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But with Lily, curiosity almost always won. “What’s that?”

“It doesn’t bother you, the way Turner is?”

“Lupi aren’t the bestial killers that popular culture makes them out to be.”

“I don’t mean that. I’ve seen him. He holds it together okay, even when you push at him some.” Deacon put the pen down. “I mean the way he is with women. Weers—I mean lupi—they don’t believe in marriage.”

A dozen things jostled through her brain, trying to make it into speech. Explanations, justifications . . . reasons. Lupi had reasons for their ways. They were nearly infertile, and their very survival had long depended on scattering their seed as widely as possible.

That secret could not be spoken, of course. Neither could she explain that Rule was faithful to her. The mate bond that tied them together made it unthinkable for him to stray, even though she could. She wouldn’t, but according to his beliefs, it was acceptable for her to dabble on the side.

Lily wasn’t sure how much he truly believed that. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. But in fact, she had a guarantee of faithfulness perhaps no other woman could claim . . . and no chance of claiming it aloud. “No,” she said after a brief pause. “It doesn’t bother me, Sheriff.”

She closed the door quietly behind her.

ELEVEN

EDNA was a six-footer with a linebacker’s shoulders, a sun worshipper’s wrinkles, and a ship’s prow of a bosom. Her hair was short, gray, and straight. She wore a wholly unflattering white oxford shirt tucked into belted khakis. No weapon.

“Crime scene photos,” Edna said, slapping a folder on the conference table. “Rest of it’s in here.” A second, thicker folder landed on top of the first. “Coffee’s in the break room, west end of the building, between the restrooms. Like we all want to hang out at break next to the piss pots, right?”

Lily agreed that those who did space planning for public buildings were idiots, and Edna went to get the key from Evidence.

Like almost everyone in the Unit, Lily had been sent all over the place in the seven months since the Turning, so she was used to quickly setting up a field office. She called a local office supply store, then sat down with the files. First she’d go through the reports, get a picture of what had happened at Meacham’s house four days ago. So far all she had was Deacon’s version.

She’d studied the photos and was halfway through the thicker folder when a muffled drumroll sounded in her purse.

That was Cullen. She frowned, glancing at her watch as she retrieved the toy Rule had given her for her birthday in April—an iPhone. “It’s six forty in the morning in California. What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” Cullen asked. “What could be wrong? You texted me. I called.” The next part came out louder, but muffled, as if he’d turned his head. “How would I know? I’m not the Finder here. All right, all right, I’ll look for it. Just get your beautifully gravid body in and out of that shower fast. The plane leaves in seventy minutes.”

“Plane?” Lily repeated. “Where are you going?”

“Washington—the state, not D. of C. Kidnapping. A little boy this time, four years old. She just got the call.”

Cynna was on limited duty due to her pregnancy, which meant that, unlike other Unit agents, she wasn’t flying all over the U.S. these days. Except in special cases, that was. Cases like this, when a child’s life was at stake. Cynna was the top Finder in the country.

“You’re going with her again?”

“Of course I’m going with her. I’m not about to . . . Lily,” he snapped, and it took her a second to realize he was speaking to Cynna, not her. “I’m talking to Lily, who’s allowed to know about kidnappings and such, right? Since she’s FBI, too, and not likely to give interviews on the subject. Now, are you going to take a shower or not?”

This time Lily caught Cynna’s raised voice. And the slam of a door. “Maybe you shouldn’t yell at the pregnant woman.”

“If I don’t nip back when she nips at me, she’ll think something’s wrong. Tell me about the death magic Rule found.”

She did. Lily was good at condensing a report to the key points, having given plenty of them in her days as a beat cop, then in Homicide. But she didn’t believe in skimping on the details when consulting an expert—she couldn’t know which details Cullen needed. So it took several minutes.

When she finished, Cullen proved once again that he was as bright as he was irritating. “You’re wanting to know just how shaky the limb is you’ve crawled out on, yanking Meacham away from the locals. Was he responsible for what he did, or not? Sorry, love. Can’t say for damned certain sure.”

“You can tell me for certain sure if Meacham needed a Gift to use death magic.”

“To invoke it, yes. To use it? That’s where things turn iffy. There’ve been reports going back to pre-Purge days of . . . Yes, it’s still Lily.” Cullen’s voice took on a different tone. Husky. “Have I mentioned how great you look wet, naked, and knocked up? There’s probably another flight we could catch....”

The next part was muffled, but suggested a moment that should have been more private than it was. Then Cullen’s voice came back, sounding absurdly cheerful, considering he couldn’t have done much in that brief time. “Cynna says hi. Now, where was I?”

“Explaining the difference between invoking death magic and using it.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll give you the short version, because we’re leaving as soon as that luscious body I get to touch whenever I want to is covered—hey, no throwing things!” Lily assumed that bit wasn’t directed at her. “Full disclosure: I don’t know much about death magic.”

Lily paused a beat. “Inconvenient, yet reassuring.”

She could hear the grin in his voice. “That said, I’m eighty or ninety percent sure no one in this realm could perform the invocation ritual solo. And ritual is required—there’s no way of just slurping up power by killing people at random. Meacham couldn’t perform any part of that ritual, but it might—just might—be possible for him to do the killing. The power released by the deaths would be contained within a circle and absorbed by whoever created the circle.”

“The three victims were killed at some distance from each other, separated by walls. Doesn’t sound like there was a circle.”

“No. Bludgeoning with a baseball bat doesn’t fit what I know, either. But again, on this particular area of magical practices I am not an expert.”

“Get to the part about how using death magic is different from invoking it.”

“It’s possible to create a charm or talisman even a null could use. Hellish hard, but it can be done. So technically, it’s possible for someone like Meacham, someone without magic, to have used a talisman.”

“Talisman?” Her heart gave a sudden, scared jump in her chest. “Is that another way of saying artifact?”

“Not exactly, but you probably aren’t interested in the precise definitions.”

“No, I’m not.” Absently, Lily rubbed the place on her stomach where the skin was shiny-smooth . . . a burn scar. Cullen had given it to her last year, but she didn’t hold it against him. Not considering the alternative—an ancient staff powered by death magic in the hands of the man it had driven mad. The staff had been used to control others.

It had also sent Rule to hell, along with part of Lily. The part that ended up dying there.

“Déjà vu all over again?” Cullen said gently. “I don’t know what’s going on in Halo, but it’s not the staff. I burned it, Lily. Mage fire doesn’t leave any remnants behind, not even ash. That staff is gone.”