For whatever reason, Cullen had done neither. Three weeks ago, his life as a lone wolf had ended when Nokolai claimed him with blood, earth, and fire. If Rule’s feelings about the Etorri were mixed, Cullen’s were volatile. “Who did they send?” he asked carefully.
“Who else?” Cullen’s mouth twisted in what might have been meant for a smile. “My dear cousin. Oh, don’t look so wary. No need to tiptoe around my tender feelings.” Cullen yanked up his zipper and opened the door, not bothering with a shirt. Because he considered pants optional after a performance, that wasn’t surprising. “I’ll survive seeing Stephen again, and God knows he’s too pure to be harmed by contact with us lesser beings.”
“I’m glad you’re not bitter.”
Cullen gave a single bark of laughter.
Rule was glad to leave the closet-sized dressing room. The hall they entered wasn’t a big improvement, though, being dim and narrow. One end opened onto the squalor Max called his office. They went the other way, into the scents and din of the club proper.
The cavernous room occupied both the basement and first floor of the building, with its upper reaches vanishing in the overhead gloom. Max took great delight in the decor. He’d borrowed from every hellish cliche he could find, creating a three-dimensional cartoon of the underworld complete with stony walls, fake fires, and a scent he insisted was brimstone.
Most of the club’s patrons were human, of course. That lupi frequented the place made it a draw for thrill seekers, and for seekers of another sort. Several women tried to claim Rule’s attention—some he knew, some he didn’t. Several more tried to stop Cullen.
It must have been a good performance tonight. The two of them made their way between the tables, managing to get by with a smile, a word, a nod, looking for the ones who weren’t human.
There, at the bar. Rule caught the man’s eye and gave a small nod. Across the room, another man saw them and gave the woman beside him a kiss and then stood. A pair of men at a table with several women created vast disappointment by taking their leave. All around the room, one and two at a time, men who resembled each other mainly by their unusual fitness began drifting toward the back of the room, where a spiral staircase wound up into a shadowed loft, invisible from below.
Rule and Cullen reached the stairs first. Rule started up, with Cullen behind him.
“Did you have any trouble getting away?” Cullen asked.
“No.” He hadn’t even had to lie. Not that he’d told her the truth, but he hadn’t spoken a direct lie.
“Even if the tracking spell doesn’t work—and I may have fixed it—Benedict’s got the panic button, right?”
“Yes.”
“My, but you’re in a monosyllabic mood all of a sudden. I suppose you’re feeling all squirmy with guilt. Bad habit, guilt.”
“Shut up, Cullen.”
“Right. You’re making too much of this, you know. Lily’s sensible. She’ll be upset, but once she thinks about it—”
“Are we talking about the same woman?” Rule demanded. ‘The one who won’t have bodyguards, so you have to invent a whole new spell so I can be sure she’s protected? The one I had to trick into letting Benedict stay with her while I’m gone? She was attacked by a bloody demon last night, but oh, no, she doesn’t need protection. That’s sensible?“
They’d reached the loft, an open, unfurnished stretch that ran the length of the back wall. All the pillows had been chased to the edges of the carpeted floor to make room. There were no lights; the only illumination came from below.
With a glance, Cullen changed that. Twelve black candles set in a wide circle suddenly sported flames. Then he looked at Rule. “Maybe she doesn’t like Benedict. I don’t, myself.”
Rule snorted.
Someone was coming up the stairs, making more noise than strictly necessary. That was courtesy. Rule took note and stuffed his regrets—and yes, dammit, his guilt—down where it wouldn’t intrude on tonight’s business.
Cullen took a white candle, still unlit, from a small tote and started for the head of the stairs. He stopped beside Rule and put a hand on his arm—a rare gesture. Lupi usually touched easily and often, but Cullen had spent most of his life apart. He’d stopped reaching out decades ago.
He spoke under the tongue now, so low that, even this close, Rule barely heard him. “There’s no point in punishing yourself, you know. Lily will do a fine job of that when the time comes.”
A smile ghosted across Rule’s face. “The funny thing is, you mean that as a comfort.”
Cullen’s answering smile was swift and fleeting. He turned just as the first of the others reached the top of the stairs—Ben Larson of Ansgar, the largest of the Scandinavian clans. Ben was a fine fighter, but he could be overly deliberate, seeking certainty when none existed.
He frowned at the sight of Cullen. Perhaps he’d hoped Rule would have switched gatekeepers. Tough. They were all going to have to adjust to changes. The realms were shifting, and She was active once again.
“A moment,” Cullen said to Ben. This time he waved his hand over the candle he held and murmured a few words to dance a flame onto the wick. That was theater, and Rule’s idea. He wanted the others to get used to Cullen but saw no point in rubbing their noses in just how different his friend really was. Some of the Gifted could summon fire through ritual. Cullen called it by mind alone.
He held the candle out to Rule first. “Accipisne alios in pace ? ”
“Accipio in pace.” Rule held his palm over the flame without quite touching it for a slow count of three—long enough to seal the pledge, briefly enough that by the time he left the burn would be healed. Then he moved to the nearest black candle and sat tailor-fashion, the candle at his back.
Cullen held the white candle out to Ben. “Accipiaris in pace.”
“Advenio in pace.” Ben held his hand over the flame as Rule had done and then took his place within the circle of candles.
One by one the rest entered, held one hand to the flame, and pledged peace. Con McGuire of Cynir. Stephen Andros, the Etorri Lu Nuncio, with the oddly pale eyes typical of his lineage and hair the color of dust. Ito Tsegaye of Mendoyo. Randall Frey of Leidolf—a smiling villain, that one. Ybirra’s Javiero Mendozo, almost as dark-skinned as Ito. Rikard Demeny of Szós. The Kerberos heir, Jon Sebastian, who looked like an accountant and fought like a madman. Kyffin’s Sean Masters.
Altogether, fifteen of the twenty-two dominant clans were directly represented, eight by their Lu Nuncios. One of the heirs and two of the nonheris sons had crossed an ocean to attend the first circle. For this one, Stephen Andros had traveled almost as far—the Etorri lands were in northern Canada.
Rule tried not to resent the fact that it had taken Etorri’s lead to persuade many of them to attend. They were here. That’s what mattered.
Once everyone was seated, Cullen extinguished his candle and sat apart, near the wall. He was responsible for guarding the circle from intrusions both physical and magical. She couldn’t spy on them directly, but her agents might be able to.
Rule was responsible for what happened within the circle. No easy task, that. He began with silence, allowing them all a few moments to gather the inner stillness necessary for control.
Candles burned behind each man, leaving faces shadowed and laying their waxy scent heavily on the air. Music and voices washed up from below. And yes, beneath the heavy scent of the candles and the mingled personal scents of those present, Rule found more than a trace of seru.
Lu Nuncios were by definition dominant. Closing up so many together in a pace circle and getting them to listen, to cooperate, would be tricky. Outright violence was forbidden, as were challenges to later combat. But each of them would instinctively seek to dominate the others.