Blood Lines (28 page)

She nodded, hoping he wouldn’t ask who’d done it. He turned to the younger one. “That’ll be Leah’s work, then. Don’t worry about it. Set the man’s arm.”

Leah, huh? Cynna filed the name away. She wouldn’t use it without permission.

Cynna adjourned to the waiting room while the doctor set and casted Timms’s arm. Cullen headed for the men’s room. She sank into an empty chair with relief. Eyes closed, she amused herself by matching the sounds and voices to the others in the room.

The wailing baby was easy. It belonged to the heavyset woman across the room, as did the little-girl whine—a toddler with many braids. The sharp-voiced complaints came from a skinny grandma trying to straighten out something to do with insurance, and the sneeze was from the old guy at the end of her row of chairs.

She was contemplating summoning the energy to get herself a Coke when someone sat beside her. She cranked her eyelids up, cut her eyes that way, and closed them again. “Medical school?”

“Very expensive,” Cullen said. “Here.”

She frowned at the Styrofoam cup he held. “I’m not a coffee drinker.”

“Caffeine’s a mild analgesic. Good for headaches.”

She sighed and straightened and took the cup, frowning at the murky liquid. “Ibuprofin works better and doesn’t taste nasty.”

“You already took some. I dumped three packets of sugar in.”

That might make it bearable. And if it would blunt this headache . . .
She took a sip, grimaced. “People drink this stuff on purpose.”

“Elixir of the gods.” Cullen sipped from his own cup. “Though this particular brew might be for minor deities. Very minor. About that healing spell—”

“For chrissake, Cullen, not now.”

“I might learn something from it that would help understand the demon poison in Rule.”

“Huh?” she said cleverly.

“Rule’s wound won’t heal. Your spell blocks healing along with pain. It’s worth checking out.”

She thought about it, or tried to. The caffeine hadn’t done much for her yet. “You’re thinking you can reverse the spell and use it to restart his healing?”

“Maybe. Or just understand the action of the poison better by seeing how your spell works. May I see the
kilingo
for the spell?”

Hardly anyone knew the correct terms for Msaidizi magic, but he did. He knew she’d been a
shetanni rakibu
, a demon rider, too, and he had a pretty good idea what that meant.

She wanted him to go away. “I’m not supposed to use the spell, remember? You won’t be able to see anything while it’s inactive.”

“The Rhej didn’t know the spell was there when she was healing you, so its effect must be very minimal unless the power’s turned up. Trickle just enough juice into it for me to see how it works.”

She bit her lip. She wanted to help Rule, but this felt oddly intimate. “Okay, but try not to be overwhelmed with passion. I have to lift up my sweater.”

“Goody,” he murmured.

She was sure that was an automatic response. Lupi felt obligated to flirt with females—it was like please and thank you for them, a basic courtesy. Cullen might like the idea of having sex with her, but his real passion was magic. “It’s on my stomach. Here . . . this area above my belly button.” She showed him the outline of the spell, mentally adding a trickle of power to her moving finger.

Ah, that felt better. Even set on low, the spell worked great.

He bent, tilting his head as he studied her stomach. “This part”—he traced the skin of her belly with a fingertip—“looks promising. I take it you converted a spell that originally used physical components?”

“Yeah.” Whoa. With her headache turned off, her hormones were rioting, and happy about it. His touch left heat behind. Actual heat, not just the sexual sort.

Wait a minute. Her headache
was
gone, wasn’t it? Completely.

“That looks like the
signa
for marjoram.”

“It is.” She’d barely tapped into her power. Could a spell get better with use? Adjust itself somehow? “The spell’s got four stages, moon-sequenced. Takes a month to set up. I just finished it last month.”

“Hmm.” He pulled his hand back, and she let her sweater fall down to cover her oddly warm skin. Then he looked in her eyes and smiled, and the heat was there, too. “I’m good with fire,” he said softly. “Which means I can bring its gentler cousin to life, too. With a touch.”

Was he saying he could . . . oh, yeah, he was. “Magic hands?”

“Pity I can’t show you exactly what I mean, but . . .” He took her hand and put it in his lap, which was interesting all by itself. Then he drew a lazy circle on her palm with the tip of one finger . . . and heat. “This is a sample,” he said, his smile turning wicked.

He was thinking about other spots he could touch with that heat. So was she.

He made more slow circles. Unlike most of her body, her palms were naked, unmarked. She hadn’t thought of that as erotic until this moment. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Endorphins.”

“Endorphins?” His voice was husky.

She nodded. “Better than caffeine.”

“We could make lovely endorphins together.” He sighed and closed her fingers up around the lingering warmth in her palm. “But not tonight. You need to turn that spell off again, and the Rhej told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to pester you for sex yet.”

She was surprised. She’d once seen him obey the Nokolai Rhej, which had been pretty amazing. But this Rhej wasn’t even of his clan. “You going to do like she says?”

“She threatened one of my favorite body parts. Besides, she’s right. You need rest more than endorphins right now.”

She needed to shut down the spell, too. With a sigh, Cynna closed her eyes and paid attention. “Hey.” Her eyes popped open. “It’s grabbing power.”

“The spell?”

“Yeah. It . . . even in that little bit of time, it started pulling more power without my permission. I . . . ow. Shit.” The second she shut down the flow of magic, the pain returned with a vengeance.

He was fascinated. “Where did you get this spell?”

“A Vodun priestess.”

“For God’s sake! Vodun magic is based on their pantheon. You can’t strip the invocation and expect—”

“I’m not an idiot! Why do you always assume I’m an idiot? This is a
spell
, not one of their rites or incantations. No deities involved. She got it from her granny, who got it from her granny, and on back. She uses it herself.”

“Any graveyard dust involved? Bones?”

“No and no.”

“Blood magic?”

“Well, yes, but my own blood. Jesus, Cullen! Every tradition on the planet uses some blood spells.”

“I’m not an idiot, either,” he snapped. “I use blood spells myself. But using your own blood tied it to you. I don’t know the process for transcribing a spell onto your skin—yes, yes, do close your mouth. I realize you aren’t going to tell me—oath of secrecy and all that rot. But it must be similar to making a charm, only more personal, since it’s inscribed on your body, not an inanimate object. The spell may be tied to you twice—through blood in the initial casting, and again when you absorbed it.” He brooded on that a moment. “I need to see it. I need to watch what happens when it starts grabbing power.”

Her head throbbed along with her heartbeat. “Not today, you aren’t.”

“No.” He sounded regretful. “Tell me. Can you transcribe the spell onto someone else?”

“I . . . yeah, that’s how I was taught, by having the first spell inscribed on me. I’ve never done it myself, but I think I could.”

“That’s what I hoped. We—lupi—need that spell. We can’t be anesthetized for surgery, which increases the risk of shock.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “It’s risky. Since the spell gobbles power, it could slow healing. But we’ll look into it, okay? Just not tonight.” She rubbed her head gingerly. “Speaking of healing, I don’t see how I could have had a depressed skull fracture. Healers can help the body mend quicker, but they can’t go lifting bits of skull. Is that a Rhej thing?”

He was sitting with his knees sprawled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. He tilted his head to give her an odd look. “You were there when we opened the hellgate.”

She glanced around. The crying baby two chairs over probably drowned out anything they said, but still . . . “Let’s not talk about that.”

He straightened. “Did you really think three women and one sorcerer had the power to do that on our own?”

“That’s what the node was for. It was small, but so was the gate.”

His foot started tapping restlessly. “You’ve got a good brain. I don’t know why you don’t use it more often. Power to power, Cynna. It takes power to use power, and we didn’t have enough on our own to open the node. The Rhejes drew on the power of their clans.”

She was appalled. “They can do that? Pull the magic from others and use it?”

“They generally don’t, but they can. When the Leidolf Rhej talked about your healing she said ‘we’ owed it to you. We, not I. She used some of the clanpower to knit you back together.”

Cynna didn’t know if anyone ought to be able to use other people’s magic without their permission. She was damned sure she shouldn’t be given that kind of power.

The tapping foot stilled. “Did we ever eat?”

“Eat?”

“Supper. No,” he decided, springing to his feet. “We didn’t. There must be a cafeteria or something here.” He looked around as if it might be tucked into a corner of the waiting room.

“What pushed your button?”

“Hunger. It’s a wolf thing. We’re all about five years old when it comes to mealtimes. Do you—never mind. You need to eat whether you feel like it or not.”

No, she didn’t. “Your phone’s ringing.”

He glanced down at the phone clipped to his belt, annoyed. “I thought I turned that off.”

“You going to answer it?”

He grimaced but unhooked it and held it to his face. “I’m here, but I’m hungry. Can we keep this short?”

“Who is it?”

“Lily. No,” he said into the phone, “I was answering Cynna. Yeah, aside from a helluva headache and her usual lunacy, she’s fine. What about . . .” His voice drifted off into a frown.

A dark-skinned nurse wheeled Timms out of the treatment area. Cynna’s eyebrows climbed. Timms had depths she’d never have dreamed of. He wore a brand-new sling and a brand-new cast . . . in flamingo pink.

He was going to be pissed once the painkiller wore off. She grinned as she pushed to her feet and waved at the two of them. “Over here.”

There were a few moments of everyone talking at once. Timms was soaring on Percodan and chatty; he wanted to talk about demon tranquilizers. The nurse was upset about Cullen’s cell phone, so he went outside. Then she nabbed Cynna, determined to explain to someone about Timms’s care.

Apparently he’d sprained his ankle, which explained the wheelchair. Cynna persuaded Timms they’d go over their demon drug strategy later, listened to the nurse, and pocketed scrips for painkillers and crutches and a list of care instructions. They could fill the prescription at the hospital but wouldn’t be able to get the crutches until tomorrow when a medical supply place opened up.

She was wondering if he’d mind sharing one of his pain pills when Cullen came back in.

The nurse, the cranky granny, and the weary mother all forgot their troubles for a moment to watch. Cullen was great eye candy when he was still; in motion, he was music given form.

An up-tempo tune at the moment. He moved like he needed to be somewhere else, and stopped in front of her, his face tight with trouble. “Rule’s worse. I’m heading straight back to D.C. Where should I leave you?”

“Dumb question. I’m going with you.”

“You need rest.”

“Buy me a pillow. I’ll sleep on the way.”

He didn’t argue, which worried her. “What about him?”

Timms blinked up at them fuzzily. “You’ve got my guns. I’d better go, too.”

Clearly Percodan didn’t affect the man’s priorities. “Dibs on the backseat,” she said.

TWENTY-TWO

RAIN
had settled over eastern Maryland and Virginia like a broody hen. The storm didn’t bother with thunder or lightning; it squatted patiently over the land, incubating grass, trees, and traffic accidents.

Cullen made good time on I-81 and I-66 in spite of his sedate pace—he’d held it under ninety pretty much the whole way. Too many humans cluttered the interstates, and they did the damnedest things behind the wheel. But D.C.’s traffic was constipated, as usual; once he hit the Parkway, it was more like an impacted bowel. Nothing was moving.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, scowling at the cars ahead. He’d turned on the radio long enough to listen to the eye-in-the-sky traffic report; apparently some numbnuts had skidded his car across two lanes, causing a pileup.

Humans should not be allowed to drive when it rained.

He ought to be tired. He’d shorted himself on sleep for over a week now, and it was bound to catch up with him. But he was twitchy, wanting a run more than a rest—preferably four-footed. He’d been cooped up in a plane or a car for most of the past twenty-four hours.

“AK-47,” Timms said suddenly. “Few bursts from that would make ’em move.”