Blood Lines (39 page)

He glanced at Lily and almost smiled. Back in San Diego, people got excited when it rained. They stopped working to look out the window, comment on their lawns, maybe claim credit for nature’s behavior through the mysterious alchemy of car-washing. It hadn’t taken long for that attitude to wear off for Lily. She was as affronted as her cat by so much rain.

Behind him he heard Benedict’s rumble, speaking under the tongue so softly the Leidolf man nearest them wouldn’t be able to hear:
Brady’s headed this way. Coming up from your rear.

Since Benedict, contrary to all accepted norms, had chosen to stand back-to-back with Rule, his rear was thoroughly covered.
He see you?
Rule asked the same way.

Yeah.

Probably won’t try anything, then. Cullen
—

I heard,
Cullen said.
Hope he does try something.

You’re insane.
Rule left it at that, but the last thing he needed was for Cullen and Brady to try to kill each other here. He’d wanted to leave Cullen in their room, actually, knowing that the crowd, the stillness, all would wear out his friend’s small store of patience. But Cullen was determined to guard him.

As if one man—even a lupus, even a sorcerer—could stop a thousand or so lupi if they decided Nokolai could do without its heir.

And that was intolerably paranoid, not to mention stupid. The majority of Leidolf were honorable. He’d been granted guest status by their Rho, and his vows to Paul’s father made him
Leidolf ad littera
for the duration of this ceremony.
Ad littera
was a legal fiction, of course, like calling a corporation a person under the law, but he was a guest, and
ad littera
for the next hour or so—this would surely end soon—and in danger only from those like Brady. The loose cannons, not the entire clan.

The speaker finished. There was silence for a moment, then Victor’s voice rang out. He stood in the center of the clearing, of course, with the Rhej and two of his councilors. “I thank all of you who shared my son’s life with me. I thank those who today shared their memories of him. We remember.”

“We remember,” a thousand voices echoed back.

“We didn’t only lose a friend, a son, a lover when Randall was killed,” Victor went on. “We lost our Lu Nuncio and our heir. I call the naming.”

A female voice spoke—the Rhej. “When do you call the naming?”

“Now.”

Rule went from bored and edgy to barely breathing. Everywhere people were exclaiming, talking, reacting.

“Rule,” Lily’s voice was low, but no longer a whisper. “What’s he up to? What does this mean?”

Only two possibilities he could see. Either Victor hoped to slide Brady in immediately, with no time for a proper Challenge . . . or he was dying.

Neither of which he could say aloud in this crowd. “I don’t know. Let’s start moving toward the edge of the crowd . . . just in case.” Maybe it was his touch of claustrophobia, or maybe a genuine hunch, but he had a strong need to be elsewhere. He grabbed her hand, catching Cullen’s gaze with his and giving a jerk of his head toward the road.

“Rule,” Benedict said.

Rule stopped edging past the two men closest to him to look at his brother. Benedict jerked his head to one side, directing his attention that way.

Brady stood ten feet away with only a couple people between them. His grin held triumph. His hand held a gun. “Don’t leave now,” he said. “Party’s just starting.”

THIRTY-ONE

SHE
wasn’t in Chicago anymore. She wasn’t in her own body anymore.

The disorientation was short but severe. It was like closing both eyes, then opening all four of them. Like having the axis of your body shift while gravity took up hip-hop.

It was like riding. Exactly like riding. Long-unused reflexes took over, lining her up properly with the new body as he/she/they strode up the street.

Big. That was her first clear thought. This was the biggest son of a bitch she’d ever ridden. She guessed that her/their eyes were about ten feet off the ground, but it was the sheer massiveness of him she felt most keenly.

Out of his peripheral vision she saw houses on either side of him/them—houses in red, gold, pale gray, seen through eyes that processed color differently. Where were they? She turned her/their head—or tried to. The muscles didn’t answer.

Panic hit—real, yet oddly distant and quick to evaporate.

Because he didn’t feel it, she realized, and without a bodily response, her emotions thinned. His body responded to his feelings, though. She knew what he felt.

Eager. Hungry.

And if she felt him and he didn’t feel her—if his muscles wouldn’t answer to her—she was purely a passenger, not a rider, which shouldn’t be possible, but she was here. She had to get out, get back to herself. Mentally she shouted words that should have sent her back.

Nothing. Those words were meant to be spoken, and this throat, these lips wouldn’t respond to her. But intent—she had that, and some knowledge. Desperately she tried to wrench herself out. Nothing happened.

Trapped. She was trapped.

Part of her felt as if she were panting from fear and effort. Part of her—no, it was the demon who felt that lick of excitement as he observed the houses around him, watching with a sense no human has. Demons called it
üther
. Cynna thought of it as their life sense, for that’s what it picked up. The demon sensed the lives around him—most clearly the one in the shrubbery, thin but tasty; more dimly because of walls and distance, the thicker lives inside those homes . . .

He couldn’t eat them. Wouldn’t. She reminded herself of that. Demons ate almost anything living, except humans. They consumed something of the life along with the flesh, and souls drove them mad. That’s what they believed, or remembered—demon memory being enough to drive a human crazy, because they also ate each other and retained something of the consumed within their own consciousness . . .

Oh, God. Had she been eaten? Was that why she couldn’t make the body respond, or escape back to her own body?

This time the fear was so great it swallowed her, embodied or not. She sank into it, into a vortex of fear and flailing—

And the demon stopped. And spoke. “Cynna. Be still. You can’t get out until I release you, and you must pay attention. You’ll want to take control from me. You can’t, but you won’t even be able to try unless you know the body. Pay attention.”

The demon’s voice was an impossibly deep bass. It sounded . . . vexed. That yanked her out of her panic long enough for her to start thinking again.

It hadn’t been the demon who spoke to her, but Jiri. Jiri who rode, Jiri who’d made her a passenger. She’d been forced into his body, but she hadn’t been consumed.

And Jiri was right, damn her eyes and every other stinking part of her. Cynna had to pay attention. If she were to have any chance of gaining control of the demon . . . and she didn’t need all of his body. The throat and mouth, that’s what she needed, to speak the words of release. But she had to learn his body first, know how to operate it. He was too different from any she’d ridden back in her bad old days.

They traveled another block, with Cynna paying close attention to his/her center of gravity, the kinesthetic knowledge of his/their muscles as they strode silently down the street. The peculiar colors of demon vision were a distraction; the area looked familiar, yet so distorted in the glimpses she caught that she couldn’t place it. He was a safety-conscious demon, watching out for cars, avoiding those that cruised by—the drivers never saw him, of course, but dogs barked frantically as they passed, not looking closely at the houses.

What she glimpsed, what she heard, said city. And familiar. She’d been down this street, or one much like it.

He was older than any demon she’d ever ridden. Older by far. The mass told her that, an indescribable sense of heaviness, density . . . he’d been eating lives a long, long time. Old meant strong, powerful—that scared her enough that it took a second for her to catch on to the pronoun she’d automatically been using.
He?

Yes, she realized as massive legs carried him/her/them along the cold pavement. Definitely this one was male. Though most of the demons she’d ridden in her misspent youth had been hermaphrodites, she’d hitched on an incubus once, so she knew: male felt different. It wasn’t just the lack of breasts, or the sensation of an extra organ at the crotch—the younger demons came equipped with both kinds of genitals. And strength damn sure wasn’t a sex-based characteristic, not with a demon.

But male felt different.

He stopped. He was looking at one house, a house she knew, even painted as it was in the lilac and beige of demon vision.

Washington. They were in Washington, D.C., and he/she/they were looking at Rule’s house.

RULE
hadn’t taken his eyes off Brady. The man had obviously expected Victor’s announcement, which gave weight to the “slide Brady in quickly” theory. But what did he hope to achieve by holding Rule here at gunpoint?

“Brady.” Lily raised her voice. “Unless you’re planning to shoot all three of us, you’d better put that up. I’m a cop. I don’t take it well when someone draws on me.”

“Draws what?” Brady’s eyebrows flew up in a parody of innocent confusion. “I didn’t draw anything. Did I?” He looked around, grinning.

Most of those nearest were melting back, leaving a small open space between them—except for a knot of about ten clustered around Brady.

“Been collecting a pack, Brady?” Cullen made sure that sounded like the insult it was.

Rule took the smooth, deadly slide into combat mode, where wolf and man melded. His thoughts were crisp, his goals clear: keep the others alive, kill Brady. “He has backup,” he observed dispassionately, “and the others, even the ones who hate him, won’t act. Not during the naming.”

“I can take his toy away from him,” Benedict said. “Little boys shouldn’t be allowed to play with guns.”

“Best if none of you move at all,” Brady said. “Don’t wave to a friend or scratch your nose. I might mistake it for a threat.”

Rule switched to subvocal, pitching so low only Benedict and maybe Cullen could hear:
Give me a second to get in front of Lily. If he gets a shot off
—

Lily seemed to be reading his mind. She edged back—and with his peripheral vision he saw her reach inside her jacket.

“Uh, uh, uh!” Brady sighted down on Rule’s forehead. “Unless you want to see how well your sweetie heals brain tissue.”

Benedict considered that, gave a tiny shake of his head.
He’d get you before I could stop him. We need him distracted for a second. Seabourne
—

“Leidolf.” Victor’s voice rose over the clamor, addressing his clan. “If you wish to hear, be silent.”

Cullen’s voice, barely audible even to Rule:
I can’t throw fire without a gesture.

Victor cried out, “I name Alex Thibodaux as Lu Nuncio.”

A many-throated roar rose from the crowd. Rule noted it without looking away from Brady—who, damn it, wasn’t distracted. So this, too, he’d expected—but it made no sense. Thibodaux didn’t carry the blood, couldn’t hold the mantle, so unless Victor had lost his mind—

“Leidolf!” Victor shouted. “Silence! Alex is to be your new Lu Nuncio—not your heir.”

What the hell—?

“I break with tradition, yes,” Victor was saying. “But there is precedent. The heir does not have to be Lu Nuncio. I consulted our Rhej and my councilors. Etorri has no Lu Nuncio—”

“We are not Etorri!” someone shouted. Others began chanting, “Leidolf! Leidolf!” Still others shouted names: Reese. Thomas. Max. Phillip.

No one called out Brady’s name. Why was he so damned smug?

Victor had to shout to be heard. “Twice Leidolf has separated the positions—when the blood had grown thin and there was no suitable heir strong enough to act as Lu Nuncio. It was temporary! Temporary,” he repeated, his voice dropping as they quieted. “The blood has grown thin, Leidolf. And I am dying.”

This time, he got silence. “You need a Lu Nuncio you trust. I give you Alex. If I still live after six months, I will call you here to invest the heir as Lu Nuncio. If not . . . you will need a Rho and a Lu Nuncio.”

They listened now, intent and unmoving. Rule knew what they were thinking as clearly as if he’d been suddenly gifted with telepathy: that Victor meant to name Brady heir and hoped to make him more palatable by denying him the Lu Nuncio’s authority.

If so, Victor’s strategy had already failed. This was not the silence of assent, but that of a thousand hunters uncertain of their prey.

“We have several who may be able to carry the mantle,” Victor went on. “I know—it grieves me, but I know—some of you do not want to see it go to my son. My only living son.” His voice caught briefly. “So I bring to you another tradition. Though we have not followed it for many years, it is an ancient and honorable path. Rather than naming my heir, I will loose the mantle and let it choose.”

That brought a buzzing of whispers and subvocalization. Leidolf was shocked, but this way, while very old indeed, was understandable to them. Though who would have thought Victor could surrender control to such a degree?