Lupi 08 - Death Magic

questions revealed that the alien who snatched Meggie was neither “real old or real young.” His hair had been dark and short, and he hadn’t worn glasses or facial hair. He’d been a lot taller than “poor Meggie,” but Meggie was such a teeny dab of a thing, that wasn’t saying much. Mebbe six foot?
    The alien abduction had happened about three weeks ago, and she hadn’t seen Meggie since. She didn’t know what time the men in the black car showed up, but it had been full dark for “a couple–three hours.” She had no idea what the make or model of the car was. She wouldn’t tell Rule where it had happened. She refused to talk to Lily—“Mebbe you ain’t an alien, but how do I know about her?”—and she still wouldn’t tell him her name. When he asked again, she stepped back. “I got somewhere to be.”
    “All right. I’d like to pay you for your time.”
    “Yeah? Well, I charges a hundred an hour.”
    His lips tugged up. “I believe we spoke less than an hour.” He moved so his body blocked them from any prying eyes before slipping his wallet from his pocket. Some of those here wouldn’t hesitate to mug an old woman. He took out three twenties—and his card. One of the ones with his cell number. “Will you call me if you see them again?”
    “Mebbe.”
    “I’m glad you’re cautious. Don’t tell anyone else about these men. Who, ah, only look like men. You don’t want them to know you’ve seen them.”
    She stuck the bills in her jeans pocket and gave him a sly smile. “Seen who?”
    He could probably find out what name she went by, he thought as he angled across the room toward Lily, who’d finished with the servers and was talking to a shriveled little man in an incredibly bright blue sweater. Someone here probably knew that much. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. She liked her privacy, and who was he to take that away?
    Lily might not see it that way. Probably wouldn’t. If . . .
    His phone rattled through a drumroll. That was Cullen. About time. He wanted his car back. Rule unhitched the phone from his belt. “Yes?”
    Cullen’s voice was breathy, strained, and urgent. “Get here quick. 1125 West Brewster. I’m hurt. So’s Fagin.”
     
     
    LILY never understood why they weren’t stopped on that mad ride. They damn sure should have been. Rule’s reflexes meant he could drive faster than a human without increasing the risk, but there were limits.
    There’d been a bomb. A firebomb, according to Cullen—not much bang, lots of heat. He’d refused to stay on the phone for more than a moment, and hadn’t answered when Rule tried to call him back. “He needs his Lu Nuncio,” Rule had said as the car skidded around a corner.
    “He told you that?”
    “Not in words, but I could hear it.”
    If Cullen needed his Lu Nuncio, it meant he was hurt enough to threaten his control—bad for him and for anyone who tried to help him. Cullen had superb control, better than most lupi, control forged in the dreadful furnace of living so long as a lone wolf.
    So Rule hurried. Halfway there Lily got a call from Cynna, who’d received a text from Cullen telling her not to worry, that he wasn’t hurt bad. Somehow it didn’t have that effect, especially because he didn’t answer her, either, so Lily spent the next few careening turns telling Cynna they didn’t know anything yet. Her lips as well as her knuckles were white by the time they screeched to a halt a block away from 1125 West Brewster.
    In spite of Rule’s heavy foot, the emergency responders had been closer and arrived first. At least most of them did. A second ambulance wailed to a stop as Rule slammed his door shut.
    They set off at a quick lope—her, Rule, and Scott. Most of these homes were two stories. Lily scanned rooflines. If someone wanted to pick her or Rule off, there were plenty of spots to shoot from. By the time they reached the tangle of cop cars blocking the street, her heart was pounding as if she’d run a mile.
    She couldn’t see the house from here. A pumper truck blocked her view. No smoke, though. Surely that was good.
    Lily flashed her shield at one of the patrol officers. “They’re with me,” she told him when he frowned at Rule and Scott. “They’re needed. Where’s the—no, I see him. Captain!” she called, hurrying forward.
    She’d taken a guess about the rank. From the rear, she could only see that one firefighter’s helmet was black, which meant an officer. When he turned, she