"Victor is unwell," Cullen said. "No, don't check on him. He's having some trouble balancing the heres valos,"
Sabra glanced in the living room, paled, and turned and walked quickly back down the hall. Cullen grabbed the doorknob and dragged Cynna onto the porch—which was now occupied.
FIFTEEN
TWO men stood at either end of the porch. So did a pair of wolves. The men were bare-chested and held knives as long as her forearm. The wolves were big. Really big.
Cullen's hand flashed, knocking Timms's hand away from his jacket. "Don't draw on them, fool. They'd kill you before you touched your weapon."
Timms scowled. "I'm not going to—"
"Do anything. Right. Good decision. These are the Rho's personal guard," he said, putting his hand on the small of Cynna's back and pushing. "They'd like us to leave now."
"You've taken up mind reading?" she said, but she obeyed the urgent hand at her back. "No one needs to speak, you just know what we all want. Handy."
He ignored her. Once they were off the porch and a few feet away, he looked up at the older of the two guards. "This woman has permission to search on your land. I'll accompany her, as we discussed."
Was that why he'd ducked while they were waiting for Victor Frey? He must have heard the guards show up. What had he told them?
The man he addressed was grizzled, just under six feet, and built like a pro wrestler. He was also the first nonwhite she'd seen, with skin the color of burnt toast. He gave a nod so small it might have been an optical illusion. "Very well, Nokolai whelp. The other man will leave. He won't be allowed back."
"Excuse me," Cynna said. "You need to speak to me about that, not the Nokolai whelp. Your Rho gave permission for us to search for the demon. That includes Agent Timms."
Dark brown eyes met hers. "I heard him. He gave you permission, not the FBI. That one"—he nodded at Cullen—"gave proper greeting and was accepted in peace. The Rho didn't restrict his guesting, so it's within my authority to allow him to accompany you. The human will leave."
She sighed. "Timms, wait in the car. Just for now," she added before the protest forming on his face could erupt in words. "I need to consult with my consultant. Privately." She gave Cullen a lift of her eyebrows to ask where.
"Center of the meeting field," he said, nodding at the middle of the clearing. "If we keep our voices low, they shouldn't be able to hear us."
"The human will leave," big, bad, and burly insisted.
"Hey, there are two humans here. The one with the Y chromosome is named Timms, and your Rho didn't say anything about him one way or the other, so I think you're exceeding your authority by trying to kick him out. I'm considering a compromise. You do the same."
"The male human will leave."
She rolled her eyes. "Temporarily. Timms—the car."
Timms shot her a look fraught with meaning, but—lacking telepathy as she did—she had no clue what meaning. He did obey, so she and Cullen headed for their designated private area in full view.
Maybe she could get through a few of the questions piling up. "What did you call him?"
"Who?"
"Gunning. You called him something in that bastardized Latin you use."
"Is that what you wanted a private consult about?"
"We're not private yet." She was sure the guards and their wolf comrades could still hear them.
"True. The phrase translates literally as eater of corpses and implies taking a certain carnal pleasure in the act."
"Jesus. You warn everyone else to play nice with the nutcase, then accuse him of some weird-ass version of necrophilia."
"Brady can't hate me more than he already does."
Her curiosity was itching fit to kill. She wanted to know when Cullen had been here before, what had happened, why the nutcase hated him, why he'd thought the long-ago suicide was Sabra's sister instead of her aunt.
It wasn't nosiness… well, not entirely nosiness. If Brady was likely to come after Cullen while she was standing beside him, she should know that. But she'd have to sit on it for now. They'd reached the center of the field, and the light was fading.
She stopped and faced him.
What was left of the sunlight loved Cullen's face. It lingered on the crests of his cheekbones, played over his forehead, and tucked shadows around the contours. His lips looked like a sculptor's version of the sensual ideal. When he frowned in thought, the beauty of his face lent him an air of gravitas she knew was false.
But oh, he was lovely to look at. She forgave herself for the little hitch in her breath. At least her voice stayed level, since she kept it low enough she barely heard herself. "What's wrong with Frey?"
His frown deepened. "The Rhej has already shared one of our most closely guarded secrets with you, even though you haven't accepted her offer of apprenticeship. I'm taking that as permission. But you are not to speak of this, ever, with anyone outside the clans."
"I made Timms wait in the car, didn't I?" Something occurred to her. "Lily's Nokolai, though. I can tell her."
"Rule needs to know, so yes, tell her. But don't say much over the phone—just that Victor's having trouble with the heres valos."
"Keep going with that explanation."
"I'll give you the short version, but bear in mind I'm oversimplifying. Part of a Rho's mantle is invested in the Lu Nuncio, or heir. If the heir—"
"Wait, wait. Mantle?" •
"The power that makes a Rho. When a Rho dies, the full mantle automatically descends on the heir, since he's already carrying part of it. Among other things, this protects the clan from death shock. But if the heir dies first, the Rho has to reabsorb the heres valos. That can be difficult, and grief makes it worse, but anyone who becomes Rho is a hardheaded son of a bitch. Normally they manage it okay."
"But Victor isn't."
"No. He must have invested more than the usual amount of the mantle in his heir."
"Why would he do that?"
"Ill health is the obvious reason."
"I thought lupi didn't get sick."
"You want the long explanation after all?"
She glanced at the sky. The sun was out of sight, and the shadows were beginning to blend together. "Just tell me what the danger is with Victor."
"He's likely to be testy."
She rolled her eyes. "Testy? You hustled me out as if he were about to rip out my throat."
"Testy enough to rip out the throat of anyone who seems a threat to his authority, male or female."
"You're saying he's crazy. That this heres valos makes him insane." That's what Rule had told her, long ago—that an adult lupus who attacked a woman was considered insane.
But Rule had struck her. She hadn't thought that was possible in either of his forms. A slap isn't an attack, she told herself, but there was a tight, unhappy feeling in her stomach. "Or else the 'lupi don't hurt women' thing isn't true."
"Rule's problem isn't the same as Victor's."
"What?" He'd sounded kind. Cullen, kind?
"That's what you were thinking about, wasn't it? Rule slapped you, so you're wondering if he's gone nuts or if he lied about lupi not hurting women."
She scowled. What was the world coming to if Cullen Seabourne could turn perceptive on her? "I can't believe he told you. He felt so bad about it."
"Of course he wanted me to know. Part of his hair shirt is exposing his shame. But like I said, Rule's problem is very different from Victor's. Victor is a tyrant at the best of times. Right now, he's only intermittently rational. There's nothing wrong with Rule's thinking—he just doesn't trust his wolf enough."
"Maybe he has reason? It wasn't his human side that socked me."
"He was injured. The wolf reacted to the pain you caused, but even with reason out of the loop entirely, he was careful with his strength. Or did you think a little slap is the way he'd respond to a real threat?"