Blood Challenge

by Eileen Wilks

  Isen spoke formally. “I am pleased by your request and grant it gladly. As a token of Nokolai’s appreciation of Leidolf’s sacrifice and your clansman’s courage, Nokolai will pay the travel expenses of any who accept your invitation. Do you wish to extend the invitation yourself?”

  “I do. I thank you. You should know that I’ve already invited one Nokolai. I apologize for not consulting you first.”

  “I assume you mean Lily.”

  “Yes.”

  “She wouldn’t know she needed my permission—or care. You do know, but I choose not to find insult in this omission. There was a need?”

  “The manner of LeBron’s death affects her strongly.”

  “I see. Tell her—no, she won’t need to hear from her Rho. I would speak with my son.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Tell Lily there is a difference between pain and damage. Damage may heal eventually. Or not. Pain simply is.”

  It was an odd message. Dubious but willing, Rule agreed to pass it on and said goodbye. He needed to get back to Lily. He would take her some coffee, he decided. She’d probably fallen asleep again—he hoped so—but if not, she’d appreciate a cup of real coffee.

  He got himself a refill, too, and had them put both cups in a bag so he could keep one hand free. He could have asked Randy to carry it, of course, but what use was a bodyguard with his hands full?

  He was glad for the free hand a few moments later when he got a call from Stephen Andros, the Etorri Lu Nuncio. And again as he crossed to the building that held Lily’s room, when the Ybirra Lu Nuncio called. He’d just entered the stairwell—he needed to stretch his legs, and a trot up five flights would do that—when Edgar Whitman, Rho of Wythe clan, called.

  The calls from the Lu Nuncios hadn’t surprised him. They’d heard about the attack on Lily on the morning news—it had excited the talking heads—and those involved in the upcoming circle wanted to assure Rule they would wait until his Chosen was recovered enough for travel. They also wanted to extend their support. The Rhos of their clans would probably contact Isen to say much the same things their Lu Nuncios said to Rule. A Chosen was Lady-touched, like a Rhej. Like a Rhej, she was treasured by all clans.

  But Rule hadn’t expected to hear from a Rho. He was a Rho now himself, yes, but because Lily was Nokolai, he’d expected the other clans to treat with him in this instance according to his status in Nokolai—as heir. In truth, he’d rather talk to the Wythe Lu Nuncio than its Rho. He liked Brian, who laughed easily and was Rule’s closest age-mate among the heirs. Edgar was . . . difficult.

  Edgar expressed the usual wish for Lily’s healing, asked the usual questions. “I’m glad she’s doing well,” he said then. “Wythe stands ready to hunt for any who would harm a Chosen. Give us word if we may assist.”

  “Leidolf thanks you. Nokolai appreciates your concern and your offer.”

  Edgar snorted. “Not easy, wearing two hats, is it? I won’t keep you on the phone now, when your attention must be divided. But I need to know Nokolai won’t use this as an excuse to delay the heirs’ circle.”

  A flick of anger turned Rule’s voice cold. “I am trying not to find insult in your words. Nokolai has worked with Wythe in good conscience to arrange the circle.” In spite of considerable argument and insult, primarily from Wythe and Ybirra.

  Less than a year ago, Rule had called another heirs’ circle—for all heirs, not just those from North America—to inform the others in person that she was active in the world again. They had come from all over without any of this prolonged negotiation. The contrast between then and now was sharp and painful.

  Edgar snorted. “If I could trust Nokolai’s conscience to prevail over its ambition, we wouldn’t need to meet. Wythe has negotiated in good faith, too.”

  Wythe—in the person of its Rho, Edgar—had been a paranoid ass. At first Edgar had denied Rule’s authority to even call an heirs’ circle on the grounds that Rule was now a Rho.

  True, Rhos were usually not included in an heirs’ circle; it created imbalance. But Leidolf lacked an heir. Alex might hold the title of Lu Nuncio, but it was empty of its usual meaning. Alex wasn’t of the founder’s bloodline, so couldn’t receive the heir’s portion of the mantle. This was a precarious position for a clan, but hardly unprecedented. And precedent clearly allowed a Rho who lacked an heir to attend an heirs’ circle.

  The claim was particularly galling, coming from Wythe. They were in almost as precarious a position as Leidolf. Edgar’s younger brother, Brian, was his Lu Nuncio because Edgar’s only son had been killed in a Challenge three years ago. The only one other than Edgar and his brother who was certain to carry the founder’s blood was Brian’s son, who was barely out of diapers. If anything happened to Brian, Wythe would be in the position Leidolf was until the boy grew up.

  Rule said nothing. Silence was preferable to telling Edgar what he really thought. It also encouraged the other person speak to fill it.

  “Doubt me, do you, boy?” Edgar demanded. “You shouldn’t. I want the circle to take place, and am willing to alter our arrangements to avoid delay. Your Chosen shouldn’t be dragged to St. Paul now—indeed, she may not be well enough for such a trip for weeks. I am willing to allow the circle to be called in San Diego.”

  That was a concession. A large one. Rule answered slowly. “Leidolf does not object. As for Nokolai . . . I will have to speak with my Rho, of course, but I see no problem. Ybirra may.”

  “I’ll contact Manuel. I want to get this done. I think he does, too.”

  “Very well. I’ll speak with Etorri and Kyffin.” Kyffin clan was a dominant, but was temporarily subordinate to Nokolai, so obtaining their consent was a courtesy. A necessary courtesy, but still, Jasper couldn’t withhold his Lu Nuncio. As for Etorri, Rule doubted Stephen or his father would object. Etorri supported the call for the All-Clan. “Will you also call Szøs?”

  “I will. I’ll be in touch after I’ve spoken with Manuel and Andor. T’eius ven,” Edgar said abruptly.

  “T’eius ven, Edgar.”

  Rule disconnected, frowning. Edgar was not a subtle man—or didn’t seem so to someone who’d been raised by Isen Turner. But he was a Rho, and had been for over four decades. His actions often served more than one purpose.

  What benefit was there to Wythe in meeting quickly? Rule couldn’t find one, yet Edgar was eager enough for the circle to take place that he suggested a meeting place clearly to Wythe’s disadvantage. Was he less suspicious of Nokolai than Rule had thought? Or was that misdirection? What advantage could he be seeking that Rule couldn’t spot?

  Ten months ago, Isen Turner had called for an All-Clan. After centuries of absence, their most ancient enemy had begun stirring. The clans needed to meet, to exchange information, to make ready for whatever she planned.

  Discussion for the All-Clan had gone well, if slowly. Szøs and Etorri had agreed immediately; two of the European clans had agreed after some haggling. But when Rule became Leidolf Rho, suspicion dragged planning to a halt.

  Rule didn’t blame the other clans for wondering what he was up to. In their place he’d have been wary, too. The balance was upset, and he didn’t expect them to react otherwise. Yet the All-Clan had to take place. She might not have moved again since dragging him and Lily to Dis, but sooner or later, she would.

  In order to get the All-Clan, Nokolai had to reassure its fellow dominants in North America. To do this, Rule had called for a circle of heirs—in this case, the Lu Nuncios of the dominant clans of North America. Finding a meeting place that didn’t favor one over the others had been difficult. They’d finally agreed on St. Paul. That favored Wythe because it was closest geographically to their territory, but Wythe was the smallest of the U.S. dominants, so was less able to take violent advantage of such proximity.

  They were also the most annoying. Wythe and Ybirra were the two clans most opposed to the All-Clan, the two most suspicious of Nokolai. Ybirra had some reason; while on the whole the two cl
ans got along well, Ybirra was Nokolai’s nearest neighbor. Territorial skirmishes were inevitable from time to time, and Ybirra had the most to fear if Nokolai were up to something. Wythe’s intransigence was based more on habit and personality. Edgar simply did not trust Isen and never had.

  Now Edgar had contacted Rule directly. That made no sense. Rhos delegated much of the maneuvering to their heirs for a reason. When a Rho negotiated directly, the stakes were higher, the risk of insult greater. And a Rho almost always negotiated with other Rhos. The power was otherwise too uneven. While a Rho could not use his mantle to directly affect those of other clans, all lupi responded to the presence of a mantle. Not all in the same way, but all responded. Rule had once seen his father break up a fight between Kyffin youngsters with a single shouted command.

  Of course, Rule was now Rho as well as Lu Nuncio. Perhaps Edgar had decided that made it acceptable. More likely he used it as an excuse to take Rule by surprise . . . yet he called to propose abandoning St. Paul for San Diego, smack-dab in Nokolai territory. Either Edgar had decided to stop opposing the All-Clan, or Rule was missing something.

  And either way, he needed to call his father, but he’d reached Lily’s room. He’d check on her first. She was probably asleep, but if not, she’d want the coffee he’d brought.

  Her guards said no one had entered since he left. Rule nodded and pushed the door open. She was still awake, still sitting with the head of her bed elevated, still pallid with pain. Her eyes, when they met his, were dark with trouble.

  “I just spoke to Croft,” she said. “According to the healer, Ruben’s heart attack wasn’t natural. It was attempted murder, and for reasons of access and timing, Croft thinks it’s one of us. Someone in the FBI used magic to try to kill Ruben.”

  SEVENTEEN

  ARJENIE woke slowly to the sound of flute music. She didn’t know the song, but it was piercing and plaintive as only a flute can be. Uncle Ambrose played so beautifully . . .

  She ached all over. Arms, legs, back, shoulders—every part of her registered its own complaint, as if she had the flu. She knew what that meant. As for the dull ache in her head, even in her half-conscious state, she recognized that as a by-product of hunger, not Gift-abuse.

  For a bit she drifted with the music, wondering dimly what song that was and why Uncle Ambrose was here.

  Here? Where was here?

  Her eyes popped open. The aches and hunger were familiar. The room she’d woken up in was not.

  She lay on her back in a bed that wasn’t hers. There was a pillow beneath her head and a light bedspread covering her. The ceiling above her was white, but that wasn’t much of a clue.

  Arjenie squinted as she turned her head on the pillow. Without her glasses it was hard to be sure, but aside from blurry shapes she took to be furniture—a small table by her bed and a chair on the opposite wall—the room seemed empty. Also small. The walls were white, interrupted by one door and one window. The door was ajar, but not widely enough for her to see what lay beyond it.

  It was not her hotel room.

  It wouldn’t be, of course. Memory was seeping back . . . the water well, her ankle, Benedict Last-Name-Unknown. Isen Turner. Cullen Seabourne, who’d said—

  She sat up too fast. And winced at the stab of pain in her head.

  The flute music cut off. A moment later, the door swung open and a large shape—khaki-colored on top, denim-colored below—loomed in the doorway.

  Her hand shot out, scrambling on the table for what she hoped were her glasses. Yes! She shoved them on.

  Benedict was wearing jeans still, but he’d added a khaki shirt. He’d buttoned it, too, darn it. He wore an earbud which she guessed must connect to the cell phone clipped to his belt . . . which also held a knife sheath, complete with knife. Not a pocketknife—a big, long thing.

  No sword, though. “Do you ever have trouble with doorways?”

  He blinked. “Doorways?”

  “Not the standard ones. I can see that you fit through them. But I’m not sure your shoulders would fit through a narrower doorway. You might have to turn sideways.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t be as guileless as you seem.”

  “I’m pretty short on guile. That doesn’t mean I’m not a complex person, capable of great subtlety. Just not much guile. Am I a guest or a prisoner? And do you give prisoners or guests ibuprofen if their head hurts? Acetaminophen is okay, too, or even plain aspirin, but naproxen sodium doesn’t do much for me.”

  He turned and left the room.

  She blinked. Was that a yes or a no? Before she could decide, he was back, carrying a glass of water. He held it out. Automatically she took it.

  “Ibuprofen,” he said, extending his other hand, where two small brown pills rested. “Nettie thought you might want some.”

  “Nettie?”

  “Dr. Two Horses. She checked you out after you collapsed. Gave you a bit of a boost. She’s a healer.”

  Oh, yes, she’d seen a mention of Dr. Two Horses in the Nokolai files. Plus she’d heard of her elsewhere . . . something she’d read? No, from Uncle Nate. He wasn’t a healer, but he was a doctor and he took a good deal of interest in those few—very few—physicians who’d gone public about their healing Gift. He spoke very highly of Dr. Nettie Two Horses.

  Arjenie reached for the pill and noticed something. “My ring’s gone.”

  “It’s on the table where your glasses were.”

  Oh. She hadn’t seen it when she grabbed her glasses because she hadn’t seen very much then. Arjenie snatched the little ring and put it back where it belonged. “My mother gave it to me. I never take it off.”

  “My apologies. It had a power signature. Seabourne had to check it.”

  “It’s a perfectly harmless little spell to discourage mosquitoes.”

  “So he said.” Benedict held out the ibuprofen again.

  This time she accepted the pills, popped them in her mouth, and washed them down with the water.

  “More water?” Benedict asked politely.

  “No, thank you. I’m awfully hungry, though.”

  “Supper will be ready in an hour or so. Do you need a snack to tide you over?”

  “That would be lovely. How long was I out?”

  “About ten hours.”

  She smiled, pleased. That was much less than she’d expected. Maybe Aunt Robin hadn’t had time to get worried yet. “Dr. Two Horses must have given me a big boost. I’d like to thank her.”

  “She’s not here. She had another patient to tend. She said your ankle should be better in a couple days, and that your unconsciousness is a trance state similar to what she does when she puts a patient in sleep. Your version takes you deeper, which is why we couldn’t wake you.”

  “That’s a fair description.”

  “She didn’t understand the delay between the overuse of your Gift and the onset of unconsciousness. Neither did Seabourne.”

  “I don’t, either, but I’ve speculated. Maybe my body is waiting for me to do something to fix things. Replenish my power, maybe. Only I don’t know how to do that quickly enough to help. I’ve tried several methods, but aside from eating, nothing makes much difference, and it only delays things. Do you think Cullen Seabourne knows a way to absorb or access power quickly?” He was a sorcerer, after all.

  “Possibly.” His voice was dry. “He’s eager to talk to you. You can ask him.”

  She ducked her head, suddenly uncomfortable. Cullen Seabourne had seen in one glance what she’d spent her life hiding.

  A pair of jeans, neatly folded, sat on the foot of the bed. Her jeans. “Someone took off my jeans.” Her hand flew to her hair as she realized something else. “And took out my hair band.”

  “Both of them would be uncomfortable to sleep in. Or to pass out in. Seabourne says you’re sidhe.”

  Arjenie bit her lip. There didn’t seem much point in denying it. They wouldn’t believe her. “Part-sidhe. It’s a long story—at least, the only way I
know how to tell it is long. It would be nice to know what you plan to do about me.”

  He considered her silently. He had such an interesting face—hard, yes, with those bladed cheekbones, and his default expression seemed to be no expression at all, so he ought to look scary. He had at first, but she wasn’t frightened anymore. How odd, when so many things scared her! But Benedict didn’t. She felt as if she could just sit here and look at him for an hour or two.

  Or maybe not, she thought as her stomach gurgled unhappily. Her bladder didn’t care for the idea, either. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “It’s down the hall. I’ll have to escort you.”

  That sounded more like “prisoner” than “guest.” “Okaaaay . . . but it’s awkward to put on my jeans with you watching.”

  He nodded, turned, and walked out, closing the door behind him—not quite all the way. The not-quite-closed door had to be intentional. “You do that a lot, don’t you?” she said, reaching for her jeans.

  He sounded amused. “Watch women dress? Occasionally.”

  She huffed and threw back the covers. “Answer without using words. You don’t use a lot of words. Maybe that’s why you’re good at summaries. You summarize everything.” She looked down and saw her shoes lined up neatly by the bed. And her socks.

  She picked up the socks. They were clean, fluffy from the drier. Someone had washed them. She tilted her head, considering that. While she was unconscious she’d been tended by a doctor, put to bed in her underwear and shirt, and her socks had been washed.

  Having a doctor check her out, putting her in a comfy bed—those could be an attempt to win her trust so she’d tell them what they wanted to know. But washing her socks? That was nice. Just nice.

  She pulled them on and stuck her legs in her jeans. The elastic bandage got in the way; she had to tug the denim over it. “Me, I like to talk, and I don’t know how to ignore the details, because they’re interesting. You didn’t tell me what you plan to do about me.”

  “The Rho has decided you should stay here, as our guest, until you tell us why you’re here, or we find out through other means.”