Eileen Wilks - Ritual Magic

“You got more from him than I did.” He snorted. “Jesus told him to do it.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions. There’s no blood on him.”

Erskine gave her a scathing glance. “So he stood back while his partner did the slicing. He’s a brain-damaged man who hears voices, for God’s sake.”

Lily wasn’t about to tell Erskine that Hardy might be a saint, but she didn’t like the way Erskine was zeroing in on the homeless man. “We’re not dealing with your typical crazy-guy killer. Whoever murdered that man knew exactly what he was doing, and he generated a whole lot of bad magic doing it. Hardy doesn’t have any magic on him.”

“So he didn’t get any of the magic his partner cooked up. Doesn’t prove anything. There’s clearly a religious twist to the killing, the way that body was staked out like they were crucifying him. Your buddy over there has religion on the brain.”

Karonski had taken out a piece of gum while they talked. He folded it into his mouth. “Religion may be involved, but not necessarily Christianity. There are well-established ritualistic reasons for using some form of a crucifixion pose. Did you think the Romans invented that? People were doing that to each other long before Jesus of Nazareth came along. Doesn’t prove Hardy wasn’t involved,” he added, “but it doesn’t link him, either.”

Erskine looked dubious. “The magic part is your deal, I guess. But there was more than one person involved. I don’t see any reason Hardy couldn’t be one of them.”

“Or any reason to think that he was,” Lily said. “Being brain damaged is not a reason.”

“Being found singing to the body just might be considered significant.” He looked away dismissively to ask Karonski something about the body.

Rule had parked while they were talking, trailed by a familiar Toyota that disgorged four guards. Lily nodded in that direction to let Karonski know where she was going. He broke off what he was telling Erskine about containment procedures to say, “Good. Looks like Dr. Two Horses came prepared. Bring her over here, would you? I’d like her take on this.”

“Who’s that?” Erskine asked.

“Shaman,” Karonski said as Lily started for the other end of the parking lot. “Damn fine one, too.”

Rule and Nettie started toward Lily. Nettie held a tote bag, not her medical bag. She was saying something to Rule, who’d tucked a small woven rug under one arm. Lily’s eyebrows lifted. Nettie had brought the big guns. That rug had been woven by Nettie’s great-great-grandmother. Family magic, Nettie called it, though the rug held no magic Lily’s fingers could detect. And the tote held bottles of the colored sands that Hatałii — medicine makers—had used for countless generations.

Lily knew only bits and pieces about Nettie’s religious practices, but she did know that sandpainting was done on the ground, not the upper floor in some building. How had Nettie known she’d need the sands today? She’d expected to be headed for the hospital, not an outdoor murder scene. Nettie was no precog. Had she been tipped by her deities?

Lily did not like that idea one bit, and not just because of her little phobia about organized religion. If actual gods were involving themselves in the situation, it made things large. Downright vast. Vastly less predictable, too. She moved faster.

Milly Rodriguez had spotted Rule, too. She was making a beeline for him, cameraman in tow, and she was closer than Lily. She got there just as Lily passed the car holding Hardy. Lily could hear her badgering Rule.

Rule was used to this sort of thing. He said something to Nettie and stopped, smiling at Milly as if he’d been waiting all day for the chance to chat with her. “Ms. Rodriguez. It’s been awhile. I hope you’re well?”

Nettie kept going. One of the guards went with her; the other three stuck with Rule.

Behind Lily, Hardy screamed.

She spun. Hardy was banging on the window of the patrol car and yelling wordlessly.

A white shape materialized between Lily and the agitated Hardy. Drummond pointed off to the right. “Stop him! Stop him!”

Lily spun back—and saw Officer Crown. He stood about twenty feet away grinning like a kid in a candy shop as he snatched his weapon from the holster and lifted it in the approved two-handed grip—

“Stop!” Lily yelled, grabbing for her Glock, her gaze flicking in the direction Crown’s weapon pointed, where Nettie was headed toward Lily and Rule stood next to his car, talking to the reporter. Scott leaped in front of Rule, his jacket flipping up and one hand reaching inside it for his weapon—

Crown fired twice. Double-tapping.

Nettie went down. Not Rule. Nettie.

Officer Crown pivoted, gun still held out, aiming—

Lily exhaled. Squeezed her finger. And shot him.

RULEskidded and dropped to his knees beside that still, crumpled body. The iron-sweet scent of blood flooded him. He couldn’t smell anything else. Just blood. Nettie’s blood.

Shouts. Some wordless, some not. He ignored them. His men formed up around him and Nettie, weapons out. “Andy,” Rule snapped, “get a blanket. Joe, lie down and warm her.” Couldn’t let her slip into shock. Humans went into shock easily. So much blood . . .

Blood on her head. Blood on her chest. The head wound was bleeding like crazy, but it looked like a graze. God, he hoped so. The chest wound—that was bad. At least it wasn’t spurting. No artery involved. He tore off his jacket and shirt, ripped the shirt in half, and made two pads. One for her head, one for her chest. His hands were steady, as if they knew what they were doing. His wolf was howling and howling, in his head, in his gut— Out! Out! Kill, guard, protect! As Joe curled up on Nettie’s other side, lending her his body’s heat, Rule pressed one pad to the side of Nettie’s head. The other was for her bloody, ruined chest.

Her heart beat. He felt it faintly beneath the pad. He couldn’t hear it, not with all those noisy humans around. Noisy, dangerous humans.

Out, out!

The bullet had gone in beneath her left breast. Below the heart. Looked like it had smashed into a rib. Her lung. Her lung was there. Was it even now filling up with blood? What if it collapsed? Dammit, Nettie, you’re the doctor. What do I do? I don’t know what to do.

“Shit, shit, shit.” That was Lily. She’d run to check on the man she’d shot. The man who’d shot Nettie. He couldn’t see her. Scott and Andy were in the way. Guarding him. Blocking his view. “Rule?” she called. “Is Nettie—”

“Unconscious. Your target?”

“The same. Stay back,” Lily told someone sharply. “Don’t touch him.”

“You get back,” another voice said. An angry voice. “You shot Daryl. You’ll step away now.”

Nettie was so still. Her eyes were rolled back, leaving little white smiles beneath the lids. She was alive, though. She didn’t move, but she lived.

Out! Out!

“Mr. Turner! Mr. Turner, who is the victim? Is she alive? Do you know why—”

He snarled at the woman who’d startled him. She’d shoved in close. Too close. The Change rose in a hot rush, earth reaching through him to touch moonsong—beautiful beyond words, promising pain and joy. Welcoming him. Beckoning him . . . but muted. Dark moon was only two days away, so moonsong was distant. That distance slowed his headlong rush into Change, let him hold it back. Mostly. But though he didn’t pass through that door, he slid close. Closer to wolf now than man, but not truly either one. That was dangerous. He couldn’t remember why, but he knew it was.