Lupi 08 - Death Magic

could be a problem, I suppose. I have another idea. I think Carl was a minister at one point. It was under a different name, but that shouldn’t matter.” He got himself turned around. “Would you like to be married by Carl?”
    “Your father’s cook.”
    “Yes, and I’ve been wanting to talk about the doves.”
    “Doves.” Her eyes widened in horror. “My mother wanted doves.”
    “Perhaps she had a point. Wouldn’t it look splendid, releasing a few dozen white doves all at once to carry our message of hope and love up to—”
    “You are so full of shit.” But she started laughing. “Doves, sure. Our guests would love some flying hors d’œuvres. Maybe we should have some cute little bunnies for them to chase after the ceremony instead of cake, sending our message of fuzzy, yummy love to flesh eaters everywhere.”
    He had to kiss her again—which took some arranging, dammit, with the crutches, since he wanted to do more than peck her on the cheek. But he managed, and after a long, delicious moment, raised his head. “Lily, I love you.”
    “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I know.”
     
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    MORTAL TIES
     
     
    Available fall 2012 from Berkley Sensation!

     
    SHE hadn’t brought flowers. It would be tacky to bring flowers to the grave of the woman you killed, especially when you didn’t regret it. When you knew that, given the same circumstances, you’d do it again.
    And yet here she was. And there were flowers on the grave she’d come to visit. Not an expensive bouquet—more like the kind you pick up at the grocery store, with dyed carnations and baby’s breath. They were in a cheap, narrow glass vase that still held about an inch of water.
    Lily Yu crouched down, frowned at the flowers, and brushed the dirt off the small plaque set into the ground that the vase rested on: Helen Anne Whitestone.
    Lily had learned the woman’s last name a week after killing her. She hadn’t known much about Helen at the time, save for the things that mattered then. Helen had been a telepath, and she’d been nuts. She’d tortured and she’d killed; she’d done her damnedest to open a hellgate, and she’d intended to feed Rule to the Old One she served. She’d also been doing her damnedest to kill Lily just before Lily put a stop to that and all her other plans.
    No regrets, no. And since Helen hadn’t had a spouse, lover, or any living family, Lily didn’t even carry the burden of bringing grief to those who had once loved the woman.
    And yet here she was. And someone had brought Helen flowers not too long ago.
    Maybe she should have visited Helen before this.
    Lily had found out where Helen Ann Whitestone was buried months ago, even though she couldn’t have said at the time why it mattered. Mount Hope had been San Diego’s municipal cemetery for about a hundred and fifty years. Raymond Chandler was buried here. So was Alta Hulett, America’s first female attorney, and the guy who established Balboa Park and the city’s library system. So were the few who, every year, were buried at the county’s expense.
    Helen had died a virgin and intestate, but the taxpayers hadn’t had to pick up the tab for planting her. Turned out she’d socked away over a quarter million. Telepaths had an inside track on scamming people, didn’t they? If they could shut out the voices in their heads enough to function, that is—which Helen had been able to do, thanks to the Old One she served. That’s how she’d met her protégé, Patrick Harlowe . . . who’d also died badly, but not at Lily’s hands. Cullen Seabourne had done the honors.
    But Lily had killed again. Helen was her first, but she’d added to the tally this past year. That was apt to happen in a war, though, wasn’t it?
    “Goddamn morbid sort of thing to do, isn’t it?” said a gravelly voice. “Hanging out at the grave of someone you killed.”
    Lily jolted, then twisted to scowl at the intruder. “Oh, hell. I thought you were gone.”
    “Guess you were wrong.” The man leaning against a nearby palm tree wore a dark suit with a wrinkled white shirt and a plain tie. He was on the skinny side of lean, with a broad, flat forehead and dark thinning hair combed straight back, and he was pale. Pale as in white. Also slightly see-through.
    Al Drummond. Formerly an FBI special agent. Currently Lily’s own personal haunt, though