Death Magic wotl-8 Read online

  Death Magic

  ( World of the Lupi - 8 )

  Eileen Wilks

  DEATH MAGIC opens with Special Agent Lily Yu in Washington, D.C. with her fiancé--lupi prince Rule Turner—to testify before a Senate subcommittee about her role in the magical collapse of a mountain last month. She is not there to tell them about the strange legacy she carries from that event—or about the arcane bond between her and Rule--or what her boss in Unit Twleve of the FBI’s Magical Crimes Division is really up to. She sure won’t tell them that the lupi are at war with an Old One who wants to remake humanity in her own image.

  Lily is managing the conflict between her duty as an officer of the law and the need for secrecy pretty well . . . until the rabidly anti-magic senator who chairs that committee is murdered. The line between right and wrong, always so clear to her, becomes hopelessly blurred as events catapult them all towards disaster, and prophecies of a cataclysmic end to the country she loves and serves--and to the entire race of lupi--seem well on their way to being fulfilled.

  Death Magic

  World of the Lupi - 8

  by

  Eileen Wilks

  This book is joyfully dedicated to my daughter Katie and her wonderful fiancé, Matt.

  I couldn’t be more delighted.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Typically writers use this space to acknowledge the help others provided. I’m using it to offer an apology. There are inconsistencies between what we call the real world and some of the details in my fictional world that may disconcert some readers. A female president, for one. The building and security systems at the FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., for another. There are more, but if I describe them, I’ll give away too much about the story.

  What can I say? The realm Lily and Rule live in isn’t ours. For some reason, they elected a female president a couple years ago. We didn’t. The architect of the FBI building there had a slightly different plan than ours did. And they have lupi. And dragons . . .

  ONE

  LILY Yu was at the shooting range at FBI Headquarters when she saw the ghost.

  Her ears were warm beneath the headgear. Her bare arms were chilly, with her left arm out and steady; the right one ached and trembled. She’d fired a few clips right-handed before switching, which was dumb. Should have started with the left so her bad arm wouldn’t be bitching so much. To bring her new Glock in line with her dominant eye while keeping her stance and grip neutral, she had to twist her right arm in a way that her damaged bicep objected to.

  It objected to a lot of things. The humerus might be healed, the skin grown back nice and smooth over the entry wound, but the exit wound was bigger, bumpier, and dented. Lost muscle didn’t regrow.

  Except that Lily’s was. Slowly, but it was returning.

  A whiff of sulfur hung in the air. Sound slapped at her ears through the protective muffs as her neighbor to the right fired steadily on the other side of the divider. The fur-and-pine tickle in her gut—the reason her shattered bone had knit so quickly, the cause of her muscle’s gradual, impossible regeneration—made her feel as if she should burp.

  Fifty feet away, a drift of otherness obscured the paper target she’d been putting holes in.

  It was white. Maybe that’s why she immediately thought ghost. It drifted on a diagonal like three-dimensional rice paper—translucent, not transparent, its edges too clearly defined for smoke, shaped right for a human, but faceless. Even as it floated closer on a steady, nonexistent air current, it remained out of focus—four limbs and a trunk in human proportions, the details blurred like a smeared chalk-drawing.

  It was coming straight at her. The quick clamp of fear stiffened Lily’s spine and widened her eyes.

  As the faceless thing floated closer it stretched out one hand—and yes, that was clearly a hand. For all the vagueness of the rest of the form, that milky hand was painstakingly vivid, as if an artist had etched in every minute detail from the mound at the base of the thumb to the lines crossing the palm to the wrinkles at the joints. There was a ring on the third finger of that hand.

  A gold ring. Glowing. On the left hand, palm up. Beseeching.

  Lily’s heart raced and ached under the weight of a terrible pity.

  The filmy shape drifted to a stop. As if it were, after all, only smoke, it began to tatter in an ethereal breeze, wisping away into nothing.

  TWO

  AMERICA was not a classless society.

  No place was, of course. Not if that place counted humans among its residents. Humans were every bit as hierarchical as werewolves, from what Lily could tell. Just less honest about it. The official line was that the United States was a meritocracy: the talented, the dedicated, the extraordinary would rise to the top.

  Maybe so, if you were willing to stipulate that money equals competence. Lily wasn’t. That tidy metric also didn’t account for another American preoccupation that fed into class: beauty. A woman who had both, she reflected as she zipped her jeans, might come across as cold because she felt isolated and wary of other women. Or she might be a stuck-up bitch.

  Maybe today she’d figure out which was true of her boss’s wife. Their one encounter last spring inclined Lily toward the “bitch” summary, but it had been a very brief meeting. Maybe she was wrong. After all, Ruben had picked Deborah and stayed with her, and the woman did teach seventh grade, so . . .

  “You’re sure it was a ghost?”

  “Of course not.” Lily saw red for a moment—the red of the stretchy sweater she tugged over her head. Then it was down and she saw the gray walls and pale wood of the bedroom, and the man she shared that bedroom with. “How can I be sure? I’m no medium.”

  “But it looked like a ghost.” Rule sat on the bed to pull on his shoes. With his head bent, his mink brown hair fell forward, hiding his face. Rule had been overdue for a haircut even by his standards when he got the subcommittee’s request for “clarification of your expert testimony from last March.” He’d promptly cancelled his hair appointment.

  That was stubbornness, not lack of time. The request had come from an überconservative senator pursuing sound bites for his base. He’d wanted to ask Rule annoying questions to get them on the record, and Rule refused to look as if he’d raced out to trim himself to fit conservative notions of grooming.

  “White and filmy. Floating. Yeah, it looked like a ghost.” The remembered ache of pity closed Lily’s throat. It had wanted something from her. Needed something.

  Ghosts, she told herself firmly, were not people. She’d been told that by an expert. Whatever that fragment of ectoplasm wanted, it had come to the wrong place. She didn’t have any answers.

  Lily turned to check herself in the full-length mirror. She could see Rule behind her. The aging athletic shoes—no socks—he was tying suited the worn-to-white jeans with a hole in one knee. Oddly enough, they also went great with the whisper-light black cashmere sweater that had probably cost as much as one of the car payments Lily had finally finished making on her Toyota. “I know Ruben said casual, but—”

  “You think the jeans are too casual?”

  “No, not you. You’re fine.” Rule could pair ragged jeans with cashmere and look like a film star. Lily couldn’t. First, she didn’t own cashmere. Second, a sane woman who wanted to stay that way didn’t compare herself to Rule Turner. He could make Bubble Wrap look good.

  He stood up. His grin flashed white in a way that still sliced right through her. “You are not wearing one of your work jackets to a backyard barbecue, Lily.”

  “That would be stuffy.”

  “Which means you can’t wear your shoulder harness.”

  “I know that.”

  “You’re wearing your ankle holster, aren’t you?”


  “Of course.” It held a little snub-nosed Beretta that had started out as a loaner from Rule’s father. When Isen wanted to gift her with it, she hadn’t argued. Range and accuracy were no more than you’d expect from a snub-nose, but it had good stopping power. It made an excellent clutch piece.

  The Glock she’d been practicing with earlier was now her main weapon. It had a comfortable grip, which was always a factor when you had small hands. It had range, too, and accuracy, and kick-ass stopping power with the right ammo. But it was not her SIG. That was back in California, buried beneath a few tons of earth and rock. She missed it.

  But she would not have carried it to her boss’s barbecue anyway, she reminded herself, so that didn’t matter now. She gave her reflection a frowning study. This was the first time she’d been invited to the Brookses’ place socially, and she wanted to get it right.

  The jeans looked okay. The sweater . . . something wasn’t right. Red was a good color for her, so that wasn’t it. The material was stretchy, but not too snug for her boss’s party. Nor was the scoop neckline too low. It showed just enough skin to say “social” instead of “on duty.” But that skin looked awfully bare.

  She wasn’t wearing the toltoi. That was the problem.

  The toltoi was a charm the clan had given her when she became Rule’s Chosen—meaning that their Lady had picked her for him as mate. At first Lily had thought the lupi’s Lady was their deity, more myth than real. But there was a difference between worship and service, and the Lady was as real as a sunrise. Or a sock in the jaw.

  Last week, a dumb accident had broken the chain and started her worrying about losing the charm. So it was back in San Diego being remade into a ring by a special sort of jeweler, one who worked with Earth magic as well as metal. The toltoi wasn’t exactly magical, but it wasn’t exactly null, either. It had . . . something. Something Lily couldn’t define, which was deeply annoying, but whatever that might be, it needed to be handled with respect.

  And this sweater needed a necklace. She headed to her closet.

  Lily appreciated order. Her bracelets were in the silvery box on the dresser. Earrings were in the acrylic box next to it. Necklaces were in the hanging thingee in the closet. She dug into one of the hanging thingee’s pockets.

  “A shooting range is a funny place to see a ghost, isn’t it?” She took out a double strand of small black beads. “And I’ve never seen one before, so I’m relying on hearsay about what ghosts look like.”

  Rule came up behind her. “They’re usually bound to the place they died, aren’t they? I suppose people don’t die often at a shooting range.”

  “Better not,” she said dryly. “Though they can also be tied to an object instead of a place, and some ghosts break the rules. Or so I’m told.” She considered the necklace, put it back, and took out a choker with polished wooden beads. “Fasten this for me?”

  “No, not that one.” He plucked the choker from her fingers. “Maybe your ghost is tied to one of the guns at the range.”

  “It’s not my ghost.” Lily had had a ghost, or something like a ghost—a part of her soul, anyway, from a Lily who’d died. A part she hadn’t really had access to for several months, but that was over. She was all together again. She frowned at Rule over her shoulder. “And I like that choker.”

  “The wood is lovely against your skin, but you might want to try this on before you decide.” He slipped cool, slinky metal around her throat, his fingers brushing her nape.

  Three tiers of delicate chain fringe in silver and brass cascaded in dainty splendor from her collar bones to the midpoint between her breasts. Three white stones studded the tiers. It was stunning and stylish and nothing she would have bought for herself—and not only because of the undoubtedly high price tag. Oversize necklaces were not for her. They made her look like a kid playing dress-up.

  Not this one, though. This one was just right. She fingered one of the white stones and turned, tilting her face to look up into eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate. “Have I forgotten an occasion?”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot our eleven-months-and-five-days anniversary.”

  That made her grin. She went up on tiptoe—he was too tall, but she’d adjusted—and gave him a quick kiss.

  At least she meant it to be quick. But there was the skin of his cheek, freshly shaved. The clean scent of his hair . . . Rule used baby shampoo because he disliked carrying artificial scents around on him all day. And that approving rumble in his chest, felt as much as heard, when she tasted him with her tongue.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you wear this without the sweater, bra, jeans—”

  “But not, I think, at Ruben’s barbecue.”

  He smiled, his eyes slumberous beneath the dark slashes of his brows. “Perhaps not.”

  “Though it would make cleanup easy.” That made her think of Toby. Last month, Rule’s son had proposed a strategy to keep from getting food on his clothes: eat in his tighty whiteys. A little pang pinched at her. “Sometimes my job sucks.”

  “I could have sworn you liked barbecue, I know you like Ruben, and since there’s nothing you could be except a cop, I’m not sure what about your job sucks for you right now.”

  “I was wishing Toby could be here, or that we were back home.”

  “Ah. Me, too.” This kiss was soft, consolation or appreciation, she wasn’t sure which. They lingered in the circle of each others’ arms, enjoying the moment. “I miss him, but your job isn’t the only thing dragging us to D.C. I received my own invitation.”

  “Until we found out I had to testify, you were going to tell Senator Bixton to suck it.”

  “I assure you, I never tell powerful senators to suck it.” He smoothed her hair, but his gaze snagged on his wrist, where he wore a watch worth more than Lily’s first car. “Scott hasn’t dinged me. I’d better see if . . .” He patted his pocket and frowned.

  “Your phone’s downstairs on the dining table.”

  “Thank you.” He started for the door.

  “You aren’t going to turn into one of those men who can’t find his socks without help, are you?”

  There came that grin again. “Wait and see.”

  Lily shook her head and reached into the shoe bag for the flats she’d bought on sale last week back in San Diego. Back home.

  D.C. wasn’t completely strange territory. She’d been here a few times since switching from a local cop to the federal version last year, including a stay of several months while she completed accelerated training at Quantico. The house was familiar, too. It was a two-story brick colonial in Georgetown owned jointly by Rule’s clan and two others. Rule had been coming here off and on for years. He was the public face for his people, and sometimes that meant lobbying Congress.

  Sometimes it meant being asked asinine questions by politicians posturing for the cameras. He’d handled that the day before yesterday with his usual panache. Being absurdly photogenic helped, but he was just plain good at PR. That’s how he saw this particular appearance before the subcommittee doomed to endlessly masticate the Species Citizenship Bill—which did not, he thought, stand much chance of being brought before the full Senate this year.

  Lily’s testimony was more of a command appearance and would be for a different committee, though Senator Bixton was on it, too. At least it would take place away from C-SPAN; the stuff they’d be asking her about was all classified. Her appearance wasn’t until Monday. She could still hope Ruben would pull off a miracle and get her out of it.

  Lily stepped into her flats and headed for the stairs. The new necklace felt cool against her skin.

  It was a lovely gift, thoughtful and elegant and snazzy, and she was not going to obsess over the fact that he could afford to spend more on her than she could on him . . . though that sort of led into why the thoughtful gift was also a problem.

  Rule’s birthday was two weeks and three days away.

  Oh, she had a present for him—a custom-made black silk shi
rt. Lily’s cousin Lyn was a dressmaker, tailor, designer. Last month Lily had snuck out one of Rule’s favorite shirts and taken it to Lyn to use for fit. The new shirt would have black embroidery on the collar, very subtle: a stylized depiction of the toltoi.

  Lupi could be so damn male sometimes. They always spoke of her having been chosen for Rule. It never occurred to them that Rule had been chosen for her, too. The embroidered toltoi was Lily’s way of pointing that out.

  But one gift was not enough. She needed something fun or funny or sweet. Two more somethings would be best. Then there was the wedding, which wasn’t until March, sure, but she had no idea what—

  A stabbing pain at the base of her skull brought her to a stop halfway down the stairs. Ow. That was really . . . gone. She blinked, gave her head a cautious shake, and continued downstairs. Weird, but she felt fine now. No way was she going to mention a here-and-gone headache. Who knew what kind of crap-all tests some conscientious doctor might want to run?

  Lily had been on sick leave for four weeks. She was on limited duty now, and it chafed. Aside from the lingering weakness in her right arm, she was perfectly fit. Unfortunately, no one would believe her without running some of those stupid tests, and that was likely to raise questions she couldn’t answer. Mantles were a deep, dark lupi secret.

  Rule was talking on the phone in the fussy Victorian parlor that was Lily’s least-liked part of the house. “. . . probably quite late when we get home, so . . . yes, I’ll tell her, but since we’re coming up there Tuesday anyway . . . of course. T’eius ven, Walt.” He disconnected.

  “Walt again.” She sighed. “I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

  “It didn’t. He called while I was talking to Scott. He’d like you to call at your convenience. I assured him we’d be home too late for “convenient” to mean tonight, but he didn’t seem to think it could wait until Tuesday.”