“Yeah, I do. Sorry. I know it won’t be fun persuading some judge to let you salt graves.”
Lily had to laugh. “Fun isn’t the word I’d use, no. I need to go, Cynna. You want to talk to Cullen some more?”
“Has he stopped pacing yet?”
Lily smiled. Cynna knew her man pretty well. “He’s slowed down.”
“Close enough. Hand me over. Bet I can have him grinning in under a minute.”
“You’re on.” Lily crossed to Cullen, told him the crazy woman wanted another word with him, handed him back his phone—and turned when someone cleared his throat.
Deacon stood there, looking grim. “Seabourne says we’ll be looking at people who died on the Turning. That this wraith was created from a death then.”
“That’s right.” A quick glance told her Cullen was still scowling.
“My grandfather died that day. Right when it hit. He was in the hospital, waiting on a heart bypass operation.”
That got her attention, but she shook her head. “If you’re thinking you’re under suspicion, Sheriff, you don’t have to worry about it.” A sharp crack of laughter from Cullen made her glance at him. Sure enough, he was grinning. “I just got some new information. Our perp is probably a medium.”
That drew Deacon’s face in even grimmer lines. “My granny’s a medium.”
DEACON’S granny lived with his parents in a small frame house on the east end of town. His folks were both at work. His granny was tucked up in a hospital bed in the living room, the TV remote in her hand and a troop of kittens clambering around on her.
Marjorie Abigail Deacon was a wrinkled little raisin of a woman with a sweet, toothless smile—her dentures were on the table by the bed—and milky cataracts. She was delighted to see Deacon, and Lily, too, though she thought Lily was someone named Sherry.
Lily was introduced to each of the four kittens and to Harold, Marjorie’s husband . . . the one who died seven months ago. Of course, it was possible that Mrs. Deacon really did see Harold. Her wits might be wandering, but Lily confirmed with a touch that she retained her Gift.
She spoke happily about the garden she’d planted and about her children, who were sometimes grown, sometimes still small and “full of mischief.” Twice she called Deacon by his father’s name. She was obviously too far gone to be capable of the kind of spellwork that might create a wraith, but seven months ago she’d been much keener, Deacon said.
It didn’t matter. She’d been bedridden for the past year, and Lily very much doubted someone that frail could have handled the kind of power needed to create a wraith. She’d check that with Cullen to be sure, but for now she wasn’t putting Mrs. Deacon on her suspect list.
When Lily got up to leave, Mrs. Deacon spoke to the air on her left. “What’s that? Oh, yes.” She turned that sweet smile on Lily. “Harold wants you to tell your wolf he’s got a might pretty lady. Oh, and he’s to trust her, no matter what, and pull on that robe of his hard as he can.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
IT was a long, muddled afternoon for Rule.
Cullen left as soon as they returned to the house. Lily needed him for the investigation, and it was just as well. Rule needed time to absorb what Cullen had told him, time without his brain hopping on the hamster wheel and spinning, spinning, without going any-damned-where.
He kept busy. He checked Toby’s math, made phone calls and received one, even got some work done. There was solace in the simplicity of numbers, so he focused on the proposal for a company that a clan member wanted to start, with Nokolai’s backing. He also went to the grocery store for Louise, who didn’t keep tofu, soy milk, or fresh basil around. He must have behaved correctly, because Louise didn’t seem to notice anything wrong.
Rule assured her he didn’t mind the grocery run. He didn’t. It gave him a chance to grab a double-meat hamburger. The spinach and tofu quiche she was planning would doubtless be delicious, but tofu was not meat.
But always, always, the question beat against his mind. Could he abandon honor for the sake of his son? Of course, when he tossed the question on its head, the answer seemed obvious: Could he abandon his son for the sake of honor?
No, no, and no. But it wasn’t that simple.
He desperately wanted to talk to Lily about it. And couldn’t. He’d given his word. And perhaps it was just as well, for she was stretched to the limit with her investigation, and she wouldn’t understand, would she? She wouldn’t grasp the repercussions of his assuming leadership of Leidolf permanently. Or of his making Toby heir of that clan.
Leidolf would try to kill Rule, of course. Not immediately; they couldn’t act until Rule had an heir, or the mantle would be lost, and with it, the clan. There would be a period of a few years when Leidolf would protect their new Rho zealously.
Once he made Toby heir, that would change. Some in Leidolf would Challenge; others wouldn’t bother with anything so formal, opting for assassination. It was possible the other clans would Challenge, too, which could drag Nokolai into outright clan war.
War was the worst-case scenario. Best case left Rule distrusted and dishonored. Leidolf, the other clans, even his own clan—all would consider it a blatant power grab. Rule could live with that. He could live with Challenges or assassination attempts. But the possibility that some in Leidolf might target his son . . . Oh, yes, that could happen. There was a certain cold logic to it.
Kill the man who was their Rho, and Leidolf’s entire mantle would go to a boy not yet old enough to control his wolf. They might do that, counting on being able to force Toby to give up the mantle to one of their choosing. But it was risky. No one could say whether a boy so young would be able to hold an entire mantle. It had never happened.
Kill the boy, though, then try to force Rule to choose an heir from within Leidolf . . . Yes, some would see that as safer for the clan. Those who underestimated the power of the mantle—and Rule.
Cullen understood these possibilities. He’d still urged Rule to do it. “You’ll just have to change Leidolf’s mind about you. You’ll have three or four years to do that.”
Change Leidolf’s mind about him. Rule smiled grimly, shut down his computer, and headed downstairs. Oh, yes, after centuries of ill feeling between Nokolai and Leidolf, all he had to do was persuade them that the heir to Nokolai could lead their clan well.
Assuming, that was, his father let him remain Nokolai’s heir.
Rule set that issue aside. He’d learned not to waste time and energy trying to guess which way Isen would jump, or what his plans truly included. If Rule became Leidolf Rho, his father might cackle with glee, having intended that result all along. He might revoke Rule’s heirship. He might kick Rule out of the clan.
Isen would do what he thought best for Nokolai, and Rule would accept that.
Toby was vacuuming the living room when Rule reached the first floor. In the kitchen, Louise was in full war mode. She pulled a pie shell out of the oven just as Rule entered. “Beautiful,” he told her. “And the smell is delightful.”
“Thank you. I have never used tofu. The recipe said to drain it, but . . . does this look right?” She’d put the tofu on a cutting board lined with paper towels and placed a heavy pot on top.
“I think so,” he said gravely. The paper towels were damp, so they must be soaking up the extra moisture. “What can I do to help?”
“Connie is bringing her fruit salad, so that’s covered. For a side dish, I was going to fix glazed carrots. I wasn’t thinking. That takes butter, and you said the store didn’t have any vegan butter—whatever in the world that is. I suspect it isn’t butter at all. Probably one more way to make tofu pretend it’s something else.” She glared at her pie shell. “Steamed carrots are so bland.”