Ritual Magic

she’d been one of his men, he’d see to that. It would be both his right and his duty. But she wasn’t, and he’d vowed not to try to make her choices for her anymore.
    What would his father do? Could he use that wily old manipulator as a standard?
    Rule thought about dragons and sovereignty and his father as everyone but the guards stepped into the elevator. Six of them. Six people in that small, cramped space. The elevator doors closed and his heartbeat skyrocketed and his mouth went dry . . .
    Out, out, out
.
    He was so damn tired of this. Tired of hurt and fear and handling himself. Tired of war and people he loved being damaged, endangered, killed . . . and Lily wasn’t taking his hand the way she always did in elevators. She wasn’t thinking about his fear because she was tired, too, exhausted by worry and fear and people she loved being damaged and endangered and . . .
    A warm hand slipped into his.
    Lily didn’t speak. She didn’t look at him. Her expression remained inward and closed, but she held his hand as they rode up to the top floor. The elevator doors opened.
    Spiritual hygiene, Nettie had said. Rule still didn’t know what that meant, but he suspected his soul could use a good scrubbing. He didn’t know how to do that, but holding on to Lily wasn’t a bad substitute.
    Dammit, Nettie, you’d better not die. I am going to be so pissed if you die.

SIXTEEN

    T HE VIP lounge was to the other waiting room as a memory foam mattress is to a sleeping bag. Both served the same function, but they did so with vastly different levels of comfort. Rule had Scott sweep for bugs before they entered; the delay could have been engineered to give their enemies time to plant a listening device. Mr. Reddings observed this precaution with some alarm.
    No bugs. The helpful Mr. Reddings seemed relieved and rather rushed as he pointed out the room’s amenities—a cushy sofa that let down into a bed, a fruit basket, a well-stocked bar, a refrigerator . . . and a brimming pot of coffee that smelled like it had been brewed from freshly ground beans. Costa Rican, Rule thought, inhaling appreciatively. Lily headed straight for that amenity as the executive assistant asked if there was anything else he could do.
    “Thank you,” she said, filling one heavy white mug, “but no.”
    This clear dismissal sent the man out the door. Rule could hear Scott asking him a question after it closed.
    Lily held out the filled mug to Rule.
    His eyebrows lifted. “That’s real love, offering me the first cup.”
    “True. But not, you’ll note, the last one. That you’d have to wrestle me for.” She poured a cup for herself and sipped with her eyes closed. “God, that’s good.”
    “Never mind the damn coffee,” Benedict said. “What have you learned?”
    Rule looked at his brother. Whether it was the effect of physical movement after hours of immobility or the promise of something, anything, to distract him, Benedict’s patience had evaporated. Without it, he was . . . intense.
    Arjenie moved up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Lily looked at him over the rim of her mug and answered crisply. “I’ll give you the key points first. One, the artifact last seen in Friar’s possession was used to ritually kill our John Doe. Two, the icky magic I found on the body, which transferred to Officer Crown, is some sort of residue from that ritual. Three, that magic isn’t just icky. It’s evil. And no, I don’t know what that means exactly, but it matters.”
    “Are those suppositions or facts?”
    “Expert opinions based on observation. Drummond and Hardy—”
    “Drummond?” Arjenie said. “You mean your ghost? He’s back?”
    Rule had forgotten to tell Benedict and Arjenie about that.
    “He’s not my ghost,” Lily said, “but yeah, he’s back. He, uh, was sent here to help. He says spirit is visible on his side.” Her hand waved vaguely to indicate the nebulous direction involved. “The artifact leaves an obvious spiritual mark or color, which is how he knows it was used in the ritual killing of our unknown victim.”
    “No ID yet?” Rule asked.
    “No, and we may have trouble getting one. I’ll tell you about that in a minute. Drummond says that the bad magic—the contagion—is evil. Seems there’s a clear definition for evil that he can’t tell me, and he can’t tell me why the contagion fits that definition. But it does. Hardy agrees, if I’m interpreting his hymn