Lupi 08 - Death Magic

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.
    She was making things normal for him, or trying to. What had he told her two weeks ago? She’d asked how he could spend time planning a wedding and picking out a necklace for her, and the answer had been so clear to him then.
    How else could he live?
    Nothing seemed as clear to him now . . . except for Lily. Who had picked out a present for him, and suddenly wanted to talk about wedding plans. He levered himself to his feet with the crutches, bent, and kissed her. “Perhaps Sam would conduct the ceremony for us.”
    She stared at him. “Sam? But he isn’t—that is—I don’t think that’s legal.”
    “Or we could ask Father Michaels. He did a nice job with Cullen and Cynna’s wedding.” He swung himself over to the full-length mirror and smiled. The patch did look rather good.
    “But we aren’t Catholic. And he lives here, and we’re getting married in San Diego.”
    “That