Blood Challenge

by Eileen Wilks

  “I’m afraid you aren’t entirely in charge,” he told her gently. “Arjenie, Lily suspects a conspiracy that includes at least one perpetrator within the FBI. Who else could have reached Brooks to administer whatever caused his heart attack? But there could be more than one FBI agent or employee involved.”

  Arjenie chewed on her lip and thought that over. He liked that about her. She was as chatty and confiding as Benedict was silent and reserved, but she knew when to stop and think.

  No one else spoke, either. Lily’s silence was especially loud. Isen knew what she wanted to say: It was stupidly irresponsible to tell a suspect what you suspected.

  She was right, of course. But whatever Arjenie Fox might be involved in, it did not include harming others. She knew or suspected something about the attack on Brooks, but she wasn’t conspiring to bring down the Unit or anyone within it. Not intentionally, and not due to the binding. She was, he thought, a practicing Wiccan in the deepest sense, one whose heart embraced their core tenet: and it harm none. If her actions had caused clear harm—even if she’d been unable to direct those actions—she’d be consumed by guilt. She wasn’t.

  “I can’t think of anyone who’d betray the Bureau,” Arjenie said at last. She sounded almost as tired as Lily. “Of course, I might say that if I were part of a vast cell of traitors, all of whom I knew intimately, so that doesn’t help. Is Mr. Croft in charge of the Unit right now?”

  “He is,” Lily said.

  “Are you going to tell him about my Gift and my father and me being here at Clanhome and everything?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Arjenie sighed. Benedict moved closer to her, but not so he could counter a potential attack. Not this time. He wanted to hold her. Isen knew that as clearly as if Benedict had announced it.

  After that involuntary movement, Benedict went still again, but Isen could almost taste his son’s longing. It hurt his heart. There was so little he could do. He settled for patting Arjenie’s hand. “If it helps, I don’t suspect you of anything nefarious. Rule, Lily’s right.”

  “Quite often,” Rule agreed dryly. “But which specific instance did you mean?”

  “She needs to come home. She is in serious and ongoing danger, and a hospital room is difficult to defend. In addition”—he put a subtle note in his voice so Rule would know his Rho spoke—“I need her and you here. Unless Nettie is utterly opposed, I want the three of you to return tomorrow. The meeting with the other North American clans is more vital than ever, and without Lily’s presence as guarantee of our peaceful intentions, Ybirra will withdraw. Lily, I hope you don’t object to my stating my wishes, since they agree with your own.”

  “Object? No. But you’re up to something.”

  “Arjenie is right, too. There are some things that shouldn’t be discussed over the phone. I’ll say only that I disagree with you in one respect. I don’t think your Unit is the target of a conspiracy.”

  “I’d be interested in hearing your reasoning.”

  “We’ll discuss it when you return. I do believe there is a conspiracy.”

  “But not against the Unit.”

  “No. Against us. Lupi. All lupi, not just Nokolai, and all who might aid us or otherwise interfere in her plans. You can guess which enemy I’m thinking of.”

  Lily’s breath caught. Rule didn’t make a sound. Cullen Seabourne swung to face Isen, his eyes narrowing. And Isen’s oldest son looked at him with dawning relief. “Of course.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  ON the other side of the continent, Lily sat up in her hospital bed scowling at the computer screen. Rule sat on the bed beside her, his laptop balanced on his thighs. He’d just ended the call to Isen.

  “I can’t believe he told us that,” Lily said, frustrated, “then wouldn’t say why he thinks she’s involved.” She drummed the fingers of her good hand on her leg. “We’ll find out tomorrow, I guess.”

  “We will not. You aren’t flying across the country so I can attend that damned meeting a few days earlier than otherwise. You’re barely out of surgery.”

  His jaw was set stubbornly. His eyes were dark, shadowed by sleeplessness, and brimming with emotion . . . emotion that for once she had no trouble reading.

  Rule had been on high alert for over twenty-four hours. He was worn-out and wired up and afraid that wouldn’t be enough. That he wouldn’t be enough. That he’d miss something or sleep at the wrong time or be less than omniscient, and whoever wanted her dead would succeed.

  Isen was right. A hospital room was hard to defend. There were too blasted many people around, and the other side of her door was public territory. Rule knew this. He was determined to keep her here anyway. He had some control over their small territory—more than he would in an airport, at least. But more importantly, her wound scared him.

  She held out her hand. He took it. She let the contact ease them both, wishing he could climb into bed so she could hold him and be held. “I do heal, you know,” she said gently. “I don’t heal the way you do, but I do heal.”

  “You haven’t healed yet. It’s too soon.”

  “Rule, this isn’t your decision.” She let that sink in, then added, “I’m not an idiot. If Nettie nixes the trip, I’ll stay here. My own opinion—which I confidently expect both you and Nettie to ignore—is that I can do it. I’ll hurt, sure, but I’ll hurt if I stay in this blasted bed, too. It won’t harm me to sit in an airplane.”

  “We can’t go strictly by what Nettie says. If my father tells her he wants you to return home, she—”

  “You know better.” She squeezed his hand. “Nettie won’t adjust her medical opinion to suit Isen or anyone else.”

  He looked at their joined hands and sighed. “I don’t like it.”

  “I know.” It was her left hand he held, her right arm that was damaged, and that was a bitch. She was right-handed. But for that one instant, she was glad he could hold the hand that wore his ring. “You’re going to wear one, too, you know.”

  Puzzled, he looked up. “One what?”

  “Ring.”

  He smiled slightly. “I am, yes.”

  She took a breath and jumped. “I’ll stay at Clanhome. Not the whole time I’m healing, because that’s going to take way too long, but while I’m officially on sick leave. You can guard the hell out of me there.”

  His eyes searched hers. Some of the tension eased from his face. He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I love you at all times. Sometimes I like you tremendously, too. Thank you. I know you’d much rather be at our place. I also know you’re planning to investigate as much as possible while you’re there.”

  She didn’t have a case. She’d been pulled from the Cobb case and she couldn’t just show up in D.C. to hunt for whoever had tried to kill Ruben and she was going to be on sick leave and . . . and did that matter?

  Yes, she decided. But maybe not as much as it ought to. “Speaking of planning . . .” She glanced around, spotted her takeout cup, and disengaged her hand so she could pick it up. Then frowned at the few cold drops remaining in the bottom of the cup. “Maybe you could send the guard for more coffee.”

  “Or maybe not. It’s nearly eleven, and you should sleep at some point tonight—especially if you’re going to persuade Nettie you’re well enough to fly home tomorrow.”

  She was tired, and she was tired of being tired, and he was right, and the whole thing sucked. “Do you buy Isen’s idea? Do you think the Great Bitch is behind the attacks on me and Ruben?”

  The twin slashes of Rule’s brows drew down. “I don’t know. Maybe more yes than no. Isen’s right an awful lot of the time, and you’ve been her target before. You don’t sound convinced.”

  Lily wobbled her hand back and forth, miming uncertainty. “Sure, it could be her, but we’ve thought that before and it wasn’t. I don’t think the attack on me really suggests her. When she went after me before, she wanted me alive so she could eat me or my magic or something. Last night’s shooter wanted me dead
.”

  Rule’s face closed down, which meant he was upset. “You thwarted her earlier plans, not once but twice. She holds a grudge.”

  “Maybe, but surely she’s imaginative enough to know that there are lots worse things she could do than kill me. If I was more useful to her alive a few months ago, why would killing me be a good idea all of a sudden?”

  “Because her plans have changed. Not her goal. I doubt that has changed since she was defeated in the Great War. Three thousand some-odd years isn’t a long time to an Old One.”

  “And that goal is—?”

  “To possess the Earth. To remake it to suit her values, her notions of what is good and proper.”

  Lily drummed her fingers. “Having her avatar eaten by a hell lord may have set back her world conquest schedule.”

  “Unless that’s what she intended. A year’s delay in nothing . She may have needed that time to subjugate the demon lord who ingested whatever portion of her was held by her avatar. A demon lord would make a much more powerful avatar than one born human.”

  That was the problem with dealing with a perp who had, supposedly, been around since the universe kicked off—or maybe before that. The Great Bitch wasn’t omnipotent or omniscient, but her knowledge, experience, and abilities were so far beyond the human it was impossible to guess her plans. “If the Old Ones fought a war to stop her once, wouldn’t they step in now if she were trying to take over Earth?”

  “Not directly. Neither they nor she can enter any realms where humans live. The Great War was fought, in part, so that those on my Lady’s side could impose just that restriction.”

  “The good-guy Old Ones restricted themselves? Permanently?”

  He spread his hands. “We are taught that they amended their reality in order to allow the younger races a chance to create their own.”

  That was too mystical entirely for Lily. She drummed her fingers again. “Why Ruben? Why would she want him taken out?”

  “I don’t know. I can speculate. His precognitive ability combined with his position may be a threat to her plans. But I don’t know.”

  It was all too mushy. They had no real reason to suspect the Great Bitch’s involvement, but almost anything could be made to fit that scenario when they knew so little about her plans, methods, and capabilities. It reminded Lily of the way people in medieval times thought the devil was behind every illness and misfortune. “If your milk cow dries up, blame it on her,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” Maybe it was her brain that was mushy. Hot licks of pain kept grabbing her attention, disrupting her train of thought. Damned pain. Couldn’t God or evolution or whatever have arranged things so pain didn’t have to hurt quite this much?

  Rule was frowning, more in thought than temper. “It’s possible the attack on Ruben was her agent’s idea and promotes his plans, not hers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Robert Friar is her agent—”

  “Whoa. That’s a giant step.”

  “She has to act through agents, just as my Lady does, since she’s prohibited from acting directly. Why not Friar? He’s cunning and wary and wealthy. He already has followers, an organization of sorts, and he hates us.”

  She looked at him, ruffled and irritated and not sure why. “You realize you’ve stepped off into pure speculation? There’s a suggestion that Friar could be involved, but it’s wispy. Enough to justify looking into the possibility, no more. We don’t have even a wisp to say that she’s involved, much less anything linking her to Friar.”

  “I’m entitled to a hunch,” he said mildly, “even if I lack Ruben’s accuracy.”

  She frowned at her hand. Her only useable hand. “I’m going to be a real bitch for a while, I think.”

  He touched her cheek lightly. “I’m tough. I can handle it.”

  She looked up. “You think she’s involved, don’t you?”

  “Isen does. I won’t adopt his conclusion without hearing his reasoning, but I respect his judgment. Also . . .” He got that far, then drifted into silence, frowning at his thoughts.

  “Keep going.”

  “If she is moving, preparing an assault on us and our world,” he said slowly, “our Lady would know this. She’d be working through her agents to stop her enemy.” He paused, meeting Lily’s eyes. “We are the Lady’s agents. Lupi. It is very rare that she speaks to us directly through a Rhej, and she has not done that. But she has done something she hasn’t done since she created us. She has gifted one of us with a second Chosen.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ARJENIE was awake before the sun the next day. Her body was still on East Coast time, plus she’d ended up going to bed early—and without that second cup of coffee.

  Shortly after Isen’s announcement that some mysterious woman was conspiring against lupi, Arjenie had been informed she was tired. True, but more to the point, Benedict had wanted to talk with Isen privately. So it was Cullen Seabourne who’d escorted her to her room, and he’d refused to tell her anything about this mysterious female enemy Isen thought was conspiring against his people.

  Cullen was still around when she woke up. So was her suitcase. She discovered the latter as soon as she put on her glasses. The former was obvious after she got dressed and opened her door. Then stood in the doorway, staring.

  Cullen was out there, all right, walking down the hall . . . on his hands.

  He glanced at her. His legs lowered with easy precision, arching his body into a perfect backbend. He rose from that as naturally as another person might rise from a chair. “Ready for breakfast?”

  “Yes. Wow. That was amazing. Where’s Benedict? And how did my suitcase get here?”

  “Benedict’s asleep. Even Superwolf needs sleep after skipping it two nights in a row. Your suitcase is here because he thought you’d need your things and sent someone to retrieve it for you. Isen wishes me to apologize on his behalf for removing a few items before giving it to you.”

  Like her athame and spell components. She’d noticed. “He may have meant well, but it was presumptuous to enter my hotel room without my permission.”

  “Benedict’s good at presumption, not so good with asking permission. You’ll have to work on that. I need to talk to Carl. He makes the second-best omelets in the world, and I’m hungry. Come on.” He started down the hall.

  “Wait a minute. I need to use the bathroom. And who makes the first-best omelets?”

  He stopped, glancing back at her. The beautiful man hadn’t shaved today. “A woman in a little village in the south of France. Her grandmother taught Carl how to cook, and she keeps chickens. Her eggs are fresher than Carl’s. There’s a bathroom near the kitchen. You can pee while Carl cooks.”

  She hmphed, but followed him down the hall to the great room or den. The kitchen, she’d discovered yesterday, opened off it at the other side of the house. “Does Carl actually talk to you?”

  “Carl talks about food. Ask him about tarragon and he turns downright chatty.”

  “Are you going to tell me what Isen was talking about last night? About this enemy he thinks is behind everything?”

  “Not my job to decide what you should or shouldn’t be told, and it’s easier to say no. I like easy. I like the T-shirt, too.”

  She smiled down at her chest, where white letters on a black background spelled out “no comment.” “A friend gave it to me for my birthday. If I were prescient, I’d have worn it yesterday. I could have pointed to it when Isen was questioning me.”

  “No precog?”

  She shook her head. “No more than the itsy hunches everyone gets. Um . . . I consider precognition the Gift of the fifth element. I guess you know what I mean by that?”

  “My original training was Wiccan, so yes.”

  In Wicca, the fifth element was spirit, which she’d been taught was available to all. The unGifted weren’t able to use what spirit offered consciously or consistently, but now and then they tapped into it. Th
at’s why everyone had hunches, and even those without a trace of magic sometimes saw ghosts. It also explained the occasional miraculous cure.

  Or so she believed. Other traditions—even other Wiccans—saw things differently. “What about you? Do you see precognition as tied to spirit?”

  “Speaking literally? No. But that’s probably because I don’t see spirit.”

  “Really?” She stopped. “But that’s fascinating! You see the other elements?”

  “Of course. But not spirit, which makes me think that—with apologies to your faith—spirit is something other, not an elemental property of magic.”

  “Well, the pentagram is just a model, after all.” But it made her feel pouty to think the model might not be right. They started walking again. “My aunt says the other elements are accessed through magic, but spirit is accessed through faith. Maybe that explains it. Do you have a faith?”

  “No. That’s an interesting distinction. What would . . . ah, Carl.” They’d reached the kitchen, where the lanky Carl was wiping down a huge, restaurant-style stove. Cullen produced a charming smile. “Our Rho’s guest is hoping for one of your superlative omelets.”

  They continued to talk shop while waiting for breakfast—minus a short bathroom break—and during the meal, where Cullen turned out to be right. Carl’s omelets were incredible. After breakfast, they moved to the great room and kept on talking. They discussed theory and practice and tiptoed towards the possibility of trading a spell or two. Arjenie’s coven had strict rules about that, so she’d have to get her High Priestess’s permission before making a swap. But she had to call Aunt Robin today anyway.

  Benedict and Isen didn’t seem to be anywhere around.

  The morning dragged. She felt wiggly and unsettled. Was it possible that after all these years she’d finally get the binding removed—and by a dragon? Who was this female enemy that had Isen spooked? She couldn’t ask the first question. The cursed binding prevented it. Cullen wouldn’t answer the second one. Maybe Benedict would, when he got back. From where? Cullen wouldn’t say.