Blood Challenge (36 page)

And saw joy. Stark, bone-deep, glowing like the heart of the sun.

He reached up, cupped her face. “You will live a long time.” There was wonder in his voice.

She nodded. “Most low sidhe live to a hundred, easy. A few live several centuries like the elves do, but they’re the ones who heal really quick, which I don’t. But I do heal faster than straight humans, so …” Suddenly she understood. Wonder seeped into her own voice as she said, “You love me. It isn’t just the mate bond. You love
me
.”

“So much.” He smoothed her hair back. “So very much.”

FORTY-TWO

IT
was a whippy wind, a darting, daring, sand-in-the-face wind. Perhaps, Isen thought as he listened to it slapping at the car, the wind was annoyed with them for intruding on the empty places it frequented. Or perhaps it was delighted to find a new target for its mischief.

All personification aside, the wind was one more factor to consider when he fought for his life tonight … and, if he could manage it, fought to spare the life of the foolish, whippy young wolf he would face.

He had no desire to kill Javier. He had even less desire to be killed. Pity the odds were against him achieving both desires … or even just the last one.

Sixty-forty. That’s where he put his chances. Though if his hunch was right, the odds would change drastically … but one couldn’t count on an enemy to take the bait, however temptingly it might be offered. So if he were betting on the outcome tonight, he’d give himself a forty percent chance of seeing the dawn.

He suspected his sons put his chances somewhat lower, though they’d done their best to hold their fear hidden. They were good at concealing fear. They’d learned well.

Fine lupi, both of them. Exceptionally fine. Isen took a moment to enjoy the pride and humility of having such sons. He knew they’d survive and do well tonight. He didn’t worry. Oh, he gave lip service to the idea that they could die, but he didn’t believe it. Years ago, he had understood that sanity lay in a single, committed point of irrationality. Nature, circumstance, and duty would put his sons in danger at times—at times through his own orders. In order to do what he must, he had to believe they would live. And so he did. Mostly. Determinedly.

He didn’t want to bring them grief tonight, but every son lost his father someday. Either the father died, as his had, or the son did. As three of his father’s had. As one of his own sons had as well, defying Isen’s deliberate, irrational certainty.

Mick had always been one to defy his father’s expectations.

Strange. It was that lost son, the one he’d failed so thoroughly, who rode with him through the darkness now. Maybe because the dead drew closer when one faced death. Maybe because a tangled love bound more tightly, and the love between him and Mick had certainly been tangled. Maybe simply because regrets always hitched a ride when one traveled to death.

Not that he intended to die. How morbid he was! Isen chuckled at himself, earning a quick glance from Jason, one of his two living companions on this ride. He smiled and shook his head, letting the boy know he didn’t wish for conversation.

Would Jason tell the clan that their Rho had gone to the Challenge in high good humor, chuckling at the prospect? Probably. That wouldn’t hurt.

Isen had the reputation of being an excellent fighter when he was younger. This was part training and skill, part calculation. He’d needed that reputation, so he’d chosen his fights carefully, just as he’d chosen the events he participated in at All-Clans. His father had been a hundred and thirty when he was born—such a late-come babe he’d been! But much cherished, and desperately needed.

His father had lost three sons by then. A bullet took one. Another was killed in Challenge. The third, they had always believed, fell to a Leidolf assassin, though there was no proof. Isen had grown up knowing he would have his father for only a short time, and that he’d be taking up the mantle while still young.

Those youthful battles were long ago, but his strengths remained the same. He was an exceptionally fast healer, a quality enhanced by the mantle. He could take a lot of damage and keep fighting. He possessed both strength and endurance—not as much as he once had, true, but above average. And he fought best as wolf.

This was not as common as it might be. Young lupi fought and trained in wolf-form, certainly, but they either fought instinctively, or they were defeated. A wolf’s instincts for battle were excellent, and if the man attempted to control the wolf instead of relying on him, it interfered with his reactions. But there were useful moves that wolves did not instinctively use, and lupi who fought purely on instinct missed opportunities to use them. This was where age aided Isen. It took many years and a great deal of training to seamlessly blend the two natures in a battle, combining a wolf’s instincts with a man’s canniness.

Isen had only one real weakness. He lacked speed. He always had.

That, alas, had only become truer with age. No matter how clever and canny the fighter, if he was too much slower than his opponent, he would get bloodied. Look at how well Seabourne had done against Benedict today. Benedict was twenty times the fighter Seabourne was—but Seabourne was ungodly fast, and smart enough to rely wholly on his speed. From what Isen had been told, Seabourne had done his damnedest not to close with Benedict.

And still the super-quick Seabourne had ended up concussed. It was a cheering thought.

Not that Isen was in the same league as Benedict. No one was. His oldest son had it all—speed, agility, strength, healing, training, instinct, control, guts. Isen doubted there had been such a fighter in a thousand years. That was sheer speculation, of course, as there was no way to pit Benedict against, say, Armand, who had been legendary among the clans in the sixteenth century.

But it was good to remember that speed didn’t always win. And Javier, thankfully, was no Benedict.

Just young. And fast. And probably lacking Isen’s desire to spare his opponent’s life.

Ah, well. Too much thinking, according to his wolf. Isen smiled and settled himself to wait, but underneath, his wolf was excited and eager. It had been a long time.

“THE
wind’s chilly,” Benedict said, tucking Arjenie’s jacket closer around her. “Are you sure you’re warm enough?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’d better get those kneepads on you, then.”

“I can do that.”

“I’d be pleased if you allowed me to do this for you.”

Her smile flickered like a lightbulb with a poor connection. “That’s not exactly asking, but you’re doing much better. All right.” She handed him the kneepads.

They were in the state lands that butted up against Friar’s land—and one corner of Clanhome. That afternoon, Cynna had gone back out to try and Find Brian again, searching close to the underground node. She’d failed in that, but reported that she also couldn’t Find the node. Three possible reasons for that, she’d said. One, it could have closed. That was rare, but possible. Two, she might not be strong enough. Dirt and stone usually didn’t block her Gift, but large amounts of quartz could. Three, the node could be warded in some way she’d never encountered before.

Given the sophistication of the wards around Friar’s property, they were betting on door number three. They were also betting that Brian was being held near the node. The plan was to go in, find him and Dya, subdue whatever militia-types were guarding Brian—and Friar, too, if he was there—and get Brian and Dya out through the tunnel to Friar’s house. Preferably they’d accomplish this before midnight, which was as long as Lily had been willing to wait before she came looking for them. Assuming Cynna Found the tunnel’s entrance by then, that is.

Who knows? It might even work out that way.

The tumble of rock on their immediate right hid a crevice that opened onto a tunnel connected to the cave system. Benedict had sent José in earlier to check out the first part of their descent. It would be steep, twisty, and tight.

Most of them would Change and descend on four feet, except for Sammy and Arjenie. Sammy was the slightest of them. He’d remain two-footed so he could carry their weapons and a pack with some of their clothes. And Arjenie, of course, had to remain two-footed. She’d have a backpack, too, but would have to crawl in places.

Thus the kneepads. They’d found a pair of gloves for her, too.

Benedict knelt and wrapped a pad around Arjenie’s left knee. She bent and whispered, “I’m kind of worried about Lucas. It seems like you gave him an awfully big incentive to not believe you.”

Benedict tightened the pad, checked to make sure it was secure, looked up, and smiled. He whispered back, “He can hear us.”

“Oh.” She flushed and looked over at the tall, quiet man standing beside Rule—who was looking at her now, one eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize … but since I’ve already got my foot in my mouth, I might as well explain.”

“No need,” Lucas said pleasantly. “I realize humans have different standards.”

“Did you just insult me back? If so, I probably deserved it.”

Benedict fastened the second kneepad in place and stood. “You’re afraid Lucas or his father will prefer keeping the apartment building to publicly acknowledging that Nokolai has been blameless, and that the clans are in danger from
her
.”

“Um … yes.”

Lucas’s presence was Isen’s idea. He was a superb fighter, coolheaded and experienced, and so made a valuable addition to their team. But the main reason Isen wanted him along was to bear witness to the other clans. To obtain his Rho’s consent to this, Isen had applied what Rule called blunt force bribery: he’d given the other clan Rule’s apartment building. Temporarily.

It would serve as a monetary hostage. A very large monetary hostage. Benedict didn’t know what the building was worth—that was Rule’s department—but he’d heard Rule assure Andor that Nokolai’s equity exceeded ten million. If anything happened to Lucas, that equity belonged to Szøs. If Lucas lived but still didn’t believe Nokolai was right about
her
, that equity belonged to Szøs. Only if what Lucas saw tonight convinced him that Nokolai was right would his Rho sell the building back to Isen for a token amount.

“If this were a business deal,” Rule said, exchanging a smile with Lucas, “I’d be suitably wary. In such a case I’d expect Andor and Lucas to take any advantage they could of Nokolai—short of outright lying, that is. That would be discourteous. But this isn’t business. It’s a matter of honor.”

Arjenie nodded seriously. “In many tribal societies, honor is more important than wealth. A Cherokee brave’s status wasn’t dependent on what he owned, for example, because he didn’t own anything. Family property all belonged to the wife. Then there’s the potlach, which is …”

Benedict stopped listening as he bent and pulled off his shoes, then stuffed them in the backpack Arjenie would carry. The lecture on tribal customs was her way of coping with nerves. Facts comforted her, and she was very nervous. Benedict pulled his T-shirt off and wished fiercely and futilely she wasn’t here. Wasn’t going to be part of this. It was too dangerous, and she was no warrior. But the mate bond meant that where he went, she had to go. And reason and the dictates of the mission said she would be extremely useful, given her Gift.

To hell with the mission.
That’s what he’d wanted to say earlier when they were planning this. He hadn’t.

Her voice drifted off in the middle of something about Australian Aborigines. A frown creased her brows. “I guess it’s time.”

“Yes.” As his hands went to the snap on his jeans, Rule and Lucas began stripping. Arjenie hadn’t batted an eye earlier when the others stripped before Changing. Her coven, she said, conducted many rituals sky-clad. Group nudity didn’t unsettle her the way it did most humans. Benedict removed his jeans and rolled them up. They’d travel in Arjenie’s backpack.

He paused and looked at her. For a moment he just looked. She’d braided her hair to keep it out of the way, rendering it temporarily more orderly than he’d ever seen it. Her eyes were large and worried. She smelled like heaven and home and he wanted badly to say something, to give her something to take down into the dark.

He touched her cheek. “You’ll be careful.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to say to you. Benedict …” She laid her hand over his. “You didn’t want me along, but I need to do this. I can help. I know it.”

“Yes.” He accepted that. Hated it, but accepted it, just as he accepted his fear for her. He wished he knew what to say … oh. Of course. He smiled. “I love you,” he told her, and smiled, and dropped his hand. And Changed.

A
frisky breeze blew in the open windows of Lily’s government Ford. They were parked about a mile from Friar’s house. Waiting.

Cullen was behind the wheel with Cynna in the front seat beside him. Lily didn’t think she’d ever ridden in her own backseat before, and she didn’t like it. She’d wanted to drive, but had succumbed to reason. The guy with two working arms and no baby in the tummy should do the steering and braking.

Waiting sucked.

They’d settled on ten o’clock—the onset of the Challenge—as the best time for Lily to present Friar with the warrant. Rule would fit his party’s efforts into that timeline, if he could. They wanted Friar as distracted as possible during the retrieval.

As soon as they’d parked, Cullen had started fidgeting like a three-year-old. Cynna had dug a crossword puzzle magazine out of her purse. He’d been working it ever since. In the dark.

Lily couldn’t do that, dammit, or much of anything else. If this had been a stakeout, at least she’d have had a focus. But someone else had that duty—one of Benedict’s guards. She’d checked with him when she arrived. Friar hadn’t left his house since he returned late yesterday afternoon.

Robert Friar lived at the end of a short gravel lane off a narrow county road. There was a gate and a sign warning people that the lane was private, but according to Benedict, the gate was usually left open. It was open tonight. She’d had Cullen drive by so she could check before parking on the shoulder of the county road to wait.

Waiting gave her way too much time to think.

She was afraid for Rule. It rode in her gut, that fear, like a ball of maggots. Every now and then one of those maggots wormed its way up to her brain and she started thinking about all the things that could go wrong … about Rule trapped beneath the earth and how he hated small, tight spaces, and how shaky this whole plan was when they knew so damn little …

Shut up
, she told herself, and stuffed those maggot-thoughts back down. “Are you napping?” she asked Cynna.