"Another suspenseful tale in the excellent World of the Lupi series."
Reviewed by Tammie Ard
Posted January 16, 2009
Romance Paranormal
Werewolves Rule Turner and Lily Lu return to Halo for the
custody hearing of Rules' son Toby. Nine-year-old Toby has
a lot to learn before his first "change" and Rule is the
only one to teach him. Then, while out on a run, Rule
discovers a grave and calls Lily to come investigate. She
discerns death magic and calls the one person she knows can
help her -- Cullen. Lily and Cullen realize they must find out the names of all
the people who died the day of the turning in Halo, then
they can learn who, or what, is behind all the killings.
When Lily's body is taken over by a wraith and the mate
bond between her and Rule is broken, they are saddened by
the loss and desperate to find a way to stay together. MORTAL SINS is a paranormal suspense filled with drama and
action. The love between Rule and Lily is made even more
special with the mate bond they possess, and the
unconditional support they offer each other in their time
of need is heartening. This story is number five in the
World of the Lupi series and is just as good as the first.
I recommend this story as highly as I did the others.
SUMMARY
FBI agent Lily Yu is in North Carolina with her lover and
mate Rule Turner, lu nuncio of the Nokolai werewolf clan,
where he is to take custody of his son from the boy’s
grandmother. It’s a purely personal trip until Rule, in wolf
form, finds three bodies in a shallow grave. They carry the
stench of death magic, which makes the murders a federal
crime. Lily takes charge of the investigation, and soon
realizes that nothing adds up—not the motives, not even the
accused killer, who’s behind bars when death strikes again. But murder, however bizarre, is an everyday affair for Lily,
who was a homicide cop before being recruited into the FBI’s
Magical Crimes Division. A more personal shock arrives in
the person of Rule’s son’s mother. Why is she challenging
Rule’s long standing plan to bring his son to live among the
Nokolai? But family must take a back seat when the violence
escalates, and there’s no rhyme or reason for the killer’s
next strike—a killer who may not even be of this world...
ExcerptChapter OneSouthern air holds on to scent. Scent is vapor, after all,
a chemical mist freed by heat to hang, trapped, in moist
air. In his other form, Rule knew this. In this form he knew only the richness. His world was more
scent than sight as he raced through silver-shadow woods,
through air heavy with moisture and fragrance. Layers and
layers of green overlaid the complex stew of water from a
nearby stream with its notes of kudzu, rock, and fish.
Rhododendron’s subtle vanilla scent jumbled with moss, with
dogwood and buckeye and the sugary scent of maple,
punctuated by the cool tang of pine. But it was the musk, blood, and fur scent of raccoon he chased. A three-quarter moon hung high overhead as he leaped the
stream, muscles reaching in exhilarated approximation of
flight. He landed almost on top of the prey—but his hind
feet skidded in slick red clay. A second later, the raccoon
shot up a tree. He shook his head. Damned raccoons always climbed if they
got a chance. He didn’t begrudge the animal its escape, but
wished he’d had more of a chase first. Deer do not climb trees. He decided to course for that scent. Coursing was as much excuse as action. He’d eaten well
before Changing, so hunger was distant; the real delight was
simply being in motion, reading the world through nose,
ears, the pads of his feet. The human part of him remained, a familiar slice of “I” that
was not-wolf. He remembered his two-legged thoughts and
experiences; they simply ceased to matter as much. Not when
air slid through him like hot silk, pregnant with a thousand
flavors. It was probably the human part that felt a pang
for the wonders of these southern woods, remembering the
hotter, drier land claimed by his clan in southern
California. His grandfather had made the decision to buy
land there for Nokolai’s Clanhome. In that place and time,
the land had been cheap. It had been a sound decision. The clan had prospered in
California. But at Nokolai Clanhome, wolves ran on rocks
scattered over hard-baked ground, not on a thick bed of
needles and moss through tree-shadows surprised here and
there by the tumble of a stream. Rule had run as wolf in many places, yet there was something
special about this night, these woods. Something new. He’d
never run here as wolf before. Not with Leidolf’s clanhome
so near. The spike of worry was real, but fleeting. Wolves
understand fear. Worry is too mental, too predicated on the
future, to hold their attention. The slice of him that
remained man wanted to hold onto that worry, gnawing it like
a bone that refused to crack. The wolf was more interested
in the day-old spoor of an opossum. This was why he ran tonight: too many worries, too much
gnawing at problems that refused to crack open and release
their marrow. He’d learned the hard way that the man needed
the wolf at least as much as the wolf needed the man. These
woods were sweet. He’d find no answers in them, but tonight
he wasn’t seeking answers. Lily said they hadn’t come up with the right questions yet. Rule paused, head lifted. Thought of her was sweet to both
man and wolf. If only she could . . . . He twitched his ear as if a fly had bitten it. Foolishness.
Both his natures agreed on that. Things were as they were,
not as he might wish them to be. Females did not Change. An hour later he’d found no deer, though he’d crossed their
trails often enough, along with many others—a pack of feral
dogs, a copperhead, another raccoon. Perhaps he’d been more
interested in the distractions than the hunt, when there
were no clanmates to join the chase. He wished Benedict was
here, or Sammy, or Cullen . . . wished, though he tried not
to, for Lily. Who could never share this with him. His son would. Not yet, but in a few years. His son, who
slept in a nearby town tonight--a town that would not be
Toby’s home much longer. In four days they would meet with
the judge for the custody hearing, and as long as Toby’s
grandmother didn’t change her mind . . . She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Feelings thundered through him, a primal cacophony of bliss,
fear, jubilation. Rule lifted his nose to the moon and
joined in Her song. Then he flicked his tail and took off
at a lope, tongue lolling in the heat. At the base of a low hill he found another scent. The
chemical message was old but unmistakable. At some point
in the last few months, a Leidolf wolf had marked the spot
with urine. Something more visceral than recognition
stirred as the portion of new mantle he carried rose,
knowing the scent. Welcoming it. Briefly, he was confused. Always before that scent had
meant Enemy. But the message of the power curled within him
was clear: this wolf was his. The man understood this change, had expected it, and memory
supplied the reasons, so the wolf acknowledged the change
and moved on. He wound up the little hill, bathed in the
aural ocean of cricket song, anticipating grass. His nose
informed him of a grassy place nearby, a spot where some
alteration in soil had discouraged trees. He liked grass. Perhaps it would be tall and home to mice.
Mice were small and tricky, but they crunched nicely. A thought sifted through him, arising from both ways of
being: a few months ago he wouldn’t have noticed a
scent-trace as old as that left by the Leidolf wolf. Had
the new mantle coiled in his belly made it possible to sort
that scent? Or was it because there were two mantles now?
Perhaps this night, these woods were unusually magic because
he carried more magic within him. He would consider that in his other form, which was better
suited to thinking. For now . . . at the crest of the hill
he checked with the moon, aware of time passing and a woman
who waited in the small town nearby . . . asleep? Probably.
He’d told her he would be gone most of the night. Part of him thought this was a poor way to spend the night
when he could have been in her bed, but there was grass
ahead, the chance of a mouse or three. He was here, not
there, and it was impossible to regret the night. It was growing late, though. The fireflies had turned off
their glow-sticks and the moon was descending. He would
investigate the tall grass, he decided. Then he’d return to
the place he’d left his clothing and to the shape that fit
those clothes. The grass was indeed tall and the pungent smell of mice
greeted him as he approached the tiny meadow. Rabbits,
too, but rabbits were for days, since they seldom venture
out of their burrows in the dark. A breeze rose, whispering in the grass and carrying a host
of smells. He paused, curious, and tested the air. Was that . . . ? Corruption, yes, the stench of rot was
unmistakable, though faint and distant. It meant little.
Animals died in the woods. Besides, the smell came from the
general direction of the highway. Animals were hit by cars
even more often than they died naturally. But was it an animal? The mantles might help him find out They slept now. He wouldn’t call them up, not even just the
one he considered truly his--that portion of the Nokolai
mantle his father had given him years ago. To call one
meant both answered, and he d been warned. Drawing strongly
on the portion he held of the other clan’s mantle could kill
the mantle’s true holder, who clung so narrowly to life. Not that Rule objected to Victor Frey’s death. In other
circumstances he’d celebrate it, but he didn’t want the clan
that would come to him with Victor’s dying. And neither he
nor Nokolai needed the ruckus that would follow. Could he use the mantles without actually calling them up? The wolf thought so. The man, troubled by instinct or too
much thinking, wanting to try. With a wisp of attention, Rule woke the twin powers in his
gut. He focused again on the trace of scent carried by the
breeze, not so much using the mantles as including them in
his intention. That scent sharpened in his nostrils immediately. Not a dog
hit by a car, no. Nor a deer brought down by disease.
Though the rot-stench overpowered the rest, he was almost
sure the body he smelled had never walked four-footed. Go. The breeze might die, or this new acuity fade. Go.
Find out. He launched himself into a run. Wolves are largely indifferent to death as long as it
doesn’t threaten them or theirs. The body he chased was
certainly dead, so the wolf felt no urgency. But the man
did. Rule ran for over a mile--not full-out, not over
unfamiliar terrain with no immediate danger or prey. But he
was fast in this form, faster than a born-wolf. By the time he slowed, he knew he’d been right about the
highway. He heard cars cruising perhaps half a mile ahead .
. . not many. It wasn’t a major highway. But what he sought lay within the woods. The rankness made
his lip curl back from his teeth as he approached. Some
other scent hid beneath the stench, but even with the
mantles’ help he couldn’t sort it clearly, smothered as it
was by putrefaction. Whatever it was, it brought up his
hackles and started a growl in his throat. Unlike some predators, wolves don’t sideline as scavengers;
only one on the brink of starvation would consider eating
meat this rotten. And Rule was too much man even now to
feel anything but a sad sort of horror at what lay in a
shallow ditch between a pair of oaks. Not all beasts are so picky, however. And he hadn’t been
the first to find them.
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