Blood Challenge (14 page)

God. God, she was so lovely and frail and strong all at once—and nothing like Claire. How could the Lady Choose twice for him, and Choose so differently? Claire had been all fire—smart and savvy, her beautifully fit body the instrument she used for combat, for sex, for living every second at its fullest. She’d burned, his Claire, burned so brightly. She’d been a fighter in every sense.

God knew she’d fought the mate bond. Fought it relentlessly. Frantically. Fatally.

Benedict drew a ragged breath. He had to tell Arjenie about the bond. Had to. And couldn’t, his throat closed by terror of what could go wrong—and by the sick, certain knowledge of just how wrong it could go.

What was she? Part-sidhe, according to Seabourne. Possibly an enemy, according to the facts. Isen didn’t think that was likely. He believed the Lady wouldn’t have gifted Benedict with an enemy of the clan.

Benedict couldn’t remember his father ever entertaining such a naïve notion before. The Lady’s reasons were her own. She might have decided the clan needed Arjenie for some reason. That didn’t mean the woman could be trusted now.

The potion that blocked her scent was wearing off. When he’d stood close to her, when he’d touched her, he’d smelled her again—not as clearly as in his other form, but clearly enough. Her scent made him think of running flat out with the sun shining hot on his fur. It made him think of summer afternoons when he was young—young enough that an afternoon was an endless stretch of possibilities. It made him think of messy sheets, entwined bodies, and the musky smell of sex.

It made him think of these things now. Then, it had just made him hard.

What had the other potion she’d brought to Clanhome been designed to do? If she wasn’t an enemy, why wouldn’t she tell them? Someone’s life was at risk, she’d said. Friar was clairaudient, she’d said—a Listener, in other words, capable of magically hearing from afar. But she admitted Friar’s Gift didn’t work here at Clanhome. Why not?

Maybe that was a lie. Maybe Friar wasn’t a Listener—or he was, but Clanhome had no effect on his Gift. If she was telling the truth about that, why couldn’t she level with them here, where Friar couldn’t Listen in?

He’d touched her. The skin of her cheek was as soft as a flower petal. He needed to touch her again.

He was so afraid.

EIGHTEEN

SHE
took a shower. A long shower.

Benedict hadn’t expected that. When she said she needed to use the restroom, he’d assumed she meant she wanted to empty her bladder. She did that, but then turned on the shower.

He didn’t object. The window in that bathroom was large enough for her to escape through, but he doubted she could do it without him hearing. Not once he’d opened the door a crack, that is. And he could use a few minutes to get himself under control. Fear was partly a physical phenomenon. Exertion would diminish or eliminate the effects, but he couldn’t go for a run right now, so he used the breathing exercises he taught young Nokolai.

The fear had receded to a manageable level and the shower was still running when his brother called. “Can you talk?” Rule asked.

“Yes, though we’d best keep it brief. My charge”—he couldn’t bring himself to say “my Chosen”—“is awake and showering. Isen told you about her.”

“Both her unusual arrival in your life and her equally odd reappearance last night. Also that, according to Cullen, she’s part-sidhe. Not just the tiny whiff of Fae blood some people possess, but perhaps as much as a quarter-blood.”

“He couldn’t quantify it that closely, but yes.” Benedict understood the disbelief in his brother’s voice. The sidhe had never dallied much in this realm. Conventional wisdom had it that they’d stopped coming entirely after the Purge. Earth had become too dry for them, magically speaking, or too unfriendly.

But conventional wisdom was often right in the general, wrong in the specific. Seabourne claimed to have once met a sidhe lord who’d wandered here—“gone walkabout” was the term he used. “He said the power signature was unmistakable.”

“What does she say?”

“Nothing yet,” Benedict said dryly. “She passed out when he spoke of it. After she woke she admitted it, but called it a long story and changed the subject. Isen will question her about that once Seabourne finishes the charm he’s making. How’s Lily? Have you told her about any of this?”

“Not yet, but I will. She’s sleeping a lot, which is what she needs. Normal sleep at first, but Nettie’s here, so Lily’s
in
sleep now. Nettie confirmed what the surgeon said about the muscle damage, but snorted when I repeated his opinion on healers and nerve regeneration. Nettie says there shouldn’t be any lasting nerve damage.”

Emotion roughened Benedict’s voice. “Good. That’s good.”

“The lost muscle tissue is another story. Nettie can’t make human muscle regrow the way ours does. The mate bond may make a difference, but it isn’t predictable.”

“No, it isn’t.” Benedict gave himself a moment before he added, “But there’s hope. Soon after our bonding, Claire was practicing with her knives and nearly severed her index finger. It was attached only by a bit of skin. The doctors didn’t see any point in reattaching it. Back then there was a very poor success rate for that sort of surgery. I persuaded them to try. Her finger healed perfectly. I have always believed the mate bond was responsible.”

“I didn’t know that.” Surprise echoed in his brother’s voice, then warmth. “Thank you.”

Had he spoken to Rule about Claire at all? Very little, he realized, and Rule’s memories of her would be limited. She hadn’t stayed at Clanhome much, and she’d died when Rule was eleven. “You didn’t call me about this.”

“No. First I need to let you know that the heirs’ circle will take place in San Diego, not St. Paul. Isen has what few details we’ve hashed out.”

Surprised, Benedict asked, “How did you pull that off?”

“I didn’t. Edgar called and suggested it. Lily still means to attend.”

“You dislike that.”

“Immensely. She’s right, however, and she should be as safe within a circle as she could be anywhere but the heart of Clanhome. We await Nettie’s opinion on whether she’s up to it, physically.”

Benedict understood. The other clans had accepted a major tactical deficit when they agreed to allow the circle to take place in Nokolai’s territory. Lily’s presence was more important than ever, the one solid assurance the others had that Nokolai wouldn’t take advantage of the changed venue.

“I also called you because I’m trying to decide if there’s a connection between the attack on Lily and your visitor.”

Benedict glanced at the door he’d left ajar. The shower still ran. “The connection is Friar. She was on his land, and he’s responsible for the attack—either directly by ordering it, or indirectly by inspiring some random nutcase.”

“Do you think the attack was carried out by a random nutcase?”

“Could have been. Doesn’t mean it was. It would have to be a pair of nutcases, for one thing. One to drive and one to shoot. What do the police say?”

Rule growled in frustration. “Neither they nor the FBI office here will tell me anything. They’re too busy marking their territory and trying to keep the other side—which ought to be the same side, dammit—from learning anything.”

“The Unit isn’t handling the investigation?”

“The killer used bullets, not magic, so the Unit lacks jurisdiction. If Ruben were in charge … but he isn’t, and that, too, may be intentional. The healer Nettie sent believes that Ruben’s heart attack was caused by magic.”

Benedict’s eyebrows lifted. “That makes the nutcase theory a lot less likely. Sounds more like an organized effort against the Unit.”

“To me, also. So far the Unit’s coven hasn’t been able to confirm the healer’s claim about the use of magic. And the person who could find out for sure was nearly killed last night.”

Lily, in other words. “I’m not a big believer in coincidence. It happens, but I’d suggest you proceed on the assumption that she’s still in danger.”

“I am,” Rule said grimly. “Have you learned anything more about your visitor?”

“She knows too much about us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Little things, mostly. I wondered if she might be clan-descended—the daughter of one of our daughters, maybe, who’d heard stories from her grandmother. Our daughters are taught to be careful about what they reveal, but they do pass on stories. However, I didn’t find her in the database. She could be there under another name, but—” The shower water cut off. “I can’t talk freely anymore.”

“All right. Benedict, I know you’re even less likely to want to talk out your feelings than my
nadia
, which means that normally you’d rather take a dip in boiling oil. But this is not a normal time for you. If a talk-it-out fit should overtake you, I’m here. I listen fairly well.”

Benedict surprised himself by smiling. “You’re a diplomatic son of a bitch. I’ll remember your offer.”

“
T’eius ven
, brother.”

“T’eius ven.”
Benedict ended the call. Talking to Rule had been good. It had helped. Even though they hadn’t spoken directly of the source of Benedict’s fear, it had hung there between them. Somehow Rule had made that okay.

One more reason his father had chosen wisely when he made Rule his heir. Benedict didn’t belittle himself or his abilities, but he was incapable of managing people the way Rule did … though maybe
manage
wasn’t the right word. That implied manipulation and power, while Rule drew more on empathy and an innate understanding of what to say, when to say it. He didn’t shove.

Benedict was good at shoving, not so good at talking.

The bathroom door opened. Arjenie stood in the doorway, frowning and smelling of soap and wet hair and her own, heady scent. She must have washed away the last of the potion. Benedict’s nostrils flared as he drank her in.

She frowned as she ran her fingers through the wet, cork-screwy mass she’d pulled over her shoulder. It made a damp spot on her shirt over the swell of her left breast. “I could have sworn I locked this door.”

“I popped the lock while you were in the shower. I needed to be sure I’d hear if you decided to go out the window.”

The frown remained. “I have a strong sense of privacy. I don’t like having that intruded upon.”

“Understandable. But I’m responsible for the Rho’s safety, and you haven’t told us anything to explain your presence here.”

She considered that, then nodded. “I suppose that’s reasonable, from your point of view. I hope you don’t mind my using your shampoo and soap. I didn’t see a comb, or I would have borrowed that, too. I was wondering if you got my purse out of the car. There’s a pick in it, and picks work better on curly hair than a brush, because they don’t frizz it up so much. Do you know what a pick is? It looks like—”

“It’s on top of the bureau in your room, along with a few other things from your purse.” The ones Seabourne had had time to check out to be sure they had no magical function.

“It is? Oh, good. I didn’t notice.” She started limping down the hall. She wasn’t leaning on the cane as heavily as she had last night. Good.

He followed. “You wanted a snack.”

“I really do. I still need to call my aunt, too.”

“You have three voice mails on your phone. One is from a woman named Robin. Is that your aunt? She wants you to call her immediately.”

She stopped and turned to face him. “You listened to my voice mail?”

She was so indignant he had to smile. Being caught had scared her, but she’d gotten over that fast. Being coerced into remaining here struck her as reasonable. She peppered him with questions, avoided answering his, and apologized for using the shampoo without asking first.

But listening to her voice mail? That riled her. “I also read your e-mail. A Nigerian official has a deal you won’t want to pass up. You can call your aunt.” He handed her his phone.

“This isn’t my phone.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ll need it back. I’ll be listening while you speak with your aunt, so you want to be careful with what you say.” He’d be able to hear both sides of that conversation, too, which she probably didn’t realize.

She gave him a dirty look and touched the screen, then turned around and limped toward her room. “Maybe I’ll read your e-mail.”

“I’ll have to take the phone away if you try.”

“It’s intensely annoying when someone who’s stronger than you uses his strength to get his way.”

“I imagine it is. Are you going to call?” He was close enough to watch over her shoulder and see what number she used.

She sniffed and used her thumb to tap in the number of the Robin who’d called earlier.

A man answered. “Hey. You got me. Now what?”

“Hi, Uncle Clay, it’s Arjenie. I’m using a friend’s phone. Is Aunt Robin there?”

“Are you okay? Robin’s been having tingles.”

“I’m fine. Well, I sprained my ankle, but there’s nothing new about that.”

“What happened? Or what is happening, because—okay, okay.” The last was fainter, as if he’d spoken to someone else. “Hang on. Your aunt is a grabby, greedy woman. I have to pass her the phone.” A second later a woman’s voice took over. “Arjenie? What’s wrong? And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because I know there’s something.”

“It’s complicated, but I’m getting things sorted out. Don’t worry.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“I can’t tell you anything else right now. Oh, but guess what? Part of the sorting out means that I was invited to stay with the Nokolai Rho.” At the door of her room she paused to shoot Benedict a glance gleaming with purpose and a hint of humor. The purpose he understood. She’d made sure her people knew where she was, just in case Isen started talking about bodies again. That was smart. The humor?

Maybe she didn’t really believe she needed to protect herself that way. Which was not so smart. She had no reason to trust him.

“You’re what?” her aunt exclaimed.

“Staying with their Rho for a few days. Reception’s spotty—you know that their clanhome is in the mountains, right?—plus my phone’s acting up. If you have trouble reaching me, don’t worry. I’ll check in with you every day.”

Another smart move. She’d made sure he knew her aunt would expect a call every day.

“Why are staying there?” Aunt Robin didn’t sound panicked, but she wasn’t comforted, either. “You don’t know this Rho, do you? Does this have anything to do with—”

“I really can’t talk about it,” Arjenie said firmly. “Did Serri and Sammy make it down for the weekend?”

Serri and Sammy were apparently in college, but came home regularly. Serri had a new boyfriend. Sammy had aced his calculus test, but was considering changing his major. After that, the conversation veered to a piece of equipment her uncle had acquired—a swage block. Benedict had heard the term, but couldn’t remember what it was.

While he listened, Benedict noticed Carl crossing the den and motioned to him. Arjenie needed food. She didn’t seem to notice Carl coming, leaving, then returning. She sat on the bed running that pick thing through her damp hair and chatting with her aunt for fifteen minutes, sounding as relaxed as if she were on vacation. “I’d better go,” she said finally. “Supper’s almost ready, I think. Blessed be.”

“All right, but don’t think I didn’t notice how little you’ve told me. All that silence is not reassuring. Blessed be, sweetie.”

Arjenie frowned as she disconnected. “She’ll worry. I can’t keep her from worrying, but at least she won’t get the cops to look for me.”

She certainly was keen on keeping the police out of her affairs. “Is your aunt a precog?”

“No, she’s a Finder, which shouldn’t give her the least hint of second sight, but she always knows when one of us is in trouble. She gets tingles.”

“Your uncle’s a blacksmith.” He’d finally remembered who used swage blocks.

“Uh-huh. He’s begun to get a name for his sculpture, too, but the blacksmithing is still his bread-and-butter work.”

“And your aunt’s a Wiccan.” As was she, most likely. She wore the Wiccan star on one hand.

“We all are. The whole family, I mean, going back forever on my uncle’s side. Though he isn’t my uncle by blood, so I can’t claim that heritage, but on my aunt’s side we’ve been Wiccan for at least five generations. It gets murky if you go back farther, because my great-great-great-grandmother was adopted after a flood killed her parents—the Great Flood in Galveston, have you heard of it? She was quite young when it happened and we don’t know much about her original parents, but we think they must have been Wiccan because her adoptive parents weren’t, yet she was, and that just never happened back then. Converting to Wicca, I mean. Is that a trail bar you’re holding?”