by Eileen Wilks
“I had been thinking of her more as a prisoner. Her name is Arjenie Fox.”
“Benedict disapproves of my answering the door when you might have confederates lurking about somewhere,” the bulky shadow explained. “You haven’t come here to kill me, I hope?”
“Oh, no,” she assured him. “That is, I didn’t come here to kill anyone. I think you’re Isen Turner?”
“I am. And I am pleased to meet you, Ms. Fox. Do come in. Or rather, Benedict, put her down so she can come in.”
“She injured her ankle last night,” his son said. “She needs to stay off it as much as possible. I don’t know what her other physical liability is. She’s been unwilling to tell me.”
“Because it isn’t any of your business,” she said, exasperated. Really, she wished he’d stop harping on that.
“Hmm. Well, bring her to my study, then,” Isen Turner said. “I regret the lack of light, Ms. Fox, but the study is an interior room, so we’ll be able to turn on a light there.”
The darkened house was a security measure, then. Arjenie was relieved to learn that, because it meant they weren’t doing it just to intimidate her. “I’d appreciate that,” she told him politely. “But I could walk on my own if that guard—Shannon?—if he hadn’t gone off somewhere with my cane.”
“I’ll see that it’s returned to you. Now—”
“She needs food,” Benedict said. “I’ll explain in a moment, but she needs food.”
“Ah. Carl,” the shadow said without raising his voice, “put together a sandwich or two for our guest, please.” With that, he moved away from the door, and Benedict moved forward.
Her eyes adjusted quickly once Benedict crossed the threshold, but she didn’t see Carl. She did see Isen Turner’s broad back heading down a wide entry hall. She also saw an ornate console table with a cello propped up against the wall beside it, and two doors, one open and one closed, both on the right. There was another door on the left. After about twenty feet, the entry hall opened into a room at the back of the house. Moonlight flooded in from that end, admitted by a large picture window.
Isen Turner opened the door on the left. Benedict followed, and as soon as they were both inside, his father shut the door and turned on a light. She blinked at the sudden brightness.
Isen Turner’s study was square and windowless and covered with books. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling along every wall, and every shelf was full of books—paperbacks, hardcovers, oversize tomes.
“What a wonderful room!”
“Thank you.” Isen Turner stood beside one of the four comfy leather chairs arranged in a circle in the center of the room. He was a comfortable-looking man, she thought—burly and strong like her Uncle Clay, who was a blacksmith. He had a craggy face, a very short beard, and shrewd eyes. Unlike his son, he was fully dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. “Please have a seat.”
“He doesn’t have reins, so I can’t steer—oh, thank you,” she said as Benedict placed her in one of the chairs. He didn’t sit down himself, but remained standing behind her chair. “Could you stand somewhere else instead of hovering over me?”
“No.”
“He’s guarding me from you,” Isen Turner explained, seating himself across from her. “Benedict? Why are we feeding her?”
“She believes she’s going to pass out due to overuse of her Gift, which is a type of mind-magic that allows her to hide in plain sight. She claims that eating delays or mitigates the effects of this overuse.”
“Ah. I’d rather you didn’t pass out,” he said to Arjenie.
“Well, I’m going to, but food will help. He wouldn’t let me have my candy bar.”
“We can do better than a candy bar, I think. If you—ah, yes, Carl, come in.”
Carl wasn’t invisible after all. He was tall and lanky, with gray hair and creases in his leathery skin. He was silent, though, handing Arjenie a plate with two fat sandwiches, then leaving without saying a word.
Arjenie peeked under the bread. Roast beef with thick slices of tomato. She loved roast beef. “Thank you,” she said, and dug in.
“Report,” Isen Turner said.
Clearly and concisely, Benedict described what had alerted him to an intruder, how he’d found her, what she’d said, what he’d observed. Arjenie listened as she ate, fascinated. He finished about the same time she did, and she twisted around to look up at him. “That was well done. I’ve an excellent memory, but I’m not good at summarizing. I tend to include too many details.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “Would you care to add anything?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, turning back to face his father. “No, wait, I think there’s one thing you should know. Robert Friar is clairaudient. Can I call my aunt now?”
Isen Turner’s eyebrows lifted. “Friar’s a Listener? And how do you know this?”
“I can’t tell you, but he’s exceptionally strong, only for some reason he can’t Listen in here at your clanhome. I really need to call my aunt.”
“And yet I have to insist that you do add a few of those details you tend to include in your summaries. I need to know what was in those vials and what you did with it.”
“Nothing that can possibly hurt you or anyone here.”
He shook his head sadly. “That’s not good enough. What if you’re wrong? What if you’re lying or misled or simply mistaken?”
She nodded. “We do have a problem. I can see why you can’t take me at my word, but I can’t tell you any more than I already have.”
“There’s a difference between can’t and won’t.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees—and everything about him changed. “I’m going to have to help you find that difference.”
Arjenie flinched back in the chair, eyes wide. It wasn’t the words, it was the way he looked—implacable, unreachable. As if he would do anything necessary to make her answer his questions. Anything. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I know the difference, and I can’t.”
“You were at our enemy’s house last night,” he said in that cast-iron voice. “You show up here tonight, playing mind tricks on my people and armed with some sort of potions. You will tell me why.”
Oh, this was not going to be pleasant. She pressed her lips together.
“You realize I have complete control of what happens to you, don’t you? It’s not hard to make a body disappear in the mountains.”
“B-Benedict?” she whispered—then wondered why she’d done that. He would be on his father’s side. On his clan’s side, and he had no reason to think she’d come here to save them, not harm them, and she couldn’t explain.
“I’m here,” he said from behind her. And then, even more tersely: “Isen.”
Isen Turner’s gaze flicked up to meet his son’s eyes—then locked on as if magnetized. One heartbeat, two, three …
A knock on the door interrupted their staring contest.
“Come in,” the Rho said.
The door on Arjenie’s left opened. Automatically she looked to see who was here—and did some staring of her own.
She’d seen a lot of bare male chests tonight, a lot of hunky men wearing not much, and a few wearing nothing at all. But this man … oh, my. His spicy brown hair was shaggy and disheveled. He needed a shave. He was scowling. He was oh-my-God beautiful.
“Sorry it took me so long,” the beautiful man said, not sounding apologetic at all. “I wasn’t home, so I didn’t get word right away. What do you need?”
“What do you see?” Isen Turner said, and gestured at Arjenie.
Blue eyes locked on her like twin lasers.
This had to be Cullen Seabourne—who was a lupus and also a sorcerer. Which meant he could see …
“I don’t recognize the Gift,” he said after a moment, “but I recognize the heritage. Elf. Not pureblood, maybe not even half, but she’s part-sidhe.”
Dizziness swung through Arjenie, not in a slow tide but fast. Oscillating. Picking up speed with eac
h swing.
“Uh-oh,” she said. And passed out.
SIXTEEN
THE orthopedic surgeon was a string bean—an inch taller than Rule and at least forty pounds lighter. His brown hair was thinning on top; his eyes were that peculiar pale blue that almost vanishes next to the black of the pupils. His lips were thin and so pale that, like his irises, they nearly disappeared. He reeked of disinfectant soap with a faint undertone of tobacco. His name was Robert Stanton.
Rule disliked the man, but he was a top-flight surgeon in his field, according to Nettie, and that was what mattered.
“… recovering well from the surgery,” Stanton was saying, “but I cannot say precisely when you can be released. Certainly not until after the skin graft, and I have explained why the wound must be left open for a few days. Dr. Cummings will perform that procedure. Has he been by to speak with you?”
The back of Lily’s hospital bed was elevated so she could sit up. She looked weary and hurt and pale and pissed. “Yeah. Gold-rimmed glasses, dark skin, deep voice. Talks slow.”
The plastic surgeon had made his rounds early, arriving before seven this morning, about the same time that Rule received a call from his father. Rule hadn’t passed on the details of that call to Lily yet. First the nurse had come in with her pain medication—which Lily had only taken half of—then her surgeon had arrived.
“Er—yes,” Stanton said, “that is Dr. Cummings. You can have every confidence in him. Now, before I go I need to speak with you about your prognosis. I must caution you that it is unlikely you will regain full function of the arm.”
Lily’s head jerked back. Her eyebrows snapped down. “Why not? You said the surgery went well.”
“It did. Barring infection, I expect the bone to knit sufficiently for limited use in six to eight weeks. It doesn’t fully harden in that time, you understand. However, you lost muscle, and there was nerve damage. I do not believe the nerve damage was so extensive that you won’t see any regeneration, but such regeneration is a slow process and the extent is difficult to predict.”
“Give me a ballpark figure. Eighty percent of normal? Sixty? Ninety?”
“There is no ‘ballpark’ for these sorts of injuries. You should regain the use of the arm. If you are disciplined with your therapy, you may regain much of its function, but it will likely always be weaker than it was. I cannot say how much weaker. The difference may be acute. It may be negligible. Most likely, it will fall somewhere between those extremes.”
“Dr. Two Horses is flying in to begin treatment,” Rule said. “That will make a difference.”
“The healer.” His thin lips tightened with distaste. “Her assistance may be beneficial for the soft tissue damage. There is substantial evidence that intervention by a Gifted healer can speed recovery, but I am aware of no studies showing that such intervention results in greater nerve regeneration than would occur naturally. However, it is unlikely that Dr. Two Horses’s treatments would cause any harm, so I have no objection.”
“What a relief,” Lily muttered. “You can go away now.”
Stanton frowned. “Have you spoken with someone from Physical Therapy? We have an excellent facility here, with—”
“I live in San Diego, so I’ll be disciplined with my therapy there.”
The surgeon should have remembered that Lily wasn’t local, but he didn’t really see her—he saw a medical condition. No doubt he often found the humanity of his patients inconvenient. Primly he said, “I am not acquainted with San Diego’s therapeutic facilities.”
“Dr. Two Horses is.” Rule moved forward to usher the man out. “She’ll be in touch with you when she arrives, I’m sure. Thank you for your skill and your time, Doctor.” And now, as Lily said, go away.
Stanton’s head moved about a centimeter in a nod. “Good day, then.”
“He doesn’t approve of Nettie, does he?” Lily said once Rule closed the door behind the surgeon. “Hard to have much confidence in him when he’s an idiot.”
“I suspect he doesn’t approve of anything outside his own skill set, and he’s suspicious of anything not connected to him in some way. Like San Diego.” Rule took a moment before he turned to face her, schooling his expression. At least he didn’t have to worry about her smelling his fear. “He’s not convinced we have any therapists, much less decent facilities for them to use.”
Lily’s smile was brief and abstracted. Her eyes were shadowed; her gaze distant. Her arm … her poor arm. It was supported by a sling, a padded contraption with straps. They couldn’t cast it, not with unhealed wounds.
Lily had “an open, comminuted diaphyseal fracture of the humerus.” Translated, that meant multiple breaks in the shaft of the bone combined with an open wound—the messy exit the bullet had made as it blew out the front of her biceps. Because bone has a poorer blood supply than the soft tissue around it, infection was a worry. Less blood meant fewer immune cells delivered to the wound site. That’s why they wouldn’t do the skin graft over the exit wound yet. They wanted to be sure there was no infection before closing things up.
People kept saying she was lucky. There was no significant vascular damage, no joint damage, and the surgeon had been able to use internal fixation—in other words, he’d nailed the bone back together inside her arm instead of using an external rod with pins or screws that impaled skin and bone alike to hold the pieces together. And yes, Rule supposed that was luck of a sort.
But now the surgeon said she wouldn’t regain full function. The horror of permanent, unhealed damage … Rule couldn’t get his mind around that. It was something he’d never face. If a lupus didn’t die from a wound, he healed completely.
And there was nothing, not one damned thing, he could do about it. She was human, and he … he was useless. “Nettie will help the healing more than the good doctor realizes. The mate bond will make a difference, too.”
His words had no impact on her abstracted expression. “You’ve suggested that before—that the mate bond may be giving a boost to my immune system.”
“It helps with healing, period. We don’t know how much, but it will help.” If only he could will the bond to steal some of his healing and give it to her! “Are you ready for your other pain pill?” She’d taken one; the other was still in its little paper cup.
“Not yet.” Her gaze tightened, focusing on him. “You need to go get some rest. Crash at the hotel awhile. You didn’t sleep much.”
He hadn’t slept at all. How could he? “I’m fine. I’m not leaving.”
“At least go get some breakfast. The chips you got from a vending machine when I was eating my yummy broth won’t carry you.”
He smiled. “Soon. Not yet.”
Her mouth tipped wryly. She held out her hand. Her left hand.
He moved close and wrapped his hand around hers. For a few moments neither of them spoke.
Rule noticed the sorrow first … a deep, gray sorrow, like being wrapped in rain clouds that held no lightning or thunder. Only grief, gray and formless. Grief for Lily’s hurt. Grief for a tall man with café au lait skin and a smile that would not be seen again on this earth.
After a moment he also noticed that he was hungry. Too hungry, considering where he was. He gave in. “You’re right. I need to eat. Would you object to having Jeff in your room while I’m gone?”
“Yes.” Her gaze sharpened. “Don’t tell me he’s here.”
“Of course he’s here. He’s guarding your door. Alex is sending more guards, but until they arrive—”
“Wait, wait. I don’t want guards.”
His hand tightened on hers. “You’ll have them whether you want them or not. Someone wants to kill you. They damned near succeeded.”
“They killed LeBron. They killed him instead of me. I hate it. I hate it. I won’t have guards.”
All sorts of things rose up in Rule’s mind—orders, reasons, arguments … words. All sorts of words that would explain and persuade. The words wanted to burst out, wrap
themselves around her, protect her.
His wolf wouldn’t let them. Wait, the wolf commanded, looking through the man’s eyes at the woman he loved beyond words or reasons. He saw such grief in her face, such pain. Saw, too, that she was fighting that pain. His words wouldn’t help. They would only give her more to fight against.
He waited.
The breath she drew broke in the middle. “I resented them. LeBron and Jeff and all the rest. Not them personally, but I resented them always being around. I thought I was being so reasonable by bringing him with me on my run. I was following the rules, wasn’t I? I didn’t want him there, but because I was so damned reasonable I let him tag along. And he died. I didn’t have to go running, but I did, and he died. He died saving me.”
Ah … Rule wanted to gather her close and croon to her. She hadn’t grown up, as he had, knowing that others would die to protect him. Or because he sent them to fight the clan’s enemies. Or because he simply made a mistake. She didn’t know how to accept that, how to honor such choices. She was the one who defended others. How could she allow others to risk themselves for her?
Lily’s childhood had broken apart when she and a friend were taken by a twisted man—or a thing that walked and looked like a man. Her friend hadn’t survived. Lily had, and she’d knit those broken pieces back together by growing into a warrior, one who fought for others, for justice. Most of all, one who fought the monsters in whatever form they took.
Time, now, for words, but carefully. Carefully. “LeBron couldn’t stop the monster who wanted you dead. There wasn’t time. The best he could do was to deny that monster his target. He succeeded. Will you deny him the honor of his victory?”
“It isn’t … I don’t …” She stopped. Swallowed. “I need to do something,” she whispered. “I don’t know what, but I need to do something.”