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mostly he’d preferred to emulate Kierran or Tel—heroes who survived to fight another day. Those ancient tales were the stories he’d listened to, played out, and grown up on. All lupi did.
    Human history had no record of the Great War. Not surprising, given that it ended over three thousand years ago . . . or so its other participants thought. Not the lupi. War didn’t end until your opponent was dead or had submitted irrevocably. The enemy they had been created to defeat was an Old One, as incapable of real submission as she was of dying. She might have been temporarily defeated and locked out of their realm, but the war hadn’t ended.
    For over three thousand years, each generation of lupi had been raised knowing they could be the ones called upon to resume the war. So Rule had always known that his people were at war, yes, and that his could be the generation called into battle . . . much as he’d grown up knowing the Russians might decide to drop nuclear bombs on his country. It could happen. It probably wouldn’t, but it could.
    Unlike the lupi’s war, the Cold War had ended. And as year rolled into year it had been easy to believe that his generation, too, would live out their lives in relative peace.
    One year and four months ago, the Azá tried to open a hellgate.
    He and Lily and a great many others had stopped them, but they’d known
she
was behind the attempt. Persuading the other clans of this had been difficult until last September, when the Lady spoke through the Rhejes to announce the resumption of the war. In October, the battle had gone hot. Even humans knew a little about it now—at least, they knew about the battles at the Humans First rallies. Most had some idea of Friar’s connection to that carnage, though they didn’t know about the Great Bitch and her plans for their world.
    A few did, however. At the FBI and in the White House, they knew.
    It was one thing to know you might be called to war. It was another to fight it.
    Rule leaned his head back in the uncomfortable chair beside Julia’s bed and closed his eyes, relieved that she slept at last. Relieved for both of them. Dealing with a sad, frantic twelve-year-old was not easy. But with his eyes closed, the sickness came back, a sickness that pounded in him like a drumbeat.
    Wrong, wrong, wrong.
    What had been done to Julia was hideous, obscene, wrong on the deepest level. And his fault.
    That wasn’t true. He knew that, dammit. How could he have anticipated such a thing, much less kept it from happening? He pushed to his feet and then stood there, trying not to pace. Deep inside where that drumbeat pounded, words held no sway. Deep inside, he knew only that he’d failed. Failed Julia and failed Lily. Julia was part of the war because of him. It had been up to him to protect her, and he’d failed.
    He took a slow breath to calm himself. God, he hated hospitals.
    His eyes fell on the black leather purse sitting primly on the beside table. Edward Yu was a highly logical man, yet he’d insisted that Julia should have her purse. That made no sense. All the familiar detritus of Julia’s life had no meaning to her now, but logic broke down under such an onslaught of emotion.
    There was a slim leather folder tucked into one outside pocket of that purse. His heart heavy, Rule pulled out that folder. He knew what it held—a notebook containing all the plans for the wedding, written in Julia’s slanting, impeccable script.
    Lily often found her mother difficult, he knew. He understood why, but he’d enjoyed collaborating with Julia on the wedding. She was pushy, yes, and inclined to hold a very high opinion of her opinions. But once they’d established that Rule could not be pushed somewhere he didn’t wish to go, they’d dealt with each other quite well. Julia was a natural organizer, and she’d taken such pleasure in arranging her daughter’s wedding. Every detail interested her. Every detail mattered.
    Every detail was