Eileen Wilks - Ritual Magic

She interrupted. “You’re supposed to call Mr. Turner, not me.”

“No, no, I have found it is much better to speak with the bride. What does the groom know, eh? Always I speak with the bride. It is her day. I must have your decision, Miss Yu, in order to proceed. Now, we will make a substitution. Let me explain what your options—”

Rage bubbled up in Lily. Why could no one follow directions? Orders, even. They thought they knew best and ignored what you told them to do, and people died . “You want my decision.”

“I have said so.” He was becoming testy. “Please listen. The options I offer you—”

“Okay, I’ve decided. You’re fired.”

She had to stab the phone twice to disconnect. That was when she noticed that her face was wet. She was crying? Oh, God, she was bawling, and she was supposed to talk to the goddamn press and not fall apart. Too late. She rubbed hard at her face.

“Here.” Casey had pulled off his T-shirt and was holding it out. He stood close—protectively close, she realized, blocking her from view as much as possible. “It doesn’t have much blood on it. You can clean up with it.” His faded blue eyes looked worried.

Casey and the others—living and dead—had fought with her and for her today. Now he was literally giving her the shirt off his back. Never mind the goddamn press and the worried public. Lupi needed to know their leaders were in control. She’d pull herself together for Casey’s sake. “Thanks,” she said, and her voice didn’t wobble or break. She dried her face dry with the unbloody portion of his shirt and handed it back.

He nodded once and pulled his shirt back on.

Lily took another slow breath. She was okay. She could do this.

When her phone rang this time, it was Rule. At last.

RULEwas talking on his phone when he returned from visiting his clansman in recovery. He handed Lily one of the coffees he’d brought from the hospital’s gift shop, where they brewed what he considered a decent cup. He’d been here often enough to form an opinion. Mercy General was Nettie’s hospital, where the clan usually brought anyone injured badly enough to need surgery. Rule had met Lily there about fifty minutes earlier, escorting his own small group of casualties.

She took the foam cup in both hands. Her left wrist was wrapped in an elastic bandage, all snug and tidy. It throbbed, but she’d been lucky. She had a sprain, not a break.

Luck was one weird and capricious mother. “Gil is doing okay?”

“Excusez-moi un instant,” he said to the person on the phone, and he told her that Gil was doing very well and already on his way home—“somewhat against the surgeon’s wishes, but he’ll rest better there.” He switched back to French as he sat beside her. Casey—who’d gone with him, along with two other guards—handed him his cup. Rule laid his arm along the back of the couch in a way that let him play with her hair.

Lily sipped and smelled coffee, baby lotion, and blood.

The baby lotion had come from Cynna’s tote. Cynna had woken up on the way to the hospital and winced and started rooting in her tote, but she hadn’t been focusing too well. Must have been a bad headache. Lily had located the ibuprofen for her. While digging for that she’d noticed the baby lotion, so she’d asked if she could use some, thinking it might cover up less pleasant smells. Like blood.

Which she should not be smelling. She didn’t have Rule’s nose. She’d cleaned up in the restroom, and while she hadn’t been able to get rid of the blood splatter on her clothes, there wasn’t that much of it, and it was dry. Chances were the smell was all in her head.

A crowded and unpleasant place, her head. She leaned into Rule and closed her eyes and tried to notice only the smell of the coffee.

“C’est bien,” Rule said, messing with her hair. “Oui, je vois que vous comprenez . . . Mercy General. Vous le savez? Oui. Merci, monsieur.” He disconnected.

“I guess that means Philippe is back on board.”

“Complete with feuilles des pommes et grenades , which he assures me will outshine even the feuilles de brick avec fruits de la passion .”

“Grenades? We’re serving grenades at our wedding?”

“ Grenades is French for pomegranates.”

“Oh, good. I’m feeling real fond of grenades right now, but can’t see serving them sautéed in butter or whatever.” She tipped her head. “Is Philippe really French? I figured that was just part of his image and his name was really Jim Bob or something, but the way you were chattering at him, maybe not.”

“Belgian, I think, though I’m no expert on accents. I promised to tell you that he is desolated that he bothered you at such a difficult time. I was barely able to dissuade him from rushing here immediately to throw himself at your feet and beg your forgiveness.”

In spite of everything, her mouth twitched. “I don’t know. That might have been fun.”

“I could call him back.”

“That’s okay.”

“I could call him back,” Rule repeated in a different tone. “Are you sure you’re okay with keeping him on?”

She shrugged, uncomfortable. “The wedding’s too close to get another caterer.”

“I’d rather serve Spam and Vienna sausages than have you unhappy about this.”

She turned her head to look at him. The dark fans of his lashes hung lower than usual, and she could see brackets down his cheeks. He was exhausted, worried, hurting. Just like her, but somehow he’d found the patience to deal with the damn caterer. She touched his hand to tell him thank you. “I’m going to say no on the Spam. Mother would have a fit, if she was herself. She’s not, so it wouldn’t be any fun.”

Rule sifted her hair through his fingers. “It’s not a victory if your opponent isn’t fighting back.”

Her opponent? Huh. Was that how she saw her mother? Lily took another sip of coffee. Not exactly, she decided. Her mother didn’t oppose her so much as want to fix her, or fix her life, or just hold on to the time when Lily was small and things could be fixed. How odd to think no one was trying to fix her now. Odder still to find that, on some level, she missed it. She felt as if she had to pick up the pieces her mother had dropped—plans, quirks, attitudes. As if she could hold on to those pieces now, then hand them back at some point.

Better be careful of what she held on to. Becoming her own opponent wouldn’t be fun, either. “‘Sparring partner,’” she decided, “fits better than ‘opponent.’ As for Philippe . . . I shouldn’t have fired him. Hung up on him, maybe, when he wouldn’t listen, but firing him didn’t solve anything. I was just . . . Santos didn’t listen, either. I was angry at him, and took it out on the guy who thought the worst news I’d get today would be about passion fruit.”

“Ah. Yes. I need to discuss Santos with you.” He glanced around the waiting room. It was crowded that afternoon, especially with so many lupi lurking nearby. They’d pretty much claimed this whole side of the room. “Scott, remain here. The rest of you need to wait out of easy earshot.”

Scott had a quick word with the others. They were hip-deep in guards pulled from both Leidolf and Nokolai to minimize the depletion of fighters at either location. Casey had been allowed to stay as part of the Leidolf contingent in spite of some minor wounds—minor to a lupus, anyway—so he could hear about José the moment they did.

Santos had not. He’d been sent to the barracks to await judgment.