Blood Challenge

by Eileen Wilks

  He made an impatient noise. “You see that. I see it. But while Arjenie might agree with you in her head, she doesn’t feel that way about it. She doesn’t understand violence.”

  “You’re right. She doesn’t have a context for it. She’s trying to build one, but you staying away doesn’t help. She saw you freak out . . .” Lily paused, remembering. “That was incredible. Until today I would have said no single person, human or lupus or whatever, could take down one of those red-eye demons without major firepower.” She’d seen Rule try once with the help of another lupus, and with Lily shooting it every so often. “I’m betting you could.”

  His voice was desert-dry. “I doubt Arjenie shares your admiration.”

  Annoyed with herself for getting sidetracked, she brushed that away. “My point is, she saw you freak. She knows you didn’t act by your own will, but knowing that doesn’t erase the images. You need to remind her of who you are. We’re what our choices make us. What you didn’t choose isn’t part of you. What you do about it will be.”

  He was still. Silent. After a long moment, his mouth crooked up on one side. “My father is right again. How annoying of . . .” His voice drifted off. So did his attention, drawn to something behind her.

  Lily turned. Arjenie had stepped out onto the deck. And for the first time, Lily saw the woman’s sidhe heritage.

  Maybe it was the quality of the light, the shifting dimness somehow transmuting Arjenie’s careful gait into an instant of pure grace. She wore her usual tee and jeans, yet Lily could almost see the filmy sort of gowns elves wore. See how right that would look, anyway, flowing around long, thin limbs, with the wild rumpus of her hair falling loose around pale shoulders.

  Lily blinked. The almost-seen vision was gone. It was thoroughly a normal woman coming toward them—thin, uncertain, her glasses hiding her eyes in the failing light. Lily glanced at Benedict.

  He stood utterly still, as entranced as they say humans sometimes were by the sight of an elfin maid. Maybe he saw Arjenie as Lily had for a moment. Or maybe what he saw didn’t matter, eclipsed by what he felt.

  “I’ll be going now,” she said dryly, sure he wouldn’t notice.

  But he did. He looked straight at her. “Lily.” He paused. “Most advice is useless because it’s shaped to the giver, so it is an ill fit for anyone else. But my father did send you to me, so I’ll give you my hardest-won lesson, for whatever good it may do you. For some of us, it’s easier to understand what we would die for or kill for than what we will live for. What we live for can change.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

  ARJENIE was desperately unsure if she was doing the right thing. Maybe she should turn around and go back inside immediately. Benedict didn’t want to see her, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to see him, and . . . and he was looking at her as if she were the only thing left to see in the whole world. Her heart fluttered.

  Foolish heart. Maybe she was a fool. She could live with that. She kept walking toward him. It wasn’t until he turned his head and said something to Lily that she realized Lily was present. Her feet stopped. She should go back inside. This wasn’t the right time.

  If not now, when? They weren’t guaranteed to live through tonight. She thought they would. Hoped they would. But no guarantees. She got her poor, frightened feet moving again.

  Lily left, pausing briefly on her way inside to give Arjenie a nod and a smile. Bless her. Arjenie let her feet carry her up to within a couple feet of Benedict. She managed a smile. She managed to say, “Hi.” Then her brain shut down.

  A wisp of amusement ghosted across his hard features. “Hi?”

  “You think I know what to say? I don’t know what to say, except that I’d be a big mess if I were you. No, I mean I’d be a mess if I’d had done to me what was done to you.” She cocked her head. “You don’t look like a mess.”

  “I’m functional. I . . . have a context for what happened. You don’t.”

  “It’s still pinging through me. Little aftershocks. I’ll get shaky all of a sudden, as if . . . I don’t know why. None of that was aimed at me.”

  “The first time I saw someone killed, I threw up.”

  She smiled. “That’s a very human reaction.”

  “I was ten, so my wolf was still asleep.”

  Only ten. Dear gods. “And the first time you killed someone?” Because this wasn’t his first. She was sure of that. Not sure why she asked, what she needed to know, but sure this wasn’t the first time for him.

  He was silent so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. “His name was Brad Mettinger. I didn’t know that when I killed him. My father used to leave Clanhome more often. He went to the symphony one night. He was restless afterward, so we headed for the park. We were jumped by a Leidolf strike squad. I killed the one with the gun and disabled two others. My father killed the fourth one. He—the fourth Leidolf—was in wolf form,” Benedict added as if he didn’t want her to think poorly of Isen. “It’s harder to kill a wolf than a man.”

  “How did you feel?”

  “At the time, satisfied. I hadn’t failed. I was glad I’d refrained from killing all of them. It was best to allow Leidolf to clean up their own mess.”

  The bodies, he meant. He’d refrained from killing all of them so the survivors could remove the bodies. “Afterward? How did you feel afterward?”

  Again he was silent for a long moment. “I was young, but I’ve never . . . Rule says that I live close to my wolf. That’s not how I think of it. I don’t feel the division between myself as wolf and myself as man that most do. Wolves don’t regret killing. I didn’t regret it, but it made space between the man and the wolf. I was uncomfortable with that space. Isen told me to learn about the man I’d killed.”

  “So you found out his name.”

  “His name, his age, that he had had two daughters, no sons. His father was still alive at the time. I learned his name, too. And his uncle’s.”

  “Did that help?”

  “It allowed me to grieve his death. Wolves don’t, not when it’s an enemy they’ve killed. Men need to, or they get twisted up.”

  “You’re grieving now.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “Isen says humans have a hard time being glad they’re alive when others died, even when those others weren’t close to them. They feel guilty for their joy at surviving. They have trouble grieving those deaths because of the guilt. I understand this in a way. My grief for Claire was muddied and snarled by guilt. Do you feel this way now?”

  A sound broke from her, something between a laugh and a sob. “Yes—no—I feel confused! When it was happening—it all happened so fast! I couldn’t believe how quick it all was. And you—” She stopped abruptly.

  “I went insane. You saw that. You’re frightened of me now.”

  “Lily said you’re angry at what was done to you. She assured me anger doesn’t make you crazy, that it isn’t what I saw today, and you would never fall into the fury if you hadn’t—if someone hadn’t . . . the fury’s different from regular anger. Isn’t it?”

  “They’re alike in the way a puddle is like the ocean.”

  She shivered. “It must have been horrible to feel that way.”

  “They say women often forget the pain of childbirth. That the mind protects them from a too-keen recall. I remember what I did. What I felt has already begun to fade. Arjenie, I don’t blame you. I don’t blame your sister. I blame Robert Friar.”

  In that last, flat statement she heard and saw the anger Lily had regretted mentioning. Deep anger. She couldn’t speak—but not because of his anger. Because what she wanted to say involved Dya.

  “You’re frightened of me. Standing here with me scares you.”

  “Well, of course. Not because I think you’re going to hurt me, because you’re not doped up by some terrible potion now, so you wouldn’t. It’s more that I saw how much I don’t know about you, and while I guess that’s true for anyone when they fall in love, I—”

  “In love?
” He started to reach for her. Stopped. His face shifted from anger to hope to . . . fear? Yes, that was it. Hope and fear were conjoined twins, after all. “You think you love me?”

  “Maybe it’s just the mate bond thing for you, so you don’t want to hear the L-word, but I know ‘in love’ when I feel it. Not that I’ve ever felt it this strongly, and I don’t know if the mate bond makes it stronger, or if that’s because of who you are. I’m still at the falling-in-love stage, and there’s so much I don’t know about you, which is scaring me. You have to really know someone to really, deeply love them, don’t you?”

  “I know you.” His voice thrummed with certitude.

  Her heart was pounding hard. So hard. “Only a few days of knowing. That’s not much.”

  “There will be more to learn, but I know you. You’re stubborn and pragmatic and caring. You like people. That liking is genuine and constant, with very few exceptions, so it’s no surprise that people like you back. You delight in the pleasures of the mind and of the body. You think of yourself as fearful, but don’t allow fear to stop you, which is the definition of courage. You’re deeply accepting and deeply loyal. When the half sister you knew for two years nearly twenty years ago calls, you drop everything, risk everything, for her. You feel deeply, see clearly, and talk a lot. You don’t care for wine. You love sweets. You have a strong sense of privacy. You treasure your family. You hate lying and avoid it if you possibly can. I don’t know what it would take to make you really angry. You’re clear and pure, and there are no stagnant places in you.”

  Her face was wet. When had she started crying? She stepped forward, into his arms. They closed around her and she held on to him. Held on.

  “I didn’t think you’d let me hold you again.” His voice was rough, broken. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head. “Not for a long time. Maybe not ever. Not after what you saw me do.”

  “I won’t say that doesn’t matter, because it does, but I don’t know how and why and what it means . . .” She sighed. “I’m all-over confused. You made me sound so much more together than I am.”

  He began stroking her hair. “Together sounds like finished . You’re too alive to be finished. I hope to have fifty or sixty years to watch you try out all sorts of ways to put the pieces of Arjenie together.”

  Her breath broke on a small laugh. “Maybe more.” Honesty made her add, “Probably quite a bit more. Part-sidhe, remember? I don’t know how long I’ll live, but almost certainly more than that, and from what you’ve said about the mate bond, that means you’ll be putting up with me a long time.”

  He went still. He stayed that way so long that she had to lean back so she could see him . . . and then couldn’t, not clearly, because of her wet eyes, so she wiped them. Met his eyes.

  And saw joy. Stark, bone-deep, glowing like the heart of the sun.

  He reached up, cupped her face. “You will live a long time.” There was wonder in his voice.

  She nodded. “Most low sidhe live to a hundred, easy. A few live several centuries like the elves do, but they’re the ones who heal really quick, which I don’t. But I do heal faster than straight humans, so . . .” Suddenly she understood. Wonder seeped into her own voice as she said, “You love me. It isn’t just the mate bond. You love me.”

  “So much.” He smoothed her hair back. “So very much.”

  FORTY-TWO

  IT was a whippy wind, a darting, daring, sand-in-the-face wind. Perhaps, Isen thought as he listened to it slapping at the car, the wind was annoyed with them for intruding on the empty places it frequented. Or perhaps it was delighted to find a new target for its mischief.

  All personification aside, the wind was one more factor to consider when he fought for his life tonight . . . and, if he could manage it, fought to spare the life of the foolish, whippy young wolf he would face.

  He had no desire to kill Javier. He had even less desire to be killed. Pity the odds were against him achieving both desires . . . or even just the last one.

  Sixty-forty. That’s where he put his chances. Though if his hunch was right, the odds would change drastically . . . but one couldn’t count on an enemy to take the bait, however temptingly it might be offered. So if he were betting on the outcome tonight, he’d give himself a forty percent chance of seeing the dawn.

  He suspected his sons put his chances somewhat lower, though they’d done their best to hold their fear hidden. They were good at concealing fear. They’d learned well.

  Fine lupi, both of them. Exceptionally fine. Isen took a moment to enjoy the pride and humility of having such sons. He knew they’d survive and do well tonight. He didn’t worry. Oh, he gave lip service to the idea that they could die, but he didn’t believe it. Years ago, he had understood that sanity lay in a single, committed point of irrationality. Nature, circumstance, and duty would put his sons in danger at times—at times through his own orders. In order to do what he must, he had to believe they would live. And so he did. Mostly. Determinedly.

  He didn’t want to bring them grief tonight, but every son lost his father someday. Either the father died, as his had, or the son did. As three of his father’s had. As one of his own sons had as well, defying Isen’s deliberate, irrational certainty.

  Mick had always been one to defy his father’s expectations.

  Strange. It was that lost son, the one he’d failed so thoroughly, who rode with him through the darkness now. Maybe because the dead drew closer when one faced death. Maybe because a tangled love bound more tightly, and the love between him and Mick had certainly been tangled. Maybe simply because regrets always hitched a ride when one traveled to death.

  Not that he intended to die. How morbid he was! Isen chuckled at himself, earning a quick glance from Jason, one of his two living companions on this ride. He smiled and shook his head, letting the boy know he didn’t wish for conversation.

  Would Jason tell the clan that their Rho had gone to the Challenge in high good humor, chuckling at the prospect? Probably. That wouldn’t hurt.

  Isen had the reputation of being an excellent fighter when he was younger. This was part training and skill, part calculation. He’d needed that reputation, so he’d chosen his fights carefully, just as he’d chosen the events he participated in at All-Clans. His father had been a hundred and thirty when he was born—such a late-come babe he’d been! But much cherished, and desperately needed.

  His father had lost three sons by then. A bullet took one. Another was killed in Challenge. The third, they had always believed, fell to a Leidolf assassin, though there was no proof. Isen had grown up knowing he would have his father for only a short time, and that he’d be taking up the mantle while still young.

  Those youthful battles were long ago, but his strengths remained the same. He was an exceptionally fast healer, a quality enhanced by the mantle. He could take a lot of damage and keep fighting. He possessed both strength and endurance—not as much as he once had, true, but above average. And he fought best as wolf.

  This was not as common as it might be. Young lupi fought and trained in wolf-form, certainly, but they either fought instinctively, or they were defeated. A wolf’s instincts for battle were excellent, and if the man attempted to control the wolf instead of relying on him, it interfered with his reactions. But there were useful moves that wolves did not instinctively use, and lupi who fought purely on instinct missed opportunities to use them. This was where age aided Isen. It took many years and a great deal of training to seamlessly blend the two natures in a battle, combining a wolf’s instincts with a man’s canniness.

  Isen had only one real weakness. He lacked speed. He always had.

  That, alas, had only become truer with age. No matter how clever and canny the fighter, if he was too much slower than his opponent, he would get bloodied. Look at how well Seabourne had done against Benedict today. Benedict was twenty times the fighter Seabourne was—but Seabourne was ungodly fast, and smart enough to rely wholly on his speed. From what Isen had bee
n told, Seabourne had done his damnedest not to close with Benedict.

  And still the super-quick Seabourne had ended up concussed. It was a cheering thought.

  Not that Isen was in the same league as Benedict. No one was. His oldest son had it all—speed, agility, strength, healing, training, instinct, control, guts. Isen doubted there had been such a fighter in a thousand years. That was sheer speculation, of course, as there was no way to pit Benedict against, say, Armand, who had been legendary among the clans in the sixteenth century.

  But it was good to remember that speed didn’t always win. And Javier, thankfully, was no Benedict.

  Just young. And fast. And probably lacking Isen’s desire to spare his opponent’s life.

  Ah, well. Too much thinking, according to his wolf. Isen smiled and settled himself to wait, but underneath, his wolf was excited and eager. It had been a long time.

  “THE wind’s chilly,” Benedict said, tucking Arjenie’s jacket closer around her. “Are you sure you’re warm enough?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’d better get those kneepads on you, then.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I’d be pleased if you allowed me to do this for you.”

  Her smile flickered like a lightbulb with a poor connection. “That’s not exactly asking, but you’re doing much better. All right.” She handed him the kneepads.

  They were in the state lands that butted up against Friar’s land—and one corner of Clanhome. That afternoon, Cynna had gone back out to try and Find Brian again, searching close to the underground node. She’d failed in that, but reported that she also couldn’t Find the node. Three possible reasons for that, she’d said. One, it could have closed. That was rare, but possible. Two, she might not be strong enough. Dirt and stone usually didn’t block her Gift, but large amounts of quartz could. Three, the node could be warded in some way she’d never encountered before.