Blood Challenge

FIFTEEN

“I’D rather not,” Benedict’s Chosen said apologetically.

Her hair was red. Somehow he hadn’t expected that. It was also insane. She’d pulled it back, as she had last night, but it was so frenetically curly he half expected to see it wiggle out of its bonds right before his eyes.

There were many details he’d missed last night. Part of him noted them, appraising an intruder who’d violated Clanhome’s boundaries for an unknown purpose, using unknown abilities, on the same night that Lily had been attacked and injured.

Worry beat in him like a second heart. Lily had needed surgery. She’d made it through that, and Nettie was consulting and would fly out if she was needed. Benedict could do nothing right now to make Lily safer or speed her recovery, so he focused that worry where he could make a difference—on Clanhome’s security.

Even as he did, part of him drank in other details.

His prisoner wore jeans, a jacket, a T-shirt, and ugly brown shoes. The shoes looked orthopedic, suggesting he’d been right about a physical impediment. No visible weapons aside from the cane. She wore a silver pinkie ring on her left hand. A Wiccan star.

Her skin was porcelain, with a few freckles sprinkled across a small, crooked nose, as if someone had salted her. Her eyes were the color of sea glass.

Her glasses were framed in thin black metal. The lenses weren’t Coke-bottle-thick, but were substantial enough to suggest she saw poorly without them.

Her jacket was too large for her. It hid her breasts.

It could also hide a weapon. He didn’t smell one, but he didn’t smell her, either. That disturbed him. Both that lack and his response to it made it hard to assess her properly.

Her legs were long. Though she was only slightly above average height for a woman, she looked taller because so much of that height was provided by those long, thin legs. He wanted to know what those legs felt like wrapped around his waist.

She presented no physical challenge, but her abilities and motives remained unknown. He had to treat her as a possible danger.

“You’re staring at me.”

Yes, he was. The breath Benedict drew was ragged. He wanted to sink his hands into that crazy hair. To sniff and taste that smooth, pale skin. He was supposed to do those things, and more. She was his mate, though she didn’t know it. This fragile woman with huge, frightened eyes was his mate.

Was the Lady insane? “What are you doing here? Were you looking for me?”

“No, I—oh, I should have said yes. You might have believed that.” Her face fell. “I can’t tell you why I’m here, but it’s a good reason. I’d like to leave now.”

“No.” Benedict refused to feel sorry for her, no matter how fragile and frightened she seemed. “Matt, call Seabourne. Tell him to meet us at the Rho’s house. Be sure he knows we’re on yellow alert.”

“Cullen Seabourne?” She had pretty eyebrows, perfect half circles she lifted now over the frames of her glasses.

“You know him?”

“No, but I … I talk too much. I should shut up now, but I need to call my aunt.”

“Your aunt.”

She nodded vigorously. An escaped curl bobbed into her face and she brushed it back. “I’m going to pass out soon. I don’t want her to worry, so I need to let her know ahead of time.”

“How soon?”

She gave that a moment’s thought. “It’s hard to say. Within the hour, probably.”

Matt called out, “Cullen’s not answering.”

“Then go get him.” Matt leaped off the porch, hitting the ground at a run. Benedict spoke to his captive. “Give Shannon your cane and your tool belt and remove your jacket.”

“What?”

“I need to check you for weapons before I take you to the Rho.”

She considered that with a small frown, then hooked the cane in her jacket pocket, freeing both hands so she could unfasten the tool belt. That, she handed to Shannon without complaint, but she held on to the cane. “I assure you, there’s no sword concealed in this hunk of wood.”

“A cane makes an excellent weapon on its own. It doesn’t need a concealed blade.”

She looked at the cane in her hand, amazed. “I had no idea. How cool. I don’t suppose … well, no, you probably wouldn’t,” she answered herself. “But maybe I can find out more later. Not that I have many adventures, but you never know, do you?”

“Your jacket,” he repeated. “And your cane.”

“I really can’t walk far without it.”

“You won’t have to.”

She bit her lip, then handed the cane to Shannon and shrugged out of her jacket. She gave that to Shannon, too.

Her T-shirt was snug. Her breasts were small, but beautifully shaped. He wanted to … but he wouldn’t. Not now. Maybe not ever. He didn’t know what he was going to do, what he could do—or do without. He didn’t know, and the lack of plan or purpose, of any sense of what was needed, was as disturbing as her lack of scent. “Hold your arms out.”

Her cheeks colored. “You are not going to search me.”

“I am. Only a cursory search, however.” He didn’t wait for her cooperation. If she’d spoken the truth about passing out, he needed to get her to the Rho quickly. One long step forward, and he knelt in front of her. He placed his hands on her hips—nothing in her pockets—and ran them down the outside of her legs.

Fragile she looked, and skinny she might be, but there was muscle beneath the denim. Approval hummed in him. Whatever her limits, she worked her body, respected it … and pushed those limits at times, as the elastic bandage wrapped around her left ankle indicated.

If this were a proper search, he’d unwrap the bandage and make sure there was nothing concealed within. He settled for probing it thoroughly. “A sprain?”

“Yes.”

Her voice was breathy. He looked up and found those gray-green-blue eyes looking down on him. And the look in those eyes …

Thick and sweet, desire rose in him. He couldn’t smell her, but he heard the hurry of her breath, saw the slight peaks of her nipples beneath the T-shirt. She enjoyed having his hands on her. She wanted more.

Neither of them could afford that. “Lift your arms,” he said again, and if the huskiness in his voice gave him away, it couldn’t be helped. “I’ll inspect the rest of you visually.”

The color in her cheek rose higher. “No more touching?”

“Not unless I see something I need to check out.” And that came out full of meanings he hadn’t intended.

She lifted her arms. Her breasts lifted, too.

“Benedict,” Shannon said. He held a pair of vials, one larger than the other. Both empty. “They were in her pocket.”

“Potions,” Benedict said flatly.

“Well, yes.” She smiled hopefully. “One of them cancelled my scent, like I said.”

“The other?”

“Cancelled something else.”

Did she think she could get away with such an insufficient answer? It was for the Rho to question her, however. Benedict rose and circled her. The T-shirt was snug enough for him to be sure she carried no large weapons. There could be a garrote or a needle concealed in her bra, but he’d chance it. “All right,” he said. “I’ll take you to the Rho now. Whatever you do to make yourself invisible, it doesn’t work on me.”

“It’s not invisibility, it’s—eep!”

He’d scooped her up in his arms. The pleasure of holding her was a distraction he couldn’t wholly ignore. He’d have to allow for that distraction. “Pete,” he said to his second, “maintain yellow alert. Todd, Shannon, with me.” He started forward at quick jog.

His Chosen was glaring at him. “You’re not supposed to just pick people up.”

“This way, if you pass out, you won’t injure yourself further. Also, the Rho’s house is 4.2 miles from the barracks. That would be slow and difficult for you even with your cane. Did a doctor look at your ankle?”

She shook her head. Her lips were thin with temper. Her body was stiff, too, and she gripped his arm too tightly.

“Relax. I’m not going to drop you. You have some other physical problem. Your hip?”

“I don’t see what business that is of … oh, oh, I’m sorry!” Her clutching hand had squeezed last night’s wound, and in spite of himself he’d winced. Her hand hovered over his arm like a nervous hummingbird. “You did get hurt!”

“Nothing significant, like I said. It’s not quite healed yet.”

“Then you really shouldn’t be carrying me.”

For some reason that made his mouth crook up. “I caught you. I get to carry you if I want to. You might as well tell me your name. It’s probably on your car registration.”

“You found my car? I guess that’s how—but it’s not—” She stopped abruptly and clamped her lips shut.

“Not your car? We’ll still be able to learn who it belongs to. Or the police will.”

Distress flashed over her face. “You don’t need to call the police.”

“I’ve caught a trespasser. Why wouldn’t I call the police?”

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t. I—I can’t tell you why, but someone’s life would be in danger.”

He very much doubted Isen would involve the human authorities, but there was no point in telling her that. No point other than easing the fear in those big eyes. “The Rho will make that decision, not me. My name is Benedict, by the way.”

“Yes, I gathered that. You sent people to my car.”

He nodded.

“They’ll find my purse, then, so there’s no point, I guess. I’m Arjenie. Arjenie Fox. Who’s the ‘she’ you mentioned? The one you think sent me—no, you said delivered me—to you.”

“No one you know.” She felt good in his arms. Too good. He picked up his pace. Carrying her himself made sense. Her mind tricks didn’t work on him. But it complicated things. “Why were you at Friar’s last night?”

“I can’t tell you. You can’t possibly know who I know and who I don’t.”

It took him a second to backtrack mentally to her earlier question. “The Lady.”

“The … oh! You mean the demi-deity your people serve?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Demi-deity?”

“Is that the wrong term? I don’t mean to be insulting. How did you find out I was here? Not me, specifically, but you were alerted somehow.”

Not only had she heard of the Lady, she even phrased it correctly. Lupi didn’t worship the Lady. They served her. “Who are you?” he asked abruptly.

“I told you.”

“Your name tells me very little. Last night you said Friar’s men wouldn’t see you. I understand that assertion now. How do you go unseen?”

She regarded him with a little vee between her brows. “Maybe I should trade answers with you. I’ll tell you how I go unseen. You tell me … let me think. If I ask what you’re going to do with me, you’ll just say it’s up to your Rho.”

“It is.”

“Uh-huh.” She was skeptical. “You didn’t tell me your last name.”

“I seldom use it.”

“Why not?”

“Is that the question you want answered in exchange for telling me how you go unseen when you’re prowling around where you don’t belong?”

“Prowling.” She sighed. “That sounds much more interesting than hobbling. No, that’s not the question I want answered. I want to know what alerted you and why you could see me.”

“I can’t answer your second question now.” He wasn’t ready to tell her about the mate bond. He would have to, but this was a poor time for such a revelation. “In answer to your first question—footprints.”

She was chagrined. “The ground’s so dry I didn’t think I’d leave any.”

“They weren’t very noticeable, but your cane leaves a distinctive imprint, even in dry ground. The marks it left made Kendrick curious enough to look more closely. When he found footprints that had no scent, he alerted me.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t think about the cane leaving a mark. I guess it’s my turn to answer. Have you heard of a spell that lets someone make something hard to spot?”

“Yes. It’s supposed to be almost impossible to apply such a spell to a moving object, like a person.”

“It would be hard, but I don’t use a spell. Going unnoticed is my Gift.”

An impressive Gift, and one he’d never heard of. Perhaps Seabourne would know something about it. “You said you were going to pass out. I’ve heard of Gifted doing that when they were at risk of burnout, but I thought the effect was immediate.”

“Um … I’ve heard that, too. It doesn’t work that way with me.”

Evasive … but why? She’d announced her impending unconsciousness easily enough. He made a mental note to return to the subject later. “How long do you expect to be out?”

“A couple days, though it might be longer. It helps if I eat first. I’ve got some jerky and a Snickers bar in my tool belt.”

“We’ll feed you.”

They’d nearly reached his father’s house. The windows were dark, of course; that was part of the protocol for a yellow alert. Also part of that protocol were the two sharp yips he gave to announce himself so the guards would know he wasn’t acting under constraint. Had he called out verbally or remained silent, they would have shot him.

“That’s weird, you making that sound when you aren’t being a wolf. Were you telling them something? Your men?”

She was bright and observant and—“You aren’t afraid anymore,” he said abruptly.

“You look scary, but you touch carefully. Like with my ankle. And when you picked me up … which you should not do without my permission! But you were careful when you did that. I don’t think you’re going to hurt me.”

Feelings stirred in him, dark and ugly. “Not physically.”

“Good. I’m a real baby about pain.”

COULD you develop Stockholm Syndrome in a matter of moments?

Arjenie considered that question as her two-legged steed slowed down, and the two men who’d escorted them peeled away, heading for who-knew-where.

She was pretty sure you couldn’t, not this fast, though she’d never actually researched the subject. But being carried by this man felt impossibly good, and not just because she was really tired and her ankle was really glad she wasn’t walking on it anymore. He was so large and warm and male.

Her whole body approved. She didn’t understand. It hadn’t been that long since she’d shared sex.

Benedict. It was probably from the Latin benedictus, which meant blessed. Why didn’t he want to tell her his last name? For that matter, why didn’t she already know it? He was mentioned in the Bureau’s files on Nokolai clan—at least, she was assuming he was the Benedict who was the Nokolai Rho’s oldest son. But she couldn’t remember his surname.

Maybe it was Turner, like his father’s. Though since lupi didn’t marry, that didn’t seem likely. And she couldn’t remember. How odd. Maybe the FBI didn’t know it.

They’d nearly reached their destination. Though the house remained dark, she knew by its location that it must be the Rho’s house. It had been marked on the aerial photo. Benedict loped up a flagstone path curving its way through terraced beds filled with artful tumbles of stones and what she thought was a mix of native plants and drought-tolerant imports, though she was no horticulturalist to be sure. But the yucca was unmistakable, and those shrubby plants were probably some kind of sage, and she smelled rosemary.

The house itself was larger than the others she’d seen, but not by any means a mansion. A pale, rambling stucco, it snuggled into the slope at the end of the narrow valley that held the little village. Were there guards inside the house? She didn’t see any outside—not even the two men who’d run here with them.

Benedict Last-Name-Unknown came to a stop at the big front door, which looked like it belonged on an old mission. His chest rose and fell against her. He was breathing deeply, but not hard. Apparently it took more than a four-mile run carrying an extra hundred and twenty pounds to leave him winded.

He didn’t knock or ring a bell. The door just opened.

It was too much darker inside than out for her to make out much, but a shadowy form loomed a few steps inside that doorway. “Benedict,” that shadow rumbled. His voice was even deeper than her steed’s, but a lot friendlier. In fact, he sounded delighted, as if he’d been hoping his son would lope up to his door carrying a woman in the middle of the night. “I trust you can introduce me to our guest.”

“I had been thinking of her more as a prisoner. Her name is Arjenie Fox.”

“Benedict disapproves of my answering the door when you might have confederates lurking about somewhere,” the bulky shadow explained. “You haven’t come here to kill me, I hope?”

“Oh, no,” she assured him. “That is, I didn’t come here to kill anyone. I think you’re Isen Turner?”

“I am. And I am pleased to meet you, Ms. Fox. Do come in. Or rather, Benedict, put her down so she can come in.”

“She injured her ankle last night,” his son said. “She needs to stay off it as much as possible. I don’t know what her other physical liability is. She’s been unwilling to tell me.”

“Because it isn’t any of your business,” she said, exasperated. Really, she wished he’d stop harping on that.

“Hmm. Well, bring her to my study, then,” Isen Turner said. “I regret the lack of light, Ms. Fox, but the study is an interior room, so we’ll be able to turn on a light there.”

The darkened house was a security measure, then. Arjenie was relieved to learn that, because it meant they weren’t doing it just to intimidate her. “I’d appreciate that,” she told him politely. “But I could walk on my own if that guard—Shannon?—if he hadn’t gone off somewhere with my cane.”

“I’ll see that it’s returned to you. Now—”

“She needs food,” Benedict said. “I’ll explain in a moment, but she needs food.”

“Ah. Carl,” the shadow said without raising his voice, “put together a sandwich or two for our guest, please.” With that, he moved away from the door, and Benedict moved forward.

Her eyes adjusted quickly once Benedict crossed the threshold, but she didn’t see Carl. She did see Isen Turner’s broad back heading down a wide entry hall. She also saw an ornate console table with a cello propped up against the wall beside it, and two doors, one open and one closed, both on the right. There was another door on the left. After about twenty feet, the entry hall opened into a room at the back of the house. Moonlight flooded in from that end, admitted by a large picture window.

Isen Turner opened the door on the left. Benedict followed, and as soon as they were both inside, his father shut the door and turned on a light. She blinked at the sudden brightness.

Isen Turner’s study was square and windowless and covered with books. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling along every wall, and every shelf was full of books—paperbacks, hardcovers, oversize tomes.

“What a wonderful room!”

“Thank you.” Isen Turner stood beside one of the four comfy leather chairs arranged in a circle in the center of the room. He was a comfortable-looking man, she thought—burly and strong like her Uncle Clay, who was a blacksmith. He had a craggy face, a very short beard, and shrewd eyes. Unlike his son, he was fully dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. “Please have a seat.”

“He doesn’t have reins, so I can’t steer—oh, thank you,” she said as Benedict placed her in one of the chairs. He didn’t sit down himself, but remained standing behind her chair. “Could you stand somewhere else instead of hovering over me?”

“No.”

“He’s guarding me from you,” Isen Turner explained, seating himself across from her. “Benedict? Why are we feeding her?”

“She believes she’s going to pass out due to overuse of her Gift, which is a type of mind-magic that allows her to hide in plain sight. She claims that eating delays or mitigates the effects of this overuse.”

“Ah. I’d rather you didn’t pass out,” he said to Arjenie.

“Well, I’m going to, but food will help. He wouldn’t let me have my candy bar.”

“We can do better than a candy bar, I think. If you—ah, yes, Carl, come in.”

Carl wasn’t invisible after all. He was tall and lanky, with gray hair and creases in his leathery skin. He was silent, though, handing Arjenie a plate with two fat sandwiches, then leaving without saying a word.

Arjenie peeked under the bread. Roast beef with thick slices of tomato. She loved roast beef. “Thank you,” she said, and dug in.

“Report,” Isen Turner said.

Clearly and concisely, Benedict described what had alerted him to an intruder, how he’d found her, what she’d said, what he’d observed. Arjenie listened as she ate, fascinated. He finished about the same time she did, and she twisted around to look up at him. “That was well done. I’ve an excellent memory, but I’m not good at summarizing. I tend to include too many details.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “Would you care to add anything?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, turning back to face his father. “No, wait, I think there’s one thing you should know. Robert Friar is clairaudient. Can I call my aunt now?”

Isen Turner’s eyebrows lifted. “Friar’s a Listener? And how do you know this?”

“I can’t tell you, but he’s exceptionally strong, only for some reason he can’t Listen in here at your clanhome. I really need to call my aunt.”

“And yet I have to insist that you do add a few of those details you tend to include in your summaries. I need to know what was in those vials and what you did with it.”

“Nothing that can possibly hurt you or anyone here.”

He shook his head sadly. “That’s not good enough. What if you’re wrong? What if you’re lying or misled or simply mistaken?”

She nodded. “We do have a problem. I can see why you can’t take me at my word, but I can’t tell you any more than I already have.”

“There’s a difference between can’t and won’t.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees—and everything about him changed. “I’m going to have to help you find that difference.”

Arjenie flinched back in the chair, eyes wide. It wasn’t the words, it was the way he looked—implacable, unreachable. As if he would do anything necessary to make her answer his questions. Anything. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I know the difference, and I can’t.”

“You were at our enemy’s house last night,” he said in that cast-iron voice. “You show up here tonight, playing mind tricks on my people and armed with some sort of potions. You will tell me why.”

Oh, this was not going to be pleasant. She pressed her lips together.

“You realize I have complete control of what happens to you, don’t you? It’s not hard to make a body disappear in the mountains.”

“B-Benedict?” she whispered—then wondered why she’d done that. He would be on his father’s side. On his clan’s side, and he had no reason to think she’d come here to save them, not harm them, and she couldn’t explain.

“I’m here,” he said from behind her. And then, even more tersely: “Isen.”

Isen Turner’s gaze flicked up to meet his son’s eyes—then locked on as if magnetized. One heartbeat, two, three …

A knock on the door interrupted their staring contest.

“Come in,” the Rho said.

The door on Arjenie’s left opened. Automatically she looked to see who was here—and did some staring of her own.

She’d seen a lot of bare male chests tonight, a lot of hunky men wearing not much, and a few wearing nothing at all. But this man … oh, my. His spicy brown hair was shaggy and disheveled. He needed a shave. He was scowling. He was oh-my-God beautiful.

“Sorry it took me so long,” the beautiful man said, not sounding apologetic at all. “I wasn’t home, so I didn’t get word right away. What do you need?”

“What do you see?” Isen Turner said, and gestured at Arjenie.

Blue eyes locked on her like twin lasers.

This had to be Cullen Seabourne—who was a lupus and also a sorcerer. Which meant he could see …

“I don’t recognize the Gift,” he said after a moment, “but I recognize the heritage. Elf. Not pureblood, maybe not even half, but she’s part-sidhe.”

Dizziness swung through Arjenie, not in a slow tide but fast. Oscillating. Picking up speed with each swing.

“Uh-oh,” she said. And passed out.