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  “But I don’t…I don’t know how to do this differently.”

  “Maybe you could tell me about him. About Steve.”

  “We were age mates. He…that means more, perhaps, with clan children, especially those raised at Clanhome, since we so seldom have siblings close in age. We got in trouble together.” He smiled slightly. His grip on her hand eased. “For several years, he was my partner in crime.”

  “What kind of crimes did you commit?”

  He spoke of climbing a nearby peak, of an unsupervised trip into the city, of practical jokes that sometimes worked only too well. The first two didn’t surprise her; the practical jokes did.

  “He sounds like he had an unlupus-like disrespect for authority.”

  “That’s Steve.” He was easy now, his hand relaxed in hers. “Before First Change especially, but even after he became an adult, he enjoyed challenging the status quo.”

  “Why didn’t I know him?” she asked softly. Hilliard had lived in a town that bordered Clanhome. If he’d been such a close friend, why hadn’t she met him?

  “We…weren’t as close in recent years as we used to be.” After a moment, he added sadly, “He never had children. He wanted them desperately, but he never had children.”

  That wasn’t unusual for a lupus. The magic that flooded their systems inhibited fertility. This was their big secret, the reason for their disdain for marriage or fidelity, for anything that lessened their chances of finding the right woman at the right time. The one who would bear them a child. “How did he deal with his disappointment?”

  “Disappointment. It’s a mild word, isn’t it? As adults…” He shifted uncomfortably. “Age mates don’t always remain close, but Steve and I did for many years. Even after I was named Lu Nuncio, we were close. But when Toby was born, when I had a child and he didn’t…his longing for a child distorted him. He couldn’t settle. He couldn’t bear to be with those who had a son or daughter, so more and more he associated with those younger than him.”

  “There was a distance between you, and you hated it.”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “The one thing that mattered was denied him, so nothing mattered greatly. He didn’t sink into despair, but he made unwise choices.”

  “Risky choices.”

  He nodded. “If he’d been human, you’d have called him an adrenaline junkie. He loved high-risk sports—rock climbing, parasailing, sky diving. His first love, though, was motorcycles. He always came back to that, to his love for speed.”

  “Those are pretty expensive hobbies. How did he pay for them?”

  “He had a motorcycle shop—repairs mostly, though he also sold used bikes. He made a decent living with it. He paid off the loan he took out to open the shop years ago.”

  “Who inherits?”

  Rule shot her a sharp look. “Am I talking to the cop now?”

  “I don’t separate out that part of me the way you do your wolf.”

  “Fair enough. I assume you’re interested in what his will says, not his private arrangements with his Rho? His will leaves everything to Jason.”

  “What do you mean by private arrangements?”

  “We traditionally bequeath the clan its drei.”

  “I thought the drei was like an income tax.”

  “It’s more of a tithe, but it also means any percentage of our personal wealth given to the clan. With an estate, it can be anything from ten percent to one hundred percent.”

  “But that isn’t mentioned in the will.”

  “Traditionally, no. For centuries we’ve been careful not to leave a trail to our Rho in public records, and wills are public documents. Most lupi leave their estates to a clan member—a family member, if possible. Someone who will follow their private wishes, which they register with their Rho. Steve left his estate to Jason, but Jason won’t retain all of it. Half will go to Nokolai.”

  By Nokolai, he meant his father. A clan’s Rho owned all the clan’s common property. As far as human law was concerned, Isen Turner was a very wealthy man. “I thought Steve lived publicly as a lupus.”

  “He did.” Rule smiled. “When I made my public bow as Nokolai heir, Steve announced himself, too. That was his way of saying he stood by me. We weren’t as close as we’d once been, but he stood by me.”

  “If he was known to be lupus, why the secret arrangements with his Rho?”

  “Habit. Tradition. A disinclination to mess with the paperwork involved.”

  “As far as the local police are concerned, then, Jason Chance inherits everything.”

  His lip curled with scorn. “We don’t kill for money.”

  “The local cops won’t accept that as a given, and lupi do kill for other reasons. You seem pretty sure Chance didn’t do it. How do you know?”

  Rule shrugged. “How do we know anything about anyone? This would be wildly out of character for him. Jason’s a calm soul, a beta with little interest in status. He’d be moved to violence only if there was an immediate threat. But to be sure, I’ll ask him.”

  He meant that. He would ask Chance if he’d killed Hilliard, and if Chance denied it, Rule would believe him. That wasn’t some bullshit belief in Chance’s honesty. Rule claimed that no clan member could successfully lie to his Lu Nuncio.

  “Earlier,” Rule said, “you took my hand even though you were angry with me.”

  “I was pissed at you, not Nokolai. Wouldn’t be good for the clan if you freaked out on an airplane.”

  He smiled slowly. Fully. “What color are they?”

  “They?”

  He stroked his thumb along the skin between her thumb and finger. “I didn’t watch you dress this morning. What color are they?”

  Oh. She smiled. “Leopard.”

  3

  MORGUES in California are as chilly as those in other parts of the country. Lily was glad for her jacket—the one she hadn’t gotten blood on yesterday—as she studied the pale body of a man who looked about thirty.

  Caucasian, brown and blond, weight maybe one-eighty carried on a five-foot ten-inch frame. Steve Hilliard had been built like a fullback, with streaky blond hair and the sort of face that gets called all-American…if you think of Americans in terms of an all-white, Andy Griffith Show cast.

  He was clean-shaven, which was typical for a lupus; Rule’s father was the only one she could think of offhand who wore a full beard. No visible scars. Also typical, since lupi heal without producing scar tissue…unless the injury comes from a demon’s poisoned claws. But demons were—thank God—rare, especially the ones with poison. Rule was the only lupus with a scar.

  A quick visual told Lily that Steve Hilliard had no obvious physical flaws. Aside from the large one in his throat, that is. And as long as you didn’t consider tattoos a flaw.

  He didn’t have a lot of dried blood on him, either. And that was odd.

  “Look just like us, don’t they?” the morgue attendant said.

  Lily glanced at him. Morton Wright was over forty, reed-thin, with geek glasses and acne scars—not exactly Steve Hilliard’s twin. But she liked the sentiment. “Lupi, you mean? Yes, they do. Some people have a problem with that.”

  He shrugged. “In this job, you get philosophical. Used to be, some folks got churned up about skin color. Now they worry about people turning furry or whatever. But they’re all dead by the time I get to know them. Way I see it, black or white, part-time furry or not, dead is dead.”

  Lily didn’t think everyone had gotten over the skin color thing, but she let that pass. “They do call it the great equalizer. Was Hilliard cleaned up before you got him?”

  “Hell, no.” Wright was offended. “We may be a Podunk little town, but we’ve got professionals here. We don’t clean up a body before the autopsy.”

  “Sorry. I needed to ask. Not much blood on him, is there?”

  Wright switched back to agreeable. “Not what you’d expect, huh? Not from a wound like that. You open up a guy’s jugular that way, you’d expect blood to go ever
ywhere.”

  “Yeah, I would.” She hadn’t seen the police reports yet, didn’t know anything about the site where the body was found except the general location—higher up in the mountains, according to the newspaper.

  It should have been a county case, dammit. Lily knew some of the county law enforcement people. But Del Cielo had drawn its city boundaries with great optimism, and they included the neglected hiking trail where Hilliard’s body had been found.

  A body that would be taken to the county morgue tomorrow to await autopsy. Del Cielo didn’t have the facilities for that; this morgue was in the basement of their small hospital. “I’m going to get a few pictures of that tattoo.”

  She’d fastened her phone to her jacket pocket earlier, so unclipped it now and bent to study the tattoos ringing Hilliard’s neck. The design went all the way around, like a wide, lacy choker interrupted by the gaping wound across the front of his throat. The tattoo was intricate and nonpictorial—no images of flowers or daggers or whatever. No words or recognizable symbols.

  Recognizable to her, anyway. Briefly, fiercely, she wished for Cynna, whose body was covered in tattoos rather like this one. Tattoos that were actually spells.

  But Cynna was in another realm…alive, Lily reminded herself. Alive and doing okay, according to the optimism she’d promised herself for another three months. She raised her phone and took pictures of the tattoo from various angles, then had the attendant roll the body on its side so she could get the rest of the pattern, which went all the way around.

  Finally she put her phone away. “I’ll need to scrub before I do the rest.”

  Wright nodded amiably. “Sure. You explained about that. Sink’s to your left.”

  Lily scrubbed thoroughly. The body hadn’t been autopsied yet, and though it was unlikely the lab results would be useful—body fluids from those of the Blood tended to screw up lab results, even after death—she’d do this by the book. “Did you know Jason Chance?” she asked casually.

  “Sure. The chief’s wrong there,” Wright said. “So were the jefes. Jason’s a good guy. Shouldn’t’ve fired him.”

  Jason Chance was the lupus the police had locked up pending formal charges. He was also a nurse. It was not the profession where Lily expected to find a part-time wolf, and it made her curious about him in a nonprofessional way.

  She returned to the body. “Did Jason come see you when he visited Hilliard?”

  “Naw. Not this time, anyway. Last time he was in town he did.”

  Lily nodded. Then she laid her bare fingertips on the edges of the wound.

  Cold, flaccid skin. A few flakes of dried blood. Nothing else. She probed gently inside the wound. Still nothing.

  One more place to check. She touched an intact part of the tattoo on the side of Hilliard’s neck. The tingle of magic was faint—too faint for her to identify the type. But it was, by God, present. “Mr. Wright—”

  “What the hell are you doing?” demanded a tenor voice that did not belong to the morgue attendant.

  Lily straightened and turned. The man who’d just entered was fat and freckled with thick, gingery red hair. Very Auld Sod. He wore a khaki uniform and badge, a hip holster, and a scowl.

  The voice went with the scowl. “Morton, you’d better have a good explanation for letting this—”

  Lily interrupted coolly. “He does. Would you be Chief Daly?”

  “I am. Who the hell are you?”

  “Special Agent Lily Yu, FBI. I left several messages for you.”

  “And just what are you doing here, messing with evidence?”

  Lily raised her eyebrows. “Obviously you don’t respond to your messages. Do you not listen to them, either?”

  He waved that away. “I got your goddamned message. You want to stick your nose into my murder case. That doesn’t give you the right to go messing with the victim’s body, messing up evidence. You don’t even have goddamned gloves on.”

  “Which is why I scrubbed first. I’m a touch sensitive. I can’t gather information with gloves on.”

  “You’re what?”

  “A sensitive,” Wright said helpfully. “You know, one of those folks who can feel magic when they touch it. Like on that old show, Touching Fire—you remember it? With Michelle Pfeiffer and that guy—I can’t remember his name, but he played in—”

  “Jesus Christ, Morton, spare me. I know what a sensitive is. I don’t know what Agent Yu here hopes to prove by feeling up a dead werewolf.”

  Oh, yeah. Working with this red-headed ape was going to be fun. “Since you’ve torn yourself away from your other duties to speak with me, Chief Daly, perhaps we could take this discussion somewhere less chilly.”

  “Not much to discuss. You’re butting out.”

  “No. I’m not. I need to wash up.” She didn’t wait for a response, heading back to the sink she’d used before. “I understand the body was found by a hiker.”

  “That’s right. He was found within city limits, which makes this my case. Nothing to do with you.”

  She turned, drying her hands. “No? Where’s the blood?”

  “You think I don’t know your type?” One thick finger jabbed in her general direction. “Publicity hound. Gets you plenty of attention, doesn’t it, swooping in here and stirring things up, calling the press to feed them whatever crap you think will get you a headline.”

  “You don’t know me, Chief. I have not and will not contact the press, and I sincerely hope no one else does, either. I need to see the reports you have on this case.”

  “Yeah, well, I need a vacation. Doesn’t mean it’ll happen.”

  “I have the authority to require your cooperation.” She returned to her purse, extracted the little folder with her badge, and showed it to him.

  Lily was with Unit 12 of the Magical Crimes Division of the FBI. Prior to the Turning, people knew about MCD, but the Unit had been a well-kept secret. Almost all its agents were Gifted, and the Gifted were not trusted. After the Turning, Congress flip-flopped, giving the Unit rather broad powers. Too broad, according to some. Lily was careful not to abuse her authority…however tempting it might be at times like this.

  Daly pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and wrote down her badge number. “I’ll check this out.”

  “Of course.” Lily slipped the badge back in her purse. “Why don’t you call now? I’d like to see those reports as soon as possible.”

  “I said I’d check. Don’t you try to throw your weight around.”

  Morton Wright chuckled. Both of them looked at him.

  “Hey,” he said, holding up both hands. “Don’t shoot me. Just thought it was funny, that’s all, Pete, you warning that bitty little thing not to throw her weight around. She doesn’t have much of it to throw.”

  That brought a smile, however reluctant, to Daly’s freckled face. “Guess not. Listen, Yu…damn, that’s awkward. Your name, I mean.”

  She smiled wryly. “I know. But it provides amusement for so many people—‘Hey, Yu! This is me—is this Yu?’”

  He snorted. “Bet you’ve heard ’em all. I guess I came down a little hard.”

  “Not a problem.” At least she hoped it wouldn’t be. They were connecting better now. “At the moment, Chief, I don’t know if this is my case or not, but it could be. Magic was used on that tattoo.”

  “Well, shit, I guess it would have to be, wouldn’t it? Can’t tattoo a werewolf without magic to make it stick. But the slice to his throat wasn’t magic.”

  “No, but if magic incapacitated him, or prevented that slice from healing—”

  “Is that possible?” He frowned heavily, then glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to meet with one of my detectives in ten minutes. Going to be late.”

  “I’ll walk out with you. Mr. Wright—”

  “Morton,” he said amiably.

  “Morton, it was good to meet you. I like your philosophy. Chief,” she said as she headed with him toward the door, “what’s your theory a
bout the lack of blood on the body?”

  “Don’t have one, but I’ll be asking my people to account for it. My people.” He snorted again and shoved the door, which opened into a small anteroom almost as cheerless as the morgue itself—cement walls and floor, battered file cabinets, a single desk for Morton Wright. “Don’t mean to make it sound like I’ve got dozens on this case. I don’t have dozens in the whole damned department. I meant the Medical Examiner and the detective who’s got the case. She’s county, of course—the ME—not one of mine, but we’ve worked together a long time now. She’s solid.”

  He’d sure mellowed. “That would be Alicia Chavez, and I agree—she’s solid. She’s got good people under her, too. Do you have an idea when Hilliard was killed?”

  “Tuesday night, probably between eleven and three a.m. That’s unofficial, but it fits with when Hilliard was last seen.”

  “Who saw him last?”

  “Other than the killer, that would be Amos McPherson, over at the Stop-N-Shop. You know Dr. Chavez? I’m taking the stairs,” he added, headed that way. There was an elevator, of course, for the gurneys that carried the bodies to the morgue. It was painfully slow, so she didn’t blame him for avoiding it. “I spend too damned much time at my desk. Need to move when I get the chance. Doctor doesn’t like my blood pressure.”

  “Stairs are fine.” She started up them behind him. “I used to work homicide in San Diego, so I’ve worked with Dr. Chavez and her staff.”

  “So you weren’t always a Fibbie.”

  “No, that’s a fairly recent change.”

  “What did you call Dr. Chavez about?” By the time the chief reached the top of the stairs, he was breathing heavily

  “I needed to let her know to check for gado.”

  He pushed the door open. “Gado?”

  “It’s a possibility. I told her she could send the samples to our lab. No need for the town or the county to cover that expense.”

  “That’s…” He stiffened, his voice trailing off.

  His bulk completely blocked her view. “What is it?”

  He spun around, his face distorted by fury. “You—you—I knew I’d heard your name someplace! Trying to make out like you’re so professional—well, that won’t work now!”