clanhome was already widely known, of course, but the others weren’t. At first they’d hoped that planned demonstrations in San Diego and Albuquerque was coincidence. Though there were clanhomes near those cities, there were none near the other places where rallies would be held. But Albany was only about eighty miles from Wythe Clanhome. Adding it to the mix suggested intent, not coincidence.
“I’m afraid so.” Ruben stood. “Rule, you can’t discuss our plans with Lily, but I won’t ask you to keep this visit from her unless you feel it’s necessary.”
Rule hesitated. “I think she suspects I’ll communicate with you, but would rather not have her nose rubbed in it.”
Ruben nodded. “How do you think she’s dealing with my revelations from Saturday? She seemed to accept the need for the Shadow Unit, but that’s several steps away from joining us.”
“I wish I could say I was optimistic, but understanding why we’ve chosen to act outside the law isn’t the same as doing so herself. It’s not like bending a regulation or overlooking a minor crime in order to prevent a major one. We’re asking her to give her allegiance to something other than the law.”
“To something in addition to the law.”
“I’m not sure she can see it that way.”
“I’ll continue to hope you’re wrong.”
So would he. Because he hated keeping secrets from his nadia, yes, but also because Ruben said they needed Lily. Needed her to go beyond tolerating the existence of the ghosts. Needed her to be one of them. This certainty came from Ruben’s visions, though Rule didn’t know the details. When asked, Ruben waved a vague hand and said sometimes disclosure altered the course of events. He also said they had to at all costs avoid putting too much pressure on Lily, that she had to come to this commitment on her own.
Ruben Brooks didn’t use language carelessly. When he said “at all costs,” that was what he meant. So Rule couldn’t tell Lily that unless she joined the Shadow Unit, the chances were excellent that over half the lupi in the country would be dead within three months.
FIFTEEN
DENNIS Parrott lived up to his name—lots of pretty feathers, and now and then something he said was actually pertinent. He was in his early fifties but looked younger—a slim man with a narrow face, perfect haircut, rimless glasses, pleasant voice, pleasant smile. Interviewing him was like talking to a magazine ad.
Glossy, Rule had called him. So far Lily hadn’t gotten so much as a peek beneath the polish. “But you don’t know anything about any of those crank letters the senator received.”
“I’m sorry, no. We never discussed that sort of thing. But you have copies, you said.”
“Of those that were turned over to the Secret Service, yes. There could be more.”
“You’d need to ask Nan about that. I’m afraid this is all the time I can give you today, but Nan will have passed on my request that the staff cooperate with you fully.”
Nan was Nanette Beresford, the senator’s secretary, a handsome older woman with a thick drawl and the proverbial steel-trap mind. She was arranging for Lily and Mullins to use a small conference room to question staffers.
“Just one more question.” Mullins smiled vacuously at the glossy Parrott. “Won’t take but a moment. I know you’re busy—very important job, and with the senator’s passing, you must be buried in work as well as grieving the loss of a friend. I really appreciate the time you’ve given us.”
“Of course.” The pleasant smile made a brief appearance on Parrott’s thin face. “I’m very eager for you to catch whoever did this terrible thing. But we do have to make it quick.”
Mullins had seriously surprised Lily. As they rode up in the elevator to see Parrott, he’d transformed into a snub-nosed Colombo with a whiff of Andy Griffith. The funny thing was, he was good at it. His bashful, bumbling version of a TV detective set Parrott at ease.
“I just wondered . . . couldn’t help wondering, really, it’s the way this job gets you thinking, you pick up on any little discrepancy, even though it’s probably meaningless. When we were talking about the senator’s work, his campaign against the misuse of magic, you said you weren’t Gifted yourself. I wondered why you said that.”
“Because I’m not.”
Mullins looked confused. He glanced at Lily. “But you gave me the sign—when we all shook hands, you signaled that he . . . but he says he isn’t.”
“A minor Gift, I think,” she