Blood Challenge

by Eileen Wilks

  “I’m here,” he said from behind her. And then, even more tersely: “Isen.”

  Isen Turner’s gaze flicked up to meet his son’s eyes—then locked on as if magnetized. One heartbeat, two, three . . .

  A knock on the door interrupted their staring contest.

  “Come in,” the Rho said.

  The door on Arjenie’s left opened. Automatically she looked to see who was here—and did some staring of her own.

  She’d seen a lot of bare male chests tonight, a lot of hunky men wearing not much, and a few wearing nothing at all. But this man . . . oh, my. His spicy brown hair was shaggy and disheveled. He needed a shave. He was scowling. He was oh-my-God beautiful.

  “Sorry it took me so long,” the beautiful man said, not sounding apologetic at all. “I wasn’t home, so I didn’t get word right away. What do you need?”

  “What do you see?” Isen Turner said, and gestured at Arjenie.

  Blue eyes locked on her like twin lasers.

  This had to be Cullen Seabourne—who was a lupus and also a sorcerer. Which meant he could see . . .

  “I don’t recognize the Gift,” he said after a moment, “but I recognize the heritage. Elf. Not pureblood, maybe not even half, but she’s part-sidhe.”

  Dizziness swung through Arjenie, not in a slow tide but fast. Oscillating. Picking up speed with each swing.

  “Uh-oh,” she said. And passed out.

  SIXTEEN

  THE orthopedic surgeon was a string bean—an inch taller than Rule and at least forty pounds lighter. His brown hair was thinning on top; his eyes were that peculiar pale blue that almost vanishes next to the black of the pupils. His lips were thin and so pale that, like his irises, they nearly disappeared. He reeked of disinfectant soap with a faint undertone of tobacco. His name was Robert Stanton.

  Rule disliked the man, but he was a top-flight surgeon in his field, according to Nettie, and that was what mattered.

  “. . . recovering well from the surgery,” Stanton was saying, “but I cannot say precisely when you can be released. Certainly not until after the skin graft, and I have explained why the wound must be left open for a few days. Dr. Cummings will perform that procedure. Has he been by to speak with you?”

  The back of Lily’s hospital bed was elevated so she could sit up. She looked weary and hurt and pale and pissed. “Yeah. Gold-rimmed glasses, dark skin, deep voice. Talks slow.”

  The plastic surgeon had made his rounds early, arriving before seven this morning, about the same time that Rule received a call from his father. Rule hadn’t passed on the details of that call to Lily yet. First the nurse had come in with her pain medication—which Lily had only taken half of—then her surgeon had arrived.

  “Er—yes,” Stanton said, “that is Dr. Cummings. You can have every confidence in him. Now, before I go I need to speak with you about your prognosis. I must caution you that it is unlikely you will regain full function of the arm.”

  Lily’s head jerked back. Her eyebrows snapped down. “Why not? You said the surgery went well.”

  “It did. Barring infection, I expect the bone to knit sufficiently for limited use in six to eight weeks. It doesn’t fully harden in that time, you understand. However, you lost muscle, and there was nerve damage. I do not believe the nerve damage was so extensive that you won’t see any regeneration, but such regeneration is a slow process and the extent is difficult to predict.”

  “Give me a ballpark figure. Eighty percent of normal? Sixty? Ninety?”

  “There is no ‘ballpark’ for these sorts of injuries. You should regain the use of the arm. If you are disciplined with your therapy, you may regain much of its function, but it will likely always be weaker than it was. I cannot say how much weaker. The difference may be acute. It may be negligible. Most likely, it will fall somewhere between those extremes.”

  “Dr. Two Horses is flying in to begin treatment,” Rule said. “That will make a difference.”

  “The healer.” His thin lips tightened with distaste. “Her assistance may be beneficial for the soft tissue damage. There is substantial evidence that intervention by a Gifted healer can speed recovery, but I am aware of no studies showing that such intervention results in greater nerve regeneration than would occur naturally. However, it is unlikely that Dr. Two Horses’s treatments would cause any harm, so I have no objection.”

  “What a relief,” Lily muttered. “You can go away now.”

  Stanton frowned. “Have you spoken with someone from Physical Therapy? We have an excellent facility here, with—”

  “I live in San Diego, so I’ll be disciplined with my therapy there.”

  The surgeon should have remembered that Lily wasn’t local, but he didn’t really see her—he saw a medical condition. No doubt he often found the humanity of his patients inconvenient. Primly he said, “I am not acquainted with San Diego’s therapeutic facilities.”

  “Dr. Two Horses is.” Rule moved forward to usher the man out. “She’ll be in touch with you when she arrives, I’m sure. Thank you for your skill and your time, Doctor.” And now, as Lily said, go away.

  Stanton’s head moved about a centimeter in a nod. “Good day, then.”

  “He doesn’t approve of Nettie, does he?” Lily said once Rule closed the door behind the surgeon. “Hard to have much confidence in him when he’s an idiot.”

  “I suspect he doesn’t approve of anything outside his own skill set, and he’s suspicious of anything not connected to him in some way. Like San Diego.” Rule took a moment before he turned to face her, schooling his expression. At least he didn’t have to worry about her smelling his fear. “He’s not convinced we have any therapists, much less decent facilities for them to use.”

  Lily’s smile was brief and abstracted. Her eyes were shadowed; her gaze distant. Her arm . . . her poor arm. It was supported by a sling, a padded contraption with straps. They couldn’t cast it, not with unhealed wounds.

  Lily had “an open, comminuted diaphyseal fracture of the humerus.” Translated, that meant multiple breaks in the shaft of the bone combined with an open wound—the messy exit the bullet had made as it blew out the front of her biceps. Because bone has a poorer blood supply than the soft tissue around it, infection was a worry. Less blood meant fewer immune cells delivered to the wound site. That’s why they wouldn’t do the skin graft over the exit wound yet. They wanted to be sure there was no infection before closing things up.

  People kept saying she was lucky. There was no significant vascular damage, no joint damage, and the surgeon had been able to use internal fixation—in other words, he’d nailed the bone back together inside her arm instead of using an external rod with pins or screws that impaled skin and bone alike to hold the pieces together. And yes, Rule supposed that was luck of a sort.

  But now the surgeon said she wouldn’t regain full function. The horror of permanent, unhealed damage . . . Rule couldn’t get his mind around that. It was something he’d never face. If a lupus didn’t die from a wound, he healed completely.

  And there was nothing, not one damned thing, he could do about it. She was human, and he . . . he was useless. “Nettie will help the healing more than the good doctor realizes. The mate bond will make a difference, too.”

  His words had no impact on her abstracted expression. “You’ve suggested that before—that the mate bond may be giving a boost to my immune system.”

  “It helps with healing, period. We don’t know how much, but it will help.” If only he could will the bond to steal some of his healing and give it to her! “Are you ready for your other pain pill?” She’d taken one; the other was still in its little paper cup.

  “Not yet.” Her gaze tightened, focusing on him. “You need to go get some rest. Crash at the hotel awhile. You didn’t sleep much.”

  He hadn’t slept at all. How could he? “I’m fine. I’m not leaving.”

  “At least go get some breakfast. The chips you got from a vending machine when I was eating my
yummy broth won’t carry you.”

  He smiled. “Soon. Not yet.”

  Her mouth tipped wryly. She held out her hand. Her left hand.

  He moved close and wrapped his hand around hers. For a few moments neither of them spoke.

  Rule noticed the sorrow first . . . a deep, gray sorrow, like being wrapped in rain clouds that held no lightning or thunder. Only grief, gray and formless. Grief for Lily’s hurt. Grief for a tall man with café au lait skin and a smile that would not be seen again on this earth.

  After a moment he also noticed that he was hungry. Too hungry, considering where he was. He gave in. “You’re right. I need to eat. Would you object to having Jeff in your room while I’m gone?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze sharpened. “Don’t tell me he’s here.”

  “Of course he’s here. He’s guarding your door. Alex is sending more guards, but until they arrive—”

  “Wait, wait. I don’t want guards.”

  His hand tightened on hers. “You’ll have them whether you want them or not. Someone wants to kill you. They damned near succeeded.”

  “They killed LeBron. They killed him instead of me. I hate it. I hate it. I won’t have guards.”

  All sorts of things rose up in Rule’s mind—orders, reasons, arguments . . . words. All sorts of words that would explain and persuade. The words wanted to burst out, wrap themselves around her, protect her.

  His wolf wouldn’t let them. Wait, the wolf commanded, looking through the man’s eyes at the woman he loved beyond words or reasons. He saw such grief in her face, such pain. Saw, too, that she was fighting that pain. His words wouldn’t help. They would only give her more to fight against.

  He waited.

  The breath she drew broke in the middle. “I resented them. LeBron and Jeff and all the rest. Not them personally, but I resented them always being around. I thought I was being so reasonable by bringing him with me on my run. I was following the rules, wasn’t I? I didn’t want him there, but because I was so damned reasonable I let him tag along. And he died. I didn’t have to go running, but I did, and he died. He died saving me.”

  Ah . . . Rule wanted to gather her close and croon to her. She hadn’t grown up, as he had, knowing that others would die to protect him. Or because he sent them to fight the clan’s enemies. Or because he simply made a mistake. She didn’t know how to accept that, how to honor such choices. She was the one who defended others. How could she allow others to risk themselves for her?

  Lily’s childhood had broken apart when she and a friend were taken by a twisted man—or a thing that walked and looked like a man. Her friend hadn’t survived. Lily had, and she’d knit those broken pieces back together by growing into a warrior, one who fought for others, for justice. Most of all, one who fought the monsters in whatever form they took.

  Time, now, for words, but carefully. Carefully. “LeBron couldn’t stop the monster who wanted you dead. There wasn’t time. The best he could do was to deny that monster his target. He succeeded. Will you deny him the honor of his victory?”

  “It isn’t . . . I don’t . . .” She stopped. Swallowed. “I need to do something,” she whispered. “I don’t know what, but I need to do something.”

  He nodded. “There will be a ceremony. You’ve been to our funerals before, but when a warrior falls in defense of his people—”

  “I’m not his people. I’m not Leidolf.”

  “You are a Chosen, touched by the Lady. His Rho’s Chosen. In defending you, he defended his Rho and all his people. You don’t have to agree, Lily, simply accept that this is how we see it. How LeBron saw it.”

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  “LeBron’s death rites will be different from those you’ve seen. The firnam may be physically difficult for you. It may also be hard on you emotionally. We will celebrate him as a warrior who died a warrior’s death. But if you are willing, there is a place for you in this ceremony.”

  Lily was silent for a long moment, then sighed, slow and deep. “Yes. I want to be part of it. They aren’t going to let me out of here real soon, though.”

  “Soon enough.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’ll let Alex know. He’s making the arrangements.” He needed to tell her what had happened at Nokolai Clanhome last night. She still didn’t know that Benedict had been gifted with a Chosen, much less that the woman had snuck into Clanhome for some unknown purpose involving unknown potions. But not now. She was exhausted, dragged down by grief and more than one kind of pain. “I know you dislike being doped up, but I think you—”

  His stomach growled.

  Her laugh was weak, a little breathless, but real. “I’ll take my drug now. And you’ll go eat.”

  “I believe I will,” he said wryly. “I’ll ask Jeff to remain on the other side of your door, not inside the room.”

  She gave him a level look. “I can live with that for now. We’re going to talk about this business of guards again.”

  “I can live with that.” He carried her hand to his lips for another kiss. “For now.”

  RULE left as soon as Lily downed her pain pill. He spoke with Jeff first. The youngster was barely trained, and he wanted to be sure Jeff didn’t allow anyone in the room other than medical personnel he’d already seen and smelled. Unless the police came again, of course. Which they undoubtedly would, and probably sooner rather than later. Jeff couldn’t ban them, but he could summon Rule, and he could go into the room with them.

  Rule also told Jeff that Lily would participate in the firnam . Jeff nodded solemnly. “Good. That’s good. She’ll be the wounded? Though with so few reliquae—” He stopped, blinking. “I shouldn’t assume.”

  “True, but you may always assume I honor those who serve. LeBron won’t be slighted. I will serve as reliquae also, and I’ll bring all of my Leidolf guards here for the firnam.”

  Jeff’s eyes widened. “You will? The guys will be glad to hear that. I knew the clan’s coffers were low, so I didn’t think they’d be able to, but—now, don’t take this wrong. Me and the guys will be honored to have you serve with us, but some of the older clan . . . well, they’re used to doing things a certain way.”

  Leidolf’s style of firnam set the Rho apart, rather than having him serve as reliquae alongside the other witnesses. “Tradition is important. I’m returning Leidolf to some of the older traditions. It will be at least a week and probably longer before we can hold the ceremony.”

  “That’s not a problem. Uh . . . I talked to Samuel earlier to see how he was holding up. He said you called and told him about his father yourself. I guess you called both of LeBron’s sons, and their granddad, too.”

  “Of course.” Such a duty could not be delegated.

  “You called them while Lily was in surgery. You told Samuel that she’d lived to be operated on because of his father’s courage.”

  Rule nodded, unsure of Jeff’s point. Did he need reassurance that Rule could be a proper Rho to Leidolf?

  Jeff sighed. “I miss LeBron. It was a good death, but I miss him something fierce. I wish I knew who to kill.”

  “So do I,” Rule said. “Though we may not be able to . . . ah.” Relief dawned as he saw who was coming down the hall. “The others have arrived.”

  Alex had sent five guards. Two replaced Jeff at Lily’s door; one went with Rule to the Courtyard Café. The other two, along with Jeff, would have the night shift, though one would run an errand first. Rule needed his laptop.

  Rule hadn’t originally intended to go to the café, which was in another building, but with additional guards around Lily, he decided he could take a little more time. The café offered freshly cooked food and real coffee. Starbucks might not be his first choice, but they brewed real coffee.

  Rule ordered three eggs over easy with hash browns, a double side of bacon, and biscuits. His guard—Randy Carlson, a bulky young man with sun-streaked brown hair and a mustache—had already eaten, as per instructions. Rule had made sure that any lupi
he brought into the hospital were well fed. Randy took up position at a nearby table where he could sip coffee and watch.

  Once Rule finished eating, he slipped on an earbud and made some calls. The first went to Alex, who needed to know Lily’s status and that she would participate in the vitae reliquus . Next was his father, who also needed to know about Lily. It was very early in San Diego, but Isen slept even less than Rule did. Rule expected him to be up, and he was.

  They talked about Lily first and the surgeon’s unwelcome expectations. Briefly then they touched on Clanhome’s odd late-night visitor. She was still unconscious, just as she’d predicted. That was a curious business, but after asking a few questions he hadn’t had time for earlier, Rule left the matter in Isen’s and Benedict’s hands. There was clan business to deal with.

  He spoke with formal courtesy. “The Leidolf Rho wishes to speak with the Nokolai Rho.”

  “The Nokolai Rho greets the Leidolf Rho, and offers condolences on the loss of your clansman.”

  “Thank you. I’ve a request to make. I hope you will grant permission to those Nokolai guards who served with my clansman to attend the firnam, if they so wish, that they may act as reliquae.”

  “Ah.” Silence for a moment. Rule knew Isen was thinking quickly, considering angles. Having more than one clan serve as reliquae was unusual, but not unheard of—save between Nokolai and Leidolf. Reliquae—a term also used by the Catholic Church, though in a different context—meant those who were left behind. They were drawn from those who had served in combat with the fallen warrior. Guarding a Rho was considered a combat position; all those who had served as guards with LeBron were eligible to act as reliquae.

  At one time, every clan had observed the same death rites for its warriors. Some clans still followed the old custom in which a Rho served as simply another reliquae for any who fell in his service. That was Nokolai’s practice, for in death all who serve the clan and the Lady are equal. Some clans—such as Leidolf—elevated the Rho’s role in the reliquus . Rule disliked that practice heartily.