Eileen Wilks - Mortal Ties

“Does your friend not know how to use her Gift selectively? I suppose little training is available to her here.”

Hugo moved out of the way, and a second man emerged.

Robert Friar was looking good. His deep tan hadn’t faded. The silver in his dark hair was as dramatic and attractive as ever. He wore tailored slacks and a good-quality cotton shirt, open at the throat. It was a deep, rich shade of blue that complemented his coloring. He carried a black bowling-ball bag.

He looked at Lily. Delight lit his eyes. Anticipation. Then his gaze shifted to the woman holding her. “Alycithin, how good to see you again. I hope you will excuse my haste, but we have only a short time before Benessarai and the others return.”

“I do not object to haste, but you must take down the wards on the building so I can confirm that we are alone save for our agreed-upon attendants.”

“I’m afraid I failed in part of my task. Benessarai refused to show me how to take down the wards.”

“Then we will not exchange here and now, Robert Friar. Dinalaran,” she said, adding something in her language as she took a quick step back, pulling Lily with her.

Lily didn’t see it happen. One second she was being tugged backward. The next a huge, hard shove sent her flying—and a gunshot shattered the air. A second shot boomed almost immediately as Lily landed on her knees, still falling, but she rolled so she ended on her side—and saw Alycithin facedown on the concrete, her back a bloody mess. With Dinalaran standing over her, gun in hand.

He’d shot her in the back. Her own man had shot her.

She’d shoved Lily out of the way. Whatever sense had alerted her, she’d used that split second to save Lily, not herself. The rounds in that SIG would likely have gone right through Alycithin and into Lily.

“That,” Friar said disapprovingly as he stepped forward, “was poorly done, Dinalaran. Do you know anything about that weapon in your hand? If Alycithin hadn’t quixotically chosen to— Hugo,” he snapped. “Get her.”

It was awkward to get to your feet quickly with your hands bound behind your back, but Lily managed it—only to be confronted by the elf’s SIG Sauer, all too quickly followed by the oversize Hugo, who pinned her to him with a forearm around her neck. He felt a lot harder and more muscular than he looked. He smelled like pizza.

Lily glanced quickly at the other warehouse. It was only fifty feet away, but everyone there continued to unload trucks. No one had heard the shots. No one had seen a thing. Someone was still hiding them. If not Alycithin, then who? She’d thought Dinalaran was one of the body-magic guys. Could he be that good at illusion, too?

Something dropped to the concrete with a metallic thud. She looked quickly that way and saw Dinalaran sink to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He’d dropped his weapon. He looked up and began to sing.

He had a high, pure voice. His song was clearly a lament, the melody simple and haunting.

“Can’t have that,” someone else said. “It is not fitting that my cousin’s murderer sing her death song.”

Another person had emerged from the warehouse. He was tall and slim and beautiful and dressed all in white—loose white tunic-length shirt, white leather pants, white boots. His long hair was loose and the color of a new penny. It shone brightly in the winter sun, as if it were indeed made of metal instead of collagen. The tips of his pointy ears poked through that copper curtain. He wore what looked like an enormous blue sapphire on a chain around his neck. One slender hand rose gracefully to touch the stone. He murmured a few words.

Dinalaran hushed and stiffened. Slowly his hand moved to his boot. He pulled a knife from it and closed his eyes and rested the tip of the knife on one eyelid. He adjusted the angle slightly and plunged it up into his brain.

His own body fell across Alycithin’s.

“Poor Dinalaran. He has atoned as much as he was able,” the copper-haired Benessarai murmured.

“Ah, well,” Friar said. “We have a saying: all’s well that ends well.”

“Time to tidy up.” Benessarai stepped away from the doorway and gestured. Four more elves flowed out the door. They wore leather pants in a variety of hues, but their shirts all matched his—white and long and flowing. They had great, long knives sheathed on their backs. He spoke to them in his language and gestured at the bodies.

None of the four spoke. Their lovely faces were serene, unmoved by what was supposed to look like a murder-suicide. But when they reached the bodies, they handled them with great care. Dinalaran was shifted off Alycithin. Both were lifted, moved several feet away, and laid down once more. The elves began arranging their clothing and their limbs with finicky precision.

Benessarai spoke sharply. The elves stopped and backed away.

Friar looked at him and raised one lazy eyebrow. “You do not want the bodies placed in stasis?”

“I must first assure myself that she is dead.”

“Ah. You aren’t confident your people can tell the dead from the living.”

The insult rolled off the thick armor of Benessarai’s arrogance. He answered with the sublime indifference of one who knows that little can be expected of the lesser beings around him. “You would not, of course, understand. She was an abomination, but half that abomination was Rekklat. With Rekklat, one always makes sure.” He glided forward.

Robert Friar approached Lily. Behind him drifted a white, indistinct cloud.

Drummond was back. It was ridiculous to be so relieved.

Friar stopped in front of her. “Much has changed since we last spoke.”

“Yeah, the last time I saw you, you were too busy escaping to stop and chat.”

“Strange. I seem to recall you doing the running. You and all your wolfish friends.” His stroked her cheek with one finger and lowered his voice. “You won’t be running this time.”

Lily’s mouth went dry. He sounded relaxed. He looked calm and at ease, but his eyes burned with feverish intensity. And with that single casual touch of his finger, he’d let her know he was brimming with power. Overflowing with it, power like nothing she’d ever touched before.

She didn’t want to fear this man, but she did. “Benessarai did something to make Dinalaran kill Alycithin. A compulsion spell, maybe.”

“Very good,” he said, as if she were his pupil and eager for his approval. “He is a wonderfully talented seurthurin . That is one who practices the arts of the mind. Benessarai would say that today’s events were Alycithin’s own fault. She failed to make sure her people took adequate precautions.”

“Blame the victim? How very human of him.”

“You may not want to say so where Benessarai can hear. I’m afraid he’s quite shortsighted about our species.”

The copper-haired elf had knelt beside Alycithin’s body and was drawing shapes in the air over her open, staring eyes. He uttered some syllables, paused, then nodded with satisfaction, stood, and spoke to his people in his own language.

“Really most completely dead,” Friar murmured.

Lily hadn’t needed the confirmation. The mate bond was working freely again. She knew where Rule was—and he was close. Very close, but not yet here. They needed to stay out in the open a little longer. “Where’s Adam King?”

“Inside.” Friar smiled. “I’ll introduce you.” He raised his voice slightly. “If you’re quite satisfied, I suggest we move inside. I’m not happy being so exposed.”

Benessarai spoke without looking at Friar. “Patience. Who will attack when none can see us? We will have the remains in stasis quickly, but then the blood must be collected.” He waved at his people, who moved close to the bodies once more.