Blood Challenge

by Eileen Wilks

  “She what?”

  “It’s symbolism for how I store the memories,” Cynna explained.

  “But she has to live the memories before she can put them away, which leaves her exhausted and heartsore. She needs distraction, which you have thoughtfully supplied with your mind-reading trick.”

  Lily frowned. “It was not mind-reading. I’m no telepath.”

  “Whatever.” He waved that aside. “Admittedly, you probably couldn’t have done it if Arjenie weren’t a broadcaster.”

  “Is that what that was—broadcasting?” Lily looked over at Arjenie, who’d been oddly silent. Lily didn’t know her well, but silent wasn’t an adjective she associated with Arjenie. “It felt like you’d turned the volume up to sonic boom.”

  Arjenie spread her hands apologetically. “The broadcasting happens all the time, whether I want it to or not, but normally it doesn’t matter. The extra boost—I thought I was supposed to do that. Of course, I also thought the only person who could hear me was Eledan.”

  “I’m getting this scattershot,” Lily said, and looked at Benedict, who still sat at the table. He was good with reports. “Can you give me a summary?”

  For some reason that made Arjenie giggle.

  NETTIE didn’t join them for the summarizing. She was tired and wanted her bed, she said, and Lily didn’t need her, so she’d head home. Since the combination clinic and cottage where she lived was only a mile away, she left on foot.

  Everyone else gathered at the table. Lily decided she liked it there. With everyone sitting, she could almost forget what kind of chair she sat in. Not about her arm, though. She couldn’t make notes left-handed. It bugged her intensely.

  It was interesting to see how everyone grouped themselves. Isen sat at the head of the table. The chair to his right was for Rule, who’d gone to the kitchen to make coffee. Lily’s chair was wheeled into place next to his. Isen motioned for Cynna—the Rhej’s apprentice had high status—to take the spot on his left. Cullen sat next to Cynna, of course, and Arjenie took the seat on his left. Benedict sat next to Arjenie, leaving Lily and Rule alone on their side of the table.

  What does Arjenie know? Lily wondered. Not just about those potions and Robert Friar, but about why Benedict stayed close to her, why he kept watching her. Did she know about the mate bond? Lily was pretty sure she didn’t. But they were all speaking openly in front of Arjenie, as if she were already clan, and trusted.

  Was that wise? Something—someone—had bound her. They were assuming it was her father, but they didn’t know that, did they? Lily tapped her fingers on the table, thinking.

  “Ready?” Benedict said.

  “Go for it.” Rule would be able to hear just fine from the kitchen.

  “All right. Arjenie possesses half of an ability the sidhe call by a word that translates as kinspeech. Though it is mind-to-mind contact, they don’t consider it mindspeech because of its limitations. Kinspeech requires physical contact and occurs only between close kin, most often parent and child. It’s common among middle sidhe; less common but not unusual in low sidhe. Her father can both send and receive. Arjenie can only send, like a radio transmitter without a receiver.”

  Lily glanced at the woman who’d been her favorite researcher at the Bureau. She was watching Benedict as closely as if she’d never heard any of this before. She must have felt Lily’s eyes on her, because she turned a wry smile on Lily. “It took me thirty minutes to say that. I don’t know how to boil things down.”

  “It’s a learned talent,” Lily said. “Is that true for this kinspeech?”

  She shook her head, but it was Benedict who answered. “No, it’s an innate ability. Though she did have to learn how to put more power behind her thoughts for her father to ‘hear’ them.”

  “He wanted her to yell like that?” Lily asked, startled.

  “Essentially, yes. When she realized you were picking up her thoughts she boosted the output, as she’d been taught. This was apparently too much power for the form of mindspeech you use.”

  “No kidding,” she said dryly.

  “I didn’t know,” Arjenie said earnestly. “I had no idea it would hurt you.”

  “No, you couldn’t have, could you? Why didn’t you mention this ability?”

  She shrugged. “I never think about it. I mean, the only time I ever experienced it was when Eledan visited me years and years ago, and I didn’t really experience anything then. He did, because when he touched me he could hear me, just a little, so he taught me how to turn up the volume. But I’ve never heard anyone’s thoughts, and as far as I knew Eledan was the only person in all the realms who could hear mine. Well, except for dragons, but that wouldn’t be me doing it. That would be them.”

  “If you . . . ah.” Lily broke off with a smile.

  Rule entered bearing a thermos-style pot and a fistful of mugs. He set the mugs down and poured one of them full of hot, fragrant coffee and set it in front of Lily.

  “Thanks.” She grabbed the mug and inhaled the scented steam, then sipped, gesturing for Benedict to continue.

  He did. “The first question, obviously, is why you were able to receive what Arjenie broadcast. Clearly it has to do with your potential for mindspeech. Beyond that, our various experts disagree—though they do all believe that kinspeech must require a good deal more power than the dragon form of mindspeech you’ve inherited.”

  “You’ve explained to her that I can’t actually use mindspeech yet?”

  “Several people explained,” he said dryly. “Frequently all at the same time, on different topics. But yes, that was touched on. The second question is whether and how you can repeat the event or connection. The third question is whether it would be safe to do so.”

  Lily glanced at Rule, who’d poured his own cup and was sipping it. His eyes met hers over the rim of the mug. They were about the same color as the coffee he sipped. About that revealing, too. “It didn’t hurt until Arjenie turned the power up. I don’t see a problem.”

  Cullen leaned forward. “If kinspeech draws on a fundamentally different form of—”

  “Cullen,” Isen said mildly.

  Cullen scowled but fell silent. Benedict continued. “There are three clear differences between the two forms of mental contact. One is, as I said, the amount of power involved. The other two involve the way contact is achieved. Kinspeech requires physical contact, but doesn’t require training. With mindspeech, the requirements are reversed. Or so we’ve assumed?” He raised his brows.

  “You assumed right,” Lily said. “Sam won’t tell me much because, according to him, I’d try to fit my experience into his words. Apparently that would be bad. But yeah, while the ability to use mindspeech is inherited, actually using it has to be learned.” Slowly. Very slowly.

  Benedict nodded. “Seabourne believes this means that mindspeech doesn’t function like a Gift, but kinspeech does.”

  “We don’t know that,” Cynna muttered.

  Benedict slid her an opaque glance. “We’ve arrived at a point of disagreement. Seabourne believes the two forms of mental speech may be fundamentally different—enough so that you risk being harmed when you attempt to ‘listen’ to Arjenie. Using the radio analogy, he says the frequencies may be so different that kinspeech could damage you. That, in fact, you may have already sustained damage, and that’s why you couldn’t repeat the experience. Cynna disagrees. She believes the two are essentially the same, but kinspeech is far less efficient, thus requiring more power and the added boost of physical contact. She thinks you unconsciously threw up a shield when Arjenie’s broadcast caused pain, and that’s why you weren’t able to ‘hear’ her anymore.”

  “Huh.” Lily frowned at her mug and took another sip.

  “They agree more than they disagree,” Benedict said dryly, “but they disagree loudly. Because they do agree that both theories are possible, they’ve been attempting to modify a spell that would measure some aspect of kinspeech. I’m unclear on the details.” />
  “Not measure,” Cullen said. “Magnify. If Arjenie is continually broadcasting, she’s using power, though at a very low level. I’ve got a spell I call my magnifying glass. I use it to enhance the focus on faint or intricate components when I’m deconstructing a spell. We’re trying to modify it to work on a particular aspect of an innate ability—which is not simple. The section dealing with congruity alone has to be—”

  “Not now,” Lily said firmly. “I take it you think that magnifying this, uh, aspect of an innate ability would tell you if it was safe for me to make that kind of contact with Arjenie again?”

  “Not definitively, but if the energies involved look highly dissimilar, that would suggest a greater risk. If they look fairly similar, it suggests less risk.”

  “Hmm.” She looked at Benedict. “Does Arjenie have an opinion?”

  “Not on this. She feels she lacks sufficient data. She has never experienced mindspeech herself and knows only what little her father told her about kinspeech. “

  “Okay.” The fingers on Lily’s right hand twitched. She wanted to jot things down. She settled for drumming the fingers of her other hand on the table. “Have you asked her about Dya again?

  “She still can’t speak that name, or respond in any way to questions about him or her.”

  “Her,” Lily said, then frowned. “I think. I’m not sure why I said that.” She glanced at Arjenie, who offered an apologetic smile.

  Rule spoke for the first time since sitting down. “I’ll offer a summary of my own. If Cullen’s right, you shouldn’t try to open a channel with Arjenie. The danger is real. Unquantifiable because we don’t know enough, but too real to risk it. If Cynna’s right, there’s little danger in trying, though you may be blocked by the shield you unconsciously created.”

  Lily looked at him. Did he feel what she did? Not just fear. She’d feared for him before. This was fear on steroids with the volume turned up to a scream, like Arjenie’s mental shout. Rule looked calm enough, but he was good at hiding fear. That had been a large part of his training. Wolves freak if they sense their leader is frightened.

  She looked at the others. “The one thing—”

  “Dumplings,” said a gravelly voice behind her. “Made ’em fresh. Soggy dumplings are no good. Also scones for everyone.” Carl came up beside Lily and set a steaming bowl in front of her. Wordlessly he added a large basket full of scones to the center of the table, then began pulling things out of his apron pockets—a napkin-wrapped set of silver-ware for Lily. Salt and pepper shakers. A jar of marmalade, and a small, lidded tub that might hold butter. Several butter knives. A roll of paper towels.

  “You’re not to have wine, I’m told,” he said in his slow, grave way. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Just some water. And maybe more coffee?”

  “I’ve got water heating. The sprout here can make coffee when you’re ready. Or Isen. They make decent coffee. Not Benedict. He doesn’t. Ice?”

  She blinked. Oh—he meant for her water. “Yes, please.”

  “Your cat wanted chicken. Gave him some. He liked it.” With that he turned and stumped back to the kitchen.

  Chicken apparently trumped guard duty. Not that Harry really guarded Toby. That was just Rule’s way of talking. Cats didn’t have that kind of instinct the way dogs did.

  Arjenie leaned forward and whispered, “He’s very quiet, isn’t he?”

  Isen smiled. “Carl speaks fluent math. None of us can carry on a conversation in his tongue, but he doesn’t hold it against us. Try one of the scones.”

  The bowl in front of Lily smelled wonderful. Her stomach surprised her by rumbling. She was hungry. That shouldn’t come as a surprise this late in the day, but this was the first time she’d been really hungry since getting shot. She dug in.

  The dumplings were a surprise, too. Lily had expected the heavy, greasy lumps of dough she associated with American-style dumplings, but Carl’s were different. Light and fluffy, slightly savory with herbs, they swam in a thickened sauce chunky with chicken and carrots.

  Hunger and the sheer deliciousness of the meal held her attention at first. Arjenie asked Isen what kind of math Carl spoke and seemed to understand his answer, which was more than Lily could say. Interdimensional degeneracies? A quantum-isolated four-body system?

  Isen was right. She didn’t speak Carl’s language. But he made incredible dumplings, and they were easy to eat with one hand. Maybe he’d planned it that way. She beamed at him when he returned to set a glass of ice water at her place. He answered with the usual nod, but the solemn creases of his face lifted briefly in what was nearly a smile.

  “Good?” Rule said.

  She gave him a smile, too. He gave her a scone.

  It was comforting, this meal. Familiar. Cynna announced that the little rider was dancing on her poor, squished bladder and left the table, heading for the bathroom. Isen asked Cullen about the project he’d been working on, trying to create a cheaply replicable insulation against the rising levels of ambient magic. According to Rule, If Cullen could pull that off neither he nor Nokolai—who was funding his efforts—would ever have to worry about money again.

  Everything was normal, safe, peaceful. Any one of them could be dead tomorrow.

  Rule passed the little tub—which turned out to hold clotted cream, not butter—to Arjenie. She said something Lily didn’t catch, and he laughed.

  Lily would risk herself for Rule in a heartbeat. He knew it. He’d do the same for her, and she knew that with sick certainty. But why? Why did that make her shaky and scared now? It never used to.

  Death was a constant. It always had been, and Lily supposed her current hypersensitivity to that reality would ease in time, and she’d return to the normal human state of semi-blindness. God, she hoped so. But she was weird and shaky now, and it made her doubt her judgment. How did she decide what risks were justified?

  Lily put down her spoon and sipped the ice water Carl had provided. It was cold, like her insides. I’ll be careful with myself, she wanted to tell Rule. I don’t want to scare you. I’ll be careful for your sake.

  How careful? What did she owe him in that way? Why had that always been obvious before?

  Because of her job. Understanding hit, as clear and icy as the water. She’d known what risks were justified because she knew what her job required of her. Rule had the same sort of guidance. He knew what was required of him as Lu Nuncio to Nokolai, as Rho to Leidolf. They each understood duty. But whatever she was doing now, it wasn’t about the job. As far as the Bureau was concerned, she had no investigation. She was on sick leave.

  But they had to find out what Arjenie knew. Didn’t they?

  Lily ate slowly and thought about duty, about Robert Friar, mindspeech, mysterious potions, Arjenie Fox, and three attacks. One by bullet. One by magic. One by madness.

  THIRTY

  ARJENIE wasn’t hungry, but the scones were too good to pass up. Especially with clotted cream. Maybe, she thought as she bit into her second one, if she stayed here long enough she’d actually put on a little weight.

  But she wouldn’t be staying, would she?

  She snuck a quick peek at Benedict, who was listening carefully to what Cullen the Beautiful said about enhancing the insulating properties of silk. Benedict’s eyes were steady and dark and turned away from her, so she indulged herself by watching him beneath her lashes.

  She loved his skin, the color of it, the texture . . . such a warm, coppery shade, not chocolate or tea or cinnamon or any of the food names people often used for skin, but a living color, as infused by sun as it was by blood. She loved his body, bulky with muscle, yet he moved lightly in it, adept as a dancer. Then there were his hands, with their flat, square nails . . .

  Thoughtfully she applied more of the clotted cream to what remained of her scone. Maybe it was just as well she wouldn’t be here much longer . . . or just as well if she could convince herself it was just as well. Arjenie had nothing against a quick,
hot interlude. She was pretty sure she could have the quick and hot with Benedict—pretty sure she would have that if she was here much longer. But she had the uneasy feeling the interlude part of the equation might not end cleanly. It might hurt her, haunt her, afterward.

  But you could be haunted by the things you didn’t do, too.

  “There’s probably more stew in the kitchen,” Rule said to Lily on the other side of the table. “No? Dessert, then.” He tried to hand her the last scone.

  She shook her head, her mouth quirking up. “Am I a goose? Stop feeding me.”

  Arjenie liked watching the two of them together. The Bureau’s files held all sorts of facts, but they weren’t always the ones she wanted. Everyone knew that these two were engaged, but what did that mean to a lupus? Would Rule Turner really commit himself to a single woman?

  Sure looked like it from where Arjenie sat. They weren’t obvious about it. They didn’t hang all over each other. But they kept track of each other in a lovely, unthinking way. Rule had been talking to Isen, but he’d known it when Lily finished her stew.

  They touched easily and often . . . eleven times in ten minutes.

  Arjenie counted touches. She hadn’t mentioned this hobby to anyone in years, since most people found it peculiar. But the way people touched said so much about a relationship. This was true with sisters and friends, with mothers and children, but it was especially true with couples.

  She’d started counting with her aunt and uncle. After thirty years, they still averaged five touches in ten minutes when they sat next to each other. Less when they’d been fighting. More when they were planning for intimate touches as soon as they could be alone.

  There were those afflicted with glued-at-the-hip syndrome. Most teens and some new couples fell into that category. The inability to stop touching wasn’t a sign of soul mates, but of need, insecurity, or hormones. Then there were couples who seemed to have a great marriage, who never fought, whose friends believed they were solid and forever . . . but who seldom touched except at the expected times. He’d help her on with her coat. She’d peck his cheek to say “’bye.”