Lupi 08 - Death Magic

duties,” Rule finished, “José has already sorted you according to his needs and your strengths. Those of you—”
    “No, he hasn’t.”
    The blunt-featured man who’d contradicted Rule sat at the front of the mob. His name was Mike. Lily remembered that because he looked a bit like a pale-skinned Mike Tyson—well over six feet of muscle and mad.
    Rule’s attention lasered in on the man. “What did you say?”
    “José hasn’t sorted us according to our strengths. I’m the best fighter here. Ask anyone. Plus I’ve planned and led raids. I’ve got nothing against Scott, but I’ve got twice his experience. I should be in charge, not some Nokolai wetback who—”
    He didn’t get the chance to finish. In a split second Rule had him by his shirt, jerked him to his feet—and threw him. All two hundred and fifty pounds or so of him. He sailed over two men who managed to duck and crashed into the wall—then fell onto an end table that broke beneath him, sending a lamp and a couple of ugly knickknacks crashing.
    Rule stalked up to the man, weaving around the seated lupi. Mike started to get up. Rule put his foot on the man’s back and shoved him down again, leaving his foot in place. Had there been any sound in the room at all, Lily wouldn’t have been able to hear him, his voice was so soft. “You are mine. José is mine. I say you obey José. If he wants you to wash the floor with your tongue, you will start licking.”
    “Y-yes.” The man couldn’t offer his belly. He was lying on it, and Rule’s foot kept him pinned. But he managed to tilt his head so part of his throat showed. “Yes.”
    No one moved. No one spoke. Lily wasn’t sure the roomful of lupi were breathing. She might not be able to feel it when Rule pulled mantle, but she could hear it in his voice—and see the results. He’d all but flattened them with it.
    She shook her head. “I’ve always hated that table, but that’s the second wall you’ve damaged this week. You’re really hard on walls lately.”
    For reasons known only to the testosterone crowd, that brought a bright grin to Rule’s face. He looked about eighteen. “I have been, haven’t I?” He stepped away from the man on the floor, speaking to Lily as if they were alone in the room. “My apologies for the mess, nadia . Mike will clean it up. The rest of you ...” He glanced around. “Those who will bunk in the garage can—”
    The doorbell rang. José spoke from the back of the room. As usual, he wore an earbud. “It’s Seabourne with another man—pale skin, brown hair, looks about forty. He’s wearing a clerical collar.”
    The priest. Cynna’s priest, who was supposed to call, dammit, not drop by. Lily sighed. “Maybe Mike could hurry.”
     
     
    LILY remembered Father Michaels from the wedding. Not everyone would have taken a ghostly poltergeist and an angry dragon in stride the way the priest had, so she was inclined to like him. He looked the way she thought a priest should look, too—not the bluff Irish version, but the scholarly sort. Abraham Michaels was slim and pale, with a long neck and elegant hands. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, dark slacks, and a tweed jacket. And the collar, of course.
    “We were about to order supper,” Rule said as he led the way to the kitchen, as bland as if they hadn’t all walked past a scary man crawling around on the floor picking up broken bits. Most of the rest of the lupi had vanished before Lily reached the front door—either out back or down to the basement—but the just-promoted Scott was still with them. “You’ll join us, I hope. Do you enjoy Mexican food, or would you prefer Chinese?”
    “Nothing for me, thank you.”
    “Mexican,” Cullen said promptly.
    “So noted. Lily?”
    “No preference.”
    “Scott, you’ll take care of ordering, please. Three pans of the enchiladas from Café Lopez.”
    Scott nodded, pulled out his phone, and left the room, heading for the front of the house. Three pans wouldn’t begin to feed thirty lupi plus Lily, Rule, Cullen, and Father Michaels—who’d be offered dinner again when it arrived, Lily was sure, if he was still here. The guards must have already eaten. Not surprising. It was pushing eight o’clock.
    Rule gestured at the table. “Please have a seat, Father, and tell me what I can get you to drink. We have a decent selection of wines—the Cabernet is my personal favorite, but if you prefer white you might try the Riesling. Lily favors it. Or