Lupi 09 - Mortal Ties

on spirit.”
    “It doesn’t, but if I…do you really want me to explain?”
    “Now that you mention it—no.”
    “Lily.”
    She looked at Rule, who was staring down the sidewalk, an odd expression on his face.
     “What?”
    “I saw it. Him. For a minute it looked like a bit of fog moving down the sidewalk.”
    “That’s almost weirder than you not seeing him.”
    “It has to be the mate bond, doesn’t it? Somehow it let me share what you see, in
     a limited way. It hasn’t done anything like that in a long time.”
    Not since they were captured by the Great Bitch’s agents, in fact. “The bond was new
     then. I thought that was why our abilities sort of slopped over onto each other for
     a while.”
    “The newness made it possible. The Lady made it happen. Why would the Lady want me
     able to see Drummond?” He frowned. “I think you need to talk with the Etorri Rhej
     again.”
    “I just did. What could I ask her that I haven’t already?”
    “It’s more what you’d tell her. Drummond says he can’t manifest at Clanhome. That’s
     what you told me, isn’t it? It makes me wonder if he’s contaminated by
her.
If he’s the Great Bitch’s agent, being at Clanhome might inhibit what he can do.”
    “Wouldn’t your father know if he were?” If someone contaminated by
her
power crossed onto Clanhome, the mantle would alert Isen. At least that was how it
     was supposed to work.
    “Does that apply to a ghost? I don’t know. Do you?”
    If he didn’t, she sure as hell had no clue. “I guess I should call her. But not,”
     she said with a glance up the street, “right now.” A pale mist wafted quickly back
     down the sidewalk toward them. She waited until it reached them to say, “That was
     quick.”
    The fog shaped itself into Drummond’s too-familiar form. “Doesn’t take long if I’m
     just counting live bodies. You glow.”
    “Who does? What do you mean?”
    “All you embodied types. From this side, you’ve got a glow. I don’t have to manifest
     to see it.”
    “Huh.”
    “Machek’s there, or someone who matches his description. No one else, except for the
     cats. Two of them.”
    “They glow, too?”
    He grimaced. “They’ve got bodies, so…yeah.”
    She glanced at Rule. “He says Machek’s inside with two cats. No one else.”
    Rule cast a hard look in Drummond’s general direction. “Guess we’ll find out.”
    R ULE didn’t feel sick. Maybe his stomach felt like he’d swallowed rocks, but that was
     not the same as feeling sick. He was tense, yes. His muscles were tight in a way that
     would interfere with quick action, if such were needed, so as he climbed the stairs
     he went through a quick relaxation routine…again.
    Why was he reacting this way? He didn’t understand. He wished he would stop.
    There was a narrow porch at the top of the stairs, overhung by the roof. The door
     was stained rather than painted, the wood mellow with age and sheened by a recent
     cleaning with mineral oil, judging by the faint scent. Lily stood to his right, Cullen
     to his left and slightly behind. Scott had his back. Lily had her weapon out.
    Rule pressed the doorbell.
    Footsteps on a wooden floor. The door opened. Rule looked into his own eyes.
    “Rule Turner,” the man with his eyes said. His gaze drifted to Lily, snagged for a
     second on her gun. First his eyebrows shot up, then his mouth kicked up…a mouth not
     shaped like Rule’s. It was wider, with a mobile flex that spoke of easy smiles. “And
     company. More company than I was expecting, but come in, all of you.” He opened the
     door wide, then wandered away, apparently trusting them to follow.
    Rule did, with Lily right behind him. Then Cullen, then Scott, who closed the door
     their host had apparently lost interest in.
    The entry hall was small, dominated by a huge abstract painting—mostly orange, with
     geometric shapes dancing across it in a way that suggested fire. Beside the bit of
     wallthat held the painting was a staircase; otherwise the entry was open to the living
     room on the left. That was eclectically furnished, with tables in both old wood and
     polished steel; African masks, ink drawings, and framed posters on taupe walls; an
     old church pew and two wing chairs grouped with a cream-colored contemporary sofa.
    Jasper plopped down in one of the wing chairs and gestured at the sofa. His hair was
     the same color as Rule’s, but curly. And graying. “Come in and sit, and perhaps