Eileen Wilks - Death Magic

That startled a laugh out of her. “I’m told they don’t like to have a fuss made about bravery.”

He smiled. “Apparently not.” The smile faded. “As for publically honoring the heroism and sacrifice of the lupi . . . I hope that happens eventually, but right now the country is too divided. There’s a great uneasiness, even among some who agree that they were heroes—a feeling that if the country didn’t harbor lupi in the first place, none of this would have happened. And, of course, there’s that vocal minority that believes the government is engaged in a massive cover-up and the lupi really were behind it all, not Paul Chittenden.”

Lily grimaced. The Humans First movement hadn’t died. It was diminished, but not dead.

“Lily.” Croft leaned forward earnestly. “People need heroes. Let them have one.”

“Yeah, don’t be a dick,” Al Drummond said. He was sitting in the other visitor chair, looking his usual pallid self. “Take the damn medal.”

She wanted to tell him it was physically impossible for her to be a dick. She wanted to tell him to go away— which he had so far refused to do. Not that he was around every minute, but every so often, he popped up, usually with unwanted advice.

But people look at you funny if you start talking to your invisible friends, so she didn’t. And in the end, Lily agreed to accept the medal. It would be months, maybe a year, before they did the big presentation ceremony. Who knows? She might still end up dismissed and disgraced and not have to go through with it.

THREEdays after that, on the night before Lily and Rule were scheduled to fly home—at last—they were in their bedroom at the Georgetown house, getting ready.

Rule sat on the bed as he slipped on his shirt. He could stand without using the crutches; it had taken some insistence on his part, but they’d casted the leg as soon as the outer wound closed, and having it casted helped. But standing hurt more than he liked to admit, so he stayed seated as much as possible.

The femur had barely begun healing; his eye hadn’t started. He kept a square of gauze taped over it, knowing it was an ugly sight. His healing had prioritized the internal injuries. That was normal. But it was taking forever for him to feel normal.

So many dead. Too many, and the war had only begun.

“Am I the only one who thinks it’s just weird to be going to a dinner party?” Lily asked as she turned away from the closet, a necklace in one hand. “Or for Deborah and Ruben to be giving one, for that matter.”

“Deborah wants to feel normal. And it’s just us and Isen, not really a party.”

“Fasten this for me?” Lily said, and held out a necklace. The one he’d given her . . . gods, was it only two weeks ago? “No, don’t stand up.” She huffed out an impatient breath and dropped to her knees in front of him. “Here.” She pulled her hair aside. “I’m hoping Fagin’s right about those white stones.”

He took his time fastening the necklace, enjoying the slight, involuntary shiver his touch gave her. He’d been too damaged for them to make love, but his guts were healed now, so tonight, that would change. He promised himself that. “What about the stones? They’re agates, by the way.”

“That’s what he said. He also said that white agates are supposed to offer protection against malign or confused spirits.”

That made him grin. “You’re hoping to keep Drummond from dropping in while we eat our steaks?” Lily said the ghost wasn’t around constantly. Just now and then—usually with some sort of unwanted advice.

“Damn right. If it works, I’ll wear this all the time.” She stood. “I’ll get your shoes. No, stay there,” she told him firmly. “Why was it okay for you to help me constantly when my arm was messed up, but you don’t want to let me help you?”

That was apparently a rhetorical question, for she went back to the closet without waiting for an answer. Rule finished buttoning his shirt and waited obediently.

Coming to First Change as an adult had made a big difference in Ruben’s adjustment. He’d returned to Washington yesterday in his two-legged form—but only temporarily, and not alone. In addition to Isen, he’d brought five Wythe guards. Isen had judged that Ruben’s control was good enough for him to make an appearance around the two-legged crowd, as long as he was with Ruben. Ruben still had trouble with speech sometimes when the wolf was too much present, but he could hold it together pretty well.

They’d decided to keep Ruben’s transformation as much of a secret as possible. The president knew. Croft knew. But even the head of the Bureau was unaware that his briefly disgraced, newly reinstated head of Unit 12 was the werewolf who’d helped lead the fight against the demon dopplegängers in Albany.

The charges against Ruben had been dropped. He would remain in command of Unit 12 . . . but Croft didn’t get to give up his desk job. Ruben wasn’t close to being ready to resume hands-on control of the Unit. He and Deborah and Isen would be leaving for Wythe Clanhome tomorrow.

The story was that they were going to a secret location where the privacy-obsessed healer who’d helped Ruben right after his heart attack could continue treatment. That treatment would be seen to have worked in another few weeks when the Brookses returned home. Their swimming pool would have been filled in by then and construction finished on the two-story “guesthouse” they were going to add . . . which would in fact be a barracks for Wythe guards.

The Brookses would be spending a great deal of time in upper New York State, of course. But Ruben should be able to resume control of Unit 12.

Lily returned from the closet carrying Rule’s favorite loafers in one hand ... and a small box wrapped in shiny white paper in the other.

“What’s that? My birthday’s not for another four days.” And he would spend it with Lily and Toby. His heart lifted slightly. This was the first time he’d have his son with him on his birthday—and Lily to share that with.

“Three days,” she corrected him. “You mean you forgot? It’s our eleven month, one week, and, uh . . . three days anniversary.”

He smiled. “Eleven months, two weeks, and five days.”

“Don’t be difficult.” She sat on the bed beside him. “The point is, this is not an early birthday present. You know I don’t believe in those. It’s just a thing.” She handed him the box.

There was a big silver bow on top, dwarfing the little box, which was very lightweight. He pulled off the bow and ripped the paper.

She’d given him an eye patch. A black silk eye patch.

“So you can look piratical instead of like a patient,” Lily said. “It sucks being a patient, but a pirate—well. That’s dashing.”

“I’m not vain.” But he handed her the patch so he could yank off the gauze pad, suddenly eager to be rid of it.

“Yes, you are.” The eye patch was attached to a strip of silk, elasticized in the back. She tugged it on. “Good. It fits.”

It did. His fingers told him that the patch covered his eye from brow to cheekbone. “Am I dashing now?”

“Absolutely.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly. “A man in a cast and bandages looks injured. A man in a cast and an eye patch looks dangerous. So I’ve been thinking.”

“It’s a habit of yours, I’ve noticed.” He slipped on his shoes. “Pass me the crutches, will you? I want to see how this looks.”

She handed them to him. “About the wedding.”

He stopped. “Yes?”

“We still haven’t settled who’s going to perform the ceremony. Maybe we should talk about that.”

The last time Rule brought that up, she’d all but run in the other direction. Lily had an issue with religion in general. What was she . . . oh. He smiled.