It wasn’t much of a slip, but it allowed a couple of mages to get a net spell on him. Only that spell usually takes a minimum of three people, which might explain why, when Cyrus reared back, they both went sailing over the couch. The unraveling strands of the spell trapped them and a pissed-off werewolf in a snarling, flailing ball.
Instead of trying to help his beleaguered men, Gil took one look and ran for the back door, taking him straight in my direction. I smiled and he put on the brakes. “Lia. You’re . . .”
“Alive, yeah.”
Sweat broke out on his bald head. “In the nick of time, I was about to say. What took you so long? Help me contain that thing!”
“Nice try. But spells have a flavor of the caster, Gil. And I broke through yours on the cage downstairs.” Not to mention that, judging by the portraits on the mantel, the idiot had been running his scheme out of his own basement.
He changed tactics without so much as a pause. It was actually kind of impressive. “Don’t be a fool. You’re in as much trouble as I am. Help me and I’ll return the favor. Otherwise, it will be my word against yours. And who do you think the clans are going to believe?”
The one who doesn’t smell like a liar, I almost said. “Out of curiosity, what is the point to all this? I know you hate Weres, but—”
“I could give a shit about them. But the deaths of their leaders will cause chaos in the clan system, and make them look like the unreliable allies they are. It will also discredit my brother, who talked us into this alliance in the first place.”
“And you would want to do that because?”
“Because the position should have been mine!” Gil snarled. “The coalition decided his youth and good looks would appeal to more voters, and ran him instead of me. He used my contacts, my political clout, to his advantage, and what did I get? A clap on the shoulder and a handshake, then left in this dead-end job! What do you think about that?”
“I think it’s crazy,” I said, and he relaxed slightly, although he didn’t take his hand out of his pocket. “Youth and good looks? ’Cause, seriously, Gil, I’ve seen your brother—”
“The clans hate you, Lia!” he snapped. “Why do you think I chose you for this job?”
“Because you knew they wouldn’t talk to me.”
“Exactly. But if you join me, I’ll shield you from them.”
“Right. You’re going to protect me. Someone so ignorant of Were customs that you don’t even understand the hierarchy?”
“What?” And it was obvious that he really didn’t know. That he’d killed seven people, maybe more, for nothing. It was sickening.
“Any of your test subjects could have told you,” I spat. “Even if your plan worked, there’s a clearly delineated line of succession, with an appointed second coming forward immediately to take the place of a fallen leader. And if he dies, there’s a third, and so on, down to the last member of the clan. And the first thing each and every one of them would do on assuming power is to hunt you down. Protect me? Thanks, but I prefer to take my chances.”
“Sure about that? Life without allies can be a bitch.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and pointed the weapon it held at me.
I didn’t bother to reply, because in order to fire, Gil had to lower his shields. And as soon as he did, I threw one of the dead guard’s potion vials in his face. He dropped the gun, screaming, as its corrosive properties went to work. I watched him trying to claw out his own eyeballs for a moment; it was oddly satisfying. “Yeah. Fortunately, so can I.”
I staggered over to Cyrus. He’d gotten his hind legs caught in a bunch of tinsel that had fallen off the ruined tree. “I’d offer you a hand, but . . .” I tried to wave and fell on my ass.
He crawled over to me using only his front paws. It looked like his hind legs weren’t just caught, they were useless. He collapsed by my side in a great furry heap.
We lay there quietly for a few minutes, listening to the crackle of burning gifts. On the plus side, the fires eventually went out on their own and no one else attacked us. Not too surprisingly as most of them didn’t seem to be still in one piece. Even Gil had finally stopped screaming.
“How are you?”
I blinked blearily at him. Oh. He’d changed back.
“Can’t move.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I’m having the same trouble.”
“Pretend we’re drunk.”
He huffed a short laugh. “I wish I was drunk.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Jezebel.”
“Ah.”
“I passed Daniela coming in,” he added. “She’s gone to get help.”
“Good.” I still didn’t know how he fit into all this, but at the moment, I didn’t care. I snuggled into him, letting the smell of clan surround me—musky, earthy, and indescribably sweet—and relaxed in spite of myself. A moment later, I was asleep.
I opened my eyes to find someone bending over me. At first, I thought it was Cyrus. But there were no snug jeans, soft flannel shirts, or cowboy boots in sight. Instead, the man by my bedside in what appeared to be a hospital room was wearing a crisp shirt and tie, subtle cuff links, and pants with a crease sharp enough to cut yourself on.
He looked like Cyrus, though, except for a pair of pure blue eyes. As my vision returned, I noticed subtle other differences: a slightly broader jaw, a narrower mouth, and a more classic nose. His hair was dark, but not as curly, and was cut shorter. He looked older, too, by maybe four or five years. But, other than that, they could have been brothers.
“We are.” He settled himself on the chair that a nurse quickly scooted into place, and I realized I must have spoken aloud. “Could we have a moment, please?”
There seemed to be a lot of people around: doctors, nurses, and a bunch of heavily armed types who were obviously Weres despite being in human form. None of them was Cyrus. “How is—?”
He held up a hand and we waited until everyone filed out and the door shut. “My brother is fine. As is my daughter, thanks to you.”
It took a moment for the implications of that short sentence to register. It was a good thing Cyrus was still alive, I decided. That way I got to kill him. “So I finally get to meet the great Sebastian.”
“And I am at last able to make the acquaintance of Larentia Lobizón’s daughter. I have heard much of you.”
“None of it good, I bet.”
“Until today, I’m afraid not. Your clan was quite displeased with you.”
“Was?”
“I took the liberty of acquiring you for Clan Arnou. My brother rather insisted upon it.”
I was pretty sure I’d missed something. “Why?”
“The vendetta. Arnou outranks Lobizón. Once they discover that you now belong to us, I expect the dispute to be quickly resolved.”
I didn’t doubt it, and it was a huge relief. But it also brought up another issue. “About the change—”
“It is each clan’s right to determine how aggressively rogues are pursued.”
“I’m not a rogue.”
“You are clan-born, yet refuse the change. By most clan’s laws, that makes you a rogue.”
“And in yours?”
“We have never forced anyone to undergo the change who does not choose to do so. For whatever reason.”
The unspoken word hung in the air between us, like the large, full moon outside. He had to know. He must have wondered why I was affected by a spell designed for Weres when I had refused the change. It wouldn’t have been difficult to have me tested for Neuri while I was out. But he said nothing, so I didn’t, either. After a moment, he leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“Welcome to the family, Accalia,” he murmured, and left.
I just lay there for a few minutes, until a pressing personal matter insisted that I get up. I found that I could actually walk and that the room stayed satisfyingly steady around me. It seemed that my body had won the fight.