Blood Challenge

by Eileen Wilks

  “That’s a prisoner, not a guest.” She bent and pulled on her shoes.

  “We can’t hold you against your will.” He was bland now. “But if you leave, we will notify the police of your trespass onto our land.”

  Last night his Rho had said they could do anything they wanted with her, up to and including killing her. Or had it been all implication? She cast her mind back over that part of their conversation. The threat had been mostly implied, she decided. In fact, he’d been careful not to say anything that might get him in trouble if she repeated it to the police.

  Not that she would. Unfortunately, they’d figured that out. That hadn’t been hard, given how she’s reacted when Benedict mentioned calling the cops. Arjenie sighed and stood up. She’d pretty much handed that weapon to them. “That’s coercion. Where’s my cane?”

  The door opened. “Here.” He came in again and handed it to her. “Nettie says you should stay off the ankle as much as possible for another day. I could carry you.”

  “No, thank you.” He was standing awfully close. Could she really feel the heat from his body, or was that her imagination? “I’m glad you asked this time, though. Uh—where am I?”

  “The Rho’s home. We’ll be dining with him. You are a guest, but not one we trust, so I’ll be keeping track of you.”

  Her mind arrowed straight at one part of that statement. “You’ll be keeping track of me? Personally?”

  “Since your mind tricks don’t work on me, yes. They shouldn’t work on Seabourne, either, so he’ll take over when I need to sleep or have other duties.”

  “Why wouldn’t my Gift work on him?”

  “Shields. You know what he is. Why is that?”

  Because she’d read about him in the file. And she knew his wife. She’d sent Cynna a present for her baby shower last month, an adorable little receiving blanket with . . . oh. Oh, no. She was so stupid.

  Arjenie limped for the door. Her ankle was much better than she’d expected—tender, but not really painful. Another reason to thank Dr. Two Horses, no doubt.

  “The bathroom’s to the left. Seabourne scares you.”

  “Not exactly.” But boy, he did throw a spanner in the works. Or rather, his wife did. If he mentioned Arjenie’s name to Cynna, they’d know who she was. Then what?

  She needed to think. She paused when she reached the hall, looking around. Next to the door was a wooden chair. There was a flute on its seat. To the right the hall ended in a den—maybe the room she’d seen last night, from a different hall. She could see a couch and part of a window. On her left the hall continued about fifteen feet before ending in a closed door.

  She limped off to the left. “That was you playing the flute. I thought it was my uncle at first, though I didn’t recognize the song.”

  “You wouldn’t. I’ve never recorded it.”

  “You write music? You wrote that song?” She had to pause and smile at him. “It’s beautiful. How did you know I’d woken up?”

  “I heard you move.”

  “Really? Even over your music? Do you hear as well when you’re like this as you do when you’re wolf?”

  “I hear better as a wolf.”

  She tried to imagine what that was like. “Which do you like better, being a wolf or being a human?”

  “We don’t think of ourselves as human. One of my forms is a man. One is a wolf. I like both forms. Which do you like better, your right arm or your left?”

  “I’m right-handed, so my right arm is more useful, but I don’t like one best . . . oh. That’s what you mean. Both forms are you, and you don’t have a favorite. But maybe one is more useful.”

  “You might say I’m ambidextrous. You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I’m curious.” She’d reached the bathroom, but instead of going in, she turned to face him. “What’s your last name?”

  He didn’t answer. It wasn’t hesitation. That implies doubt, uncertainty, and his eyes stayed steady on hers. Such dark eyes, like bittersweet chocolate . . . and wasn’t that steadiness central to him? He knew how to wait, this man—on events, on understanding, on whatever might rise from inside. Nor did he seem to be seeking something from her. He just looked into her eyes, and the longer he looked, the faster her heart beat. Finally he spoke. “I’ve used more than one surname, but at birth I was called Benedict Charles Kayani.”

  Arjenie didn’t know why she was sure he’d offered her a secret, a glimpse of something private. She just knew. A little bud opened inside her, so soft and subtle she barely noticed. “It’s a growth plate injury.”

  Those dark eyes blinked once, overtaken by puzzlement.

  It made her grin. “Uncle Clay says I’m a firefly—here, there, here, then off somewhere else. Sometimes I forget the conversational breadcrumbs, so there’s no trail for others to follow. You keep asking about my physical impairment. It’s from a growth plate injury when I was twelve.”

  Understanding dawned. “One of your legs is shorter than the other. The left leg. It’s not greatly different, but enough to cause problems.”

  She nodded. “My left tibia didn’t grow as much as my right, and it grew crooked. I had a couple surgeries that corrected most of the crookedness, but it isn’t entirely straight, so that foot turns under me if I’m careless. I’ve had a lot of sprained ankles.”

  “How were you hurt?”

  “An auto accident. Drunk driver. My mom was killed.” Now why had she added that part? She never did. People felt obliged to say they were sorry, or they became uncomfortable, or—

  He touched her cheek. Just that, and just for a moment, then his hand dropped.

  That’s when she noticed the bud. It was singing, or humming . . . yes, a funny little humming feeling inside her, so new she didn’t have a word for it. It was not attraction, though heaven knew she was attracted to this man. But that was a known feeling. This—this newness, what was that? It didn’t make sense.

  She bit her lip in confusion and escaped into the bathroom.

  THE bathroom door closed. Benedict leaned against the wall, his eyes closing. His heart hammered against the wall of his chest.

  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, cap
able 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 w
et 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.