by Eileen Wilks
Arjenie crossed her arms. “And you all assumed that trouble coming meant Benedict?”
Ambrose protested, “Not all of us. I didn’t know anything about Nate’s dream, much less that Big Brother”—he cocked an eyebrow at Clay—“was packing heat.”
“Arjenie,” Benedict said, “it’s all right. I am dangerous.”
She shook her head. “Not to them.”
Robin sighed. “Ambrose, we didn’t tell anyone about Nate’s dream because we hoped to avoid scaring everyone. Arjenie, I understand that you’re upset, but you aren’t thinking. Clay carried the gun because of Nate’s dream, not because of Benedict. We didn’t expect trouble from any particular direction. We simply wanted to be ready.”
Ready? And yet they’d allowed members of the family to ride or wander all over their acreage. Benedict shook his head. Either Robin wasn’t being honest about where they thought the threat lay, or these people did not understand security at all.
Robin’s revelation set off a new round of talk. Some wanted to know the details of Ambrose’s dream. Others remembered other dreams he’d had and how they hadn’t played out the way anyone expected but had fit events perfectly . . . in hindsight.
That’s how precognition usually worked, from what Benedict understood. He did know one precog who was phenomenally accurate. His hunches were more reliable than many people’s observed facts, and when he did—rarely—have a prescient dream, it was both literal and accurate. But most precogs weren’t like that. On the whole, the Gift seemed more trouble and confusion than help.
Robin didn’t contribute to the speculation, he noticed. She went to the refrigerator and started pulling out things—carrots, onions, celery. She asked Nate to get her a jar of tomatoes from the pantry, and would Clay taste the broth from the stewing meat to see if a bit more thyme was needed?
Nate went for the tomatoes. Clay gave Robin a knowing smile, a kiss, and told her to “give me that knife, woman, and don’t mess with my soup.” Within minutes, and with only the tiniest of nudges, Carmen and Clay were cutting up vegetables, Nate was showing Carmen’s brother—Benedict couldn’t remember his name—something in the living room, and Gary had headed to the basement to check on the kids. Hershey began rolling out a pie crust he’d taken from the refrigerator while Sheila and Ambrose peeled and sliced apples.
The chatter didn’t stop, but it was more general now. Robin collected Arjenie with a glance. The two women came to the table.
Stephen smiled up at Robin. “I think all the chores are taken. You’ll have to be direct.”
“Directly speaking, then—go away.”
Stephen chuckled and rose. “Good luck,” he told Benedict, and wandered over to snatch a piece of carrot.
Benedict had already concluded that Robin was the one in charge here, though in that oddly indirect way humans seemed to like. Or maybe they didn’t notice. Though Stephen had noticed, and Benedict suspected Clay knew exactly what his wife was doing. He wasn’t sure about the others.
Arjenie sat beside Benedict and squeezed his hand. “I’m pretty sure Aunt Robin intends to interrogate you.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Robin said, sliding into a chair across from him. “But we do need to talk. We need to figure out what happened, why it happened, and how it might relate to the danger Ambrose sensed.”
“I was forced into the Change. My subjective impression is that this was intentional—that I was shoved. Normally, that would be impossible for any being save my Rho to do.” He considered that a moment. “Possibly my Lu Nuncio could force the Change on me, but he’s never tried, so I can’t say for sure.”
“But you’re certain it wasn’t your Rho who did this.”
“Quite certain.” There was no mistaking the feel of the mantle enforcing the Rho’s will. Robin, of course, didn’t know about mantles. No human did, save for their own female children, who were clan; the Rhejes, of course; and those Chosen by the Lady. He looked at Arjenie—his Chosen—a bright bloom of happiness opening inside him.
“Well, that’s reassuring.”
Benedict looked back at Robin. “That my Rho didn’t force the Change?”
She smiled. Robin Delacroix was a round sort of woman—round cheeks in a heart-shaped face, rounded body tucked neatly into jeans and a soft pink sweater. Her nose was just shy of pug, her eyes brown and warm. She was the shortest person in the room. “I was referring to the wonderfully gooey look on your face when you look at Arjenie.”
Gooey? No one had ever called him . . . gooey.
“But that’s not what we need to discuss. Not right now, anyway. Why did you think the intruder in the barn was Coyote? By which,” she added, “we’ve been assuming you meant the Coyote of Native legend and lore. The Trickster.”
“That Coyote, yes. I smelled him.”
“How would you know what he smells like?”
He was silent a moment. “It is traditional among my mother’s people not to speak of certain experiences.”
“Are you talking about a spirit quest?” Her eyes widened. “Do you mean that Coyote is your spirit guide?”
“No!” What an appalling thought. “No, but . . . it is possible, on a spirit quest, to meet more than one Power.”
“This spirit quest must have taken place many years ago.”
“Yes.”
“I know your sense of smell is much more acute than mine. However, I can’t help thinking that to recognize a particular scent, after so many years, would be difficult. Rather like me recognizing a particular shade of purple that I saw once, in my youth.”
“What if you had never seen the color purple in your life, and then you did? Only once, however. Many years pass, and then one day you saw purple again. Would recognize it?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “This scent is that distinctive?”
“Scents are distinctive in ways that vision doesn’t approach. Coyote’s scent . . .” Like a coyote, of course, the very essence of coyote, which included the meaty musk of a predator . . . but also sage and sand and wind, sun-baked earth and beetles, and the thin, clear singing of stars through air cold enough to make your eyes water . . . “There is nothing like it.”
Arjenie nodded. “So you think Coyote pushed you into the Change—”
“I didn’t say that. Coyote is around, yes. He was in the barn. I don’t know if he’s the one who pushed me into Change.” Benedict shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing he would do, though. Stir things up. Laugh about it.”
Robin was frowning. “You think he’s here physically.”
“I smelled him. Your stallion did, too.”
“The tribes native to this area don’t include him in their lore.”
“Coyote isn’t always Coyote. Probably they knew him in some other guise.”
“I should have said that their lore doesn’t include a Coyote analogue. No trickster figures. I know some of the Native lore,” she added. “When Adam and Sarah Delacroix came here in 1814, they were careful to learn what they could and pass it on. Remnant powers, even if they’re no longer worshipped, can react unpredictably to Wiccan rites.”
He shrugged. “Could be that too many people died to pass down the relevant stories.” When Europeans showed up on this side of the ocean, they brought their diseases with them—smallpox, whooping cough, typhus, cholera. The experts argued about just how many died of the new diseases, but even conservative estimates put it well above the one-third kill rate of Europe’s Black Death. “And Coyote isn’t a remnant power, if I understand the way you mean that.”
“A power indigenous to the land that has faded over the centuries.”
“That’s what I thought. Coyote hasn’t faded.”
Arjenie spoke up. “Coyote range—I mean little-c coyote—has increased greatly since the eighteen hundreds. They exist in all forty-nine continental states now, including some urban areas. Maybe that’s why Coyote hasn’t faded.”
“Maybe.” He had to pause and smile at her. Arjenie
collected facts the way some people collect stamps or coins or Star Wars figures. She loved them, shared them, sucked them up like a vacuum cleaner. “Or maybe his little brothers have prospered because he’s here.” He looked back at Robin. “You don’t believe it was Coyote.”
“I’m sorry. No.”
Arjenie shoved her chair back suddenly and stood. “We should take a walk.”
Her aunt frowned at her. “Arjenie—”
“He needs to know. We can all three take a walk, or it can be just me and Benedict.”
“You will not speak of it to him.” The words were quietly spoken, but for the first time, Robin’s authority was unsheathed. She meant it.
Arjenie didn’t say a word. Just looked at her aunt.
“Gods help me,” Robin muttered, standing. “You weren’t this stupidly lovesick as a teenager.”
Chapter Four
The problem with arguing with someone who raised you was that the other side had all the ammo. Arjenie considered her aunt’s comment unworthy of her, a cheap shot, but if she pointed that out, they’d still be arguing, only about the wrong thing.
Stupidly lovesick. That stung.
Everything kept going wrong. She’d wanted so much for everyone to see Benedict like he really was, to appreciate him and stop worrying about her. And he’d been so anxious, determined to do everything he could to get them to like him, or at least accept him, and then the whatever-it-was forced him to Change and Uncle Clay pulled a gun on him, and she was so mad at Clay, and now she was mad at her aunt, too, and she hated that.
So Arjenie maintained a dignified silence as the three of them put on jackets and went out the back door. Not without a lot of questioning looks—and a few spoken questions—from the rest of the family, but she let her aunt handle those.
The sun was well on its way down. Shadows were long and crisp and the air had a bite. Not yet freezing, she judged, but headed that way, and the breeze had grown up. It was wind now, and a frisky one, suggesting a front was blowing in. Maybe they would end up with the snow the forecast called for. Not that a sixty percent chance meant it was a sure thing, but snow on Yule would be wonderful and . . . and it was stupid to be worrying about snow when she had more important things to settle. Only she’d had this picture of snow outside and the family inside, all warm and together and . . .
Benedict took her hand. She sighed at herself and smiled at him.
“We’ll head toward the barn,” Robin announced as she shut the door behind her. “No, wait. Will Josh and Adam be able to hear us?”
“Josh is on the roof of the barn. He’d certainly hear. Adam is patrolling.”
Her mouth tightened unhappily. “I want to be flexible, but the idea of having people patrolling my land, peering down at me from the roof of the barn, is . . . uncomfortable. When you said you needed to bring guards along, this wasn’t what I expected.”
Arjenie decided to field that one. “I told you why the guards are needed. You know what happened in October. You know it’s not over.”
“That won’t happen here.”
“Maybe you’re right. Benedict needs to know why you’re sure of that.”
Aunt Robin grimaced and started walking—heading away from the barn on the winding stone path that led to Uncle Clay’s workshop and forge.
Arjenie remembered when they’d laid that path. Uncle Clay had done most of the moving of rocks, but she’d helped dig and she’d put the smaller stones in place. Seri and Sammy had been too little to do anything, but Tony had helped scoop out gravel for the underlayment, using a trowel instead of a shovel. He’d really wanted a shovel, though.
She smiled, but it faded quickly. She hated being mad at her aunt and uncle. Or not so much mad now—she never held on to anger for long—but its departure left this whole ache of sad behind.
After several paces her aunt said, “Benedict, Arjenie tells me your people are meticulous about honoring your promises. I’ll need your word that you won’t repeat what I tell you to anyone.”
“I can’t give you my word on that. First, I can’t promise to withhold information from my Rho. I could promise not to offer the information to him unsolicited unless in my judgment revealing it might avert a serious threat. Second, the promise as stated would restrict me from discussing what you tell me with anyone, including yourself and Arjenie.”
Robin’s eyebrows climbed. She glanced at Arjenie. “Meticulous, you said. I didn’t grasp how literally you meant that.”
“Lupi are careful with how they word a promise because they consider it truly binding.” She sounded stiff. She couldn’t help it. “Not binding in a magical sense, but personally.”
Benedict spoke. “If I may suggest an alternate wording . . . I will promise to hold whatever secret you share with me as closely as I hold clan secrets.”
“The way I understand it,” Arjenie said, “that means that torture couldn’t drag it out of him, but in certain dire situations where speaking of it might save people, he might do that. Or he might not. It would depend on the situation.”
“You want me to trust his judgment.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do. And I think you might trust me, too.”
Robin gave her a look freighted with all sorts of things. Disappointment was part of the mix. Arjenie knew why. She knew what her aunt had hoped.
“Very well,” Robin said after a moment. “Do I have your word, Benedict, as stated? You’ll hold what I tell you as closely as you hold clan secrets?”
He answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
“This land, Delacroix land, is protected and has been for generations.”
“I’m familiar with wards. Wards wouldn’t stop a Humans Firster from crossing onto your land and shooting one of us.”
“I’m not talking about wards. The land itself is tied to me, as High Priestess. It tells me about all who are on it. If anyone or anything crosses onto my land, I know. If he comes with violent intent—as a Humans Firster would—I will know and take action.”
Benedict was silent a moment. “You would also know if a small dog left your land, then.”
That surprised a chuckle out of her. “True. Havoc’s on his way back. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Good.”
“I would also know if a Native Power showed up in my barn.”
“Would you?” He gave her a sidelong look. “Coyote is called Trickster for a reason.”
“Hiding his nature being a form of trickery, you mean?” Robin considered that. Sighed. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t be possible, but . . . I don’t know.”
“You’ve got a lot of confidence in your ability to read what the land tells you. It sounds like what sidhe lords do. Their power is tied to their land.”
“Several hundred years ago, a Wiccan priestess did a great favor for a wandering sidhe lord. In recompense, she was taught how to link to the land. That teaching came with a price: she had to accept a binding such that she could pass it on to only one person, her successor. Both binding and teaching came to me from Clay’s mother, Belle, when she decided to step down as High Priestess after Samuel died.”
Benedict studied her face, his own expression intent. “You will pass this land-tie on to someone eventually.”
“I . . . yes, of course.”
“Had you planned to pass it to Arjenie?”
Arjenie’s breath sucked in. Benedict was being far too clever today.
“I had hoped to,” Robin said steadily. “She tells me that won’t be possible now.”
Benedict turned that intent look on Arjenie. “What had you hoped?” he asked very softly. “Was this something you wanted?”
It would be easier to tell him no, she’d never wanted to be High Priestess and custodian of the Delacroix land. But you didn’t build a healthy relationship by lying. “Sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn’t. I wasn’t at all settled about it, and some of my uncertainty was because I hoped to find a life partner. If whoever I loved couldn’t settl
e happily on this land, then I couldn’t, either.”
He studied her face a moment longer. “This is something you thought about before you and I met.”
She nodded.
The corners of his mouth turned up. He touched her cheek lightly, then turned to Robin. “You have reason to be disappointed that I’m Arjenie’s life partner.”
“She was my choice for my successor, and she tells me you can’t move here, that you have to live at your clanhome. So yes, in that sense I’m disappointed. But the most important elements about her choice of life mate have little to do with me and everything to do with you and her.”
He nodded. “I can’t tell you that I’m the best man for her, and there’s little point in my speaking about what I’d do for her. Words prove nothing. You’ll have to judge by my actions. I have some questions about the land-tie.”
The abrupt change of subject made Aunt Robin blink. “There’s very little I can tell you and, of that little, even less I’m willing to divulge.”
“You literally can’t reveal the technique, but you can speak of its existence. You don’t, because you don’t want word getting out that you have an ability some would be desperate to possess.”
“That’s right.”
“You say you would know if someone stepped onto your land, and you would act. I’d like to know what type of action you’re speaking of.”
“I won’t tell you that, but it would depend on the nature of the intrusion.”
“What about when you’re asleep? Is this knowing . . .” Benedict stopped. His head turned, his nostrils flaring slightly.
“It’s Sammy and Seri,” Robin said. “At last.” She gave him a sidelong smile. “Havoc is with them, so you can stop worrying.”
Aunt Robin always referred to Sammy and Seri by name, not as “the twins.” She said they had enough trouble differentiating themselves without her group-naming them. Arjenie turned to look. Sure enough, Seri was opening the gate in the fence that separated yard from woods. Havoc trotted through the gate next to Sammy, who held a pair of burlap bags.