else?
He spent a few minutes sorting through his memories of the time since he died. He couldn’t find anything missing except for what he’d been doing when he got into a fight with someone who held an ancient artifact. Someone on
That part was gone. Wiped out. No, cut out. Drummond grimaced.
Another memory rose, this one very recent. He’d been injured on the job. They wanted him to take medical leave. That wasn’t how they put it, maybe, but that was what he understood. Medical leave meant going home to Sarah . . . a pang of longing shot through him. He missed her. Missed her a lot. He looked at his left hand, where her ring . . .
The ring was gone. The glowing gold ring that had followed him into death, that tied him to Sarah. His hand was bare.
“Nooo,” he moaned. The ring couldn’t be gone. It couldn’t.
His path? What the hell did that mean? Drummond scrubbed his face and found it wet. But . . . apparently he wasn’t alone. He didn’t see anyone that voice might belong to, but it was familiar. He knew it. Trusted it.
Keep to his path. Right. He remembered a little more. He’d turned down the medical leave. They didn’t have anyone else with his skill set available. They couldn’t have replaced him, so he’d opted to stay on the job, but there was a problem. He’d lost function in some way, yeah. And the ring. The ring was gone, and that hurt all the way down, but he’d also lost memory. Not much, but any loss sort of loosened his connection to other memories. He was going to default more to his in-body ways and find the in-spirit stuff a bit slippery.
Like wanting a bed for rest instead of a leaf or whatever. Grimacing, he got out of the bed he didn’t need but thought he did. Better see what was going on. He felt sure he’d been drawn here for a reason.
It was pitch-black in this room, but that didn’t bother him. He didn’t see the way he used to, and whatever was wrong with his functioning, his spirit eyes worked fine. When he got to the door, though, he automatically tried to open it.
Stupid. At least he’d reached out with his left arm, not the right. He rolled his eyes at himself and passed through it. On the other side, he saw Turner sitting in the living space, stropping a wicked-looking knife. Drummond had never been one for knives, but cleaning his weapon used to soothe him sometimes, and Mr. Wolf Man looked like he could use some soothing. His face was stony, but his spirit was all agitated. No surprise, after everything that had happened lately.
Must be late. No one else seemed to be up. He’d check on them, he decided, and did so, passing through walls and doors with no problem. Yeah, all asleep, and they all seemed fine, though Julia was having some kind of bad dream. He watched her a minute, but he didn’t see any kind of outside influence, and regular nightmares weren’t his job. He wasn’t clear enough to help with those.
Lily Yu wasn’t here. That bothered him. He’d figured he’d been drawn here because she was, but she was gone, and everyone but Turner was asleep.
Maybe he’d better have another look at Turner. And that big knife.
This time he took as long as he had with Julia, checking all over. And this time he saw it and cursed himself for having missed it before. It was small, yeah, thin as a thread, but once he’d spotted it, it was damn obvious, starkly black against the man’s shiny soul-stuff. It slid around in all that turbulence, somehow anchored in Turner’s spirit without being static. It kept dodging out of the way of the other thing hooked into the man, that glowing white cord they called the mate bond.
Drummond watched for a minute. It didn’t look like the bond was going to block this slimy bit of interference. Someone was trying a different technique, maybe, or else it was Turner’s own turbulence that let the black thing keep moving away from the bond.
Now what? He wanted to grab hold of the nasty thing and yank it out, but he knew better. There were those who could touch filth without it sticking to them, but he sure as hell wasn’t that pure. And he couldn’t tell Turner he was under spiritual attack. He needed Lily to do that, but she wasn’t here.
Hell. Only one thing to try.
Drummond zipped into one of the bedrooms. Two women slept there. One was small and wrinkled and sound asleep—and ablaze to his spirit eyes. The other was just as deeply asleep. Her glow was also beautiful, but in a different way. Clear, clear, all the way down she was clear. Every time he saw her, he wanted to slow down, to just look at that quiet glow awhile . . . no time for that.
Drummond crouched next to her side of the bed and tried to settle his mind. He wouldn’t actually enter her dream. That would take too long. But she’d given permission for him to contact her this way, if only he could remember how . . . oh, yeah.
He reached out his left hand and touched her spirit in the spot some called the third eye, right over the center of her forehead. “Li Qin, I’m, uh, I’m sorry to intrude, but I need your help. I need you to wake up and go stop Turner. He’s about to make a big mistake, but it’s not really him. Not just him. Something’s influencing him. Don’t let him leave until Lily gets here. Please, if you can hear me . . .” He said it all again, but she wasn’t stirring, wasn’t opening her eyes. He must be doing something wrong. Or maybe she could hear him, but wasn’t able to wake up. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
Turner’s phone chimed in the other room. He cursed and zipped back there. Turner had set down the big knife to pick up his phone. “Yes?”
“Lily turned in off the highway,” a voice on the other end said.
“Thank you.” Turner glanced toward the TV—no, at the DVD, where the time showed. Twenty minutes past midnight. “It’s later than I thought. I’m leaving now. Assemble the others, and remind Barnaby to give her my message.”
“Will do.”
Turner put down his phone, stood, and slid the knife into a sheath fastened to his belt. He was wearing jeans. No shirt, no shoes. His spirit was still all stirred up. Was that nasty black thread thicker?
It was. Shit. That meant the influence had gained ground, probably because he’d made up his mind, and in the wrong direction. He hadn’t acted yet, so there was still time—but time to do what, exactly?
One of the bedroom doors opened and Li Qin limped out, using her crutches.
Turner’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Is everything all right?”
“I am not sure. I had a dream.”
“A bad dream?”
“An important one, I think, though I remember little of it.”
Turner looked puzzled. “Can I get you something? Some water or juice?”
“I would appreciate a glass of juice. Thank you.” She sighed as she reached the closest chair and set her crutches aside, then lowered herself carefully. “Where is Lily?”
“She’ll be home any minute. Is orange juice all right?”
“That would be lovely.”
Turner knelt in front of the minifridge where they kept cold drinks. He took out a bottle of orange juice, grabbed a paper cup from the stack on top of the fridge, and filled it. “I’m afraid I can’t keep you company right now. There is clan business I need to take care of right away.” Three steps took him to the plain, middle-aged woman whose soul was starlight and water. He held out the cup.
“Thank you.” She took the cup, but didn’t drink. He started to turn away. “Rule. I have a request.”
He paused, clearly impatient. “This is not a good time.”
“Perhaps you could wait for Lily to arrive before you leave for this clan business.”
His brows pulled down. “That isn’t practical, I’m afraid.”
“Rule.” She leaned forward. “I have not asked a favor of you before.”
The frown was a twitch away from a scowl, but he didn’t hightail it the way he clearly wanted to. “You haven’t, no.”
“I am asking now. Please wait for Lily. I feel it is very important.”
“I would honor your request if I could, but this is clan business.” He spoke courteously, but the unspoken ending was clear:
