afraid, too. Maybe that’s why he was being such an ass about this.

He removed the pad. The wound looked fresh, with no trace of a scab. Blood welled up and trickled down his leg. A drop hit the floor.

“Question,” Cynna said. “Is the poison carried by blood? If so, I’d better wear gloves. I’d rather not pick up a little demon poison accidentally.”

“I didn’t notice.” When she’d inspected the wound earlier, it hadn’t been bleeding this freely. “I’ll check.”

She went to him and bent to touch the rivulet of blood running down his thigh. “It’s clean. While I’m here, though . . .” As gently as possible, she touched the flesh near the wound. Her breath hitched. “The contagion is spreading. I’m picking it up in the flesh around the wound now.”

Rule touched her cheek. She looked up. His eyes were very dark, opaque to her. “Then it’s a good thing you and Cynna thought of holy water. I apologize for my churlishness.”

She swallowed. Nodded. And moved aside to make room for Cynna.

“You shouldn’t feel anything other than wet,” Cynna said as she came to stand in front of him, carrying a small glass vial. “But we’re in experimental territory here.”

He gave her a single nod.

She frowned, looking down at his bare hip. Her lips moved, but if she was praying, Lily couldn’t hear it. She uncapped the vial and poured its contents directly on his wound.

Rule’s face contorted. His hand swung out so fast it was a blur. And Cynna went flying backward.

TEN

HORROR
froze Rule in place. Lily scrambled over to Cynna, who lay crumpled on the floor. Acid ate at his hip and thigh, a screech of pain shouting
enemy
and
hide, run, fight . . .

“I’m okay,” Cynna muttered. With Lily’s help, she sat up. She gave her head a careful shake as if checking that it was still attached. “But, Jesus! You do pack a punch.”

A punch. He’d hit her. He’d hit a woman.

“Good thing you slapped instead of making a fist,” she went on, “or I’d probably be . . . Rule?”

He’d lurched to his feet. The burning in his hip made him unsteady, or maybe it was guilt spinning him into vertigo. He couldn’t look at the woman he’d struck or at the one he loved. Quickly he left the room.

His ears weren’t interested in what he could or couldn’t deal with. They continued to report to him. He heard the two women talking as he moved blindly into the parlor—Lily asking where Cynna hurt, Cynna telling her, “Go on. I’m sore, but nothing’s broken. I’m not so sure about him.”

Broken. She was right. Something inside was broken, and he couldn’t make it work right anymore.

Lily came up behind him. Without saying a word she put her arms around him. He stiffened. He didn’t deserve comfort. She ignored the implicit rejection, laying her head on the bare skin of his back. And then she did nothing at all.

Her scent made the air sweet to him; the beat of her heart and the soft susurration of her breath were the only sounds. She didn’t question or accuse or excuse. She just stood there, letting her body say things he wouldn’t have listened to had she spoken them aloud.

His body listened. “It was pride,” he said, not having planned to speak at all. “Pride. I didn’t want to admit how little control I have. The wolf is always close now—too nearly in charge, too much of the time. I shouldn’t have let Cynna near me. A wounded animal is dangerous.”

“You tried to avoid it. We wouldn’t let you.”

“Because I hadn’t told you what the real problem was.”

The silk of her hair moved against his skin as she nodded. “You should have told me, yes. Now you have.”

Something unlocked inside him and settled. He wasn’t sure if he should call it acceptance or despair. “No questions?”

“Dozens,” she assured him. “Think of this as the lull before the storm. The holy water hurt more than Cynna expected.”

“Yes,” he said dryly. Though the first shrill shriek of pain had faded to a steady throbbing, his hip certainly hurt more now than before she splashed him. “If we want to be optimistic, we can assume that means it accomplished something.”

“The hell with optimism. I want to know.” Her hand slid down his side.

Rule tensed. But when her fingertips traced the wound it was only pain he felt, simple physical pain. No instinctive rush to defend drowning out reason.

But he should have known instinct and reason would agree this time. The wolf was as bound to this woman as the man.

“It’s scabbing over,” she said.

He’d have felt more relief if she’d sounded happier. Rule turned to face her. “But . . . ?”

“The contagion isn’t gone. The holy water diminished it. Diluted it,” she corrected herself, as if precise speech could limit the danger. “It doesn’t cover as much area, but there’s a hard knot of it still, and . . . look. Look at your leg, Rule.”

He did. His eyebrows rose. “Is it forming a scar?”

“Looks like.”

Most of it was scabbed over, though the deepest part still oozed blood. The shallowest part of the scratch, on his thigh, was closed entirely . . . in a thin line of shiny skin. “Interesting. I’ve never had a scar.”

“Adds to the machismo.”

She was trying for humor. He helped. “Should be good for the image. What do you think? Should I take
Cosmopolitan
up on their offer?”

“What offer?”

“I believe it involves a bearskin rug. At least, something was mentioned about bare skin.”

She rolled her eyes. “Speaking of which, maybe you could put your pants back on now.”

He looked toward the kitchen. Humor drowned in a rush of need and guilt. “There’s something I must do first.”

“You need to do this naked?”

“Actually, yes.” He detached himself gently and headed for the kitchen.

Cynna sat at the table, holding a bag of frozen peas to her jaw and scribbling on a pad. She looked up. “How’d we do? Is it gone?”

“Diminished. Repeated doses may eliminate it entirely.”

“I’ve got more. We can—”

“No, we can’t. Someone else will administer any further doses.” He knelt in front of her, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

“What are you . . . get up, Rule. Rule?” She smelled upset. Her voice shifted as she turned her head. “What is he doing?”

“It looks like he’s submitting to you,” Lily said.

“Kinky. But so not necessary. Rule, get up.”

He spoke quietly. “My regret is not enough. My apology is not enough. I submit myself to punishment, payment, or penance.”

“You’re forgiven, all right?” She sounded panicky. “No payment or punishment or anything.”

“Cynna.” That was Lily. “I agree that punishment isn’t called for, since he’s beating himself up pretty well already. But you’re Catholic. You understand the need for penance. His need, not yours.”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath. “From where I stand, we all made a mistake, not just you, but I can tell you’re not ready to be reasonable. Only I’m clueless. I don’t think assigning you an Our Father or two will help.”

He’d allowed himself to be ruled by instinct. Again. A moment’s thought, and he would have known to explain before he knelt; he wasn’t supposed to speak once the ritual began. But that was unfair to Cynna, who was understandably confused.

“Lily,” he said. “I can’t speak to Cynna now, but you’re clan. You may speak to her, if you wish.”

Lily’s voice was cool and thoughtful. “Am I allowed to ask you questions?”

“Yes.” Though he’d have to be careful that his answers didn’t suggest a particular response.

“If the Rho were here, what would he do?”

“He would ask, as I did, that Cynna choose penance, payment, or punishment.”

“And if she chose penance?”

“He would ask if she wished to assign it herself.”

“If she didn’t?”

“If the Rhej wasn’t present, he’d summon her.” And that, he realized, was why instinct had led him to begin the ritual of contrition without explanation. Like the Rhej, Cynna was Lady-touched. For the first time he felt that in her, an indefinable stir of recognition.

Lily still had questions. “What would the Rhej do?”

“Assign penance.”

Cynna snorted. “Oh, that’s helpful, seeing that the Rhej is in California. I know—let’s put off the penance bit until she can handle it.”

Good try, but not an option. Once the ritual of contrition began, it had to be followed to completion.

“He’s not moving,” Lily observed. “I think we’re going to have to wing it. Do you want me to ask him anything else?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.” Cynna sighed. “This is like being called on in class when I didn’t do the assignment.”

For several moments no one spoke. Cynna broke the silence, her voice closer by a breath. She’d bent her head toward him. “It seems like you want forgiveness, but from yourself, not from me. So it isn’t me you need to hear from.” Her voice changed subtly. “Very well.”

Her hand came to rest on the back of his neck, warm and dry. “For ten minutes a day, every day for a month, you will be wolf. While you are wolf, you will lie quietly, not moving, and consider the man who is also you. At the end of ten minutes, you will Change back.”

Rule swallowed. He’d expected . . . he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Some version of a hair shirt, he supposed. But this reached deep inside, rasping against fears already raw. Changing every day would bring the wolf closer. If he couldn’t relearn control . . .

He’d asked for this, though, hadn’t he? Insisted on it. “I accept the penance.”

Her hand left his neck. “Are we done?” Cynna’s voice was back to normal. “I really need to hit the road.”

“We’re done.” He flowed to his feet. “What made you choose ten minutes?”

She shrugged. “It just sounded right.”

“That’s the shortest time possible between Changes.”

“Shit, did I do it wrong? I can make it—”

“No,” he said. “No. I can accomplish the Change twice in that time.” But most couldn’t, and it would be painful. He supposed he’d gotten his hair shirt, after all. “You touched my neck.”

Cynna grinned. “If I’d touched anything else, Lily would’ve swatted me. And she wouldn’t have apologized afterward, either.”

“That’s part of the ritual.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed in a frown. “Don’t go reading anything into that. The way your head was bent, it was the natural thing to do.”

He smiled. Cynna did not want to believe she was Lady-touched.

Lily tapped him on the shoulder. “Here.” She handed him his slacks. “I realize I’m the only one bothered by you running around naked. Humor me.”

“Spoilsport.” Cynna tucked her writing pad back in her oversize purse, which she slung on her shoulder. “I’ll call and let you know where I end up staying. You suppose Nutley, Virginia, is big enough for a Holiday Inn?”

“It isn’t,” Rule said. “But Harrisonburg is close. Who’s going with you? Abel?”

“No one you know. No one I know, for that matter. He’s one of MCD’s God-I-hate-magic types. He won’t like me,” she added, “but I probably won’t like him, either, so that’s fair. He’s supposed to be a good shooter.”

Rule shot a hard, questioning look at Lily.

“The Unit’s stretched thin,” she said. Her scent shifted—not to the pungency of fear, but to a more subtle mingling that signaled distress. “There’s a lot I need to tell you, but it can wait until Cynna leaves. Is there anything she should know about Leidolf or its Rho?”

“Leidolf is . . . difficult,” he said, stepping into his slacks. The movement pulled on his wound, but the scab held. “They’re the largest clan, and the most feudal. Their Rho is Victor Frey—tall, fair, looks about sixty. Smart. Mean. Unpredictable. If you speak to him, be very polite. Victor isn’t the sort of tyrant who respects those who stand up to him.”