by Eileen Wilks
“I didn’t know that.” Surprise echoed in his brother’s voice, then warmth. “Thank you.”
Had he spoken to Rule about Claire at all? Very little, he realized, and Rule’s memories of her would be limited. She hadn’t stayed at Clanhome much, and she’d died when Rule was eleven. “You didn’t call me about this.”
“No. First I need to let you know that the heirs’ circle will take place in San Diego, not St. Paul. Isen has what few details we’ve hashed out.”
Surprised, Benedict asked, “How did you pull that off?”
“I didn’t. Edgar called and suggested it. Lily still means to attend.”
“You dislike that.”
“Immensely. She’s right, however, and she should be as safe within a circle as she could be anywhere but the heart of Clanhome. We await Nettie’s opinion on whether she’s up to it, physically.”
Benedict understood. The other clans had accepted a major tactical deficit when they agreed to allow the circle to take place in Nokolai’s territory. Lily’s presence was more important than ever, the one solid assurance the others had that Nokolai wouldn’t take advantage of the changed venue.
“I also called you because I’m trying to decide if there’s a connection between the attack on Lily and your visitor.”
Benedict glanced at the door he’d left ajar. The shower still ran. “The connection is Friar. She was on his land, and he’s responsible for the attack—either directly by ordering it, or indirectly by inspiring some random nutcase.”
“Do you think the attack was carried out by a random nutcase?”
“Could have been. Doesn’t mean it was. It would have to be a pair of nutcases, for one thing. One to drive and one to shoot. What do the police say?”
Rule growled in frustration. “Neither they nor the FBI office here will tell me anything. They’re too busy marking their territory and trying to keep the other side—which ought to be the same side, dammit—from learning anything.”
“The Unit isn’t handling the investigation?”
“The killer used bullets, not magic, so the Unit lacks jurisdiction. If Ruben were in charge … but he isn’t, and that, too, may be intentional. The healer Nettie sent believes that Ruben’s heart attack was caused by magic.”
Benedict’s eyebrows lifted. “That makes the nutcase theory a lot less likely. Sounds more like an organized effort against the Unit.”
“To me, also. So far the Unit’s coven hasn’t been able to confirm the healer’s claim about the use of magic. And the person who could find out for sure was nearly killed last night.”
Lily, in other words. “I’m not a big believer in coincidence. It happens, but I’d suggest you proceed on the assumption that she’s still in danger.”
“I am,” Rule said grimly. “Have you learned anything more about your visitor?”
“She knows too much about us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Little things, mostly. I wondered if she might be clan-descended—the daughter of one of our daughters, maybe, who’d heard stories from her grandmother. Our daughters are taught to be careful about what they reveal, but they do pass on stories. However, I didn’t find her in the database. She could be there under another name, but—” The shower water cut off. “I can’t talk freely anymore.”
“All right. Benedict, I know you’re even less likely to want to talk out your feelings than my nadia, which means that normally you’d rather take a dip in boiling oil. But this is not a normal time for you. If a talk-it-out fit should overtake you, I’m here. I listen fairly well.”
Benedict surprised himself by smiling. “You’re a diplomatic son of a bitch. I’ll remember your offer.”
“T’eius ven, brother.”
“T’eius ven.” Benedict ended the call. Talking to Rule had been good. It had helped. Even though they hadn’t spoken directly of the source of Benedict’s fear, it had hung there between them. Somehow Rule had made that okay.
One more reason his father had chosen wisely when he made Rule his heir. Benedict didn’t belittle himself or his abilities, but he was incapable of managing people the way Rule did … though maybe manage wasn’t the right word. That implied manipulation and power, while Rule drew more on empathy and an innate understanding of what to say, when to say it. He didn’t shove.
Benedict was good at shoving, not so good at talking.
The bathroom door opened. Arjenie stood in the doorway, frowning and smelling of soap and wet hair and her own, heady scent. She must have washed away the last of the potion. Benedict’s nostrils flared as he drank her in.
She frowned as she ran her fingers through the wet, cork-screwy mass she’d pulled over her shoulder. It made a damp spot on her shirt over the swell of her left breast. “I could have sworn I locked this door.”
“I popped the lock while you were in the shower. I needed to be sure I’d hear if you decided to go out the window.”
The frown remained. “I have a strong sense of privacy. I don’t like having that intruded upon.”
“Understandable. But I’m responsible for the Rho’s safety, and you haven’t told us anything to explain your presence here.”
She considered that, then nodded. “I suppose that’s reasonable, from your point of view. I hope you don’t mind my using your shampoo and soap. I didn’t see a comb, or I would have borrowed that, too. I was wondering if you got my purse out of the car. There’s a pick in it, and picks work better on curly hair than a brush, because they don’t frizz it up so much. Do you know what a pick is? It looks like—”
“It’s on top of the bureau in your room, along with a few other things from your purse.” The ones Seabourne had had time to check out to be sure they had no magical function.
“It is? Oh, good. I didn’t notice.” She started limping down the hall. She wasn’t leaning on the cane as heavily as she had last night. Good.
He followed. “You wanted a snack.”
“I really do. I still need to call my aunt, too.”
“You have three voice mails on your phone. One is from a woman named Robin. Is that your aunt? She wants you to call her immediately.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “You listened to my voice mail?”
She was so indignant he had to smile. Being caught had scared her, but she’d gotten over that fast. Being coerced into remaining here struck her as reasonable. She peppered him with questions, avoided answering his, and apologized for using the shampoo without asking first.
But listening to her voice mail? That riled her. “I also read your e-mail. A Nigerian official has a deal you won’t want to pass up. You can call your aunt.” He handed her his phone.
“This isn’t my phone.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ll need it back. I’ll be listening while you speak with your aunt, so you want to be careful with what you say.” He’d be able to hear both sides of that conversation, too, which she probably didn’t realize.
She gave him a dirty look and touched the screen, then turned around and limped toward her room. “Maybe I’ll read your e-mail.”
“I’ll have to take the phone away if you try.”
“It’s intensely annoying when someone who’s stronger than you uses his strength to get his way.”
“I imagine it is. Are you going to call?” He was close enough to watch over her shoulder and see what number she used.
She sniffed and used her thumb to tap in the number of the Robin who’d called earlier.
A man answered. “Hey. You got me. Now what?”
“Hi, Uncle Clay, it’s Arjenie. I’m using a friend’s phone. Is Aunt Robin there?”
“Are you okay? Robin’s been having tingles.”
“I’m fine. Well, I sprained my ankle, but there’s nothing new about that.”
“What happened? Or what is happening, because—okay, okay.” The last was fainter, as if he’d spoken to someone else. “Hang on. Your aunt is a grabby, greedy woman. I have to pass her
the phone.” A second later a woman’s voice took over. “Arjenie? What’s wrong? And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because I know there’s something.”
“It’s complicated, but I’m getting things sorted out. Don’t worry.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“I can’t tell you anything else right now. Oh, but guess what? Part of the sorting out means that I was invited to stay with the Nokolai Rho.” At the door of her room she paused to shoot Benedict a glance gleaming with purpose and a hint of humor. The purpose he understood. She’d made sure her people knew where she was, just in case Isen started talking about bodies again. That was smart. The humor?
Maybe she didn’t really believe she needed to protect herself that way. Which was not so smart. She had no reason to trust him.
“You’re what?” her aunt exclaimed.
“Staying with their Rho for a few days. Reception’s spotty—you know that their clanhome is in the mountains, right?—plus my phone’s acting up. If you have trouble reaching me, don’t worry. I’ll check in with you every day.”
Another smart move. She’d made sure he knew her aunt would expect a call every day.
“Why are staying there?” Aunt Robin didn’t sound panicked, but she wasn’t comforted, either. “You don’t know this Rho, do you? Does this have anything to do with—”
“I really can’t talk about it,” Arjenie said firmly. “Did Serri and Sammy make it down for the weekend?”
Serri and Sammy were apparently in college, but came home regularly. Serri had a new boyfriend. Sammy had aced his calculus test, but was considering changing his major. After that, the conversation veered to a piece of equipment her uncle had acquired—a swage block. Benedict had heard the term, but couldn’t remember what it was.
While he listened, Benedict noticed Carl crossing the den and motioned to him. Arjenie needed food. She didn’t seem to notice Carl coming, leaving, then returning. She sat on the bed running that pick thing through her damp hair and chatting with her aunt for fifteen minutes, sounding as relaxed as if she were on vacation. “I’d better go,” she said finally. “Supper’s almost ready, I think. Blessed be.”
“All right, but don’t think I didn’t notice how little you’ve told me. All that silence is not reassuring. Blessed be, sweetie.”
Arjenie frowned as she disconnected. “She’ll worry. I can’t keep her from worrying, but at least she won’t get the cops to look for me.”
She certainly was keen on keeping the police out of her affairs. “Is your aunt a precog?”
“No, she’s a Finder, which shouldn’t give her the least hint of second sight, but she always knows when one of us is in trouble. She gets tingles.”
“Your uncle’s a blacksmith.” He’d finally remembered who used swage blocks.
“Uh-huh. He’s begun to get a name for his sculpture, too, but the blacksmithing is still his bread-and-butter work.”
“And your aunt’s a Wiccan.” As was she, most likely. She wore the Wiccan star on one hand.
“We all are. The whole family, I mean, going back forever on my uncle’s side. Though he isn’t my uncle by blood, so I can’t claim that heritage, but on my aunt’s side we’ve been Wiccan for at least five generations. It gets murky if you go back farther, because my great-great-great-grandmother was adopted after a flood killed her parents—the Great Flood in Galveston, have you heard of it? She was quite young when it happened and we don’t know much about her original parents, but we think they must have been Wiccan because her adoptive parents weren’t, yet she was, and that just never happened back then. Converting to Wicca, I mean. Is that a trail bar you’re holding?”
He smiled. “Two. Here.”
“Oh, good.” She ripped one open and devoured it in several neat bites. Then she opened the second one. She ate it more slowly, and she asked questions. Did it hurt to Change? How often did he do it? What colors did he see as a wolf? Was his vision different? Why wasn’t he asking her any questions?
He was leaving that to his father, and so he told her. Then, of course, she wanted to know why. He preferred not to lie to her, but he also preferred not to tell her precisely why he wanted to wait, so he alluded vaguely to the fact that they would be joined at supper by Cullen Seabourne.
“And his wife?” she’d asked quickly.
His eyebrows flew up. “You know a great deal about Seabourne.”
“Never mind that for now. Will his wife be joining us?”
“I haven’t been told.” Technically true, but he was sure she wouldn’t be. Cynna was staying with the Rhej for a few days. It had something to do with her apprenticeship and the memories, though Benedict knew nothing more than that. No one did, save the Rhej and her apprentice.
Arjenie bit her lip, then nodded once as if agreeing with herself. “I think I will tell you some things, but not yet. You’re right. I need to speak with your father. He’s the one who decides.”
NINETEEN
THE one who decides joined them on the rear deck twenty minutes later. Seabourne hadn’t arrived yet. That wasn’t due to his usual rudeness; he’d warned them that making the charm was tricky and might delay him. But it was a pain. Benedict needed to talk with his Rho, but couldn’t do so privately until Seabourne took over guard duty.
He wanted to discuss the attack on Lily and the news Rule had passed on about Ruben Brooks’s heart attack. That was the most important. Less important—probably—was another example of Arjenie’s oddly detailed knowledge about them. When she said she needed to speak with the Rho, she’d called him Benedict’s father. She shouldn’t have known that. Few outside the clans did.
The deck was Benedict’s favorite part of the house. There were two levels. The lower level, next to the house, was roofed; the upper level was smaller and open to the sky. Benedict had helped his father build the stone retaining wall that separated the two. They would eat on the lower deck, where there were lights enough for their human guest, but for now they sat on the upper deck. Isen liked the view.
Benedict did, too. The sky was putting on a show. Twilight shimmered in the east while the western sky glowed golden, and Venus hung, sparkling, near the top of the old loblolly that lightning hadn’t managed to kill five years ago. The air was dry and calm, perfumed by pine and creosote as well as Carl’s lasagna. It was probably around seventy-five degrees, a comfortable temperature for humans.
Not that Arjenie was wholly human. How did she experience temperature? Where did she differ from human? Where was she the same?
Arjenie loved the deck. She loved the landscaping around it, and the way the tended parts blended into the wildness around them. She didn’t love the cabernet sauvignon Isen poured for her—an elegant vintage, a real treat for the nose—but she pretended politely.
Pretense turned to curiosity when she learned the wine came from Nokolai’s own vineyard. She and Isen chatted away happily about wine-making. She knew more about that than most laymen—certainly more than he’d expect from someone who didn’t drink the stuff.
She wasn’t afraid of Isen anymore. Benedict knew that was his Rho’s intention, just as last night he’d meant to terrify her. Today he wanted her to relax her guard, and Isen could be very charming indeed when he wished. But her comfort seemed innate as well. She was like a wolf in that way, Benedict decided as he sipped his wine and listened to his father charm his Chosen. She was good at taking whatever the moment offered. Once she’d determined there was no immediate threat, fear became irrelevant.
Or else his perceptions were entirely distorted by the mate bond, and she was a supremely confident and powerful actress who hoped to charm Isen into letting his guard down.
If so, she was out of luck. No one could charm Isen to that degree.
She smelled so good.
“I would love to see it,” she said in response to Isen’s invitation to tour Nokolai’s winery. “Which sort of leads into something else I want to talk about. How long do you plan to keep me
here?”
“We aren’t keeping you,” Isen protested mildly. “We are simply—”
“—planning to call the cops if I leave. Right. I understand why you—no, I take that back. I understand why you’re suspicious. I don’t understand why you haven’t just called the cops. I’m glad you didn’t, because that would create problems for me and could endanger someone else, but I don’t understand why. It makes me think there’s something you know that I don’t.”
“Hmm.” Isen studied the wine in his glass, gave it a swirl to release the aroma, and sipped. “Yes, you could say that. It isn’t something I’m prepared to talk about now.”
She nodded solemnly. “And I’m unable to talk about the potions. At least, I did tell Benedict about one of them—the one that removed my scent—but I can’t discuss the other one. Not in any helpful way.” She stopped, tipped her head, and looked at Benedict. “How come you’re so quiet? You’ve hardly said a word since we came outside. Are you deferring to your Rho or just moody?”
Isen gave a sharp crack of a laugh.
His father found that amusing, did he? “I’m not very talkative.”
“You note that he doesn’t deny being moody,” Isen said.
“Quiet doesn’t necessarily mean moody … but I’m getting off-subject.” Yet still she looked at Benedict. In this light, her skin was luminous, so pale it almost glowed. Her eyes were more gray than green or blue, and her expression was pure librarian. A librarian confronted with a book she didn’t know how to shelve. Apparently he didn’t fit the Dewey Decimal System.
After a moment she gave her head a small shake and spoke to Isen again. “I’d like to make a deal.”
Isen smiled like the charming wolf he was. “What kind of deal?”