Eileen Wilks - Ritual Magic

He gave Lily a disdainful glance. “Had I used the knife’s ability to compel, it would have strengthened the god’s presence in the knife.”

“Oh? And why weren’t you compelled or persuaded by the knife while you held it?”

“I am wholly dedicated to my mistress. She protected me. If you’re thinking your Lady ”—he looked at Rule, making the title sound like an obscenity—“can offer you the same protection, you’re wrong.”

“That,” Rule said pleasantly, “was a lie.”

Lily smiled. Not pleasantly. “He can smell them, you know. Lies.”

“Which part?” Cullen asked. “Because I’m betting it’s his shields that protected him, not his devotion. Whoever crafted those shields does very nice work. They’re not quite as sweet as mine, but still, quite decent work. Of course, you could say his bitch mistress protected him because its her power in those shields. Is that what you meant, Robert?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Friar said through gritted teeth. “Smell the truth when I tell you this: the world is at stake. If we don’t stop whoever has that knife from using it, we are all doomed. We need to leave now.”

“Actually, we do have a little time,” Cullen said. “Assuming tonight was chosen because it’s the dark of the moon—is that correct?” Friar didn’t answer. Cullen went on as if he had. “I’ve been thinking about that. Robert here could perform his rite at any point during the dark moon period, but bringing through a dead god—that’s different. You need one whopping big hole in reality to pull that off, which means the knife-holder will wait for the moment of conjunction. That’s reality’s sleep apnea moment. It doesn’t just thin out then, it pauses. And the conjunction isn’t due for . . . .” He paused, looking at Rule. “You hear her better than I do when she’s veiled. How long?”

“A little over three hours.”

“So there’s time to make plans. Share information.”

Lily looked at Cullen. “You’re sure about this?”

“I could explain, but that makes you testy. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” She looked back at Friar. “I want to know why you lied about the Lady’s protection. And how you kept the knife from taking over Armand Jones.”

Friar closed his eyes. “I will pray that, when the time comes, I’ll be able to kill you very, very slowly. A quick death may have to suffice, but it will not be satisfying.”

“Indulge in daydreams later. Right now I need some answers.”

Friar kept his eyes closed. For a long moment he didn’t speak, either gathering strength or trying to figure out how to lie without Rule smelling it. “All right.” His eyes opened. He looked at Rule. “The extra magic Rhos carry may protect you. The individual who told me about the knife is sidhe, and they know almost nothing about werewolves. Half of them think you don’t exist. But there’s some arguai mixed in with the Rho’s magic, and that’s what might protect you. Or not. And it won’t protect your men. And don’t think that cut-rate compulsion you use on your men will override the knife’s compulsion. The knife is much, much stronger.”

“What a Rho does is not compulsion,” Rule said evenly.

Wasn’t it? Lily didn’t let herself look at Rule. She wasn’t going to give Friar the satisfaction of knowing he’d unsettled her. But how, exactly, was it not compulsion when Rule used the mantle to make his people obey?

Either she’d done a bad job of keeping her cop face on or she smelled upset, because Rule glanced at her and smiled slightly. “Santos,” he said.

What the hell did he mean by . . . oh. Santos had been ordered to obey Lily. He hadn’t. If he’d been compelled, he would have had no choice. She nodded to tell him she understood. She still wanted more of an explanation, but this was not the time.

“Whatever you call it,” Friar said, “it won’t stand up against what the knife can do. As for you”—he looked at Lily, his dark eyes glittering with hate—“your Gift may protect you from compulsion, but that’s not certain. The knife is powered by a god, you overconfident fool. Is your Gift stronger than a god?”

“A god who just yesterday opened four gates—three of them using only ley lines, which is supposed to be impossible. That’s probably a heavy lift even for a god. I’m betting he’s tired right now.”

“You’re betting more than your own life on that assumption, and compulsion is only half of what you’d face. You are not immune to spiritual power.”

“And yet I remember Alan Debrett. I must have some trick you don’t know about, huh? Look”—Lily leaned forward—“you might as well accept that we’re doing this my way, and we’re not budging until we know more. How do we protect ourselves from the knife? Benessarai must have told you how to shield from its power. He wasn’t under compulsion from it. Neither was Jones.”

“Benessarai was an ass. The knife had slept for centuries in his family’s vault, and he had no idea what it was. Admittedly, when asleep it’s mostly inert, its nature hidden, but he knew it possessed arguai . He simply accepted his family’s story about it, too incurious to investigate.”

“So when it’s asleep, it doesn’t compel?”

“That’s what I said. Were you listening?”

“And Jones?”

“I shielded Jones.”

“Another lie,” Rule observed.

“I wonder,” Lily said to Rule, “if we have time for coffee. I could sure use a cup. I saw a coffeepot by the sink.”

“I’ll put some on.” Rule rose.

“All gods damn you,” Friar muttered. “All right.”

STEPPENWOLF’S“Born to Be Wild” blared from the speakers of Miriam’s beautiful little 1970 Karmann Ghia. Tonight she’d learned that Dafydd, her perfect, incredible Dafydd, just loved rock ’n’ roll.

That wasn’t his name, of course. She didn’t know that, but he’d given her permission to call him Dafydd. It was the Welsh form of David and meant Beloved. A perfect call-name for her lord and god. Miriam sang along with the music, laughing when she skidded on the turn. “Oops. Guess I’m going a little fast.” She felt his amusement like a chuckle in her mind—and his agreement, so she eased off on the accelerator.

He was so close now. So wonderfully close. She felt his nearness all the time, and he could talk to her . . . sadness pricked her. He could talk to her now, because of that poor officer.

She had no regrets about tonight. The loudness of the gun had shocked her, but killing was easy, after all. And didn’t they deserve it? Robert Friar was responsible for hundreds of deaths at the Humans First rallies last year, and the other man had been part of that, too, she was sure. And they’d wanted to block her Dafydd, keep him out, keep him imprisoned and alone. The woman hadn’t deserved what happened to her, but she was their fault, not Miriam’s.

But the officer . . . she felt bad about him. Dafydd understood her regret, but he didn’t share it. Not really. To him, they were all so ephemeral, so insubstantial . . . he took delight in them, as she might in the beauty of flowers or sweet-smelling herbs. But if you need rosemary for your dinner, you pluck it. So with that officer. He’d been needed to anchor her lord in this realm until she could take over that task. But he hadn’t been prepared for it, as she had, and he worshiped elsewhere. By the time she had removed the anchoring energy, he was badly damaged. Poor man. She wondered if her lord might do anything to fix him . . .

You have a saying about eggs and omelettes, my love . . . the man’s shell is too badly cracked. Even I can’t get the yolk back inside.