by Eileen Wilks
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.”
Arjenie had sadly but successfully predicted a couple of divorces based on that kind of touching.
The couples who worried her were the ones where one partner touched and the other didn’t. Sometimes that was a power thing—a man who wanted to keep his woman physically under his thumb, and reminded her constantly with little touches. Or maybe the woman exerted control with constant, vaguely sexual touches. And sometimes, sadly, one partner was simply indifferent.
New couples touched more often than established ones, of course, and it meant less. Sex was a form of intimacy, but it said little about long-term prospects. And admittedly, a few established couples defied the touch rule. But most of the time, Arjenie’s touch-counting gave her a pretty good idea of how a couple was doing.
Not that it was any of her business, of course. Which was another reason not to mention her touch-counting.
Benedict leaned close enough that his arm brushed hers. Heat swept through her and she forgot about anyone else’s touches.
“You’re staring,” he rumbled very softly. “And you look gooey. Do you have a crush on Rule? Or maybe on Lily?’
“On … oh!” She flushed, ducked her head, and grinned inside the privacy o
f the curtain formed by her hair. “No. No, I’m just nosy, and they’re so sweet together. I’m about an eighty on the hetero scale. Maybe eighty-five. I gave it a try in college, because you can’t really know otherwise, can you? And there was this sweet lesbian girl who wanted to date me, but we never got past a kiss or two. I’m just not turned on by breasts, even real pretty ones.”
Dead silence. She tilted her head to look at him. “You’re shocked. I didn’t think lupi got shocked.”
“Surprised,” he said dryly. “I expected to fluster or annoy you.”
“I’m Wiccan. I fluster about lots of things, but sex isn’t one of them. Why did you want me flustered or annoyed?”
His mouth turned wry. “The same reason I would have pulled your hair a few decades ago. Or turned cartwheels, or lifted something impressively heavy.”
“You want my attention.” Delighted, she propped her chin on one hand, elbow on the table, so she could look straight at him. “Okay. You’ve got it.”
He hesitated. “I think I’m flustered.”
That made her laugh.
At the head of the table, Isen tapped the coffeepot on the table like a gavel. “There’s a couple cups left. Anyone want some before we give Lily the floor? Unless I’m mistaken, she’s ready to get us all lined up.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lily said wryly, “but I’ve got my own thinking lined up. I’ve got a couple of ideas to share and some questions.”
For some reason that made everyone chuckle or grin. Everyone but Arjenie. There were much more important things going on than a bit of flirtation … but she’d wanted the flirtation.
“Okay,” Lily said. “Three topics up for discussion: the Great Bitch, Friar, and Arjenie. First question.” She looked at Isen. “Are we speaking openly about her and related matters? Arjenie isn’t clan.”
“We are.” Isen’s smile was placid. “With one exception.” His gaze flicked to Benedict so fast Arjenie wasn’t sure that’s who he’d indicated—until Lily looked at Benedict, too. She didn’t speak, just raised her eyebrows.
“Not yet,” he said. His voice was level. Was she imagining it was also grim?
Lily looked at Arjenie next. “Have they told you about her?”
“I don’t know what her you mean.”
“That means they haven’t. I’ll give you … let’s call it the cover blurb of the CliffsNotes version. You can ask questions later. When lupi refer to her—sometimes known as the Great Bitch, though that’s unfair to female dogs—they mean the Old One they were created to oppose. We don’t use her name, any of her names, because she’s reputed to be able to hear it. She is powerful beyond our understanding, so it’s a good thing she can’t reach into our realm directly. For something around three thousand years she’s been penned up, or weakened, or busy elsewhere. We don’t know, but she hasn’t been meddling here. Until last year. She was behind the hellgate the Azá tried to open. You’ll know about that. She also tried to send me to hell, and partly succeeded—”
“What?” Arjenie exclaimed. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t hear or read anything about it, and you won’t. Ruben knows the story, but it’s not in the Bureau’s files. She suffered a setback there, but we have reason to think she may have made one of the lords of hell into her avatar.”
Arjenie’s heart beat too fast. Her mouth was dry. In a small voice she said, “Old Ones are real? And this one …” She looked at Isen. “This is who you think is behind the attacks on Ruben and Lily?”
He smiled gently. “Oh, yes.”
Lily looked at her again. “You’ll have questions. I’m asking you to hold them for later. You said Friar can’t Listen here at Clanhome.”
Baffled, Arjenie nodded.
Lily looked at Isen. “That’s why you’re convinced she’s involved, isn’t it?”
He spread his hands. “I can think of no other reason Friar’s Gift would be blocked here. Can you?”
“Son of a bitch,” Rule said suddenly. One of his hands rested on the table. It fisted. “Of course.”
Benedict leaned closer to Arjenie and spoke softly. “She isn’t omniscient, but she’s clairaudient and clairvoyant even across realms. She can hear or see what happens on Earth, but not around lupi. Our nature blocks her. If Friar’s Gift came from her, it would explain why he can’t Listen here.”
“This is not established fact,” Lily warned them. “Maybe she has recruited Friar. It fits what we know, but we don’t know much. We haven’t confirmed that Friar is a Listener or that he can’t eavesdrop here.”
Arjenie squirmed. She so wanted to tell them. “That’s—it’s just—” Too much. She shoved to her feet. “Excuse me. I need a minute.”
FEAR comes in many flavors. Tonight’s flavor was bitter with a twist of misery. She left the table, not caring where she went—just away, someplace where she could be terrified in private.
Someplace turned out to be the kitchen. But it didn’t work. She stood at the kitchen counter with her arms wrapped around herself and somehow, even without looking, she knew Benedict had followed her. Her heart fluttered with fear and other things.
They could all die. Benedict, too. She couldn’t stand it. “You’re talking about an Old One,” she whispered, not turning to face him. “That’s like a little g god. An Old One who’s out to get all of you.”
He stopped close enough for her to feel the warmth from his body along her back. Two big hands came to rest on her shoulders. They were even warmer. “We don’t have to stop her. She can’t come here or act directly. We only have to stop her agents.”
“Only? It’s scary. Why is everyone so calm? Isen keeps smiling. Why would he smile like that?” Her breath huffed out. “I hate being scared. I hate being a coward.”
Benedict chuckled. She wrenched around to face him. “You’re laughing.” She wanted to hit him.
He kept on smiling. “A coward who invades Friar’s land in spite of armed militia goons. One who invades lupus territory the next night—and I can promise you, most people are more afraid of us than they are of any human, with or without guns. A coward who doesn’t want me to make a big deal about the chance that evil elves might try to kidnap her so they can bleed and breed her.” He wound one of her curls around one finger. “Such a coward.”
“I’m used to the possibility of being grabbed,” she said, “and it’s never happened, so I’m careful, not terrified. But I was scared the whole time I was sneaking around. More scared at Friar’s because I was pretty sure you lupi wouldn’t kill me, but I was scared here, too, even though I knew no one could see me. Though it turned out you could, and I don’t understand that, but I didn’t know that and I was scared anyway. And I know that courage is supposed to be acting in the face of fear, not the lack of fear, but no one at that table just now was quivering with terror. Lily’s been shot and she wasn’t shaking. I am.” She held up one hand and showed him.
He took her hand in both of his. Wordlessly he began rubbing it, as if fear were a cramp he could dispel.
It worked. She stared at him in astonishment. “How did you do that?”
“I dislike fear, too,” he murmured. “I dislike the way it feels. I dislike the way it tries to control me. But a large part of fear is physical. It’s possible to learn how to control some of the physical aspects.”
“But I haven’t learned how to do that. How can you—”
“Later.” He brushed her shoulder with his fingertips—just her shoulder, and she barely felt it through her clothes. Yet that simple touch brushed heat through her. “I owe you a full explanation, but later. Lily wants to ask you some questions.”
THIRTY-ONE
WHILE they waited for Benedict and Arjenie to rejoin them, Lily took another cup of that coffee Isen had been waving around. And argued with Cullen.
“In learning mindspeech,” Cullen insisted, “you must have learned how to turn off the main function of your Gift.”
“No.” Lily looked over he
r shoulder. Benedict and Arjenie came in, holding hands again. Well, she knew how comforting that could be, and it looked like Arjenie needed the comfort. She was still pale. “You okay?”
“No,” Arjenie said, circling the table to return to her chair. “I mean yes, I’m okay in the not-falling-apart sense, but I might fall apart again.” She sighed. “There’s a reason I never tried to be a field agent. Even if I could have made it through the training with my …” She shot Benedict a glance. He was holding her chair for her. “With my physical limitations, I wouldn’t have been a good agent. I scare too easily.”
“It would have been a waste,” Cynna announced. “You’re a top-notch researcher. You love research. Why would you want to be an agent?”
Arjenie smiled ruefully and sat. “Why did you?”
“I didn’t. I wanted to help people. To Find people who were missing. The rest just sort of happened.”
Lily waited until Benedict sat, too, then said, “Arjenie, I want to try to do the mindspeech thing again. Or kinspeech. Whatever we call it, it’s pretty intrusive. Are you willing?”
“Do you think it’s safe?”
“We were just talking about that.” She glanced at Cullen. “There’s a problem with both the theories I’ve heard. They don’t explain how something magical could affect me in the first place.”
Surprise lightened Arjenie’s expression. “Of course. You’re a sensitive. Magic shouldn’t hurt you, should it? But somehow it did.”
Cullen shook his head. “Because she’s doing things with it she couldn’t do before. Lily, it seems obvious that when you use your Gift differently, it leaves you less than completely impermeable to magic. Most Gifts aren’t stuck in the ‘on’ position, after all. Cynna doesn’t Find things unless she looks for them. I don’t spray fire around all the time. Arjenie isn’t using her Gift now, so we all see her. You must be—”
“No,” Lily said again. “There’s a lot I don’t know about my Gift, but I’m clear on one thing. I can’t turn it off. It isn’t like those shields of yours—and that’s what Sam says, not my own, uninformed opinion.”