Ritual Magic

at Rule, making the title sound like an obscenity—“can offer you the same protection, you’re wrong.”
    “That,” Rule said pleasantly, “was a lie.”
    Lily smiled. Not pleasantly. “He can smell them, you know. Lies.”
    “Which part?” Cullen asked. “Because I’m betting it’s his shields that protected him, not his devotion. Whoever crafted those shields does very nice work. They’re not quite as sweet as mine, but still, quite decent work. Of course, you could say his bitch mistress protected him because its
her
power in those shields. Is that what you meant, Robert?”
    “We don’t have
time
for this,” Friar said through gritted teeth. “Smell the truth when I tell you this: the world is at stake. If we don’t stop whoever has that knife from using it, we are all doomed. We need to leave now.”
    “Actually, we do have a little time,” Cullen said. “Assuming tonight was chosen because it’s the dark of the moon—is that correct?” Friar didn’t answer. Cullen went on as if he had. “I’ve been thinking about that. Robert here could perform his rite at any point during the dark moon period, but bringing through a dead god—that’s different. You need one whopping big hole in reality to pull that off, which means the knife-holder will wait for the moment of conjunction. That’s reality’s sleep apnea moment. It doesn’t just thin out then, it pauses. And the conjunction isn’t due for . . . .” He paused, looking at Rule. “You hear her better than I do when she’s veiled. How long?”
    “A little over three hours.”
    “So there’s time to make plans. Share information.”
    Lily looked at Cullen. “You’re sure about this?”
    “I could explain, but that makes you testy. Yeah, I’m sure.”
    “Okay.” She looked back at Friar. “I want to know why you lied about the Lady’s protection. And how you kept the knife from taking over Armand Jones.”
    Friar closed his eyes. “I will pray that, when the time comes, I’ll be able to kill you very, very slowly. A quick death may have to suffice, but it will not be satisfying.”
    “Indulge in daydreams later. Right now I need some answers.”
    Friar kept his eyes closed. For a long moment he didn’t speak, either gathering strength or trying to figure out how to lie without Rule smelling it. “All right.” His eyes opened. He looked at Rule. “The extra magic Rhos carry may protect you. The individual who told me about the knife is sidhe, and they know almost nothing about werewolves. Half of them think you don’t exist. But there’s some
arguai
mixed in with the Rho’s magic, and that’s what might protect you. Or not. And it won’t protect your men. And don’t think that cut-rate compulsion you use on your men will override the knife’s compulsion. The knife is much, much stronger.”
    “What a Rho does is not compulsion,” Rule said evenly.
    Wasn’t it? Lily didn’t let herself look at Rule. She wasn’t going to give Friar the satisfaction of knowing he’d unsettled her. But how, exactly, was it
not
compulsion when Rule used the mantle to make his people obey?
    Either she’d done a bad job of keeping her cop face on or she smelled upset, because Rule glanced at her and smiled slightly. “Santos,” he said.
    What the hell did he mean by . . . oh. Santos had been ordered to obey Lily. He hadn’t. If he’d been compelled, he would have had no choice. She nodded to tell him she understood. She still wanted more of an explanation, but this was not the time.
    “Whatever you call it,” Friar said, “it won’t stand up against what the knife can do. As for you”—he looked at Lily, his dark eyes glittering with hate—“your Gift may protect you from compulsion, but that’s not certain. The knife is powered by a god, you overconfident fool. Is your Gift stronger than a god?”
    “A god who just yesterday opened four gates—three of them using only ley lines, which is supposed to be impossible. That’s probably a heavy lift even for a god. I’m betting he’s tired right now.”
    “You’re betting more than your own life on that assumption, and compulsion is only half of what you’d face. You are not immune to spiritual power.”
    “And yet I remember Alan Debrett. I must have some trick you don’t know about, huh? Look”—Lily leaned forward—“you might as well accept that we’re doing this my way, and we’re not budging until we know more. How do we protect ourselves