And Rule had been ready to do so. He’d always challenged himself by riding in elevators, on trains and airplanes, teaching himself to handle the fear of small, enclosed places common to most lupi . . . and, he admitted, especially strong in him. He’d done that because he expected to be locked up someday. And he would have been, had the Supreme Court ruling gone against them. He would still have gone public, just as he had, but with the goal of eliciting as much sympathy and airtime as possible when federal agents apprehended him, imprisoned him, and injected him with one of the very few drugs his system couldn’t override: the one that robbed lupi of the Change.
He would have done it because his Rho told him to—and because Isen was right. Lupi could no longer hide themselves from the rest of the world; technology and the sheer press of population growth made that impossible. They had to find a way to live openly and peaceably with humans. For that, they needed to replace fear with sympathy and support.
But it’s one thing for an adult to understand and accept such a necessity. Rule hadn’t wanted his son to grow up feeling shaped for sacrifice.
He grimaced and put down his mug as Toby entered the kitchen, just over four feet of wary defiance cast in a familiar mold. Rule had sometimes wondered if Alicia’s indifference to the child they’d made rose from her inability to see herself in the boy’s face or future. Toby would grow up to assume a second form, one forever denied his mother, and his present form looked nothing like Alicia. Hair, eyes, mouth—all mirrored his father, not his mother. His build was much like Rule’s had been at that age, too, though something in the way he moved—the quick certainty of it, perhaps—reminded Rule of his brother Mick.
The reminder was bittersweet. He and Mick had not been close, being separated by age, experience, and ambition. In the end, Mick had betrayed Rule . . . then died saving him.
The way Toby’s long eyelashes flickered as he swept his gaze around the room was familiar, too, but that trait wasn’t Rule’s alone. Lupi habitually checked out a space when they entered it. They were like cops that way, though their instinct was innate, not acquired.
Toby squared up in front of Rule. “Lily said you wanted to talk to me.”
What he truly wanted was to grab the boy up and swing him around and make him laugh. Toby had a laugh that could lift the world. But this wasn’t the time. “Lily persuaded me to reconsider. As your father, I still believe allowing you to speak to the reporters is a mistake. If it is, however, it’s one you’ll survive and should be allowed to make if you wish.”
Toby’s face lit up. “Then—then you’ve changed your mind?”
“Your father has. Your Lu Nuncio remains undecided, which is why I wished to speak with you privately.”
Understanding touched with hurt flashed through Toby’s eyes, but he didn’t whine, didn’t make his feelings more important than his duty. Rule felt a surge of pride in the boy . . . and wondered if his own father had felt a similar pride when Rule was learning these hard, early lessons. And did that make Isen right in retrospect, or Rule wrong in the present?
Toby swallowed. “You aren’t sure I can represent us right?”
“I don’t know. I need more information. Why do you want this so badly?”
“I told you!”
“You told me one reason. I don’t doubt that it’s true—that you want to do this for our people—yet I believe there’s a more personal reason as well. I need to know that reason. It might affect the way you represent us to the human world.”
Toby looked down and shuffled his feet as if wanting to be somewhere else. “I guess I got to tell you, then. See, it’s like . . . I’ve got friends here, you know? And lots of people I just know, like Mr. Peters that teaches math and Coach Tom in Sunday school, and—and when they hear about me being lupus . . . I thought maybe if they see me on TV, see that I’m still just me, they won’t think I’m a freak or something.”
“Toby.” Rule’s throat burned, making it hard to speak.
“I know,” Toby said earnestly, hopefully. “I know I’m not going to live here anymore, so maybe it shouldn’t matter, but I’ll still visit sometimes, and it’s kind of cool to be on TV. Maybe that will make up for—well, for me being lupus.”
This was the real danger he’d wanted to protect Toby from—the hurt of being different. Of turned backs and threats, insults and closed minds . . . He’d yearned to keep all that from touching his son. And couldn’t.
Rule thought of dozens of things to say—advice about how real friends stand by you, warnings about how little control anyone has over what others think. But what boy listens to such cautions? He settled for ruffling Toby’s hair. “Maybe it will make a difference for some. Maybe not. Either way, your hope for acceptance will do your people no harm.”
He held out his hand. Toby took it. Together they walked back to the living room.
Toby’s grandmother was talking with Lily. She broke off, her gaze going to Rule’s face, then Toby’s. Rule noticed that she’d freshened her lipstick.
She grimaced. “You’re going to let him do it, then. I can’t say I approve, but I suppose I’d best get used to not having the final say.”
“You will always have a say where Toby’s concerned,” Rule said quietly. “Always. I’ve given permission, but if you are adamantly opposed—”
“No. No, it’s not . . .” She sighed. Her eyes held an old ache. “I’ve got too many things poking at me, I guess. Alicia said she didn’t tip the other reporters. She told one man, a friend and coworker, in confidence. He turned out to be less than a friend ought to be.”
Toby’s hand tightened in Rule’s. Rule made himself keep his voice calm. “Did she also explain why she’s here? I understood her lawyer was handling everything for her. Why did she come without letting you know?”
“She said . . . she wants us to meet with her and her lawyer before the hearing. She wouldn’t tell me why.”
Dammit. Dammit all to hell. If Alicia planned to contest his claim now—
Lily touched his arm. “We can discuss that later. Mrs. Asteglio is willing to be part of our little show. Should we all go out together?”
Rule took a breath, let it out slowly. Anger would only trip him up. “I’ll go out first and arrange things. I thought we’d take questions on the porch. The sun’s nearly overhead, which is less than ideal lighting, but the porch is a reassuring setting. It looks like exactly what it is—a comfortable place for a family to relax in a small Southern town.”
Mrs. Asteglio looked sour. She disliked what she considered artifice, he knew, the planned impressions essential to PR. Yet she’d freshened her lipstick, hadn’t she?
“All right, “ Lily said. “Let’s do it. Ah . . . the AP reporter. Ed Eames. If you can throw him anything, that would be good. He’s the one who tipped me.”
“If I throw him something now, everyone gets it. But I’ll keep him in mind.”
“Okay. If you need me to, I can take over at the end, switch them back to the story they came here for, so the rest of you can escape.”
Rule smiled and reached for her hand. “Now there’s real self-sacrifice.”
“You better believe it.”
FOURTEEN
RULE went out on the porch with his body loose and his face relaxed, ready to smile as if he were greeting old friends who’d dropped in at an inopportune time yet were always welcome.
Flashes went off. Lupus eyes react to light like human eyes, but recover faster. He was blinded for a second but ignored it, walking to the edge of the porch as if he could see perfectly. By the time he reached it, he could.
Quite a crowd. He didn’t know any of the television people, but three faces from the print press were familiar—Ed Eames from the AP, a woman named Miriam from the Washington Post, and a sad-faced fellow who worked for one of the scandal rags. Rule couldn’t summon the man’s name, but he knew the face.