Blood Challenge

SEVENTEEN

ARJENIE woke slowly to the sound of flute music. She didn’t know the song, but it was piercing and plaintive as only a flute can be. Uncle Ambrose played so beautifully …

She ached all over. Arms, legs, back, shoulders—every part of her registered its own complaint, as if she had the flu. She knew what that meant. As for the dull ache in her head, even in her half-conscious state, she recognized that as a by-product of hunger, not Gift-abuse.

For a bit she drifted with the music, wondering dimly what song that was and why Uncle Ambrose was here.

Here? Where was here?

Her eyes popped open. The aches and hunger were familiar. The room she’d woken up in was not.

She lay on her back in a bed that wasn’t hers. There was a pillow beneath her head and a light bedspread covering her. The ceiling above her was white, but that wasn’t much of a clue.

Arjenie squinted as she turned her head on the pillow. Without her glasses it was hard to be sure, but aside from blurry shapes she took to be furniture—a small table by her bed and a chair on the opposite wall—the room seemed empty. Also small. The walls were white, interrupted by one door and one window. The door was ajar, but not widely enough for her to see what lay beyond it.

It was not her hotel room.

It wouldn’t be, of course. Memory was seeping back … the water well, her ankle, Benedict Last-Name-Unknown. Isen Turner. Cullen Seabourne, who’d said—

She sat up too fast. And winced at the stab of pain in her head.

The flute music cut off. A moment later, the door swung open and a large shape—khaki-colored on top, denim-colored below—loomed in the doorway.

Her hand shot out, scrambling on the table for what she hoped were her glasses. Yes! She shoved them on.

Benedict was wearing jeans still, but he’d added a khaki shirt. He’d buttoned it, too, darn it. He wore an earbud which she guessed must connect to the cell phone clipped to his belt … which also held a knife sheath, complete with knife. Not a pocketknife—a big, long thing.

No sword, though. “Do you ever have trouble with doorways?”

He blinked. “Doorways?”

“Not the standard ones. I can see that you fit through them. But I’m not sure your shoulders would fit through a narrower doorway. You might have to turn sideways.”

He shook his head. “You can’t be as guileless as you seem.”

“I’m pretty short on guile. That doesn’t mean I’m not a complex person, capable of great subtlety. Just not much guile. Am I a guest or a prisoner? And do you give prisoners or guests ibuprofen if their head hurts? Acetaminophen is okay, too, or even plain aspirin, but naproxen sodium doesn’t do much for me.”

He turned and left the room.

She blinked. Was that a yes or a no? Before she could decide, he was back, carrying a glass of water. He held it out. Automatically she took it.

“Ibuprofen,” he said, extending his other hand, where two small brown pills rested. “Nettie thought you might want some.”

“Nettie?”

“Dr. Two Horses. She checked you out after you collapsed. Gave you a bit of a boost. She’s a healer.”

Oh, yes, she’d seen a mention of Dr. Two Horses in the Nokolai files. Plus she’d heard of her elsewhere … something she’d read? No, from Uncle Nate. He wasn’t a healer, but he was a doctor and he took a good deal of interest in those few—very few—physicians who’d gone public about their healing Gift. He spoke very highly of Dr. Nettie Two Horses.

Arjenie reached for the pill and noticed something. “My ring’s gone.”

“It’s on the table where your glasses were.”

Oh. She hadn’t seen it when she grabbed her glasses because she hadn’t seen very much then. Arjenie snatched the little ring and put it back where it belonged. “My mother gave it to me. I never take it off.”

“My apologies. It had a power signature. Seabourne had to check it.”

“It’s a perfectly harmless little spell to discourage mosquitoes.”

“So he said.” Benedict held out the ibuprofen again.

This time she accepted the pills, popped them in her mouth, and washed them down with the water.

“More water?” Benedict asked politely.

“No, thank you. I’m awfully hungry, though.”

“Supper will be ready in an hour or so. Do you need a snack to tide you over?”

“That would be lovely. How long was I out?”

“About ten hours.”

She smiled, pleased. That was much less than she’d expected. Maybe Aunt Robin hadn’t had time to get worried yet. “Dr. Two Horses must have given me a big boost. I’d like to thank her.”

“She’s not here. She had another patient to tend. She said your ankle should be better in a couple days, and that your unconsciousness is a trance state similar to what she does when she puts a patient in sleep. Your version takes you deeper, which is why we couldn’t wake you.”

“That’s a fair description.”

“She didn’t understand the delay between the overuse of your Gift and the onset of unconsciousness. Neither did Seabourne.”

“I don’t, either, but I’ve speculated. Maybe my body is waiting for me to do something to fix things. Replenish my power, maybe. Only I don’t know how to do that quickly enough to help. I’ve tried several methods, but aside from eating, nothing makes much difference, and it only delays things. Do you think Cullen Seabourne knows a way to absorb or access power quickly?” He was a sorcerer, after all.

“Possibly.” His voice was dry. “He’s eager to talk to you. You can ask him.”

She ducked her head, suddenly uncomfortable. Cullen Seabourne had seen in one glance what she’d spent her life hiding.

A pair of jeans, neatly folded, sat on the foot of the bed. Her jeans. “Someone took off my jeans.” Her hand flew to her hair as she realized something else. “And took out my hair band.”

“Both of them would be uncomfortable to sleep in. Or to pass out in. Seabourne says you’re sidhe.”

Arjenie bit her lip. There didn’t seem much point in denying it. They wouldn’t believe her. “Part-sidhe. It’s a long story—at least, the only way I know how to tell it is long. It would be nice to know what you plan to do about me.”

He considered her silently. He had such an interesting face—hard, yes, with those bladed cheekbones, and his default expression seemed to be no expression at all, so he ought to look scary. He had at first, but she wasn’t frightened anymore. How odd, when so many things scared her! But Benedict didn’t. She felt as if she could just sit here and look at him for an hour or two.

Or maybe not, she thought as her stomach gurgled unhappily. Her bladder didn’t care for the idea, either. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“It’s down the hall. I’ll have to escort you.”

That sounded more like “prisoner” than “guest.” “Okaaaay … but it’s awkward to put on my jeans with you watching.”

He nodded, turned, and walked out, closing the door behind him—not quite all the way. The not-quite-closed door had to be intentional. “You do that a lot, don’t you?” she said, reaching for her jeans.

He sounded amused. “Watch women dress? Occasionally.”

She huffed and threw back the covers. “Answer without using words. You don’t use a lot of words. Maybe that’s why you’re good at summaries. You summarize everything.” She looked down and saw her shoes lined up neatly by the bed. And her socks.

She picked up the socks. They were clean, fluffy from the drier. Someone had washed them. She tilted her head, considering that. While she was unconscious she’d been tended by a doctor, put to bed in her underwear and shirt, and her socks had been washed.

Having a doctor check her out, putting her in a comfy bed—those could be an attempt to win her trust so she’d tell them what they wanted to know. But washing her socks? That was nice. Just nice.

She pulled them on and stuck her legs in her jeans. The elastic bandage got in the way; she had to tug the denim over it. “Me, I like to talk, and I don’t know how to ignore the details, because they’re interesting. You didn’t tell me what you plan to do about me.”

“The Rho has decided you should stay here, as our guest, until you tell us why you’re here, or we find out through other means.”

“That’s a prisoner, not a guest.” She bent and pulled on her shoes.

“We can’t hold you against your will.” He was bland now. “But if you leave, we will notify the police of your trespass onto our land.”

Last night his Rho had said they could do anything they wanted with her, up to and including killing her. Or had it been all implication? She cast her mind back over that part of their conversation. The threat had been mostly implied, she decided. In fact, he’d been careful not to say anything that might get him in trouble if she repeated it to the police.

Not that she would. Unfortunately, they’d figured that out. That hadn’t been hard, given how she’s reacted when Benedict mentioned calling the cops. Arjenie sighed and stood up. She’d pretty much handed that weapon to them. “That’s coercion. Where’s my cane?”

The door opened. “Here.” He came in again and handed it to her. “Nettie says you should stay off the ankle as much as possible for another day. I could carry you.”

“No, thank you.” He was standing awfully close. Could she really feel the heat from his body, or was that her imagination? “I’m glad you asked this time, though. Uh—where am I?”

“The Rho’s home. We’ll be dining with him. You are a guest, but not one we trust, so I’ll be keeping track of you.”

Her mind arrowed straight at one part of that statement. “You’ll be keeping track of me? Personally?”

“Since your mind tricks don’t work on me, yes. They shouldn’t work on Seabourne, either, so he’ll take over when I need to sleep or have other duties.”

“Why wouldn’t my Gift work on him?”

“Shields. You know what he is. Why is that?”

Because she’d read about him in the file. And she knew his wife. She’d sent Cynna a present for her baby shower last month, an adorable little receiving blanket with … oh. Oh, no. She was so stupid.

Arjenie limped for the door. Her ankle was much better than she’d expected—tender, but not really painful. Another reason to thank Dr. Two Horses, no doubt.

“The bathroom’s to the left. Seabourne scares you.”

“Not exactly.” But boy, he did throw a spanner in the works. Or rather, his wife did. If he mentioned Arjenie’s name to Cynna, they’d know who she was. Then what?

She needed to think. She paused when she reached the hall, looking around. Next to the door was a wooden chair. There was a flute on its seat. To the right the hall ended in a den—maybe the room she’d seen last night, from a different hall. She could see a couch and part of a window. On her left the hall continued about fifteen feet before ending in a closed door.

She limped off to the left. “That was you playing the flute. I thought it was my uncle at first, though I didn’t recognize the song.”

“You wouldn’t. I’ve never recorded it.”

“You write music? You wrote that song?” She had to pause and smile at him. “It’s beautiful. How did you know I’d woken up?”

“I heard you move.”

“Really? Even over your music? Do you hear as well when you’re like this as you do when you’re wolf?”

“I hear better as a wolf.”

She tried to imagine what that was like. “Which do you like better, being a wolf or being a human?”

“We don’t think of ourselves as human. One of my forms is a man. One is a wolf. I like both forms. Which do you like better, your right arm or your left?”

“I’m right-handed, so my right arm is more useful, but I don’t like one best … oh. That’s what you mean. Both forms are you, and you don’t have a favorite. But maybe one is more useful.”

“You might say I’m ambidextrous. You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m curious.” She’d reached the bathroom, but instead of going in, she turned to face him. “What’s your last name?”

He didn’t answer. It wasn’t hesitation. That implies doubt, uncertainty, and his eyes stayed steady on hers. Such dark eyes, like bittersweet chocolate … and wasn’t that steadiness central to him? He knew how to wait, this man—on events, on understanding, on whatever might rise from inside. Nor did he seem to be seeking something from her. He just looked into her eyes, and the longer he looked, the faster her heart beat. Finally he spoke. “I’ve used more than one surname, but at birth I was called Benedict Charles Kayani.”

Arjenie didn’t know why she was sure he’d offered her a secret, a glimpse of something private. She just knew. A little bud opened inside her, so soft and subtle she barely noticed. “It’s a growth plate injury.”

Those dark eyes blinked once, overtaken by puzzlement.

It made her grin. “Uncle Clay says I’m a firefly—here, there, here, then off somewhere else. Sometimes I forget the conversational breadcrumbs, so there’s no trail for others to follow. You keep asking about my physical impairment. It’s from a growth plate injury when I was twelve.”

Understanding dawned. “One of your legs is shorter than the other. The left leg. It’s not greatly different, but enough to cause problems.”

She nodded. “My left tibia didn’t grow as much as my right, and it grew crooked. I had a couple surgeries that corrected most of the crookedness, but it isn’t entirely straight, so that foot turns under me if I’m careless. I’ve had a lot of sprained ankles.”

“How were you hurt?”

“An auto accident. Drunk driver. My mom was killed.” Now why had she added that part? She never did. People felt obliged to say they were sorry, or they became uncomfortable, or—

He touched her cheek. Just that, and just for a moment, then his hand dropped.

That’s when she noticed the bud. It was singing, or humming … yes, a funny little humming feeling inside her, so new she didn’t have a word for it. It was not attraction, though heaven knew she was attracted to this man. But that was a known feeling. This—this newness, what was that? It didn’t make sense.

She bit her lip in confusion and escaped into the bathroom.

THE bathroom door closed. Benedict leaned against the wall, his eyes closing. His heart hammered against the wall of his chest.

God. God, she was so lovely and frail and strong all at once—and nothing like Claire. How could the Lady Choose twice for him, and Choose so differently? Claire had been all fire—smart and savvy, her beautifully fit body the instrument she used for combat, for sex, for living every second at its fullest. She’d burned, his Claire, burned so brightly. She’d been a fighter in every sense.

God knew she’d fought the mate bond. Fought it relentlessly. Frantically. Fatally.

Benedict drew a ragged breath. He had to tell Arjenie about the bond. Had to. And couldn’t, his throat closed by terror of what could go wrong—and by the sick, certain knowledge of just how wrong it could go.

What was she? Part-sidhe, according to Seabourne. Possibly an enemy, according to the facts. Isen didn’t think that was likely. He believed the Lady wouldn’t have gifted Benedict with an enemy of the clan.

Benedict couldn’t remember his father ever entertaining such a naïve notion before. The Lady’s reasons were her own. She might have decided the clan needed Arjenie for some reason. That didn’t mean the woman could be trusted now.

The potion that blocked her scent was wearing off. When he’d stood close to her, when he’d touched her, he’d smelled her again—not as clearly as in his other form, but clearly enough. Her scent made him think of running flat out with the sun shining hot on his fur. It made him think of summer afternoons when he was young—young enough that an afternoon was an endless stretch of possibilities. It made him think of messy sheets, entwined bodies, and the musky smell of sex.

It made him think of these things now. Then, it had just made him hard.

What had the other potion she’d brought to Clanhome been designed to do? If she wasn’t an enemy, why wouldn’t she tell them? Someone’s life was at risk, she’d said. Friar was clairaudient, she’d said—a Listener, in other words, capable of magically hearing from afar. But she admitted Friar’s Gift didn’t work here at Clanhome. Why not?

Maybe that was a lie. Maybe Friar wasn’t a Listener—or he was, but Clanhome had no effect on his Gift. If she was telling the truth about that, why couldn’t she level with them here, where Friar couldn’t Listen in?

He’d touched her. The skin of her cheek was as soft as a flower petal. He needed to touch her again.

He was so afraid.