Lupi 08 - Death Magic

and hurt and unable to defend himself properly. He wouldn’t like being touched, handled. He wouldn’t want to go into the hospital at all.
    Rule’s wolf certainly didn’t. Or perhaps it was the man who wanted to scream at the driver to stop.
    Rule’s wolf, too, was trying to rise, called by moonsong and propelled by rage. Deep within Rule, a hard and bloody knot of silence tightened. That place had no words, only teeth . . . but Rule knew the words. His wolf wanted—needed—the hot spurt of blood spewing from his enemy’s throat as his teeth ripped through the jugular. The spill of guts from their fleshy pouch.
    Friar’s guts. Friar’s blood.
    Best if he didn’t think of that now. Not when they would soon be immersed in the smell of blood and illness. It might be Friar’s blood his wolf craved, but that craving could spin out into a more general hunger. Rule had spent way too much time in hospitals, but he’d never walked into one when his wolf was this . . . eager.
    Had he made the right decision? Rule looked down at his friend. His clansman. Cullen’s eyes were closed now. His breathing was even and shallow enough that he might have been asleep, though Rule knew he wasn’t. His heart beat steadily.
    Cullen would heal with or without a doctor’s attention. He’d heal faster if the burned skin were debrided, if fluids were replaced with the speedy efficiency of an IV. But neither was essential, especially with the Leidolf Rhej available.
    Rule did not have to take his friend to the ER. But if he didn’t, he would have to lie—either directly or by misdirection. He would be breaking from expectation. Leidolf might not have been in the habit of seeking human help for their wounded. Nokolai, however, did. And as Lu Nuncio to Nokolai, as Rho to Leidolf, Rule could not look weak .
    None of the lupi around him—not even Cullen, as good a friend as he was—could be allowed to suspect that Rule’s control was less than flawless. That was duty, not politics. A Rho’s first duty to his clan was to be strong enough to control both his own wolf and all the wolves of the clan, if necessary. Even Victor Frey, a cruel and crazy bastard of a Rho, had possessed that cardinal virtue: his control was absolute. Or it had always appeared to be so.
    According to Isen, the second was almost as good as the first. No Rho possessed perfect control, so it was best to strive always for the first, but accept the necessity of the second on rare occasions.
    According to Isen, a Rho could deceive his clan in other ways, too.
    For him to lie outright to them dishonored both Rho and clan, causing a terrible sundering of trust . . . unless it was necessary. If a lie was essential to the clan’s well-being, if all other choices meant worse harm, then a Rho should lie. He must do it brilliantly, so that his clan never suspected. Never for convenience. Never to avoid something you dreaded, or in support of any but the most vital goal. And chances were, if a Rho found himself in the position of having to speak a baldfaced lie to his clan, he had bungled things badly.
    Rule had asked, of course. When his father gave him this advice shortly after naming him Lu Nuncio, Rule had asked. Twice, Isen had said. Twice in the fifty-some years he’d been Rho, he had lied to the clan. And no, he would not tell Rule what those lies were.
    Rule supposed that two lies in over five decades was a fairly strong vote in favor of honesty.
    Misdirection, now . . . the lie by omission, the partial truth, the subtle weaving of expression, gesture, and words to either deceive or confuse . . . Isen had a rather higher opinion of misdirection. He considered it acceptable over a fairly broad range. This was no surprise, coming as it did from a grand master of that slippery art.
    But always, always, the compass must be pointed at the welfare of the clan.
    Rule didn’t even consider lying today. He could simply say they would not go to the hospital. He didn’t have to explain. But his people, both Nokolai and Leidolf, would speculate. Why not get Cullen treated? What did Rule know? Was it no longer safe to be publicly lupus? Did he fear a specific attack by their enemy? Was Rule’s control unequal to spending a few hours at an ER?
    Such speculation did not serve the clan. Either clan. And so Rule arrived back where he’d started. He had to take Cullen to the ER.
    He emerged from his thoughts to find Cullen’s eyes, burning blue, fixed on his face again.