Mortal Sins

TWO

IN a small, upstairs room in a large frame house, Lily Yu was sleeping. She didn’t know this.

She knew pain, grief, despair. A sky overhead that wasn’t proper sky, but a storm-colored dome, dimly glowing. In that surreal sky, legend battled nightmare—a dragon, dark and immense, grappled with a flying worm-thing whose gaping jaws could have swallowed a small car. The ground Lily knelt on was stone and dirt without a trace of green.

In front of her, unconscious and bleeding, lay a huge silver and black wolf.

So much blood. She couldn’t see how badly Rule was hurt, but it was bad. She knew it. The demon had ripped him open so thoroughly that even he couldn’t heal in time. Rule needed a doctor, a hospital, but there were no hospitals in hell.

She knew what she had to do. It was a hard knowing, as hard as the stones of this place—and as certain as spring in that other place, the Earth she remembered. The Earth she would never see again.

Another woman knelt across the wolf’s ripped and bloody body, a woman bound to Rule as she was bound because she, too, was Lily. Another Lily, the one who could take Rule home.

She looked up now and met her own eyes. “Leave now. You have to go right away and take him where he can heal. To a hospital. He’ll die here.”

The other-her swallowed. “The gate—”

“Sam told me how to fix it.” That’s what the dragon had told them to call him. Sam. Was that a bit of desert-dry dragon humor? She’d never know.

So much she’d never know. Never have the chance to learn.

Other-Lily’s eyes widened, and Lily saw her own dread knowledge reflected at her—a certainty the other tried to deny. “There has to be another way.”

“Funny.” Her lips quirked up, but her eyes burned. “That’s what I said.” She reached up and ripped the chain with its dangling charm from her neck, the emblem of her bond with Rule. “There isn’t, though. You’re the gate.”

Slowly the other-her held out a hand.

Lily dropped the toltoi charm into it. “Tell him . . .” Feelings smacked into her, a torrent too churned and powerful to sort. She looked down, blinking quickly, and stroked Rule’s head. She didn’t care that her voice shook. “Tell him how glad I was about him. How very glad.”

Other-Lily’s fingers closed around the necklace. She nodded, her expression stark.

Lily pushed to her feet. She tugged at the top of her sarong, and it came open. “Bind him with this. He’s bleeding badly.” She tossed it to her other self and took off running. Naked, barefoot, she ran full-out.

There were others nearby, too. Rule’s friends—a sorcerer, a gnome, a woman he’d once cared for. And there were demons, the demons they fought. Not so many of them yet, but more were coming. Hundreds, maybe thousands more. And there was one demon, one small and insignificant demon, who was something like a friend. A little orange demon named Gan, who wasn’t fighting as the others were, and so saw Lily race for the cliff. And understood.

“No!” Gan howled, and started after her. “No, Lily Yu! Lily Yu, I do like you! I do! Don’t—”

She reached the edge of the cliff. And leaped.

And as the air rushed past, heavy with the scent of ocean, whistling of terror and death, the dragon who called himself Sam whispered in her mind, Remember.

The opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth cut through the whistling wind, snatching Lily away from the impact just in time. Her eyes popped open on darkness, her heart pounding in soul-sickening fear. Automatically her hand stretched out for her phone on the bedside table. And bumped into a wall.

That simple, unexpected collision with reality jolted her back the rest of the way, though it took her a second to figure out why her bedside table wasn’t where it should be. No, why she wasn’t where she should be.

Lily had slept in too many beds in too many places lately. Home was San Diego, but she’d recently spent several months in Washington, D.C., getting special training at Quantico . . . among other things. But she and Rule were back in San Diego now, staying at his place. Only this wasn’t Rule’s apartment.

She was in Halo, North Carolina. This was Toby’s home, the house where Rule’s son lived with his grandmother, Louise Asteglio. It was 3:42 a.m., and Beethoven’s Fifth was Rule’s ring tone. She crawled across tumbled sheets to retrieve her phone from atop the chest of drawers. “What’s wrong?”

Rule’s voice was steady, but grim. “I found bodies. Three of them. Humans. They’re in a shallow grave, stacked on top of each other. The adult is on top.”

“Shit. Shit. The adult? Then . . . you’re sure? Stupid question,” she corrected herself, juggling the phone so she could yank off the oversize tee she’d slept in. “I hate it when it’s kids; that’s all.” She paused. Suitcase. Where was her . . . oh, yeah, in the closet. They’d arrived late enough that she hadn’t unpacked, but tucked it in the closet.

Lily yanked the closet door open and dragged out her suitcase. “They’re in the woods?”

“About half a mile east of Highway 159, north of town. I’ll wait for you at the highway.”

“I’ll find you.” That part would be easy. Just as a compass needle knows north, Lily knew where Rule was. That aspect of the mate bond came in handy.

Chosen, the lupi called her—and so did Rule, but not often. Mostly he called her nadia, which she’d learned came from a word meaning tie, girdle, or knot. But the lupi meant well when they called her Chosen, believing she’d been selected for Rule by their Lady—a being they insisted was neither mythical nor a goddess, though she seemed to play in that league.

Nine months ago Lily had met Rule’s eyes, the two of them chosen for each other, knotted together by the mate bond. Nothing had been the same since.

Good thing she’d fallen in love with him.

Lily wedged the phone between her chin and her shoulder while Rule gave her more details as she dug out jeans, socks, a tee. Clothes to tramp the woods in. She’d want a jacket to hide the shoulder holster.

When he finished, she said, “Sounds like you’ve found the vics of that murder Mrs. Asteglio told us about. The local cops ought to be grateful, but I wouldn’t count on it. Ah . . . it’s okay for them to know you found them, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t call you instead of the local authorities to avoid involvement. I’d have kept you out of this if I could. No, don’t argue,” he said before she had a chance. “I know you’ve seen bodies. That’s not the point. These bodies . . . there’s a small pack of feral dogs in the area.”

Oh, ugh. “The dogs dug them up.”

“So it looks. Smells that way, too.”

“You’re sure it was dogs? I’ll be asked,” she added hastily. He knew she wouldn’t accuse him of anything so vile, but others might. “And there are other carnivores around, aren’t there? Bears?”

“Bears are unlikely at this elevation, and the scent is quite clear. Five distinct canine scents near the grave, though only three are actually on the uppermost body.”

“Dogs, then.” Lily frowned. Why had Rule called her? He could have phoned in a tip anonymously. “What haven’t you told me? There’s something important you aren’t saying. What is it?”

“A smell. In addition to dogs and decay, there’s a smell that . . . but I could be wrong. It’s faint, and so smothered by normal putrefaction I can’t be sure. You’ll be able to tell.”

Tell what? Not the nature of the scent, because she’d never notice it. Compared to lupi, humans were all but scent-blind.

All at once she keyed into the phrase he’d used: “normal putrefaction.” “Shit. Oh, shit. Tell me the rest of it.”

“Death magic. I’m not sure, but . . . I think the bodies smell of death magic.”

JAY Deacon was thin, trim, under forty, and under six feet. With his gold-rimmed glasses and skin the color of wet tea leaves, he looked more like a Northern academic than a stereotypical Southern sheriff.

He sure acted like a small-town sheriff, though. “You’re not listenin’ to me, ma’am. Coroner’s van’ll be here any minute now. We don’t need the FBI to work the scene, so once you take us to the bodies, you can go on back to bed.”

Until a few months ago, Lily had been on the other side of the local-federal divide, working homicides in San Diego. She would have sympathized with the sheriff’s desire to hang on to his case if he weren’t virtually patting her on the head and telling her to toddle on home.

“Sheriff, I called you as a courtesy, not because there’s any question of jurisdiction. My ERT will be here within the hour. Your people can hang around or go back to bed themselves—your choice. I am not conducting you to the bodies.”

His people consisted of a pair of deputies, both male. No surprise there. They were also white, however, and didn’t seem to have a problem working for a black boss, which might give her hope for the future of the nation . . . later. When she could think about something other than bodies tainted by death magic.

After showing Lily what he’d found, Rule had walked her to the highway to wait for the FBI’s Emergency Response Team, then gone back to the scene to make sure no more little forest creatures chowed down on the remains. Lily had left her headlights on to guide the ERT, but their illumination was partly blocked now by the three county cars pulled up on the shoulder behind her car.

Both deputies held flashlights. Sheriff Deacon wasn’t carrying anything but an attitude.

“Your team can help, I suppose.” He grudged the words, as if he were offering a major concession. “If they get here in time. But like I said, we’ve got the perp locked up, which makes this my scene.”

“Murder by magical means is a federal crime.”

He shook his head and sighed. “Roy Don Meacham didn’t use magic to kill his family. Crazy sumbitch used his son Andrew’s baseball bat. We’ve got the bat. Roy Don handed it to me himself. We’ve got a pattern of domestic violence—”

“How many calls?”

“Just one, but plenty of witnesses say Roy Don didn’t mind using the back of his hand on the kids or Becky. We’ve got physical evidence—the murder weapon, and blood and other traces on his clothes and skin. Hell, we’ve got a witness. Bill Watkins has the postal route out that way. He heard screamin’ when he pulled his truck up to the mailbox, so he went to help. Ended up with a plate in his skull where Roy Don whacked him, but he tried.”

“He remembers what he saw at the house?” Severe head trauma usually meant some degree of amnesia covering the time of the injury.

“Oh, yeah. He went inside, saw Roy Don walloping on Becky with the bat. He doesn’t remember anything after that, but he remembers that much, poor bastard. We’ve got all the evidence we need.”

“Except a confession. Or the bodies.”

“Which you’ve found. You got a tip,” he added, his voice landing heavy on the last word. “One you haven’t elected to tell me about.”

“No, I haven’t.” Lily had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. This wasn’t uncommon; at almost five foot three, she looked up a lot. But Deacon was standing too close, making a point of the difference in their heights. That annoyed her. “However, I’d heard of the case, which is why—”

“Didn’t know it had made any of the big city papers.”

“I’m visiting a relative in the area.” Sort of a relative. Rule’s son didn’t fit neatly into any of the labels people used for relationships. For that matter, neither did Rule. People looked at you funny if you spoke of your mate.

“Yeah? This relative have anything to do with that tip you won’t tell me about?”

“You know, Sheriff, I’d be more likely to share information if you weren’t such a pain in the ass. Step back.”

Deacon scowled. “What the hell do you—”

“I want you to quit crowding me physically. It doesn’t intimidate me. It just pisses me off.”

Impossible to tell if he flushed. But the quick duck of his head suggested embarrassment, and he did move back a pace, yanking off his cap and running his forearm over his forehead as if he’d worked up a sweat.

Maybe he had. It wasn’t as stinking hot at this hour as it had been yesterday when they arrived, but the moist air held on to heat. “You don’t want me messing in your case. I get it. Problem is, you have no choice. Magic was involved in the deaths of three people. That makes this mine.”

He reseated his cap and spoke with strained courtesy. “An’ you know about this magic how?”

“I’m a touch sensitive.” She waited to see if he knew what that meant. Most people did, or thought they did. As with many things magical, their assumptions were packed with old wives’ tales, prejudice, and tabloid headlines. Kind of like the way people “knew” all about lupi.

His eyebrows climbed, then descended in a scowl. “Shit.” He gave the word two syllables: shee-it. “You wouldn’t happen to be that weer-lover, would you?”

Lily sighed. Pronounced like weird without the D, weer was Southern for werewolf, and she’d made the news a few times. Then there were the gossip mags, which were fascinated by her relationship with “the Nokolai prince,” as they insisted on referring to Rule. “Maybe you haven’t heard. We call them lupi these days.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve heard about you. You and that Turner weer, the one who’s some kind of prince.”

Her hand tightened on the flashlight. “I doubt that whatever you’ve heard has any bearing on jurisdiction.”

“Maybe not.” His eyes were hard, dark walnuts, appraising her. “All right. I’ll cooperate if you’ll show me the bodies. I won’t mess up your scene.”

Temper urged her to give him the finger, but temper wasn’t a good guide, and he had called it her scene. She was going to have to work with this man. He and his deputies had gathered the initial evidence; they knew the area and the people.

Wait, wait. She wasn’t working with him because she’d be handing the case off. Assuming the Unit could get someone down here . . . well, they’d have to. She was here for Rule and Toby, not the FBI.

But for now, those bodies were her responsibility. “Deal. You’d better call your coroner, tell him to go back to bed.”

Deacon didn’t like that, but he was making an effort. He asked if she wanted his people to wait for the ERT. She thanked him, and he spoke to his deputies, then appropriated one of their flashlights. The batteries in his, he said, were dead. “How far is it?” he asked her.

“Less than a mile.”

“Hope you know how to find your way around without street signs. Under a mile doesn’t sound like much, but one tree looks a lot like another if you aren’t used to woods. Especially at night.”

Lily didn’t have to know how to track the pathless primeval, not with Rule waiting for her. She just had to find him, and that was easy. “There’s a deer trail, and I left someone on-scene who knows woods. If I have trouble finding the spot again, he’ll assist.”

He gave her a nod. She turned on her own flashlight and set off.

Near the highway the trees were new growth, young and dense and skinny. Teenage trees, she thought, but they were tall enough to spread an umbrella between her and the night sky. The moment she stepped under that canopy, the world turned godawful dark.

Crickets revved their motors like they were about to blast off. The ground was spongy, absorbing the sound of their footsteps as Deacon followed her. Lily kept her light trained on the piney carpet ahead. According to Rule, copperheads turned nocturnal in the hot months.

Trees had completely erased the highway behind them when Deacon spoke. “I guess you touched the bodies.”

“The one on top. I didn’t disturb the scene.” Which was as ugly as any she’d ever been called out on. Lily wouldn’t have known the body she’d touched was female if not for the bra tangled up with gnawed-on bones and scraps of stinking meat. “Why are you so determined to see the bodies, Sheriff?” She’d told him about the dogs. Did he think he had to prove how tough he was by seeing what they’d left?

He ignored her question. “When you touch things, you feel it if they’ve got magic in them.”

“That’s right. Magic is a texture to me.”

“Hold up a minute.”

Lily turned. With her flash pointed down, it was hard to make out his expression; his face was a dark blur in the greater darkness. But the pale skin on his outstretched palm showed up clearly.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Testing me?” Well, why not? She took his hand.

The prickle of magic was immediate. And confusing. She held his hand longer than she’d intended, frowning, trying to sort the sensation . . . slick, all slickness and surface, like a gumball. A faint pulsing, as if the magic within swayed to some distant tidal pull . . . “You’re Gifted,” she said at last, dropping his hand, “but damned if I can say what kind of Gift, though it’s tied to water. There’s some sort of worked magic overlaying it. Suppressing it, maybe.”

After a moment he muttered, “Guess you know what you’re doin’. No one’s ever been able to tell. No one.”

“You going to tell me about your Gift?”

He wasn’t at all sure he would. That was obvious in his hesitation, if not his expression—she couldn’t see clearly—but finally he said, “Empathy.”

Her eyebrows rose. He wasn’t talking about physical empathy. That was an Earth Gift, and rare. No, his Gift would be the emotional sort—more common and less welcome. With a minor empathic Gift, you could get by okay as long as you avoided crowds. A strong Gift like Deacon’s could make life unlivable.

“That’s a rough Gift for anyone,” she said, “but for a cop . . . it seemed to be coated.”

“I keep it spelled shut.”

“I hadn’t realized that was possible.”

“My granny put up the block years ago. She, ah . . . she knows stuff. Her great-granddad was a shaman. Some stuff got passed down.”

Lily nodded and turned to hunt her way through the trees. “I’ve got a friend trained in African traditions. She’d be interested in that spell, if you’re willing to talk about it.”

“Might be. Depends. I’d have to get a feel for her.”

Even with his Gift coated by that spell, he probably picked up impressions about people. Lily’s mouth twisted wryly. That didn’t say much for her, considering how hostile he’d been. “You had any trouble with your block since the Turning? It’s handling more magic now.”

“I have to freshen the spell more often. That’s about it. You were connected with that, weren’t you? With the Turning and the dragons and all.”

“With the dragons, anyway.”

He stopped, staring at her. “So that part’s true?”