Blood Challenge

by Eileen Wilks

  “Carl is a gifted man.” Isen accepted the bread basket from Benedict, took a slice, and passed it to her. “Please help yourself to some lasagna. I was wondering . . . are you a reporter?”

  “Oh, no.” Arjenie took two slices of buttery garlic bread.

  “Do you by chance belong to some secretive organization that is interested in Robert Friar?”

  She laughed. “You mean like Wiccans for Justice or something? No, the organization I belong to isn’t secret, and I’m an employee, not a member. I work for the FBI. So you can see,” she added as she levered out a large helping of lasagna, “that it would have caused me all kinds of trouble if you’d called the cops.”

  Benedict had seldom seen his father even momentarily struck dumb, but Arjenie had managed that. He understood that. The FBI had not figured in any of his speculations about his Chosen, either.

  “What a coincidence,” Cullen said pleasantly as he accepted the bread basket. “My wife also works for the FBI.”

  “Yes, and I’m really glad you haven’t mentioned me to her. Not by name, at least, or you wouldn’t be surprised now. Cynna would probably have felt obligated to tell Mr. Brooks I was here, and if she didn’t, Lily certainly would. Do you like the handwoven blanket I sent for the baby?”

  Cullen stilled. “The blue and green one? It’s lovely.”

  “Isn’t it? My cousin Pat is a wonderful weaver.”

  Benedict spoke. “You don’t have anything in your wallet identifying you as an FBI agent.”

  “I’m not an agent. I work in Research. My specialty is magic-related questions—spells, charms, historical references, anything to do with magic. I work with Unit agents a lot. Mostly it’s all handled in e-mail or over the phone, so I haven’t met everyone in person, but I know Cynna. We’ve had lunch a few times. She can vouch for me. Well, I suppose all she can vouch for is that I’m who I say I am, but that’s a start, isn’t it?” She took a bite of lasagna and hummed in pleasure. “This is really good.”

  “I’m puzzled,” Isen said. “Why didn’t you tell us this immediately?”

  She was politely incredulous. “I was hoping no one in the Bureau would find out, of course. Once I told you, you’d check with Cynna and Lily, and there would be repercussions, since I couldn’t tell anyone why I snuck onto your land. Believe me, as little as you like me clamming up about that, the Bureau would like it less. Then I realized you were going to find out sooner or later, because Cullen was bound to mention my name to Cynna at some point, or someone would tell Rule Turner, who’d tell Lily. Cynna might not tell Ruben Brooks right away, but I bet Lily would. So I made the best deal I could before telling you.”

  Isen picked up the fresh bottle of wine Carl had left for them, already opened so it could breathe. “Are you ready for more? No?” He filled his own glass. “It’s only natural you’d be concerned with your career.”

  She nodded. “I love my job. I don’t want to lose it. But there’s more at stake than that. I suspect Friar Listens to Bureau discussions sometimes. I know he Listens in on the local police. He can’t do that all the time, not even most of the time, but something really bad could happen if he were Listening at the wrong time and found out about me.”

  “And how do you know this about Friar?”

  She frowned and ducked her head. He could almost see the effort she put into thinking that one over. “Research,” she said at last. “I had a reason to do some research, and that’s what I put together based on Bureau records and on—on anecdotal evidence that was available to me.”

  “Have we reached the subject you can’t discuss?”

  She nodded unhappily.

  “It might be best to start with the things you can talk about, then. But let’s enjoy our dinner first. And perhaps I will take your suggestion. It might be best to have Cynna confirm your identity.” He added a subvocal comment she wouldn’t be able to hear: “Once she can be contacted. Benedict?”

  “I’d love to see her,” Arjenie said.

  That wasn’t going to happen tonight. Whatever the process might be for transferring the memories, it couldn’t be interrupted. Benedict unclipped his phone, selected the camera function, and said, “Arjenie.”

  She looked at him. He took three quick pictures—she smiled for the last one, the kind of automatic smile people adopt when they know they’re being photographed—and stood. “I’ll see that she gets the pictures.”

  “She’s not going to join us?” Arjenie asked as Benedict left the room. “Is she all right? She isn’t due until next month, is she?”

  He could hear Isen reassuring her that Cynna was fine, simply on partial bed rest, as he headed down the hall. He stepped out the front door. “Shannon.”

  Shannon stepped out of the shadow of the old cedar near the corner of the house.

  “I’m sending three pictures to your phone. Take it and a day’s trail rations with you to the Rhej’s. When you arrive, don’t knock or speak. Wait by the door until the Rhej or Cynna comes to see what you want. If and when Cynna is able to speak to you, show her the photos and ask who is in them. Call me with her answer. If I haven’t heard from you in twenty-four hours, I’ll send someone to relieve you.”

  Shannon nodded and took out his phone. Benedict sent the photos, then waited until Shannon confirmed that he had them. He signaled for the guard to go and reentered the house.

  When he returned to the rear deck, they were still talking about pregnancy. Arjenie kept quoting statistics. Apparently preeclampsia complicated between five and ten percent of pregnancies in the U.S. and resulted in between seventy thousand and eighty thousand premature births.

  Interesting that she was so concerned about Cynna, Benedict thought as he sat down to eat. She hadn’t asked about Lily, who she also knew. Maybe she didn’t know about the attack?

  Seabourne tried to steer the conversation to another subject, which had Arjenie patting his arm and saying of course they would talk about something else, and she was an idiot to keep harping on a subject that had to be difficult for him, and did he know that, of those eighty thousand births, the mortality rate was extremely low in this country? Just over one percent. And even in the worst-case scenario, she assured him, involving full placental separation, why, Cynna was in her third trimester, so they’d be able to deliver the baby right away with very few problems.

  She was trying to reassure him. She wasn’t very good at it. Her hopeful offerings were undercut by a too-bright smile that announced her anxiety clearly.

  Benedict didn’t like it. Her worry was misplaced and unnecessary. Isen should have leveled with her. “Cynna isn’t having problems with her pregnancy,” he told her, helping himself to a second serving.

  “No?” Arjenie looked at him, questions flooding her eyes. “But Isen said she’s on bed rest, and—”

  “She’s participating in a rite that can’t be interrupted. Isen avoided speaking of it because it’s secret.”

  Relief spread over her face like sunrise. “Oh. Whew.” She grinned. “I was babbling like an idiot, wasn’t I?”

  “You were worried.” Benedict realized that Isen and Seabourne were staring at him. “She’s Wiccan,” he said in explanation. “She understands that some rites aren’t spoken of.”

  Seabourne cocked an eyebrow, his blue eyes bright with amusement, and subvocalized: “You just contradicted your Rho in front of an out-clan stranger who’s keeping some pretty big secrets.”

  Benedict’s fork froze in midair. Yes. Yes, he had, he agreed silently as he resumed eating. But whatever else Arjenie might be, she was Lady-touched, a Chosen. His Chosen, and that gave him certain rights. Maybe he couldn’t yet bring himself to tell her about it, or even to say the words aloud when he spoke of her.

  But whether she knew it or not, she was his to protect.

  TWENTY

  LILY’S arm ached and throbbed like a bad tooth. It did not, however, hurt enough for her to take the pills Rule was holding out. “I just woke up. I am not goin
g back to sleep. Or in sleep. Or into a drugged stupor, or anything else resembling unconsciousness.”

  Rule set the little paper cup with the pills back on the rolling table. “Pain saps the body’s strength. You’ll mend faster with it muted.”

  “Mute the pain, mute the brain. I can’t think when I’m drugged. I need to think.” Ever since she’d learned about the probable traitor in the Bureau, she’d been either asleep or drugged. Mostly asleep. Maybe it had been necessary, but she’d had enough. “Caffeine has analgesic properties.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “You want coffee at nine o’clock at night?”

  “I would love a cup, thanks.”

  He considered arguing. That was clear from his long, unblinking pause. Finally he stood, went to the door, and asked one of the guards to go to the Starbucks in the other building.

  “Regular coffee’s fine,” she said. “I don’t need Starbucks.”

  “Tough. I do.” He slipped the guard a bill. “Pick up soup and a sandwich, too.”

  “I’m pretty sure I ate.” She didn’t remember what now, but someone had definitely pestered her to eat.

  “You ate six bites—two of the Jell-O, one of the cake, and three of the strange noodle mixture which may have had bits of chicken hiding in it somewhere.” He closed the door again.

  “You counted my bites.”

  “It helped me resist the urge to force-feed you.”

  “I guess I’ve been a pain.” Her memories of the last twenty-four hours were fuzzy, but a few stood out. She was pretty sure she’d cursed someone out at one point. “Do I owe Nettie an apology?”

  “Probably, though she understands. You hate having others make decisions for you. I do, too, but I begin to think you inherited your magical grandsire’s sense of sovereignty.”

  “I’m not that bad.” But her mouth kicked up as she tried to picture Sam as a patient, obedient to nurses’ and doctors’ ideas of when he should eat, sleep, get up, lie down, or pee in a cup. The mind boggled. It was just as well dragons healed themselves, she decided. “Nettie and the surgeon don’t agree on how long my arm’s going to be unusable, but either way, I’m going to be on sick leave awhile.”

  “From your perspective, that bites.” He rejoined her, but didn’t sit down.

  “From yours, too, since I’ll probably be hard to live with. Sjorensen was here earlier.”

  “Yes, you asked for her. Do you not remember?”

  “Not clearly. I was drugged.” Did she sound aggrieved, or just whiny? “I don’t think I told her anything I shouldn’t.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I see your concern. You didn’t. You asked for her after exchanging civilities with the self-important buffoon the local FBI office put in charge of investigating the shooting.”

  Now she remembered. Millhouse—that was the guy’s name. “Oh, yeah. It was him I cursed out, not Nettie. Good.”

  For some reason that amused him. “You wished me to remind you to call the man’s superior. Perhaps you won’t need to, though. I spoke with Abel.”

  “Abel Karonski?” Maybe her mind wasn’t working right yet, because she did not see the connection. Karonski was a Unit agent, not regular FBI. He couldn’t do anything about the local branch’s senior idiot.

  “He called to see how you were doing, and I explained the problem with Millhouse. He’s going to speak with Croft about it. He seemed to think the personnel difficulty could be dealt with. He was on his way to D.C. when he called.”

  “He finished up that hex case he was on?”

  “No, he had to hand that off to someone else. He’s been put in charge of the investigation into the attempt on Ruben’s life.”

  A tight knot of worry eased. “Good.” She thought it over a moment, and said it again. “Good. That’s excellent news.”

  “It was Ruben’s suggestion. He had a hunch.”

  “He must be doing better if he’s making suggestions.”

  “Either that, or he’s no better at being a patient than you are.” Rule smiled when he said that, though, and stroked her hair. “You’re not hurting too much?”

  “I’m in desperate agony, but I’m tough.” At the look on his face she added quickly, “Joke, Rule. That was a joke. It’s just pain. I don’t like it, and it ups the grouchy factor, but it’s already better than it was at first.” She expected to hurt more tomorrow, since she’d be moving around more. A lot more, if she had her way. She wanted out of the damned hospital.

  Another memory surfaced. “My father called. So did my mother.” Two separate calls, one from each, and she dimly recalled that her father had made her laugh. She didn’t remember why, but she’d laughed. And her mother . . . Lily frowned. “She’s not coming here, is she?”

  “It was a near thing, but I persuaded her you’d be home soon, so there was no need. She wants me to assure you that you are not to worry about the aesthetic effect of the sling.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  His mouth twitched. “Assuming you’re still using one at our wedding in March, that is. Julia believes a sling could be fashioned out of the same silk as your dress, if necessary.”

  “She’s worried about matching my sling to my wedding dress.”

  “No,” Rule said, “she wanted to be sure you wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve also taken calls from your sisters, Madame Yu, Detective James, Deputy Beck, one Rho, three Lu Nuncios, Steve Timms, Cullen, Ida, and a couple others. You know that Cynna’s sequestered with the Rhej right now. She may not yet know about the shooting.”

  “Right.” It made Lily feel funny that so many people had called to check on her. Funny, but good. “Grandmother used the phone?”

  “She had instructions for me.”

  Lily grinned. “I’ll bet. I hope her instructions agree with Nettie’s. I wouldn’t want to annoy either one of them.”

  “They’re largely congruent. While Nettie didn’t prescribe tea, I don’t think she’d object. I’m afraid I had to tell everyone that flowers and other delivered items weren’t appropriate, due to security.”

  She would have done the same thing if she’d been arranging security for a potential target. It was weird being that potential target. “You’re assuming the shooter is an ongoing threat rather than a one-off, an opportunistic attack. Did the locals talk to the concierge?”

  “The locals aren’t talking to me. However, Sjorensen intends to . . .” His phone chimed. He checked the screen and grimaced apologetically. “It’s Alex. I’d better take it.”

  “Sure.” Why did that make her memory itch? Oh, yeah. He’d taken a call from Isen while they were on the plane. One he hadn’t told her about.

  This call was about the memorial. The firnam, they called it. She tried to listen, but couldn’t. Her mind filled with the image she couldn’t get rid of: LeBron’s head again, the bloody mess of it. The missing eye.

  It hurt. It hurt so much more than her arm, and in a place painkillers couldn’t reach. Once Rule disconnected, she distracted herself by asking about the other call she’d been reminded of. “On the flight out here, your father called you on my phone and didn’t want me to know what it was about. You said you’d hold off. Have you held off enough yet?”

  “ Actually, I was planning to tell you tonight if you seemed up to listening to a puzzling tale.”

  A puzzle sounded like an excellent idea. More distraction. “I’m up for it.”

  “In a moment. This is not a Leidolf matter, so . . . ah, your coffee is here.”

  So was his coffee and the food. Lily didn’t have much appetite, but the soup was chicken noodle, which was what her mother had always given them when they were sick, so eating it seemed right. Tasted pretty good, too. “Okay,” she said, putting her almost-empty bowl aside to sip coffee. “You’ve eaten, I’ve eaten. Puzzle me.”

  First Rule asked the guards to take up positions farther from the door. Clearly he didn’t want them overhearing. By the time he returned and took her hand, Lily’s curiosity would hav
e kept her awake even without the caffeine.

  Even after sending the guards out of earshot, Rule kept his voice low. “I delayed telling you at Benedict’s request. This event is intensely personal, but it is also clan business.” He paused. “The Lady has Chosen for Benedict.”

  “Has . . . you mean now? Again?” Lily knew almost nothing about Benedict’s Chosen, save that Claire had died many years ago and Benedict had gone half mad with grief.

  He nodded. “That itself is a mystery. Never has a lupus been gifted twice with a Chosen. Nor am I aware of a time when a single clan held two Chosens. But the manner of her arrival in his life is a puzzle, also.”

  There was a time for questions, and a time to let your witness—or your friend and lover and bonded mate—talk. Lily didn’t interrupt. She didn’t make notes, either. Her fingers twitched a couple times, but it was the fingers on her right hand. Which she couldn’t use, dammit.

  Didn’t matter right now, though. You didn’t write down anything about the mate bond. Ever.

  So she lined her questions up mentally. When he finished, she hit the first one. “She was at Friar’s two nights ago, then at Clanhome last night. At Clanhome she had some kind of potions with her, but by the time Benedict spotted her, the vials were empty. She says one of them was designed to conceal her scent. She won’t say what the other one did. Cullen’s checking the vials, I guess?”

  “He will. Isen wanted him to prepare a truth charm first.”

  “Did she have potions with her at Friar’s?”

  “I don’t know. Benedict didn’t search her that night.”

  “No, but he was wolf at the time, right? What did he smell?”

  “I don’t know,” Rule repeated, and spread his hands. “I didn’t ask. I don’t think Isen did, either. I begin to think we should have told you earlier.”

  “Of course you should. Benedict’s having a hard time with this?”