Blood Challenge

SIXTEEN

THE orthopedic surgeon was a string bean—an inch taller than Rule and at least forty pounds lighter. His brown hair was thinning on top; his eyes were that peculiar pale blue that almost vanishes next to the black of the pupils. His lips were thin and so pale that, like his irises, they nearly disappeared. He reeked of disinfectant soap with a faint undertone of tobacco. His name was Robert Stanton.

Rule disliked the man, but he was a top-flight surgeon in his field, according to Nettie, and that was what mattered.

“… recovering well from the surgery,” Stanton was saying, “but I cannot say precisely when you can be released. Certainly not until after the skin graft, and I have explained why the wound must be left open for a few days. Dr. Cummings will perform that procedure. Has he been by to speak with you?”

The back of Lily’s hospital bed was elevated so she could sit up. She looked weary and hurt and pale and pissed. “Yeah. Gold-rimmed glasses, dark skin, deep voice. Talks slow.”

The plastic surgeon had made his rounds early, arriving before seven this morning, about the same time that Rule received a call from his father. Rule hadn’t passed on the details of that call to Lily yet. First the nurse had come in with her pain medication—which Lily had only taken half of—then her surgeon had arrived.

“Er—yes,” Stanton said, “that is Dr. Cummings. You can have every confidence in him. Now, before I go I need to speak with you about your prognosis. I must caution you that it is unlikely you will regain full function of the arm.”

Lily’s head jerked back. Her eyebrows snapped down. “Why not? You said the surgery went well.”

“It did. Barring infection, I expect the bone to knit sufficiently for limited use in six to eight weeks. It doesn’t fully harden in that time, you understand. However, you lost muscle, and there was nerve damage. I do not believe the nerve damage was so extensive that you won’t see any regeneration, but such regeneration is a slow process and the extent is difficult to predict.”

“Give me a ballpark figure. Eighty percent of normal? Sixty? Ninety?”

“There is no ‘ballpark’ for these sorts of injuries. You should regain the use of the arm. If you are disciplined with your therapy, you may regain much of its function, but it will likely always be weaker than it was. I cannot say how much weaker. The difference may be acute. It may be negligible. Most likely, it will fall somewhere between those extremes.”

“Dr. Two Horses is flying in to begin treatment,” Rule said. “That will make a difference.”

“The healer.” His thin lips tightened with distaste. “Her assistance may be beneficial for the soft tissue damage. There is substantial evidence that intervention by a Gifted healer can speed recovery, but I am aware of no studies showing that such intervention results in greater nerve regeneration than would occur naturally. However, it is unlikely that Dr. Two Horses’s treatments would cause any harm, so I have no objection.”

“What a relief,” Lily muttered. “You can go away now.”

Stanton frowned. “Have you spoken with someone from Physical Therapy? We have an excellent facility here, with—”

“I live in San Diego, so I’ll be disciplined with my therapy there.”

The surgeon should have remembered that Lily wasn’t local, but he didn’t really see her—he saw a medical condition. No doubt he often found the humanity of his patients inconvenient. Primly he said, “I am not acquainted with San Diego’s therapeutic facilities.”

“Dr. Two Horses is.” Rule moved forward to usher the man out. “She’ll be in touch with you when she arrives, I’m sure. Thank you for your skill and your time, Doctor.” And now, as Lily said, go away.

Stanton’s head moved about a centimeter in a nod. “Good day, then.”

“He doesn’t approve of Nettie, does he?” Lily said once Rule closed the door behind the surgeon. “Hard to have much confidence in him when he’s an idiot.”

“I suspect he doesn’t approve of anything outside his own skill set, and he’s suspicious of anything not connected to him in some way. Like San Diego.” Rule took a moment before he turned to face her, schooling his expression. At least he didn’t have to worry about her smelling his fear. “He’s not convinced we have any therapists, much less decent facilities for them to use.”

Lily’s smile was brief and abstracted. Her eyes were shadowed; her gaze distant. Her arm … her poor arm. It was supported by a sling, a padded contraption with straps. They couldn’t cast it, not with unhealed wounds.

Lily had “an open, comminuted diaphyseal fracture of the humerus.” Translated, that meant multiple breaks in the shaft of the bone combined with an open wound—the messy exit the bullet had made as it blew out the front of her biceps. Because bone has a poorer blood supply than the soft tissue around it, infection was a worry. Less blood meant fewer immune cells delivered to the wound site. That’s why they wouldn’t do the skin graft over the exit wound yet. They wanted to be sure there was no infection before closing things up.

People kept saying she was lucky. There was no significant vascular damage, no joint damage, and the surgeon had been able to use internal fixation—in other words, he’d nailed the bone back together inside her arm instead of using an external rod with pins or screws that impaled skin and bone alike to hold the pieces together. And yes, Rule supposed that was luck of a sort.

But now the surgeon said she wouldn’t regain full function. The horror of permanent, unhealed damage … Rule couldn’t get his mind around that. It was something he’d never face. If a lupus didn’t die from a wound, he healed completely.

And there was nothing, not one damned thing, he could do about it. She was human, and he … he was useless. “Nettie will help the healing more than the good doctor realizes. The mate bond will make a difference, too.”

His words had no impact on her abstracted expression. “You’ve suggested that before—that the mate bond may be giving a boost to my immune system.”

“It helps with healing, period. We don’t know how much, but it will help.” If only he could will the bond to steal some of his healing and give it to her! “Are you ready for your other pain pill?” She’d taken one; the other was still in its little paper cup.

“Not yet.” Her gaze tightened, focusing on him. “You need to go get some rest. Crash at the hotel awhile. You didn’t sleep much.”

He hadn’t slept at all. How could he? “I’m fine. I’m not leaving.”

“At least go get some breakfast. The chips you got from a vending machine when I was eating my yummy broth won’t carry you.”

He smiled. “Soon. Not yet.”

Her mouth tipped wryly. She held out her hand. Her left hand.

He moved close and wrapped his hand around hers. For a few moments neither of them spoke.

Rule noticed the sorrow first … a deep, gray sorrow, like being wrapped in rain clouds that held no lightning or thunder. Only grief, gray and formless. Grief for Lily’s hurt. Grief for a tall man with café au lait skin and a smile that would not be seen again on this earth.

After a moment he also noticed that he was hungry. Too hungry, considering where he was. He gave in. “You’re right. I need to eat. Would you object to having Jeff in your room while I’m gone?”

“Yes.” Her gaze sharpened. “Don’t tell me he’s here.”

“Of course he’s here. He’s guarding your door. Alex is sending more guards, but until they arrive—”

“Wait, wait. I don’t want guards.”

His hand tightened on hers. “You’ll have them whether you want them or not. Someone wants to kill you. They damned near succeeded.”

“They killed LeBron. They killed him instead of me. I hate it. I hate it. I won’t have guards.”

All sorts of things rose up in Rule’s mind—orders, reasons, arguments … words. All sorts of words that would explain and persuade. The words wanted to burst out, wrap themselves around her, protect her.

His wolf wouldn’t let them. Wait, the wolf commanded, looking through the man’s eyes at the woman he loved beyond words or reasons. He saw such grief in her face, such pain. Saw, too, that she was fighting that pain. His words wouldn’t help. They would only give her more to fight against.

He waited.

The breath she drew broke in the middle. “I resented them. LeBron and Jeff and all the rest. Not them personally, but I resented them always being around. I thought I was being so reasonable by bringing him with me on my run. I was following the rules, wasn’t I? I didn’t want him there, but because I was so damned reasonable I let him tag along. And he died. I didn’t have to go running, but I did, and he died. He died saving me.”

Ah … Rule wanted to gather her close and croon to her. She hadn’t grown up, as he had, knowing that others would die to protect him. Or because he sent them to fight the clan’s enemies. Or because he simply made a mistake. She didn’t know how to accept that, how to honor such choices. She was the one who defended others. How could she allow others to risk themselves for her?

Lily’s childhood had broken apart when she and a friend were taken by a twisted man—or a thing that walked and looked like a man. Her friend hadn’t survived. Lily had, and she’d knit those broken pieces back together by growing into a warrior, one who fought for others, for justice. Most of all, one who fought the monsters in whatever form they took.

Time, now, for words, but carefully. Carefully. “LeBron couldn’t stop the monster who wanted you dead. There wasn’t time. The best he could do was to deny that monster his target. He succeeded. Will you deny him the honor of his victory?”

“It isn’t … I don’t …” She stopped. Swallowed. “I need to do something,” she whispered. “I don’t know what, but I need to do something.”

He nodded. “There will be a ceremony. You’ve been to our funerals before, but when a warrior falls in defense of his people—”

“I’m not his people. I’m not Leidolf.”

“You are a Chosen, touched by the Lady. His Rho’s Chosen. In defending you, he defended his Rho and all his people. You don’t have to agree, Lily, simply accept that this is how we see it. How LeBron saw it.”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“LeBron’s death rites will be different from those you’ve seen. The firnam may be physically difficult for you. It may also be hard on you emotionally. We will celebrate him as a warrior who died a warrior’s death. But if you are willing, there is a place for you in this ceremony.”

Lily was silent for a long moment, then sighed, slow and deep. “Yes. I want to be part of it. They aren’t going to let me out of here real soon, though.”

“Soon enough.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’ll let Alex know. He’s making the arrangements.” He needed to tell her what had happened at Nokolai Clanhome last night. She still didn’t know that Benedict had been gifted with a Chosen, much less that the woman had snuck into Clanhome for some unknown purpose involving unknown potions. But not now. She was exhausted, dragged down by grief and more than one kind of pain. “I know you dislike being doped up, but I think you—”

His stomach growled.

Her laugh was weak, a little breathless, but real. “I’ll take my drug now. And you’ll go eat.”

“I believe I will,” he said wryly. “I’ll ask Jeff to remain on the other side of your door, not inside the room.”

She gave him a level look. “I can live with that for now. We’re going to talk about this business of guards again.”

“I can live with that.” He carried her hand to his lips for another kiss. “For now.”

RULE left as soon as Lily downed her pain pill. He spoke with Jeff first. The youngster was barely trained, and he wanted to be sure Jeff didn’t allow anyone in the room other than medical personnel he’d already seen and smelled. Unless the police came again, of course. Which they undoubtedly would, and probably sooner rather than later. Jeff couldn’t ban them, but he could summon Rule, and he could go into the room with them.

Rule also told Jeff that Lily would participate in the firnam . Jeff nodded solemnly. “Good. That’s good. She’ll be the wounded? Though with so few reliquae—” He stopped, blinking. “I shouldn’t assume.”

“True, but you may always assume I honor those who serve. LeBron won’t be slighted. I will serve as reliquae also, and I’ll bring all of my Leidolf guards here for the firnam.”

Jeff’s eyes widened. “You will? The guys will be glad to hear that. I knew the clan’s coffers were low, so I didn’t think they’d be able to, but—now, don’t take this wrong. Me and the guys will be honored to have you serve with us, but some of the older clan … well, they’re used to doing things a certain way.”

Leidolf’s style of firnam set the Rho apart, rather than having him serve as reliquae alongside the other witnesses. “Tradition is important. I’m returning Leidolf to some of the older traditions. It will be at least a week and probably longer before we can hold the ceremony.”

“That’s not a problem. Uh … I talked to Samuel earlier to see how he was holding up. He said you called and told him about his father yourself. I guess you called both of LeBron’s sons, and their granddad, too.”

“Of course.” Such a duty could not be delegated.

“You called them while Lily was in surgery. You told Samuel that she’d lived to be operated on because of his father’s courage.”

Rule nodded, unsure of Jeff’s point. Did he need reassurance that Rule could be a proper Rho to Leidolf?

Jeff sighed. “I miss LeBron. It was a good death, but I miss him something fierce. I wish I knew who to kill.”

“So do I,” Rule said. “Though we may not be able to … ah.” Relief dawned as he saw who was coming down the hall. “The others have arrived.”

Alex had sent five guards. Two replaced Jeff at Lily’s door; one went with Rule to the Courtyard Café. The other two, along with Jeff, would have the night shift, though one would run an errand first. Rule needed his laptop.

Rule hadn’t originally intended to go to the café, which was in another building, but with additional guards around Lily, he decided he could take a little more time. The café offered freshly cooked food and real coffee. Starbucks might not be his first choice, but they brewed real coffee.

Rule ordered three eggs over easy with hash browns, a double side of bacon, and biscuits. His guard—Randy Carlson, a bulky young man with sun-streaked brown hair and a mustache—had already eaten, as per instructions. Rule had made sure that any lupi he brought into the hospital were well fed. Randy took up position at a nearby table where he could sip coffee and watch.

Once Rule finished eating, he slipped on an earbud and made some calls. The first went to Alex, who needed to know Lily’s status and that she would participate in the vitae reliquus . Next was his father, who also needed to know about Lily. It was very early in San Diego, but Isen slept even less than Rule did. Rule expected him to be up, and he was.

They talked about Lily first and the surgeon’s unwelcome expectations. Briefly then they touched on Clanhome’s odd late-night visitor. She was still unconscious, just as she’d predicted. That was a curious business, but after asking a few questions he hadn’t had time for earlier, Rule left the matter in Isen’s and Benedict’s hands. There was clan business to deal with.

He spoke with formal courtesy. “The Leidolf Rho wishes to speak with the Nokolai Rho.”

“The Nokolai Rho greets the Leidolf Rho, and offers condolences on the loss of your clansman.”

“Thank you. I’ve a request to make. I hope you will grant permission to those Nokolai guards who served with my clansman to attend the firnam, if they so wish, that they may act as reliquae.”

“Ah.” Silence for a moment. Rule knew Isen was thinking quickly, considering angles. Having more than one clan serve as reliquae was unusual, but not unheard of—save between Nokolai and Leidolf. Reliquae—a term also used by the Catholic Church, though in a different context—meant those who were left behind. They were drawn from those who had served in combat with the fallen warrior. Guarding a Rho was considered a combat position; all those who had served as guards with LeBron were eligible to act as reliquae.

At one time, every clan had observed the same death rites for its warriors. Some clans still followed the old custom in which a Rho served as simply another reliquae for any who fell in his service. That was Nokolai’s practice, for in death all who serve the clan and the Lady are equal. Some clans—such as Leidolf—elevated the Rho’s role in the reliquus . Rule disliked that practice heartily.

Isen spoke formally. “I am pleased by your request and grant it gladly. As a token of Nokolai’s appreciation of Leidolf’s sacrifice and your clansman’s courage, Nokolai will pay the travel expenses of any who accept your invitation. Do you wish to extend the invitation yourself?”

“I do. I thank you. You should know that I’ve already invited one Nokolai. I apologize for not consulting you first.”

“I assume you mean Lily.”

“Yes.”

“She wouldn’t know she needed my permission—or care. You do know, but I choose not to find insult in this omission. There was a need?”

“The manner of LeBron’s death affects her strongly.”

“I see. Tell her—no, she won’t need to hear from her Rho. I would speak with my son.”

“I’m here.”

“Tell Lily there is a difference between pain and damage. Damage may heal eventually. Or not. Pain simply is.”

It was an odd message. Dubious but willing, Rule agreed to pass it on and said goodbye. He needed to get back to Lily. He would take her some coffee, he decided. She’d probably fallen asleep again—he hoped so—but if not, she’d appreciate a cup of real coffee.

He got himself a refill, too, and had them put both cups in a bag so he could keep one hand free. He could have asked Randy to carry it, of course, but what use was a bodyguard with his hands full?

He was glad for the free hand a few moments later when he got a call from Stephen Andros, the Etorri Lu Nuncio. And again as he crossed to the building that held Lily’s room, when the Ybirra Lu Nuncio called. He’d just entered the stairwell—he needed to stretch his legs, and a trot up five flights would do that—when Edgar Whitman, Rho of Wythe clan, called.

The calls from the Lu Nuncios hadn’t surprised him. They’d heard about the attack on Lily on the morning news—it had excited the talking heads—and those involved in the upcoming circle wanted to assure Rule they would wait until his Chosen was recovered enough for travel. They also wanted to extend their support. The Rhos of their clans would probably contact Isen to say much the same things their Lu Nuncios said to Rule. A Chosen was Lady-touched, like a Rhej. Like a Rhej, she was treasured by all clans.

But Rule hadn’t expected to hear from a Rho. He was a Rho now himself, yes, but because Lily was Nokolai, he’d expected the other clans to treat with him in this instance according to his status in Nokolai—as heir. In truth, he’d rather talk to the Wythe Lu Nuncio than its Rho. He liked Brian, who laughed easily and was Rule’s closest age-mate among the heirs. Edgar was … difficult.

Edgar expressed the usual wish for Lily’s healing, asked the usual questions. “I’m glad she’s doing well,” he said then. “Wythe stands ready to hunt for any who would harm a Chosen. Give us word if we may assist.”

“Leidolf thanks you. Nokolai appreciates your concern and your offer.”

Edgar snorted. “Not easy, wearing two hats, is it? I won’t keep you on the phone now, when your attention must be divided. But I need to know Nokolai won’t use this as an excuse to delay the heirs’ circle.”

A flick of anger turned Rule’s voice cold. “I am trying not to find insult in your words. Nokolai has worked with Wythe in good conscience to arrange the circle.” In spite of considerable argument and insult, primarily from Wythe and Ybirra.

Less than a year ago, Rule had called another heirs’ circle—for all heirs, not just those from North America—to inform the others in person that she was active in the world again. They had come from all over without any of this prolonged negotiation. The contrast between then and now was sharp and painful.

Edgar snorted. “If I could trust Nokolai’s conscience to prevail over its ambition, we wouldn’t need to meet. Wythe has negotiated in good faith, too.”

Wythe—in the person of its Rho, Edgar—had been a paranoid ass. At first Edgar had denied Rule’s authority to even call an heirs’ circle on the grounds that Rule was now a Rho.

True, Rhos were usually not included in an heirs’ circle; it created imbalance. But Leidolf lacked an heir. Alex might hold the title of Lu Nuncio, but it was empty of its usual meaning. Alex wasn’t of the founder’s bloodline, so couldn’t receive the heir’s portion of the mantle. This was a precarious position for a clan, but hardly unprecedented. And precedent clearly allowed a Rho who lacked an heir to attend an heirs’ circle.

The claim was particularly galling, coming from Wythe. They were in almost as precarious a position as Leidolf. Edgar’s younger brother, Brian, was his Lu Nuncio because Edgar’s only son had been killed in a Challenge three years ago. The only one other than Edgar and his brother who was certain to carry the founder’s blood was Brian’s son, who was barely out of diapers. If anything happened to Brian, Wythe would be in the position Leidolf was until the boy grew up.

Rule said nothing. Silence was preferable to telling Edgar what he really thought. It also encouraged the other person speak to fill it.

“Doubt me, do you, boy?” Edgar demanded. “You shouldn’t. I want the circle to take place, and am willing to alter our arrangements to avoid delay. Your Chosen shouldn’t be dragged to St. Paul now—indeed, she may not be well enough for such a trip for weeks. I am willing to allow the circle to be called in San Diego.”

That was a concession. A large one. Rule answered slowly. “Leidolf does not object. As for Nokolai … I will have to speak with my Rho, of course, but I see no problem. Ybirra may.”

“I’ll contact Manuel. I want to get this done. I think he does, too.”

“Very well. I’ll speak with Etorri and Kyffin.” Kyffin clan was a dominant, but was temporarily subordinate to Nokolai, so obtaining their consent was a courtesy. A necessary courtesy, but still, Jasper couldn’t withhold his Lu Nuncio. As for Etorri, Rule doubted Stephen or his father would object. Etorri supported the call for the All-Clan. “Will you also call Szøs?”

“I will. I’ll be in touch after I’ve spoken with Manuel and Andor. T’eius ven,” Edgar said abruptly.

“T’eius ven, Edgar.”

Rule disconnected, frowning. Edgar was not a subtle man—or didn’t seem so to someone who’d been raised by Isen Turner. But he was a Rho, and had been for over four decades. His actions often served more than one purpose.

What benefit was there to Wythe in meeting quickly? Rule couldn’t find one, yet Edgar was eager enough for the circle to take place that he suggested a meeting place clearly to Wythe’s disadvantage. Was he less suspicious of Nokolai than Rule had thought? Or was that misdirection? What advantage could he be seeking that Rule couldn’t spot?

Ten months ago, Isen Turner had called for an All-Clan. After centuries of absence, their most ancient enemy had begun stirring. The clans needed to meet, to exchange information, to make ready for whatever she planned.

Discussion for the All-Clan had gone well, if slowly. Szøs and Etorri had agreed immediately; two of the European clans had agreed after some haggling. But when Rule became Leidolf Rho, suspicion dragged planning to a halt.

Rule didn’t blame the other clans for wondering what he was up to. In their place he’d have been wary, too. The balance was upset, and he didn’t expect them to react otherwise. Yet the All-Clan had to take place. She might not have moved again since dragging him and Lily to Dis, but sooner or later, she would.

In order to get the All-Clan, Nokolai had to reassure its fellow dominants in North America. To do this, Rule had called for a circle of heirs—in this case, the Lu Nuncios of the dominant clans of North America. Finding a meeting place that didn’t favor one over the others had been difficult. They’d finally agreed on St. Paul. That favored Wythe because it was closest geographically to their territory, but Wythe was the smallest of the U.S. dominants, so was less able to take violent advantage of such proximity.

They were also the most annoying. Wythe and Ybirra were the two clans most opposed to the All-Clan, the two most suspicious of Nokolai. Ybirra had some reason; while on the whole the two clans got along well, Ybirra was Nokolai’s nearest neighbor. Territorial skirmishes were inevitable from time to time, and Ybirra had the most to fear if Nokolai were up to something. Wythe’s intransigence was based more on habit and personality. Edgar simply did not trust Isen and never had.

Now Edgar had contacted Rule directly. That made no sense. Rhos delegated much of the maneuvering to their heirs for a reason. When a Rho negotiated directly, the stakes were higher, the risk of insult greater. And a Rho almost always negotiated with other Rhos. The power was otherwise too uneven. While a Rho could not use his mantle to directly affect those of other clans, all lupi responded to the presence of a mantle. Not all in the same way, but all responded. Rule had once seen his father break up a fight between Kyffin youngsters with a single shouted command.

Of course, Rule was now Rho as well as Lu Nuncio. Perhaps Edgar had decided that made it acceptable. More likely he used it as an excuse to take Rule by surprise … yet he called to propose abandoning St. Paul for San Diego, smack-dab in Nokolai territory. Either Edgar had decided to stop opposing the All-Clan, or Rule was missing something.

And either way, he needed to call his father, but he’d reached Lily’s room. He’d check on her first. She was probably asleep, but if not, she’d want the coffee he’d brought.

Her guards said no one had entered since he left. Rule nodded and pushed the door open. She was still awake, still sitting with the head of her bed elevated, still pallid with pain. Her eyes, when they met his, were dark with trouble.

“I just spoke to Croft,” she said. “According to the healer, Ruben’s heart attack wasn’t natural. It was attempted murder, and for reasons of access and timing, Croft thinks it’s one of us. Someone in the FBI used magic to try to kill Ruben.”