The kitchen was a large, comfortable room at the back of the house, flanked by a den on one side and a formal dining room, seldom used, on the other. It was immaculate; Mrs. Asteglio was as uneasy with disorder as Lily, and more militant about it. Rule spotted the piece of paper on the counter right away.
A glance told him Lily had written it. She’d made sure that if she and Rule were delayed, Toby and his grandmother would know where they were and not worry. She thought of things like that.
He didn’t, not always. He’d lived alone too long, grown accustomed to the autonomy of distance. Too, secrecy was a habit for most lupi, especially one in his position. He was learning new habits with Lily, but he had a ways to go. Lily would help, though—by pointing out when he screwed up, for one thing.
Rule grinned as he measured coffee and poured water, enjoying the smell and the habitual quality of the small ritual.
What about Toby’s rituals? How were they going to change?
He knew some of them—the need for a book and tucking in at night; the way Toby brushed his teeth before washing his face; the proper order in which to build a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Toby had spent part of his summers with his father, as well as a few rare weekends during the school year. But full-time fatherhood would be different from visits. He had much to learn.
He was eager, greedily eager, to begin those lessons.
While the coffee dripped, perfuming the house, Rule wandered into the little den, where the only television set in the house resided. He had a decision to make.
There seemed little chance of keeping the vultures of the press unaware of the hearing. Even if the judge and the various clerks with access to the court’s schedule didn’t spill the story, Mrs. Asteglio had probably spoken to her friends and neighbors about it. She wouldn’t have told them who Toby’s father was, but she would have spoken to them about the upcoming loss of her grandson.
The best way to deal with the press was usually to give them some portion of what they wanted. What if Rule told the reporters why he was here?
Not the main reason. Not about Toby. About Leidolf.
The human world knew little about lupus clans and nothing about the mantles that held them together. That was as it should be. The press insisted on calling Rule the Nokolai prince, but Rule’s position, though partly hereditary, had little in common with human royalty. Rule was Lu Nuncio to Nokolai clan and had carried the heir’s portion of the Nokolai mantle for many years now. His father held the main portion, of course, for it was the mantle that made him Rho, just as it made Nokolai a clan . . . and its members more than a hegemony broken into beast-lost packs.
Rule wouldn’t speak of mantles to the press. But he could speak of clans—warring clans that were moving to mend their differences.
He smiled slowly. The press would eat it up.
His mind clicked over possibilities, complications, consequences . . . and the consequences could be large. But he could do it, yes, and in addition to possibly sparing Toby, it would be excellent press for his people.
Did he have the right? He’d be revealing Leidolf’s existence to the press, and Leidolf’s Rho had made it clear—back when Victor Frey was conscious and capable of clarity—that he did not want Leidolf to go public.
Rule paced to the sliding doors, staring out at the thousand shades of green in the tidy backyard. He’d have to decide quickly. If he chose this course, he needed to set things in motion right away. That meant calling Alex Thibideux, Lu Nuncio for Leidolf. He’d call his father, too, for he owed his Rho notice . . . notice, but not obedience. Not in this. The Nokolai Rho had no say in this decision, for it was Leidolf business.
Rule’s mouth twisted, acknowledging the irony. Leidolf, the hereditary enemies of his clan, who’d tried to assassinate his father less than a year ago. Leidolf, whose Rho now lay comatose, slowly dying, having lost the treacherous toss of the dice he’d made when he tried to kill Rule last December.
Instead, he’d ended up making Rule his heir.
Traditionally, a clan’s heir held little real authority—but traditionally, the heir was also Lu Nuncio. A Lu Nuncio enforced his Rho’s will and could at times speak with the Rho’s voice—because a Lu Nuncio did not act against his Rho’s decisions. Ever.
But an heir who was not also Lu Nuncio . . .
Yes, Rule decided, he could act against Victor’s avowed policies. He was not Leidolf’s Lu Nuncio. Victor Frey was not his Rho, and he owed him no obedience.
The other mantle in his gut, the one forced on him six months ago, stirred. Yes, Leidolf’s mantle seemed to whisper. Yes, you must lead. You have the right.
SIX
FBI agents tended to see themselves as the top of the law enforcement food chain, an attitude that did not endear them to local law enforcement. Lily knew how annoying that attitude could be, having been one of those locals until last November. She also knew a number of ways the locals could make life difficult for the big, bad feds if they wanted to, so she made a point of getting along with locals whenever possible.
But cops, of whatever stripe, were more territorial than the average lupus, so some clashes were unavoidable. She didn’t see any way she could have ducked the one with Deacon, but she wasn’t sure what to do now. She still had to work with the man.
Maybe that was why she headed for those golden arches before her meet with the DA: to remind herself of her law enforcement roots.
She could have stayed at the house and eaten a much better meal. Rule cooked, and he was good at it. But sometimes a woman wanted junk. Junk was familiar. She’d eaten a lot of fast food in her cop car.
Of course, her cop car hadn’t been a Mercedes. She pulled into the parking area and got in the drive-through line for the familiar foodlike products.
The car’s interior was spotless. Rule was nowhere nearly as tidy as she was, but he kept his cars clean, even a rental like this one. He was so damned perfect—wealthy, sophisticated, sexy enough to wake a woman from a coma. It was reassuring to know that, under it all, he was still very much a guy. Never mind making the bed, but for God’s sake don’t get crumbs on the leather seats.
He was fussy about his appearance, too. Lily smiled as she inched forward another car length. A touch of vanity there. Maybe he saw a car as something he wore, the twenty-first-century equivalent of a knight’s armor.
She’d eat carefully. Got to keep that armor shiny.
Three more cars ahead of her. Lily propped her laptop against the steering wheel and was filling out an online form when her phone buzzed like an electric razor—the ring tone she used for calls forwarded from her official number.
Turned out to be Deacon calling. He’d heard from the DA, who wanted to change their meet to eight thirty at the jail so she could be present when Lily interviewed Meacham. Lily told him it was no problem, though her interview was getting pretty damned crowded. Meacham’s attorney from the public defender’s office would be there, too.
She supposed she ought to be glad Halo’s police chief wasn’t attending. Meacham had lived—and killed—outside the city limits, so the case belonged to the sheriff’s department.
Cities and states divvied up authority differently. Most FBI agents were attached to a local or regional office; they needed to know the chains of command for the various state, county, and city agencies in their areas. They didn’t have to know how things were done in all fifty states.
Lily did. As a special agent attached to the Unit, she could be sent anywhere in the nation. Her boss had assured her he would assign her cases as near San Diego as possible whenever he could, because where she went, Rule had to go, too. That was the downside of the mate bond. It was currently allowing them a couple hundred miles of separation, but it was a capricious son of a bitch. She could wake up tomorrow and find she had to remain within fifty miles of him, maybe. Or ten. Or one.