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  “No. I…” He inhaled sharply, pulled away, and paced a few steps before stopping. “I’m not explaining well. I think…From what my father said, it’s possible a federal crime did occur.”

  Her throat ached. He was hurting. “The Unit doesn’t handle hate crimes. Croft’s not going to give me a green light to investigate one, but if that’s what this was, there are other agencies that might be pulled in, both state and federal. I’ll see what I can do.” Which might not be all that much, she was afraid. Prosecutors weren’t lining up to prosecute hate crimes against lupi.

  “Not that.” He waved it away with an abrupt gesture. “I’m talking about the law against the use or manufacture of gado.”

  “Gado?”

  Impatiently he said, “It’s what they used to use to keep us from Changing.”

  “I know that, but why do you think gado was involved?”

  “The tattoo. Steve’s killer decorated his throat before cutting it.”

  2

  LILY was about forty thousand feet over Ohio when she closed her laptop and reached in her purse for the final gift Rule had given her: a new iPhone.

  He’d been almost apologetic about it. A phone wasn’t romantic—and besides, he’d bought one for himself, too. But he’d covered the romance base just fine with the earrings and the panties; this was one very cool new toy.

  She glanced up the aisle, frowning slightly, as she took out the phone. Rule was headed for the lavatory. He’d undoubtedly go another time or two or three, and not because he had a bladder problem. All lupi experienced some degree of claustrophobia, but however much he preferred to pretend otherwise, Rule suffered from it more than most. Moving around in the plane helped, especially with a long flight.

  The stress of being closed up in a flying steel cage would probably be worse than usual. Grief made everything harder to bear. Then, too, they were in economy this time. Rule normally paid for the additional space of first class, but first class was full on this flight and he hadn’t wanted to wait for another one.

  Lily was just guessing about his feelings, though. When she’d asked Rule, he’d told her he’d be fine.

  He’d said that pleasantly enough. Ever since they woke up at an ungodly hour this morning to make their flight, he’d been unbearably, damnably pleasant. It made her want to shake him. If only he’d scowl or snap or weep…

  Grimly she turned her attention to something she could control and touched Nettie Two Horse’s name in her contact list.

  She had a permit for using the phone. The FAA clung to the idea that cell phone usage on a plane was potentially dangerous, but immediately after the Turning it had granted Unit agents a blanket exemption to the rule. That had been handy for the agents who’d crisscrossed the country dealing with various emergencies, but the FAA hadn’t done it to help them out. They’d wanted to stop the crashes.

  Magic gives computers indigestion.

  For about a week after the Turning, with magic still belching from nodes in unpredictable bursts, the tech in planes hadn’t worked consistently. Only one large passenger plane had crashed in the United States, but there had been several smaller crashes and dozens of close calls. Even after the Turning, problems occurred. The nodes were still leaking, after all, even if they’d stopped burping. And they leaked at a higher rate than they used to, creating higher levels of ambient magic.

  Ambient magic was free magic—magic that hadn’t been absorbed by earth or water. In the past, the leakage from nodes had been small enough that almost all of it had been soaked up quickly. But after the realms shifted, nodes leaked more magic than earth and water could soak up. The ambient magic level was higher than it had been in a couple centuries…and still rising. Rising faster in some places than others.

  Ruben Brooks, Lily’s boss, had had a hunch shortly after the Turning. Since he was an off-the-scale precog with the president’s ear, the FAA had listened. Brooks suspected that anyone with a Gift soaked up magic in a small way—not like dragons, of course, who were enormous magical sponges. But enough to make a difference to delicate equipment—especially if they were trained.

  Unit agents were almost all Gifted, almost all trained in one of the many magical disciplines. They now flew for free on every major airline…and were allowed to use their phones.

  That was a perk that might not last much longer. The airlines no longer flew over the noisiest nodes, so incidents of computer malfunction were down, and silk casings on computerized equipment did offer some shielding. But the FAA was quietly investigating whether the flights that did experience a brief malfunction were those without any Gifted on board.

  Quietly, because there was still a lot of distrust for the Gifted.

  Lily was an exception in one way. She was Gifted, but not trained; her Gift was essentially untrainable. As a sensitive, she felt magic tactilely, but couldn’t be affected by it. Or work it.

  She didn’t feel guilty about taking advantage of a privilege she might or might not be earning. She was using her phone to protect and serve, not to chat about personal matters…though there was an uncomfortable overlap between the professional and the personal in this case.

  When Nettie answered, Lily began with the words she’d used too often, professionally. “Nettie, I’m calling about Steve Hilliard. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “So am I.” Nettie’s voice was gruffer than usual. “Are you going to handle the case yourself?”

  “I don’t know yet. Are you up to a consult?”

  Nettie Two-Horses—a ritually trained shaman as well as a Harvard-trained physician—was Nokolai, as Steve Hilliard had been. Nettie must have known Hilliard, might have played with him as a child. She was close to Rule’s age, Lily thought, though the years looked different on her than they did on him.

  Nettie was clan, but she was female. Female clan weren’t lupus. They aged normally.

  “If I can help, I want to. Training and disposition mean I can’t go kill the bastard who did it myself, but I want him caught.”

  “Good enough. You know that someone applied a tattoo to his neck?”

  “I’ve talked to Isen. Yes, I know about that.”

  “Okay. My first question’s about gado. I’ve read up about it some.” Not the full, need-to-know classified document, but an abridged version. She could probably get more if she had to, but she’d have to jump through some hoops first. “I’ve got a rough idea of its effects and a partial ingredients list. Apparently gadolinium and wolfbane are two of the key ingredients. I’m having purchases of gadolinium checked, but wolfbane is not regulated. What can you tell me about it?”

  “Actually, gado uses a solution of an organic gadolinium complex—Gadopentetate dimeglumine, or Gd-DTPA—rather than pure gadolinium. Presumably the agency that tracks gadolinium sales is aware of this.”

  “I’ll check. Can you spell it for me?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. The various agencies that take note of such things are unaware of how much I know about gado, and I’d prefer them to remain ignorant. I did considerable private research on the subject when the government was using gado on the lupi they caught.”

  “Right.” Lily considered asking just how much Nettie knew about the manufacture of gado. Best not, she decided. Best if she didn’t actually know.

  “Wolfbane, of course, can’t be tracked,” Nettie said. “It’s far too common.”

  Wolfbane, aka monkshood, devil’s helmet, or aconite, was a member of the buttercup family scientifically known as aconitum. Lily was an amateur gardener, but she’d looked this particular plant up. “It’s not native to the San Diego area, I think.”

  “Not that we know of. It generally prefers wetlands, but one species—Columbian monkshood—is found in many parts of California. Also, the flowers are pretty enough that some landscapers use it, despite the toxicity.”

  “It’s a neurotoxin, right? And it interferes with a lupus’s healing.”

  “It does. If you’re wondering whether wolf
bane could account for the tattoo—”

  “I am. The government used gado to tattoo registered lupi, but what I read suggests wolfbane might work, too. I’m also wondering about the fatal wound. Would a lupus heal that before bleeding out without the application of some agent like wolfbane or gado?”

  “There’s no way to answer your second question. Lupi healing varies, and I don’t know enough about the wound. What structures were involved? Was the trachea severed as well as the exterior jugular vein? What about the carotid artery?”

  Lily grimaced. So far, everything she knew about the case came from Rule’s father and a single newspaper article. The local police had to send the FBI requested material, but if they felt uncooperative, it could take an amazingly long time to process a request. “I don’t know.”

  “Until you do, I can’t discuss that meaningfully. As for your other question…hmm.” She considered that a moment. “Are you talking about topical woflbane, or ingested?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “Applied topically, both wolfbane and gado retard healing in a lupus, but the mechanism and the duration is very different. Wolfbane’s effects are quite brief.”

  “Define brief.”

  “That would depend on the lupus and the dosage, but most lupi rid themselves of it in two to four minutes. Some, like Rule, are almost unaffected by topical bane.”

  “He’s been given bane, then.”

  “Certainly. Most clans expose young lupi to it so they’ll recognize the effects. Rule has unusually strong healing, so his system throws off topical wolfbane almost immediately. The ingested bane made him as miserable as any other lupus, though for a briefer time than some.”

  “So eating wolfbane works differently than rubbing it on?”

  “Oh, yes. With ingested bane, the effects are stronger, more unpleasant, and last longer.”

  “An hour? A day?”

  “More than an hour. Less than a day. The thing about wolfbane is that it distracts a lupus’s healing. Their magic immediately tries to heal them of it—and since for some reason they can’t rid themselves of it quickly, their systems often focus on it to the exclusion of other, more serious damage. Not in a predictable way, though.”

  “Because lupus healing varies.”

  “The effect varies even for the same lupus. One time a lupus might heal a wound almost normally soon after ingesting a dose. Another time, the same lupus may fail to heal even a trivial wound.”

  Lily was reminded of the mate bond. It, too, was unpredictable. “What about injecting it? Does that make a difference?”

  “It can’t be injected—not if you want to affect healing, that is. When wolfbane is altered, the effects change in myriad ways, and there is no key active ingredient that can be extracted. To retard healing, you have to use fresh leaves or flowers.”

  “Not the seeds or roots?”

  “No. And no, I don’t know why. Either of those will cause a form of bane sickness, but it’s much briefer and doesn’t seem to affect healing.”

  “Are the effects the same for all the aconite species?”

  “As far as we know, though the severity of the symptoms varies.”

  Rule was moving down the aisle now. Lily tapped her pen on her notebook. “It sounds like there’s no reason to assume Steve Hilliard was given gado. Wolfbane would have had the same effect as far as the tattoo goes.”

  “Well…yes. Though gado is much more effective. It blocks all of a lupus’s magic, not just the healing, and the effect lasts much longer.”

  “But it’s a hell of a lot harder to get hold of or to make.”

  “True.”

  “Thanks, Nettie. I’ll keep you posted.” Lily disconnected, her lips thin. The tapping picked up pace.

  Damn him. He hadn’t lied, no. He’d just led her to believe something that wasn’t entirely true.

  Rule had stopped a couple seats up and was signing an autograph for a young woman with tightly kinked orange hair. The stewardess hovered behind him, smiling in an infatuated way. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” she asked, handing him a scrap of paper.

  Rule didn’t. He seldom did. His fame—or notoriety—was part of his father’s plan to integrate lupi with human society, and Rule had known he would be the public face for his people long before he met Lily. Before the Supreme Court’s decision made it safe to announce his heritage to the world, in fact.

  He made a gorgeous public face. His features were sharp and elegant in a way the camera loved, with dramatic eyebrows and cheekbones. His body wasn’t bad, either, if you went for long, lean, and powerful with the innate grace of an athlete.

  Which, from what Lily could see, 99.9 percent of heterosexual women did.

  Lily couldn’t see who sat beside the woman with the orange hair, but it was another female, judging by the muffled voice. Rule leaned across the first woman and patted the other one somewhere—her shoulder, probably.

  He didn’t look like a man sternly suppressing the beast inside—a wolf who did not like being trapped in a metal cage. He did have some tells, but they were too subtle for even her to spot them unless she was close.

  “I don’t suffer from motion sickness myself,” he said, “but Lily usually travels with some candied ginger, just in case. Shall I ask her if she has some?”

  Lily heard the woman’s words clearly this time. “Lily? Who’s she?”

  Rule smiled. “My beloved.”

  He said that naturally, too. Just as if everyone talked that way.

  Lily could imagine the woman’s disappointed expression. She’d seen it often enough on other female faces. Even women who weren’t making a serious play for Rule enjoyed thinking they might be able to have him, if they tried. Lupi were notoriously promiscuous.

  Except for Rule. Not anymore, that is.

  He signed one more autograph, then at last slid into the seat beside Lily with a faint sigh. She caught a faint whiff of the honey and citrus scent of his shampoo. He’d switched recently because she loved citrus scents.

  He made it hard to stay mad, dammit.

  “Why,” he murmured, “do people troubled by motion sickness feel impelled to tell everyone about their symptoms?”

  “Did she want the ginger?”

  “No.” He looked at her, his brows drawing together. “You’re upset.”

  “What I am, is pissed. You manipulated me.”

  His eyebrows snapped down. “What are you talking about?”

  “You led me to think gado was probably involved. Wolfbane is a lot more likely, but you never mentioned it. I wouldn’t have cause to investigate the use of wolfbane, would I?”

  “I’d just heard that one of my oldest friends was dead. Excuse me for not thinking things through.”

  “We’ve been up since four a.m. today. We’ve discussed the case, the circumstances under which I can investigate—the restrictions I’m under.” Croft had told her to avoid calling on other FBI agents unless she could confirm that gado was involved. “You never mentioned the possibility it was wolfbane, not gado, that let someone tattoo Hilliard.”

  “Steve,” he said coldly. “His name was Steve.”

  She breathed in slowly, choking back her own temper. He was on edge. Grief did that. So did the claustrophobia he didn’t like to admit to.

  She couldn’t do much about his grief, but the other…Lily took his hand. That was the one thing that helped, other than moving around. The mate bond brought comfort when they touched—even when she was mad at him. “This matters, Rule,” she said quietly. “If you tricked me into investigating, misusing my authority—”

  “No. Maybe. God.” His fingers tightened on hers. For a moment he sat in silence, no doubt putting a lid on his own temper—which, unlike hers, ran cold more often than hot. “I didn’t intentionally misguide you. I didn’t think it out like that, but unconsciously…I suppose I did. I needed you to investigate. It was reflex.”

  She’d been sure already, so why did it hurt to have him admit
it? Lily swallowed. “Lousy reflex. Long-lasting one, too.”

  The tension she hadn’t seen in him earlier was plain now—in his tight jaw, his grip on her hand, his continued silence.

  And yet the comfort she’d meant for him reached her, too. That’s how the mate bond worked. She couldn’t touch him without responding—and the response wasn’t always sexual.

  It was need the mate bond both created and answered. Need, not trust. Trust was up to them. She’d thought they were further along that road than this. Far enough that his first reflex would not have been to mislead her, even unconsciously. Far enough that he wouldn’t shut her out.

  When he spoke, his words came slowly. “The human response to pain is complex—tears, anger, the urge to defend or attack or sleep or find distraction. A wolf’s response is simpler. If a wolf is wounded, he withdraws—physically, if the wound is physical. Emotionally, if it’s not. I have both sets of responses, but when the pain is acute, the wolf’s response dominates.”

  “You’re saying this need for privacy is connected to your misleading me.”

  “The initial impulse was unhealthy. Wrong. The need for privacy, as you put it, kept me from correcting it.”

  “So you need to lick your wounds in private. I can understand that.” She did understand. Her biggest loss had occurred when she was nine. Her best friend had been raped and killed in front of her. She’d never been able to talk out the feelings the way everyone seemed to think she should. Not then, not now. “I’m not much on talky-talky stuff, either.”

  “It’s more than being unable to talk about my feelings. It’s distance I need. A distance that hurts you.”

  Well, yes, it did. But…“You’ve let me tend you when you were physically hurt. You’ve let Nettie tend you. You know the instinct to withdraw doesn’t work when a wound needs attention.”

  Surprise was clear in his voice when he said, “You’re right.”

  How could she not smile? “It happens.”