by Eileen Wilks
“You want to know things about me. I want to be free to leave by Monday with no more threats of prosecution or anything like that. “
“Why Monday?”
“I’m expected back at work Tuesday.”
“You would trust me to honor our deal?”
“We’d be trusting each other, wouldn’t we? That’s how deals work. You’d have to trust me to answer honestly. I’d have to trust you to abandon your coercion. Um … I’d have to ask for one more stipulation.”
“And what is that?”
“You recall that I said Robert Friar is clairaudient? I’d like your promise not to talk about what I tell you except here at Clanhome, where he can’t Listen. It’s extremely important.”
“I’m no fan of Friar, yet I can’t promise what you ask. My people consider a promise binding in an absolute sense. There is no wiggle room for changed circumstances, so flexibility must be built into the agreement at the start.”
“We can build in some wiggle room. What did you have in mind?”
They haggled. Benedict listened with a certain intellectual interest. His father was very good at this sort of thing, but his Chosen seemed to have a good grasp of it, too. He wondered if her long shower had been a way of buying herself some thinking time. She seemed to have put some thought into this already.
They’d just about hashed out the wording when Benedict heard someone yip twice out front. He recognized the voice, but still listened intently for a moment. There was no challenge, so he relaxed … mostly. Absolute safety was an illusion.
“One more thing,” Isen added casually. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem with this. I’d like you to wear a little truth charm while you’re here.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows drew down. “I don’t object, precisely, but … no, I might as well tell you. I doubt very much it will work.”
“Is that so?” Cullen Seabourne vaulted up onto the deck.
She jerked around. “Oh, my, you startled me!”
Seabourne had unusually vivid blue eyes. When he was on the trail of some magical mystery, they almost glowed. They were afire now. “Burning out truth charms—that’s a gnomish trait. You don’t look like you have any gnome blood.”
“I don’t, but I’m pretty sure I’ll burn it out. I don’t do it on purpose.” Arjenie shrugged. “It just happens. I don’t know how many of them we’ve tried, hoping to figure out what was going on, but we never did.” Her face lit up. “I know! If your truth charm does work on me, we’ll make it part of the deal that you tell me how you made it. That is, assuming you’re the maker?”
“I am.” Seabourne came closer. “Are you hoping to learn how to block it?”
“No, I’m hoping to learn more about my Gift. If I found a truth charm I didn’t burn out, I’d want to know why, wouldn’t I? Maybe that would explain why I do burn out the others. It’s only natural I’d want to learn more about how my Gift works.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You don’t know?”
“I know some things, but there are these huge gaps. I’m the only one with such a Gift in our realm, you see. I understand it’s rare even in the sidhe realms, except for … I think I’ll stop talking now. We haven’t agreed on a deal.”
“If you wish to learn how Cullen makes his charms,” Isen said, “you’ll have to make a separate deal with him. Otherwise, yes, I think we have a deal. While you’re our guest, you’ll answer our questions fully and honestly, save any that impinge on the subject you say you can’t discuss. You won’t lie about those, but you are free of the obligation to answer. You’ll remain our guest until Monday, and you’ll wear the truth charm unless you, ah, burn it out. In return, I and those under my authority won’t report or seek retribution or prosecution for your trespass, and we’ll only speak of what you tell us here at Clanhome unless we have a clear and compelling reason to disregard that stipulation.”
“I’m not entirely happy about the exemption.” She considered a moment. “Let’s make it unless you learn I lied to or substantially misled you, or there is a clear and compelling danger that might be prevented through disclosure.”
Was his Chosen a lawyer? Benedict was beginning to wonder.
“Agreed.” Isen held out his hand.
“Agreed,” Arjenie said firmly, and took Isen’s hand. They shook.
“And here,” Seabourne said, pulling something from his pocket, “is your new adornment.” A small silver disk attached to a silver chain dangled from his fingers. Benedict didn’t know much about charms, but he knew silver was magically active. “Shall I do the honors?”
“No,” Benedict said, and stepped up, holding out his hand. “I will.”
Seabourne’s eyebrows shot up. For once, though, he didn’t comment, allowing the necklace to drop into Benedict’s palm.
He probably thought Benedict had a good reason to do it himself. He’d be wrong. Sheer insanity wasn’t a good reason. Having begun, though, Benedict followed through, moving behind her. He looped it over her neck and paused. “Hair.”
Obligingly she gathered her hair in both hands—so much hair, frenetically curling and smelling of almonds from the shampoo—and held it up off her nape. He drew the chain around her neck and bent his head and inhaled slowly. Her scent filled him, settled him, excited him. He thought of moving her shirt aside so he could touch the pale skin of one shoulder. Of running his hands under her shirt and up her back, or just laying them flat on her waist and pulling her close. It was stupid to tease himself like this. Wrong to tease her. But he let the sides of his hands skim the skin at her nape lightly as he fastened the little chain.
She shivered.
“Done.” The effort to sound normal flattened his voice. He stepped back.
The chain was short. The silver disk rested against her skin just below the graceful indention at the base of her throat. As far as Benedict could tell, nothing happened.
“Damn.” Seabourne shook his head. “Can’t say you didn’t warn me.”
Isen spoke. “Does that mean it burned out, like she said?”
“Whiffed out within a couple seconds of touching her skin. If I’d known she had a habit of burning them out …” He frowned. “Do you feel anything when it happens?”
“Warmth. It’s still kind of warm, see?” She held out the charm. Seabourne took in between his fingers, rubbing it. “Hmm. Maybe if we try—”
“Try later,” Isen said. “Carl has brought out the lasagna. Let’s eat.”
* * *
CARL often ate with the Rho, but he didn’t join them tonight. Not that he’d go hungry. If Arjenie thought it was odd that a large square of lasagna was missing from the pan, she didn’t say so. “That smells desperately delicious,” she said as Isen held her chair for her.
Carl was the Rho’s houseman. He cooked and cleaned and—once in a long while—he spoke. He’d passed the century mark two decades ago and had been houseman to Is-en’s father as well, and his lasagna was, indeed, desperately delicious.
“Carl is a gifted man.” Isen accepted the bread basket from Benedict, took a slice, and passed it to her. “Please help yourself to some lasagna. I was wondering … are you a reporter?”
“Oh, no.” Arjenie took two slices of buttery garlic bread.
“Do you by chance belong to some secretive organization that is interested in Robert Friar?”
She laughed. “You mean like Wiccans for Justice or something? No, the organization I belong to isn’t secret, and I’m an employee, not a member. I work for the FBI. So you can see,” she added as she levered out a large helping of lasagna, “that it would have caused me all kinds of trouble if you’d called the cops.”
Benedict had seldom seen his father even momentarily struck dumb, but Arjenie had managed that. He understood that. The FBI had not figured in any of his speculations about his Chosen, either.
“What a coincidence,” Cullen said pleasantly as he accepted the bread basket. “My wife also works for the FBI.”
&nb
sp; “Yes, and I’m really glad you haven’t mentioned me to her. Not by name, at least, or you wouldn’t be surprised now. Cynna would probably have felt obligated to tell Mr. Brooks I was here, and if she didn’t, Lily certainly would. Do you like the handwoven blanket I sent for the baby?”
Cullen stilled. “The blue and green one? It’s lovely.”
“Isn’t it? My cousin Pat is a wonderful weaver.”
Benedict spoke. “You don’t have anything in your wallet identifying you as an FBI agent.”
“I’m not an agent. I work in Research. My specialty is magic-related questions—spells, charms, historical references, anything to do with magic. I work with Unit agents a lot. Mostly it’s all handled in e-mail or over the phone, so I haven’t met everyone in person, but I know Cynna. We’ve had lunch a few times. She can vouch for me. Well, I suppose all she can vouch for is that I’m who I say I am, but that’s a start, isn’t it?” She took a bite of lasagna and hummed in pleasure. “This is really good.”
“I’m puzzled,” Isen said. “Why didn’t you tell us this immediately?”
She was politely incredulous. “I was hoping no one in the Bureau would find out, of course. Once I told you, you’d check with Cynna and Lily, and there would be repercussions, since I couldn’t tell anyone why I snuck onto your land. Believe me, as little as you like me clamming up about that, the Bureau would like it less. Then I realized you were going to find out sooner or later, because Cullen was bound to mention my name to Cynna at some point, or someone would tell Rule Turner, who’d tell Lily. Cynna might not tell Ruben Brooks right away, but I bet Lily would. So I made the best deal I could before telling you.”
Isen picked up the fresh bottle of wine Carl had left for them, already opened so it could breathe. “Are you ready for more? No?” He filled his own glass. “It’s only natural you’d be concerned with your career.”
She nodded. “I love my job. I don’t want to lose it. But there’s more at stake than that. I suspect Friar Listens to Bureau discussions sometimes. I know he Listens in on the local police. He can’t do that all the time, not even most of the time, but something really bad could happen if he were Listening at the wrong time and found out about me.”
“And how do you know this about Friar?”
She frowned and ducked her head. He could almost see the effort she put into thinking that one over. “Research,” she said at last. “I had a reason to do some research, and that’s what I put together based on Bureau records and on—on anecdotal evidence that was available to me.”
“Have we reached the subject you can’t discuss?”
She nodded unhappily.
“It might be best to start with the things you can talk about, then. But let’s enjoy our dinner first. And perhaps I will take your suggestion. It might be best to have Cynna confirm your identity.” He added a subvocal comment she wouldn’t be able to hear: “Once she can be contacted. Benedict?”
“I’d love to see her,” Arjenie said.
That wasn’t going to happen tonight. Whatever the process might be for transferring the memories, it couldn’t be interrupted. Benedict unclipped his phone, selected the camera function, and said, “Arjenie.”
She looked at him. He took three quick pictures—she smiled for the last one, the kind of automatic smile people adopt when they know they’re being photographed—and stood. “I’ll see that she gets the pictures.”
“She’s not going to join us?” Arjenie asked as Benedict left the room. “Is she all right? She isn’t due until next month, is she?”
He could hear Isen reassuring her that Cynna was fine, simply on partial bed rest, as he headed down the hall. He stepped out the front door. “Shannon.”
Shannon stepped out of the shadow of the old cedar near the corner of the house.
“I’m sending three pictures to your phone. Take it and a day’s trail rations with you to the Rhej’s. When you arrive, don’t knock or speak. Wait by the door until the Rhej or Cynna comes to see what you want. If and when Cynna is able to speak to you, show her the photos and ask who is in them. Call me with her answer. If I haven’t heard from you in twenty-four hours, I’ll send someone to relieve you.”
Shannon nodded and took out his phone. Benedict sent the photos, then waited until Shannon confirmed that he had them. He signaled for the guard to go and reentered the house.
When he returned to the rear deck, they were still talking about pregnancy. Arjenie kept quoting statistics. Apparently preeclampsia complicated between five and ten percent of pregnancies in the U.S. and resulted in between seventy thousand and eighty thousand premature births.
Interesting that she was so concerned about Cynna, Benedict thought as he sat down to eat. She hadn’t asked about Lily, who she also knew. Maybe she didn’t know about the attack?
Seabourne tried to steer the conversation to another subject, which had Arjenie patting his arm and saying of course they would talk about something else, and she was an idiot to keep harping on a subject that had to be difficult for him, and did he know that, of those eighty thousand births, the mortality rate was extremely low in this country? Just over one percent. And even in the worst-case scenario, she assured him, involving full placental separation, why, Cynna was in her third trimester, so they’d be able to deliver the baby right away with very few problems.
She was trying to reassure him. She wasn’t very good at it. Her hopeful offerings were undercut by a too-bright smile that announced her anxiety clearly.
Benedict didn’t like it. Her worry was misplaced and unnecessary. Isen should have leveled with her. “Cynna isn’t having problems with her pregnancy,” he told her, helping himself to a second serving.
“No?” Arjenie looked at him, questions flooding her eyes. “But Isen said she’s on bed rest, and—”
“She’s participating in a rite that can’t be interrupted. Isen avoided speaking of it because it’s secret.”
Relief spread over her face like sunrise. “Oh. Whew.” She grinned. “I was babbling like an idiot, wasn’t I?”
“You were worried.” Benedict realized that Isen and Seabourne were staring at him. “She’s Wiccan,” he said in explanation. “She understands that some rites aren’t spoken of.”
Seabourne cocked an eyebrow, his blue eyes bright with amusement, and subvocalized: “You just contradicted your Rho in front of an out-clan stranger who’s keeping some pretty big secrets.”
Benedict’s fork froze in midair. Yes. Yes, he had, he agreed silently as he resumed eating. But whatever else Arjenie might be, she was Lady-touched, a Chosen. His Chosen, and that gave him certain rights. Maybe he couldn’t yet bring himself to tell her about it, or even to say the words aloud when he spoke of her.
But whether she knew it or not, she was his to protect.
TWENTY
LILY’S arm ached and throbbed like a bad tooth. It did not, however, hurt enough for her to take the pills Rule was holding out. “I just woke up. I am not going back to sleep. Or in sleep. Or into a drugged stupor, or anything else resembling unconsciousness.”
Rule set the little paper cup with the pills back on the rolling table. “Pain saps the body’s strength. You’ll mend faster with it muted.”
“Mute the pain, mute the brain. I can’t think when I’m drugged. I need to think.” Ever since she’d learned about the probable traitor in the Bureau, she’d been either asleep or drugged. Mostly asleep. Maybe it had been necessary, but she’d had enough. “Caffeine has analgesic properties.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You want coffee at nine o’clock at night?”
“I would love a cup, thanks.”
He considered arguing. That was clear from his long, unblinking pause. Finally he stood, went to the door, and asked one of the guards to go to the Starbucks in the other building.
“Regular coffee’s fine,” she said. “I don’t need Starbucks.”
“Tough. I do.” He slipped the guard a bill. “Pick up soup and a sandwich,
too.”
“I’m pretty sure I ate.” She didn’t remember what now, but someone had definitely pestered her to eat.
“You ate six bites—two of the Jell-O, one of the cake, and three of the strange noodle mixture which may have had bits of chicken hiding in it somewhere.” He closed the door again.
“You counted my bites.”
“It helped me resist the urge to force-feed you.”
“I guess I’ve been a pain.” Her memories of the last twenty-four hours were fuzzy, but a few stood out. She was pretty sure she’d cursed someone out at one point. “Do I owe Nettie an apology?”
“Probably, though she understands. You hate having others make decisions for you. I do, too, but I begin to think you inherited your magical grandsire’s sense of sovereignty.”
“I’m not that bad.” But her mouth kicked up as she tried to picture Sam as a patient, obedient to nurses’ and doctors’ ideas of when he should eat, sleep, get up, lie down, or pee in a cup. The mind boggled. It was just as well dragons healed themselves, she decided. “Nettie and the surgeon don’t agree on how long my arm’s going to be unusable, but either way, I’m going to be on sick leave awhile.”
“From your perspective, that bites.” He rejoined her, but didn’t sit down.
“From yours, too, since I’ll probably be hard to live with. Sjorensen was here earlier.”
“Yes, you asked for her. Do you not remember?”
“Not clearly. I was drugged.” Did she sound aggrieved, or just whiny? “I don’t think I told her anything I shouldn’t.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I see your concern. You didn’t. You asked for her after exchanging civilities with the self-important buffoon the local FBI office put in charge of investigating the shooting.”
Now she remembered. Millhouse—that was the guy’s name. “Oh, yeah. It was him I cursed out, not Nettie. Good.”
For some reason that amused him. “You wished me to remind you to call the man’s superior. Perhaps you won’t need to, though. I spoke with Abel.”
“Abel Karonski?” Maybe her mind wasn’t working right yet, because she did not see the connection. Karonski was a Unit agent, not regular FBI. He couldn’t do anything about the local branch’s senior idiot.