Blood Challenge wotl-7

by Eileen Wilks

  “Oh.” She was disgruntled. “I guess everyone here knew about him.”

  “I should have told you.” Benedict flicked a glance her way. “The others are a short distance behind him. Save for Etorri, of course.”

  “They, uh, the Etorri are the clan everyone trusts. That’s why they got there first. They’re sort of holding the ground for everyone else.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, why? You all seem pretty suspicious of each other. Why are they exempt?”

  “It’s a long story and an old one. “

  “You’re good at summaries.”

  Rule heard the smile in his brother’s voice. “I’ll attempt it. Have you heard of Horatio at the bridge?”

  “Of course. Though his name was really Horatius. He and two other generals held off invading Etruscans until the bridge could be destroyed, then he leaped into the river in his armor and swam to safety despite a spear wound. He actually lived through it. I don’t think the other two did.”

  “Etorri performed a similar feat, though in worse circumstances and with far worse casualties. Their Rho sacrificed his entire clan holding off the dworg at a narrow pass. Had he retreated, as it seemed he must, the dworg would have attacked the rest of the force from the rear during a pivotal battle. The clans would have been decimated or destroyed, and our world might well have fallen to the Great Bitch.”

  Arjenie digested that a moment. “Dworg?”

  “Imagine the offspring of a troll and a demon.”

  Cullen snorted. “Only not as mellow and harder to kill. Happily, there aren’t any dworg left. At least not in our realm, and I hope not anywhere. Here.” He held something out to Lily. “We’re nearly there. Time to take up charms against the foe.”

  Lily accepted the small silver disk, etched on one side. “All I have to do is lick it?”

  “Or dunk it in any liquid—water, blood, lemonade. Doesn’t matter. Wetting it activates it, then slap it against someone’s skin. Got to be flesh to flesh to work.”

  Weapons were strictly prohibited at the circle … but a sleep charm was not a weapon. Cullen had made one for each of them, holding on to Lily’s until the last minute because her Gift would slowly leach power from it. A very small amount, true, but Cullen had fashioned the charms to hold very little power—so little that they wouldn’t trigger a charm designed to detect magic, if anyone bothered to check.

  Arjenie was still focused on Etorri. “So you trust them because of what one man did a long time ago?”

  Rule answered this time. “We honor them for that, and always will. We trust them because, in the three millennia since, their honor remains unstained.” He did not glance at Cullen. “It’s not that they’re saints. An individual Etorri can be selfish, misguided, self-righteous., prickly, arrogant … but he will not break honor. Etorri agreed to camp on the mesa last night and hold it as neutral ground for the rest of us. They will have done so.”

  Arjenie frowned. “Isn’t Nokolai honorable?”

  Cullen chuckled. “Sure. But Nokolai is taking sleep charms to an heirs’ circle.”

  “What he means,” Lily said, slipping her phone back in her purse, “is that Nokolai likes to be tricky. We don’t intend to use the charms. They’re a last resort. But we’re sure as hell exploiting a loophole in the ‘no weapons’ rule by carrying them. I guess Etorri wouldn’t do that.”

  We. She’d spoken of Nokolai as “we” quite automatically. Warmth flooded Rule. “I doubt it would occur to Frederick or Stephen to do such a thing.”

  “Honorable and thickheaded,” Cullen said. “That’s Etorri. I prefer a clan known for thinking. Looks like we’ve arrived,” he added.

  Benedict had pulled to a stop in the turnaround, but not at the curb. He got out, leaving the motor running, and moved several orange traffic cones out of the street, then climbed back in and parked so that those in the car had a view of the street leading to the turnaround.

  The traffic cones had not been placed with the approval of the California Department of Transportation. Lily had winced when she learned how Nokolai intended to secure parking spaces for everyone, but she hadn’t argued. She understood the need to keep innocent bystanders at a distance.

  Rule pulled his phone from his shirt pocket and placed a call. “Scott,” he said, “as soon as you’ve parked, take my compliments to Stephen and tell him Leidolf and Nokolai are here and await the rest.”

  “Will do. Kyffin’s a block behind me,” Scott said as the white Hyundai pulled up behind their car. “I think Ybirra’s a few cars behind them.”

  “Excellent.” Rule disconnected and looked over his shoulder. A wiry man with short hair and gold-framed glasses climbed out of the Hyundai and set off at an easy lope for the apartment complex to the north. The glasses were an affectation—there was nothing wrong with Scott’s vision. He liked the geek look. It helped him pass for human.

  “Why don’t you just call the Etorri guy?” Arjenie asked. “Doesn’t he have a mobile phone?”

  Rule had done that, of course, earlier. He was confident the others had, also. But … “There’s a political and a practical reason,” he said, settling back against the seat to wait. “The political reason is that the other clans have insisted on following old protocols, developed when travel was time-consuming and arduous, for this meeting. I observe that respect for the formality of the past by using another old protocol and notifying Etorri personally.”

  “That’s sarcasm, lupi style,” Lily added. “What he means is that Wythe and Ybirra have been jackasses, so he’ll make them wait while we do things ceremonially.”

  Rule flashed her a grin. “More or less, yes.”

  “And the practical reason?”

  Benedict answered tersely. “Friar. We don’t know what he’s capable of. Best to have someone check on Etorri in person. Kyffin has arrived.”

  “I noticed.” A black Impala was easing into the turnaround. When Rule saw who was behind the wheel, he couldn’t help grinning. In defiance of all protocol, Myron had driven himself to the meeting, leaving his guard to ride shotgun. There was some logic to this. Myron—in spite of being Lu Nuncio—was a terrible fighter. Best to leave his guard’s hands and eyes free for any threats, because Myron was not the man to counter them.

  When the Kyffin Rho had assumed his clan’s mantle, his son had still been diapers. But he’d had two cousins who clearly carried the founder’s blood; both good fighters with good control, obvious candidates for Lu Nuncio.

  Instead Jason had named his uncle, a very clever man but a poor fighter … who would rejoice when the time came to transfer the heirship to his great-nephew. A few decades back, Myron had been an enthusiastic hippie, participating in peace demonstrations and civil rights marches. Today he was a reluctant and irreverent Lu Nuncio.

  Jason could get away with a less than combat-ready Lu Nuncio because he was young, popular with his clan, and an excellent fighter himself. Plus Kyffin was one of the least combative clans. Rule had heard of only one Challenge within Kyffin since Jason became Rho, and Jason had fought it himself.

  Kyffin’s technique would not work with Leidolf. Especially not with Rule as Rho.

  As the Impala parked behind Scott’s Hyundai, a red Camry slowed for the turnaround. Rule got a glimpse of the passenger in the rear seat. Javier Mendoza, Ybirra Lu Nuncio. He reached for Lily’s hand, but spoke to his brother. “We’ll wait on Wythe. They’ll be right behind.”

  Sure enough, a second Camry—this one silver—glided into the turnaround before the first had parked. The windows were heavily tinted, but Rule was betting that was Edgar’s son, Brian.

  Rule waited until that car, too, had parked. Then he waited another few minutes, until a red Ford joined their parked cavalcade.

  “Showtime,” he said, and reached for the handle of his door. Benedict reached for his. Together they opened their doors and got out.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  IT was almost as if they’d rehearsed it,
Lily thought, amused in spite of herself. Maybe because they had.

  Rule and Benedict got out on the same side at the same second. Each walked around the Lincoln—Benedict circling the front, Rule the rear—at exactly the same pace. Benedict reached the front seat passenger door precisely when Rule reached the rear door. The two men opened them in unison.

  Benedict helped Arjenie out. Rule helped Lily.

  She’d resisted this bit of staging. “You are a Chosen, a woman, and injured,” Isen had said last night when they were going over their roles in today’s drama. “We want them to be very aware of that.”

  Because they were lupi and therefore nuts about protecting women, he meant. Maybe they’d feel guilty for dragging her out of her sickbed. Maybe they’d listen when Lily told them their great enemy was moving against them. She understood what Isen wanted and why, but it went against the grain. She was a cop. Cops didn’t wait around for someone else to open the door.

  Isen had smiled. “What would Madame Yu advise?”

  “Unfair,” she’d said. “Grandmother loves to have people wait on her. She’d say …” That Lily was fighting the wrong battle. That her authority in this situation didn’t come from her badge, and her autonomy didn’t depend on opening a car door. That the president of the United States permitted others to open doors for him, and perhaps he knew more than Lily about the visual display of power and authority.

  Grandmother could be exquisitely sarcastic even when she was all in Lily’s head.

  In the end, Lily had agreed. Rule had taken damnably quick advantage of her agreement to expand on the theme. Somehow she’d agreed to let him carry her up the steepest part of the track.

  She only wished that part was only staging. Very likely she’d need it.

  She and Rule stepped up onto a wide strip of scruffy grass next to the road. Arjenie and Benedict moved to stand beside them. There was just enough room for the four of them to form a receiving line of sorts. Cullen remained in the car; this part of the show belonged to the two Chosens and their mates.

  Doors opened in the four vehicles strung linearly along the curb behind theirs. Fit, attractive men got out.

  It was hot. The reserve was far enough from the ocean to get little of its cooling benefit. The sun was high, well into the sweaty part of the day—not the optimal time for a run at Los Penaquitos. That, of course, was why they’d chosen this time. Fewer runners, dog walkers, and such would be around. But the warmth felt good on Lily’s bare legs.

  It was funny, really. Lupi were big on formality, but they were also practical. They needed to blend in, so everyone was in shorts and tees and running shoes. Not that a woman with one arm in a sling looked ready for a good run, but she was blending as hard as she could.

  The two closest men were those from the Impala. One—six foot, two-ten, buzzed hair—looked like a rent-a-thug. He remained by the car, his eyes as quick and observant as a cop’s. The other strode around the hood of the Impala quickly. He was tall with grizzled dark hair down to his shoulders and the sly, merry smile of a toddler snitching a cookie. He wore the raggediest pair of cutoffs imaginable— the threads looked ready to give up the struggle to remain intact—with a bright Hawaiian shirt, left open. His chest was narrow, but nicely muscled. There was a faded button pinned to the collar of his shirt: make love, not war.

  He looked over forty, which meant he was at least sixty and probably more. His voice was resonant as an actor’s. “This is your Chosen! Rule, you will introduce me at once so I can kiss her and make her forget all about you for a few beautiful moments.”

  “Lily, the eternal adolescent in front of you is Myron Baker, Lu Nuncio of Kyffin,” Rule said. “Myron, I recommend you check with Lily first about any kissing.”

  “My dear?” he said, eyebrows raised as he extended one hand.

  Lily never objected to shaking hands. She encouraged it. So far all lupi felt pretty much the same to her Gift, save for the ever-exceptional Cullen—rather like fur and pine needles. Some were pinier, some furrier, and Rhos were distinctly warmer. But you never knew, did you? “Good to meet you, Myron.” She took his hand. Fur-and-pine, nothing more.

  Instead of shaking it, Myron bowed with European grace, brushing his lips over the back of her hand. “Such a pleasure, Lily. And such a lovely name! Lilies are the most beautiful flowers in the garden.” He released her hand a second before she grew uncomfortable enough to tug it away and turned toward Benedict and Arjenie. “Benedict. Indomitable as always. But who is the lovely lady with you? Such hair!”

  “Good question,” one of the men coming up behind him growled.

  There were three of them, with their bodyguards fanned out several feet to their rear. Lily recognized two from photos Rule had shown her. The shortest and youngest one would be Javier Mendoza of Ybirra. He bore watching, and not because of his startling good looks—kind of like a Mexican Brad Pitt—but because of the intensity he radiated. Short fuse?

  The man on his right was as average-looking as any lupus could be: five-ten, one-sixty, brown and brown, pale skin, apparent age maybe thirty. Lucas Demeny of Szøs looked like he would want to sell you insurance. The only striking thing about him was the beautiful way he moved.

  According to Rule, Lucas was one of the top two-legged fighters in the clans. Also according to Rule, he was as different as it was possible to be from his brother Rikard—who had died last year in a fight with a couple dozen armed gangbangers who held Lily’s sister hostage.

  The gangbangers hadn’t been a problem for the lupi. It was the ancient staff wielded by their leader that had done it for Rikard.

  The man who’d spoken, though—who was he? Older than the rest, yes, she was pretty sure of that, though with lupi it was easy to get the age wrong. He was sandy all over—tan shorts, tan tank, and weathered skin a shade darker than his sand-colored hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue, unfaded by age. He was built like a battering ram, square and solid, with a beak of a nose, a pugnacious jaw, and thin lips currently twisted in a scowl.

  “Well?” Sandyman demanded as he came to a stop. “Who is that woman? Why is she here? Why is Benedict standing at your side instead of falling back decently?”

  Rule didn’t answer. Benedict did. “Edgar,” he rumbled, “I will not require your apology, but do not speak of Arjenie as if she weren’t standing in front of you.”

  “What?” Edgar Whitman—the Wythe Rho, not the Lu Nuncio—stared at Benedict incredulously. Guards were supposed to be seen and not heard.

  Benedict’s expression didn’t change. “I have the honor to present to all of you my Chosen, Arjenie Fox.”

  “Hi,” Arjenie said brightly. “It’s good to meet you. We, uh … Benedict and I … the mate bond is very new, which I’m told means we can’t be apart by much distance at all, so I had to come, too. I do apologize for the intrusion.”

  “Benedict!” Myron cried happily. He strode forward and slapped Benedict on the back. “This is marvelous! Fantastic!” He beamed at Arjenie. “Arjenie Fox, and with that hair! Amazing! You will allow me to welcome you properly.”

  Arjenie beamed back. “I liked the way you greeted Lily.” She held out her hand.

  As Myron bowed over it, Javier said in a low, angry voice, “You don’t expect us to believe that—”

  “Javier,” Rule said softly, “pause and think before you say more.”

  Amazingly, he did—though his expression retained more of volcano than thoughtful consideration.

  Rule had told Lily that none would seriously doubt Benedict when he introduced Arjenie as his Chosen. They might be shocked—two Chosens for one man?—but it was unthinkable for any lupus to lie about that. Looked like Javier had gotten the memo, but needed to be reminded about the thinking part.

  Edgar was still staring, gape-mouthed. Lucas spoke in a voice as calm as the others were not. “I’m delighted to meet you, Arjenie. A new Chosen is a blessing to us all.” He glanced at the simmering volcano beside him and added with a
faintly chiding note, “Is that not true, Javier?”

  Javier defeated Lily’s expectations by giving his head a little shake, which served to smooth his face into a smile. He’d been gorgeous before. The smile kicked him up nearly into Cullen territory. “Of course.” He offered Arjenie that smile. “Ybirra welcomes you, Ms. Fox.” He then turned it on Lily. “I’m afraid this unexpected gift from the Lady caused me to lose what poor manners I possess.” He glanced at Rule, one eyebrow cocked.

  Rule performed introductions. Javier wanted Lily to know that Ybirra stood ready to avenge her injury. Lucas murmured conventional wishes for her speedy return to health. Lily thanked him and said she was sorry for the loss of his brother last year.

  He smiled briefly. “My loss has been eased by time, and Rikard would have been delighted to go out in such a way. He lived large. It must have suited him to die large, also.”

  The last one Rule introduced—and that must have been intentional—was Sandyman: “Edgar Whitman, Wythe’s Rho. Which brings us to an important question.”

  Edgar waved that aside to tell Lily brusquely that Wythe did not tolerate violence to a Chosen, and he hoped she would recover quickly. He added curtly to Arjenie that Wythe rejoiced in the Lady’s gift. Arjenie looked incredulous, but nodded politely. Myron immediately reclaimed her attention.

  “Two Chosens,” Edgar muttered, shaking his head. “Nokolai claims two Chosens.”

  Rule was using his polite voice, the one so ostentatiously courteous it reminded Lily of Grandmother accepting tribute on her birthday. “We are amazed by the honor the Lady has done us. I am amazed by something else as well, Edgar. I hope Brian is well.”

  “He will heal.” Edgar made a brushing gesture. “It’s a clan matter.”

  Lily’s eyebrows rose. She was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to ask questions. She was also pretty sure a Chosen could get away with it. “Does that mean he was Challenged?”

  Edgar flushed. Anger or embarrassment? Rule glanced at the car, nodded at Benedict, and gave a little jerk of his head.