That guessing had been pretty wild—and highly political, dammit. Lily hated politics. Grandmother said that was naïve, that hating politics was like hating the weather. Pointless, since both were inevitable.
But lupi politics were so damned . . . lupi.
The baby party gave Rule a chance to gauge the degree of opposition to his recent controversial actions—assuming another clan’s mantle and getting engaged. At the same time he meant to use it to reduce opposition by creating the appearance of reduced opposition.
It was enough to make her head ache.
Attendance at a baby party was a matter of status and friendship. Cullen was new to Nokolai, having been adopted into the clan less than a year ago, so he wouldn’t normally have had a big turn-out. Not many close friends, and his status was uncertain. But Rule was Lu Nuncio and Lily was his Chosen, so they were both high status. High-status hosts ought to mean lots of guests.
But Cullen had violated a huge taboo by marrying the woman who was having his child, and Rule was planning to marry. A lot of clan might stay away to express disapproval.
Only that wouldn’t happen, according to Rule, because the baby party’s third host was the Nokolai Rhej. A Rhej was similar to a priestess or bard. She held the clan’s memories and, in rare cases, spoke for the Lady—who the lupi claimed was not a goddess, but sure seemed to bat in that league. The Rhej’s status was equal to the Rho’s . . . and Cynna had recently become her apprentice.
Very recently, Cynna had begun acquiring those memories. The process was slightly more secret than whatever codes were required to launch the nation’s nuclear weapons. Whatever the process, though, the result was a drained, too-silent Cynna.
She needed this party, needed to put aside whatever trauma she’d lived through in the memories. It was almost always the bad stuff that got saved.
The clan would turn out, Rule said. Not everyone, for though the majority of Nokolai lived in California, California was a large state. But everyone who could attend would show up to honor the Rhej and Cynna, which would reflect well on Rule, making the clan’s disapproval look less serious than it otherwise might.
And if they don’t? Lily had asked. What if they are so opposed to you marrying that they stay away in spite of everything?
Then his father would have to choose a new heir. He wouldn’t risk the clan’s stability by forcing them to accept his choices.
Was it any wonder she was tense? Better, she decided, to think about monsters. “You didn’t smell anything funny back there, did you?”
Rule shook his head. “Of course, in this form I don’t detect scent as well, but snakes have a distinctive aroma—and generally speaking, the larger the animal, the more scent it leaves. You didn’t ask me to Change.”
“Maybe I should have, but it seemed pointless. No one else saw a snake, and I didn’t pick up any traces of magic.” She frowned. “Mass hallucination is not a satisfying answer. They’re not all seeing the same kind of monster. They’re not seeing the right kind of monsters, either.”
“The zombies, you mean?”
“And the yeti. Sure, yeti exist—but not with big, jagged teeth, and for God’s sake, not in southern California. And they’re peaceable, not aggressive. And you remember that first one—the woman in Hillcrest who swore that a wolf man broke down her door and attacked her.” That one had been easy to disprove, thank God. They did not need the public thinking that lupi could turn into the kind of ravening half man, half beast beloved by Hollywood. Both the woman and her front door had been undamaged.
“People are seeing movie monsters.”
“Doesn’t make sense, does it? Half a dozen apparently unconnected people have suffered sudden, temporary delusions. The cops are calling me every time it happens, on orders from the chief. Am I paranoid to think Chief Delgado issued those instructions because he’s still pissed at me for leaving the force? Or conceited to think I matter that much?”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “You know what they say. Even paranoids can have real enemies.”
“Hmm.” She felt oddly better. “Or he might be playing CYA. The press hasn’t gotten hold of this yet, but if it keeps up, they will. He wants to be able to say that the FBI’s oh-so-important Unit hasn’t discovered anything, either. I wonder . . .”
“Yes?”
“Delusions, hallucinations. Could be a new drug, but the cops aren’t aware of anything new on the streets. Of course, some of the upper-end stuff circulates more at parties and clubs, so . . . Max,” she said, referring to the owner of Club Hell.
“Max is about as antidrug as you can get.”
“But he’d hear about it if there’s something new. Something upper end,” she repeated, thinking of the Hillcrest woman. Hillcrest was not a cheap neighborhood, and the woman was of an age to be hitting the clubs. None of that fell in Lily’s jurisdiction, and yet . . . She pulled out her phone. “I’ll give him a call later. I’ll call the chief first.”
“Want to see if he’s persecuting you on purpose?”
She snorted as she thumbed through the directory. “As if he’d answer that question. No, the other possibility that occurs to me is some kind of toxin. Maybe these people ingested something in the water or on a tomato or whatever. I want to find out if he’s notified the public health people. If not, I am.” And she knew who to call. She knew this city. It was a comfort to her, after all the traveling she’d done lately.
“Officer Munoz looked really young,” she said as she selected the number for the SDPD Chief of Police.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Do I sometimes look really young to you?”
“You always look exactly right to me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smiled and kept looking straight ahead. “And I’m not an idiot.”
Lily smiled, too, as the chief’s secretary announced herself in her familiar smoker’s growl. It was good to be home.
BEHIND the 7-Eleven, next to a full and fragrant Dumpster, a small man was doubled over, laughing. “Oh, did you see the woman’s face?” he said in Chinese. “Did you see? ‘Oh, help me, help me, the big snake wants to eat me up’!” He added the last in a squeaky falsetto and slapped his thigh. “Crash she goes! Bam!”
He looked a bit like an Asian Hercule Poirot with his slicked-back hair, though he lacked the impressive mustache. Mostly, though, he looked ordinary—somewhere over forty with dark, merry eyes and a stubby nose. He wore athletic shoes with white socks, baggy khaki shorts, and a T-shirt that read, “San Diego Chargers.”
The laughter faded to a grinning giggle. “You were brilliant, my dear, brilliant as always,” he said to the air beside him. He spoke English now, with a decided British accent. He bent to pick up the black cap that had fallen off while he was carried away with laughter, revealing a bald spot on top of his head.
“Did she?” He frowned as he straightened, but the frown slipped away as if his face had been greased by good humor. “I didn’t see. Ah, well, the blood is there, I suppose, or it could be coincidence. And she only looked. She couldn’t see you.”
“Oh, of course.” He began walking in the idle way of a man with no special need to be one place rather than another, nodding now and again as if in response to his invisible friend. He passed the small group of bystanders in the parking lot, breaking up now that the show was mostly over. None of them noticed him.
“But I’ll take care of him for you, my beautiful one,” he said as he stepped into the street after looking carefully both ways. “You know I will. Soon now, eh?” He smiled. “Won’t they be confused! I wish I could . . . No, no, I won’t linger. I understand the difficulty for you. But,” he added wistfully, “it would be great fun to stay and see their faces after I kill him.”