Authors: Eileen Wilks

Death Magic (61 page)

She was making things normal for him, or trying to. What had he told her two weeks ago? She’d asked how he could spend time planning a wedding and picking out a necklace for her, and the answer had been so clear to him then.

How else could he live?

Nothing seemed as clear to him now . . . except for Lily. Who had picked out a present for him, and suddenly wanted to talk about wedding plans. He levered himself to his feet with the crutches, bent, and kissed her. “Perhaps Sam would conduct the ceremony for us.”

She stared at him. “Sam? But he isn’t—that is—I don’t think that’s legal.”

“Or we could ask Father Michaels. He did a nice job with Cullen and Cynna’s wedding.” He swung himself over to the full-length mirror and smiled. The patch did look rather good.

“But we aren’t Catholic. And he lives here, and we’re getting married in San Diego.”

“That could be a problem, I suppose. I have another idea. I think Carl was a minister at one point. It was under a different name, but that shouldn’t matter.” He got himself turned around. “Would you like to be married by Carl?”

“Your father’s cook.”

“Yes, and I’ve been wanting to talk about the doves.”

“Doves.” Her eyes widened in horror. “My mother wanted doves.”

“Perhaps she had a point. Wouldn’t it look splendid, releasing a few dozen white doves all at once to carry our message of hope and love up to—”

“You are so full of shit.” But she started laughing. “Doves, sure. Our guests would love some flying hors d’œuvres. Maybe we should have some cute little bunnies for them to chase after the ceremony instead of cake, sending our message of fuzzy, yummy love to flesh eaters everywhere.”

He had to kiss her again—which took some arranging, dammit, with the crutches, since he wanted to do more than peck her on the cheek. But he managed, and after a long, delicious moment, raised his head. “Lily, I love you.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I know.”

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MORTAL TIES

Available fall 2012 from Berkley Sensation!

SHE
hadn’t brought flowers. It would be tacky to bring flowers to the grave of the woman you killed, especially when you didn’t regret it. When you knew that, given the same circumstances, you’d do it again.

And yet here she was. And there were flowers on the grave she’d come to visit. Not an expensive bouquet—more like the kind you pick up at the grocery store, with dyed carnations and baby’s breath. They were in a cheap, narrow glass vase that still held about an inch of water.

Lily Yu crouched down, frowned at the flowers, and brushed the dirt off the small plaque set into the ground that the vase rested on: Helen Anne Whitestone.

Lily had learned the woman’s last name a week after killing her. She hadn’t known much about Helen at the time, save for the things that mattered then. Helen had been a telepath, and she’d been nuts. She’d tortured and she’d killed; she’d done her damnedest to open a hellgate, and she’d intended to feed Rule to the Old One she served. She’d also been doing her damnedest to kill Lily just before Lily put a stop to that and all her other plans.

No regrets, no. And since Helen hadn’t had a spouse, lover, or any living family, Lily didn’t even carry the burden of bringing grief to those who had once loved the woman.

And yet here she was. And someone had brought Helen flowers not too long ago.

Maybe she should have visited Helen before this.

Lily had found out where Helen Ann Whitestone was buried months ago, even though she couldn’t have said at the time why it mattered. Mount Hope had been San Diego’s municipal cemetery for about a hundred and fifty years. Raymond Chandler was buried here. So was Alta Hulett, America’s first female attorney, and the guy who established Balboa Park and the city’s library system. So were the few who, every year, were buried at the county’s expense.

Helen had died a virgin and intestate, but the taxpayers hadn’t had to pick up the tab for planting her. Turned out she’d socked away over a quarter million. Telepaths had an inside track on scamming people, didn’t they? If they could shut out the voices in their heads enough to function, that is—which Helen had been able to do, thanks to the Old One she served. That’s how she’d met her protégé, Patrick Harlowe . . . who’d also died badly, but not at Lily’s hands. Cullen Seabourne had done the honors.

But Lily had killed again. Helen was her first, but she’d added to the tally this past year. That was apt to happen in a war, though, wasn’t it?

“Goddamn morbid sort of thing to do, isn’t it?” said a gravelly voice. “Hanging out at the grave of someone you killed.”

Lily jolted, then twisted to scowl at the intruder. “Oh, hell. I thought you were gone.”

“Guess you were wrong.” The man leaning against a nearby palm tree wore a dark suit with a wrinkled white shirt and a plain tie. He was on the skinny side of lean, with a broad, flat forehead and dark thinning hair combed straight back, and he was pale. Pale as in white. Also slightly see-through.

Al Drummond. Formerly an FBI special agent. Currently Lily’s own personal haunt, though she’d thought—hoped—he’d gone on into the light or something, since she hadn’t seen him in over a month.

Death didn’t seem to be any more fair than life. Why had she gotten stuck with Drummond’s ghost? She hadn’t killed him. “How do you know whose grave I’m visiting?” Lily demanded.

He snorted. “I can read.”

“And you know who Helen was.”

“Did you think I didn’t do any digging before I set out to get you?”

Drummond might have gone spectacularly wrong, but he’d been a good agent before that—competent, thorough, and bright. Of course he knew who Helen was, knew that Lily had killed her. God only knew how much else he’d dug up about her.

Lily stood and started for her car.

Drummond followed, damn him. “Not going to ask me where I’ve been?”

She reached the path and kept walking.

“Most people are curious about the afterlife.”

“I wouldn’t believe anything you told me anyway, so why ask?”

He scowled. “I was straight with you. Once we made a deal, I told it straight.”

True. And he’d risked his life to rescue twenty-two homeless people, then given it to save a friend. But first he’d betrayed the Bureau, tried to kill Lily’s boss, conspired in the murder of a U.S. senator, and gotten Lily thrown in jail. “The only thing I want to know is why you’re here. Why are you pestering me?”

“Damned if I know, except . . . I’ve got this idea you’re going to need me. I don’t know when or how, but you will. It’s . . .” He shrugged stiffly. “I guess I’m paying a debt.”

“The debt’s forgiven. Go away.”

“We don’t always get what we want, do we?”

EILEEN WILKS

USA Today
Bestselling Author of

Mortal Danger
and
Blood Lines

NIGHT SEASON

Pregnancy has turned FBI Agent Cynna Weaver’s whole life upside down. Lupus sorcerer Cullen Seabourne is thrilled to be the father, but what does Cynna know about kids? Her mother was a drunk. Her father abandoned them. Or so she’s always believed.

As Cynna is trying to wrap her head around this problem, a new one pops up, in the form of a delegation from another realm. They want to take Cynna and Cullen back with them—to meet her long-lost father and find a mysterious medallion. But when these two born cynics land in a world where magic is commonplace and night never ends, their only way home lies in tracking down the missing medallion—one also sought by powerful beings who will do anything to claim it . . .

penguin.com

M110T0907