Ritual Magic

can’t be stinted on . . . still, one of those obligations is maintaining an adequate number of full-time guards. I’ve increased that number, true, but we’re at war. I’d already increased it before bringing the guards here.”
    Two hundred thousand. A month. Per year that would be . . . two million, four hundred thousand. Lily was used to thinking of Leidolf as
poor.
Two point four million a year was not poor.
    And all of it went to Rule. A clan’s wealth was held by its Rho. Rule didn’t think of it as his money, but the IRS would. Add that to what he managed for Nokolai and . . .
    Rule’s mouth crooked up. “You have such a funny look on your face.”
    “My mind does not deal well with numbers that big when they’re preceded by a dollar sign. How could Leidolf’s finances be such a mess with that much income?”
    “Victor, like many of those who don’t understand money, alternated between pure liquidity—by which I mean keeping everything in a bloody checking account—badly chosen loans, and throwing money at whatever took his fancy. He didn’t keep proper track of his assets, such as they were, and at one point he decided to save money by not reporting most of the
drei
he received for a few years. That worked about as well as you’d expect. He ended up owing nearly three million in back taxes, which the idiot was making monthly payments on instead of—are you all right?”
    She’d assured him she was fine, and the color must have come back into her face, because he’d accepted that. In an effort to sound rational she’d asked, “I saw the entry for ammo, but nothing about the AK-47s you bought recently.” Those would come in handy if they ever found themselves up against a demon again. Not as much stopping power as the Uzis Isen had, but machine guns were illegal in hell. She’d settle for the AK-47s.
    “Those are capital expenses, which are budgeted separately.”
    “Oh.” She glanced at the spreadsheet again. “What’s WCP?”
    “Workers’ Compensation Pool.”

TWENTY-TWO

    L ILY grinned as she pulled her lunch sack out of the fridge. Workers’ comp for werewolves. Rule hadn’t understood why she found that so funny. It was state law, he’d pointed out. He’d explained—in rather more detail than she required—how he’d been able to pool that obligation with Nokolai, who already self-insured their workers’ comp. “Self-insuring is a better deal than buying it elsewhere,” he’d assured her.
    Lily believed him about that. She believed him when he said Leidolf could afford the guards, too. She still started taking her lunch. She had a mortgage now. Saving a little money couldn’t hurt. Besides, as she’d told Rule, it also saved time.
    The break room was just across from the conference room. Lily pushed open the door to the conference room. Cynna was telling Cullen how she intended to use the fillings. He nodded and said something about the rashies—at least, that was what it sound like. It was probably Sanskrit or something. Then he looked over at her with sudden interest. “Roast?”
    “I don’t know.” She set the insulated bag on the table and popped the tab on her Diet Coke.
    “Roast,” he said with certainty. No doubt his nose had informed him of this. “Have any extra?”
    “Undoubtedly. Either Rule told the Kitchen Carls to double my portions or—”
    Cynna hooted. “Kitchen Carls? As in Isen’s houseman, Carl?”
    Lily nodded and opened the bag. Sure enough, there were two fat sandwiches, two apples, and a baggie with a half dozen cookies. Lupi just couldn’t get their minds around the idea that a single sandwich could be a meal. “That’s what I call whoever has kitchen duty. They always put in way more than I can eat.” She took out one of the sandwiches and tossed it to Cullen.
    He caught it, sniffed. “This has a mother lode of pickles.”
    “I like pickles. Want some cookies, Cynna?”
    “No, thanks. I thought you didn’t have a kitchen yet.”
    “Rule and I don’t, but the guards do.” Their new property consisted of the house, several acres of land, and a barracks that had been a cheap motel in a former life, then sat derelict for several years. It had been renovated before the house. Friar wanted them dead and he was tenacious about it, so Rule wouldn’t move into their new home until he could house his men. As a result, the barracks had a working kitchen. The guards rotated cooking chores among themselves.
    “They