Ritual Magic

from the knife? Benessarai must have told you how to shield from its power. He wasn’t under compulsion from it. Neither was Jones.”
    “Benessarai was an ass. The knife had slept for centuries in his family’s vault, and he had no idea what it was. Admittedly, when asleep it’s mostly inert, its nature hidden, but he knew it possessed
arguai
. He simply accepted his family’s story about it, too incurious to investigate.”
    “So when it’s asleep, it doesn’t compel?”
    “That’s what I said. Were you listening?”
    “And Jones?”
    “I shielded Jones.”
    “Another lie,” Rule observed.
    “I wonder,” Lily said to Rule, “if we have time for coffee. I could sure use a cup. I saw a coffeepot by the sink.”
    “I’ll put some on.” Rule rose.
    “All gods damn you,” Friar muttered. “All right.”
    * * *
    S TEPPENWOLF’S “Born to Be Wild” blared from the speakers of Miriam’s beautiful little 1970 Karmann Ghia. Tonight she’d learned that Dafydd, her perfect, incredible Dafydd, just loved rock ’n’ roll.
    That wasn’t his name, of course. She didn’t know that, but he’d given her permission to call him Dafydd. It was the Welsh form of David and meant Beloved. A perfect call-name for her lord and god. Miriam sang along with the music, laughing when she skidded on the turn. “Oops. Guess I’m going a little fast.” She felt his amusement like a chuckle in her mind—and his agreement, so she eased off on the accelerator.
    He was so
close
now. So wonderfully close. She felt his nearness all the time, and he could talk to her . . . sadness pricked her. He could talk to her now, because of that poor officer.
    She had no regrets about tonight. The loudness of the gun had shocked her, but killing was easy, after all. And didn’t they deserve it? Robert Friar was responsible for hundreds of deaths at the Humans First rallies last year, and the other man had been part of that, too, she was sure. And they’d wanted to block her Dafydd, keep him out, keep him imprisoned and alone. The woman hadn’t deserved what happened to her, but she was their fault, not Miriam’s.
    But the officer . . . she felt bad about him. Dafydd understood her regret, but he didn’t share it. Not really. To him, they were all so ephemeral, so insubstantial . . . he took delight in them, as she might in the beauty of flowers or sweet-smelling herbs. But if you need rosemary for your dinner, you pluck it. So with that officer. He’d been needed to anchor her lord in this realm until she could take over that task. But he hadn’t been prepared for it, as she had, and he worshiped elsewhere. By the time she had removed the anchoring energy, he was badly damaged. Poor man. She wondered if her lord might do anything to fix him . . .
    You have a saying about eggs and omelettes, my love . . . the man’s shell is too badly cracked. Even I can’t get the yolk back inside.
    She giggled. Wasn’t it just like him to think of it that way? Perhaps later she’d go back to the hospital and finish the man off. It would be a kindness. She hadn’t dared do it before. She couldn’t afford to draw that kind of attention to herself.
    But everything would be different soon. Everything. She reached over and stroked the knife that lay in the passenger seat. Delight shimmered through her . . . and power. Ageless, endless power. It was true that at first the feel of the knife had unnerved her. But the knife was like Dafydd. The more she touched it, the more she wanted to touch it.
    What couldn’t she do with this much power?

THIRTY-EIGHT

    T URNED out Cullen had been right.
    Armand Jones’s ski mask had been acrylic, but polyester would work, too. Not perfectly, and nothing would help if any of them were fool enough to touch the knife. Friar was the only one who could do that safely. Or so he claimed, and Rule hadn’t smelled a lie, so probably Friar believed that. But he claimed that synthetic fibers did offer some protection.
    So they headed for Walmart.
    There was one not too far out of the way—that is, as much as they knew which way they were going. Friar wouldn’t tell them; he wouldn’t even say how far away the cursed knife was. No surprise there. The bastard wanted to make sure they took him along, didn’t he? It would be hard to double-cross them if he wasn’t close by. He told them what road to take, when to turn. Otherwise he sat in grim silence, his injured leg stretched out on the