by Eileen Wilks
“It’s been eighteen hours. It’s almost healed.” Fire enough bullets and even a slow, sense-dead human could hit something, but Benedict was still annoyed that he’d been clumsy enough to pick up a wound from a ricochet.
“Eighteen hours. Yes.”
Benedict neither tensed nor looked up. He sat on a large hassock with his back to the fireplace, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees. His palms were damp.
“I won’t tell you were derelict in your duty, waiting so long to report,” Isen said. “You already know that, and I understand why you delayed. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
He shook his head. “I won’t. Not yet. Not until . . .” He didn’t know how to end that sentence. What conditions could he place on this? It was out of his control. Entirely out of his control. “Not yet.”
“The Rhej has to know.”
“I hoped that you would tell her.”
Another pulse of silence. “I can do that. She’s sequestered with Cynna now, but I can go up there and wait. Sooner or later, she’ll be free to step outside and see what I want. You want this kept quiet.”
“I need time.” Benedict’s fists clenched. “I’ll tell Nettie. She deserves . . . I have to be the one to tell her. But no one else. It can’t be kept secret long, but a day, two days . . . I need time.”
“Where are you now?”
The simple question sent the past shuddering through him. It had been forty-two years since Isen had needed to ask him that: Where are you now? Back then, he’d answered many different ways: the abyss, her grave, the desert, I don’t know but it’s dark and the darkness has teeth . . .
Today he said, “A swamp. Quicksand, gators, mud, mosquitoes. I need . . .” He squeezed his closed fists tighter. “I need dry land, but I don’t know where it is.”
“Are you fit?”
The blunt question steadied him. “I’m functional, but not stable. I want to go to my cabin. A week, maybe two.”
“No.”
That brought Benedict’s head up, anger blazing through him.
Benedict’s father—who was also his Rho, leader of his clan—sat in his favorite wingback chair. Isen Turner was burly, bearded, and nine inches shorter than his oldest son. He looked to be in his fifties, though unusually fit for that age. He was ninety-one. His eyes were sad, but there was no give in his expression, none at all.
There never was when he gave an order. “Is my Rho speaking, then?”
“Yes, although your father and your Rho agree on this. As Rho, I need you here, even if you don’t have your head straight. Too much hinges on the heirs’ circle Rule has called.”
Benedict stared blankly. He’d forgotten the meeting of Lu Nuncios. How could he have forgotten something so critical?
“You’ve done all the setup for security already, but I can’t have you holed up in your cabin now. Given the current tension—”
“Because my brother decided to get married.” He kept his voice level. He wanted to spit.
Isen’s voice sharpened. “You know better. Some are upset about that, yes, but it’s the union—or what they fear is a union—of Leidolf and Nokolai that worries the other clans.”
Benedict took a deep breath and let it out, forcing his body to relax. Isen was right. Nokolai’s relationship with a couple of the clans had been troubled ever since the Leidolf mantle was forced on Rule. It could grow worse at any moment—especially if anyone realized the truth about those two blasted Leidolf Rule was having trained as guards. “My apologies. My reaction . . . that’s why I’m not fit. I’m not thinking clearly.”
“Clearly, you aren’t,” Isen said with a thread of humor that quickly evaporated. “What you don’t know because you’ve been hiding it is that a Leidolf lupus went crazy last night. He killed three people and injured several others before someone put a couple bullets in him.”
Benedict’s head jerked up. “Beast-lost?”
“No. He stayed two-footed.”
“That’s bad. You have a name?”
“Raymond Cobb.”
The small jolt of surprise landed him a few steps closer to normal. “Ray Cobb?”
“You know him?”
Benedict frowned. “Not really. He took second in the pole vaulting at the last All-Clan, though. Fifth in shot put. Competed in wrestling, too, but didn’t place. He’s got the strength, lacks the speed. Good control, though. I’d have sworn his control was good. He was attacked?”
“Apparently not, but Rule had very few details when he called. He’s headed to Tennessee now.”
“The circle—”
“Will proceed as planned on Monday, unless Rule finds the situation to be more than it appears right now.”
Benedict nodded slowly. Whatever had gone wrong with Cobb, the meeting was too important to delay. “Rule took guards with him?”
“Two of the Leidolf guards, yes. Lily’s with him, of course. She’ll be handling the investigation, such as it is. It sounds open and shut, from a legal standpoint. Plenty of witnesses, Rule said.”
“Is Cobb still alive, then?”
“He’s hurt, but not dead.”
Benedict considered consequences. “Is Rule going to announce himself to the press as Leidolf Rho?”
Leidolf clan had vehemently opposed the mainstreaming Isen promoted. The previous Leidolf Rho had forbidden any of his clan to live openly as lupi. Rule had lifted that ban, but hadn’t yet announced the existence of the clan to the press, or his position as Rho.
Isen chuckled. “I asked. He told me it was my son and heir who’d called me, not the Leidolf Rho, but if I wished to speak to the Rho he’d see if he could arrange it.”
Benedict’s eyebrows shot up. “And did you?”
“He gave me to understand that he hasn’t told Leidolf his plans yet, so he couldn’t tell me.”
Benedict supposed it didn’t matter greatly. Humans wouldn’t care that it was a Leidolf lupus, rather than a Nokolai, who’d killed. Their fear would encompass all lupi, and their fear was dangerous. Dealing with the human world was Rule’s job, and Isen’s, but threats from that world were his business. Keeping Clanhome and his Rho safe were his business. He couldn’t retreat to his cabin.
Isen said simply, “Ben.”
His father was the only one who called him Ben. No one else did, including his Rho. It was his father he’d hear from now. Benedict swallowed. “Yes.”
“That swamp you’re in—that’s the past. No one could blame you for bogging down in it now. How could you not? But you won’t find dry land holed up in your cabin away from everyone. Just more swamp.”
“I don’t understand how the Lady could do this,” Benedict burst out. “I don’t understand at all.”
“I don’t, either,” Isen said gently.
“It’s never happened twice to one lupus. Once is rare. Twice is . . .” Benedict shuddered. His father was right, as usual. He couldn’t run away from this. He had no choice but to stay and face it. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I haven’t been scared like this in so long. So long.”
“You don’t know anything about her other than her appearance?”
Benedict had given her physical description to Isen in his report: late twenties or early thirties. Five-seven, skinny, pale skin, glasses, wildly curly hair tied back in a ponytail. He didn’t know what color all that frantic hair might be, save that it was neither especially dark nor especially light. Wolf eyes saw well in the dark, but they didn’t pick up colors at night.
He knew how she smelled. He hadn’t tried to describe that, or its effect on him. He knew she’d been afraid the whole time—before she saw him, the moment she saw him, and while he walked beside her. She hadn’t let the fear interfere. “She knew what I was.”
“Did she?”
“From the moment she saw me.” Never mind what she’d said. The ghost of a smile touched Benedict’s lips. Nice doggie. “She didn’t freak about me staying with her. She tried to persuade me to
go, but she didn’t freak.”
Isen nodded. “That’s encouraging. And, as the proverb says, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ She enjoys sneaking around Friar’s property at night, which isn’t the act of one friendly to the man.”
Dryly, Benedict said, “I don’t think she was enjoying herself. Aside from the danger, which she seemed well aware of, she has a physical impediment of some sort. Hip, maybe knee, on her left side. I couldn’t tell.”
“You said she twisted her ankle.”
“There was something off in her gait before that. It’s slight, nothing obvious, but it’s there. I’d guess it’s something she’s used to. She wasn’t paying attention to that leg the way she would have if it were a recent problem.” She hadn’t been paying attention at all, which was why she’d ended up on her ass.
And then he hadn’t paid attention. He’d stumbled across the ward, attracting the guards, and had been forced to leave her to draw them away. “She’s got a Gift,” he said suddenly. “I don’t know what kind, but she knew about the ward. She knew exactly where it was.”
“Your brain’s starting to work again.”
Benedict grimaced. He should have thought of that earlier. He should have thought of it last night, at least by the time he circled back to follow her scent and make sure she’d gotten away.
But he hadn’t been thinking. Just feeling, feeling way too damned much. “A Gift’s not the only possibility. Could be she has something like that fairy dust Seabourne made for me.” The magical powder Seabourne had rubbed on Benedict’s pads made them tingle when he drew near a ward. That’s why he’d been at Friar’s last night—marking the wards the wolf way, with a few drops of urine, so his people could keep an eye on the man without tripping the wards.
“Could be. You’ll have to ask Cullen how likely it is someone other than him could stir up something like that.”
Cullen Seabourne was Nokolai . . . now. He’d been born Etorri, but had been kicked out of his clan years ago because he was also a sorcerer, which went against the way things were supposed to work. Lupi didn’t work magic. They were magic. They for damn sure weren’t sorcerers, able to see magic.
Cullen Seabourne was and did. He broke rules. That had been survival for him during his years as a lone wolf. If he’d accepted the usual way of things, he’d have killed himself—either in a straight-up suicide or by losing control in some devastating way that led to him being put down.
Lupi weren’t meant to live clanless.
Benedict respected the man, even liked him. But he didn’t want to see Seabourne now. He was too raw. One smart-ass remark and Benedict might go for his throat. “I will,” he said, rising. “But later. If I’m not going to go to my cabin, I need a workout.”
“I’m feeling some sympathy for Pete,” Isen said dryly as he stood. “Don’t bleed him too much.”
“I won’t damage my second.”
“I know that. You’re in control when you fight. That’s one reason you need to spar now—to reclaim control.”
Of course his father understood that. “I’ll bring Tommy in, too, I think. Or Sean. Sean’s coming along.” Two opponents of their skill would push him. He needed to be pushed, forced to shut off all this damn thinking.
“Ben.” Isen came to him and hugged him hard, then stepped back, still gripping Benedict’s arms. “You’re not coming unwound. I don’t know if you see that, but I do. You’re scared, you’re pissed, you’re shook up. For a bit you weren’t thinking straight. But you aren’t coming apart.”
Yet. Benedict swallowed the word, holding tight to the rope his father tossed him. Isen didn’t always speak the truth, but on this he would. And he knew what Benedict looked like when he came unwound.
“I won’t pretend I understand what you’re feeling. I don’t think anyone can who hasn’t been given what you were, or suffered the loss of that gift. But there’s one who might understand, and I have to tell him anyway. You might talk to your brother.”
Rule was Lu Nuncio to the clan, and so had to be informed. As intimate and personal as this felt, it was also a clan matter. “To Rule.”
Isen nodded.
“No.” His response was immediate and visceral. He took a moment to examine that response and found a solid wall of aversion . . . and behind that wall, feeling. A bloody tsunami of it. That tsunami would hit if he looked behind the wall.
Eventually, he would have to. He wasn’t ready. Would it be better or worse if, when the time came—when it could no longer be avoided—he talked to his brother? Benedict shook his head. “Not now. Maybe not at all, but I’ll consider it when I’m steadier.”
“Good enough. I won’t speak to Lily about this, and I’ll ask Rule not to, if that’s your wish. I don’t know if he’ll agree, but I’ll ask it on your behalf. You can’t keep this private for long.”
“No.” But he could claw free a day or two. A day or two when he didn’t have to deal with everyone bloody reacting to the news.
“Might be a good idea if Lily knew. She could probably find her for you.”
“I don’t want her found.” Benedict pulled away.
“Ben, you have to. You can’t leave her to—”
“No.” That had been his father talking, not his Rho, so he headed for the door. He didn’t slow down or look back, and he did not give a damn if that was unreasonable. His Rho told him to stay close instead of retreating to his cabin, so he would. His father wanted him to believe he’d be okay. He’d try.
But damned if he’d be reasonable.
Last night, for the second time in his life, he’d felt a mate bond snap into place. The Lady had chosen for him. Again.
As far as he was concerned, the Lady could damned well deliver her precious Chosen to him, if she was so bent on giving him one. If the only thing in his control was whether or not he hunted her down, he voted for not.
FIVE
AIRPLANE air stinks.
Even humans were aware of the problem, Rule thought, shifting to stretch his legs out better. They complained about staleness rather than stink, but they knew there was something wrong with the air. He’d read an article which identified one culprit: TCP, an organophosphate found in jet oil. When that oil leaked, TCP fumes entered the cabin because of the way cabin air was drawn off the engines. Airlines used top-notch filters, but air filters don’t stop fumes.
The overwhelmingly floral cologne of the woman two rows up was a worse irritant. Rule liked the scents of roses, gardenias, and lilies, but they did not play well together, especially when used at saturation level on a woman whose body chemistry turned them acrid. Rule wouldn’t mind the human fondness for perfumes so much if they’d been better at selecting fragrances that complemented their natural scent.
On the upside, the overwhelming fragrance did distract him somewhat from the fact that he was confined in a hollow metal cigar hurtling through the air under someone else’s control.
And that, Rule admitted as he resisted the urge to shift his legs again, was not the real problem. The real problem was that he could not get off.
His heartbeat picked up. He took a slow breath, focusing on the inhale for a count of five . . . hold briefly . . . and exhale for five. Two more rounds of controlled breathing and he was okay. Not great, but okay.
The important thing was to keep from giving off any silent cues that LeBron might pick up. It was easy not to look frightened. He was good at that. Keeping his emotions from telegraphing themselves in his scent and heartbeat was trickier, but possible. He didn’t want to contribute to his bodyguards’ unease on the four hour-plus flight.
LeBron, one row up and on the other side of the aisle, seemed to be coping well with their airborne imprisonment. Rule couldn’t tell about Jeff, who was back in economy. But Jeff claimed to be less affected than most by the claustrophobia common to lupi.
Rule wished he could say the same for himself. Jeff was in the economy section because there had only been four seats available in first class
—one for LeBron, who was senior; one for Lily; and two for Rule. On long flights, he needed one of the seats next to him empty. It kept him from pacing the aisle. Much. Fortunately, they’d been able to get three of those seats together, so he had Lily on one side and an empty seat on the other.
Flying didn’t bother Lily. Not at all. She worked or she talked or she napped, entirely at ease. The last time they flew across the country—which was, unfortunately, quite recent—he’d asked why the loss of control didn’t trouble her.
“I don’t have control over all the drivers I encounter when I’m driving,” she’d said, “but that doesn’t keep me off the road. And statistics show I’m a lot safer on a plane than surrounded by the idiots on I-5.”
Wonderfully logical, and no help to him. It wasn’t the dangers of flying that got to him. It was being locked up.
He hadn’t asked how she dealt with that. Intellectually he accepted that humans didn’t respond to entrapment the way he did. Deep down, though, he worried that if he drew her attention to the fact that they could not leave, she’d start noticing it, too, and lose her easy acceptance. She was . . .
Studying him, he found when he glanced at her.
His eyebrows lifted. “Do I have mayonnaise on my chin?”
“I was just wondering what it would be like to miss you.”
He kept his face straight. “I didn’t realize you were angry with me.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m pretty sure you know it isn’t what I mean. I’m not upset by the m—”
He cleared his throat before she could use the words, jerking his chin at the seats in front of them. Mate bonds were exceedingly rare. They were also a tightly kept secret, not to be spoken of where out-clan might hear.
“Right,” she said. “Anyway, I’m not upset about that anymore. Frustrated sometimes, but not upset. But most couples know what it feels like when the other one’s away on a trip or something.”
“Hmm.” Crossing the country hadn’t been on Lily’s to-do list today. She’d had to tie a few quick knots in some of the loose ends on her open cases, which was a frustration for her. “I don’t think I’d like missing you.”