Blood Challenge

TWENTY-FOUR

ARJENIE was awake before the sun the next day. Her body was still on East Coast time, plus she’d ended up going to bed early—and without that second cup of coffee.

Shortly after Isen’s announcement that some mysterious woman was conspiring against lupi, Arjenie had been informed she was tired. True, but more to the point, Benedict had wanted to talk with Isen privately. So it was Cullen Seabourne who’d escorted her to her room, and he’d refused to tell her anything about this mysterious female enemy Isen thought was conspiring against his people.

Cullen was still around when she woke up. So was her suitcase. She discovered the latter as soon as she put on her glasses. The former was obvious after she got dressed and opened her door. Then stood in the doorway, staring.

Cullen was out there, all right, walking down the hall … on his hands.

He glanced at her. His legs lowered with easy precision, arching his body into a perfect backbend. He rose from that as naturally as another person might rise from a chair. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Yes. Wow. That was amazing. Where’s Benedict? And how did my suitcase get here?”

“Benedict’s asleep. Even Superwolf needs sleep after skipping it two nights in a row. Your suitcase is here because he thought you’d need your things and sent someone to retrieve it for you. Isen wishes me to apologize on his behalf for removing a few items before giving it to you.”

Like her athame and spell components. She’d noticed. “He may have meant well, but it was presumptuous to enter my hotel room without my permission.”

“Benedict’s good at presumption, not so good with asking permission. You’ll have to work on that. I need to talk to Carl. He makes the second-best omelets in the world, and I’m hungry. Come on.” He started down the hall.

“Wait a minute. I need to use the bathroom. And who makes the first-best omelets?”

He stopped, glancing back at her. The beautiful man hadn’t shaved today. “A woman in a little village in the south of France. Her grandmother taught Carl how to cook, and she keeps chickens. Her eggs are fresher than Carl’s. There’s a bathroom near the kitchen. You can pee while Carl cooks.”

She hmphed, but followed him down the hall to the great room or den. The kitchen, she’d discovered yesterday, opened off it at the other side of the house. “Does Carl actually talk to you?”

“Carl talks about food. Ask him about tarragon and he turns downright chatty.”

“Are you going to tell me what Isen was talking about last night? About this enemy he thinks is behind everything?”

“Not my job to decide what you should or shouldn’t be told, and it’s easier to say no. I like easy. I like the T-shirt, too.”

She smiled down at her chest, where white letters on a black background spelled out “no comment.” “A friend gave it to me for my birthday. If I were prescient, I’d have worn it yesterday. I could have pointed to it when Isen was questioning me.”

“No precog?”

She shook her head. “No more than the itsy hunches everyone gets. Um … I consider precognition the Gift of the fifth element. I guess you know what I mean by that?”

“My original training was Wiccan, so yes.”

In Wicca, the fifth element was spirit, which she’d been taught was available to all. The unGifted weren’t able to use what spirit offered consciously or consistently, but now and then they tapped into it. That’s why everyone had hunches, and even those without a trace of magic sometimes saw ghosts. It also explained the occasional miraculous cure.

Or so she believed. Other traditions—even other Wiccans—saw things differently. “What about you? Do you see precognition as tied to spirit?”

“Speaking literally? No. But that’s probably because I don’t see spirit.”

“Really?” She stopped. “But that’s fascinating! You see the other elements?”

“Of course. But not spirit, which makes me think that—with apologies to your faith—spirit is something other, not an elemental property of magic.”

“Well, the pentagram is just a model, after all.” But it made her feel pouty to think the model might not be right. They started walking again. “My aunt says the other elements are accessed through magic, but spirit is accessed through faith. Maybe that explains it. Do you have a faith?”

“No. That’s an interesting distinction. What would … ah, Carl.” They’d reached the kitchen, where the lanky Carl was wiping down a huge, restaurant-style stove. Cullen produced a charming smile. “Our Rho’s guest is hoping for one of your superlative omelets.”

They continued to talk shop while waiting for breakfast—minus a short bathroom break—and during the meal, where Cullen turned out to be right. Carl’s omelets were incredible. After breakfast, they moved to the great room and kept on talking. They discussed theory and practice and tiptoed towards the possibility of trading a spell or two. Arjenie’s coven had strict rules about that, so she’d have to get her High Priestess’s permission before making a swap. But she had to call Aunt Robin today anyway.

Benedict and Isen didn’t seem to be anywhere around.

The morning dragged. She felt wiggly and unsettled. Was it possible that after all these years she’d finally get the binding removed—and by a dragon? Who was this female enemy that had Isen spooked? She couldn’t ask the first question. The cursed binding prevented it. Cullen wouldn’t answer the second one. Maybe Benedict would, when he got back. From where? Cullen wouldn’t say.

Arjenie wanted Benedict. Instead she was stuck with the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen, a man who shared her interest in spellcraft and theory and could discuss them in an informed and intelligent—if occasionally sarcastic—way.

Some might say she was hard to please.

Clearly she was infatuated, but she wanted to see Benedict, talk to him, find out what his father had meant last night, why he didn’t tell people his last name, and what his skin tasted like. Not necessarily in that order.

They were in the den when Cullen steered the talk to her Gift. She told him about the way glass affected it. “The glass in the windows doesn’t bother you?” he asked.

Arjenie was curled into the corner of the big sectional about four feet from where Cullen sprawled in an armchair, and less than ten feet from the windows lining the back wall. “Nope. If I tried to use my Gift, though, it would … scratch at me. Interfere.”

“Focus Fire, stop Air, seal Water, open Earth.”

“Exactly. Now, if I were touching glass and pulled hard on my Gift, I’d pass out. So would …” Her voice drifted off. She’d seen something move outside. What—oh, it was just a dog. A yellow Lab, she thought. Not a wolf. Not a man who sometimes walked as wolf, either. “So would anyone nearby,” she finished, “if it was a large piece of glass.”

“Who are you watching for?”

“No one. Or, well …” She fluttered a hand. “I keep wondering where Isen is. He’s been gone since before I got up, which was about five thirty your time. And you won’t tell me where he is.”

“He has many duties as Rho,” Cullen said blandly. “And he doesn’t need much sleep. Are you sure he’s the one you’re looking for?”

Her cheeks heated. Maybe she’d been a bit obvious about her infatuation. “I guess Benedict has many duties, too. Does he live here? Here in this house, I mean.”

“Here or at the barracks or at his cabin up in the mountains.”

“Those are all places he stays, maybe, but where does he live? Where’s home?”

“You’re thinking like a human.”

“Duh.”

He grinned. “Point is, you think of this house as Isen’s—and it is—but all of Clanhome is Isen’s. Just as all of it, including this house, is ours. The clan’s.”

She frowned. “You don’t draw lines between one person’s property and another’s?”

“We do, but not the way you’re used to. Especially not when it comes to our Rho. He’s ours. We’re his. Everything he owns, we own. Everything we own, he owns.”

Arjenie had known that the clan’s holdings were in the Rho’s name, but she hadn’t grasped what that meant. She didn’t think she grasped it now, either. “Okay, but … say you own something and another clansman wants it. Whose is it?”

“Mine. I might decide to give it to him, but it’s my choice. He’s unlikely to ask, of course, because status is involved. Remind me to tell you about the magpie game. Our kids and adolescents love it, and sometimes adults play it, too, though only among close friends. But if the clan itself needs something, then it’s the clan’s.”

The magpie game? She shook her head, determined to stay on topic for once. “And your Rho gets to decide what the clan needs?’

“Of course.”

“What if you’ve got a greedy Rho? One who confuses his own wants with the clan’s needs?”

“A Rho who’s perceived to be taking things selfishly would be Challenged. Eventually he wouldn’t be Rho anymore.”

“How does someone stop being Rho?”

“He dies.”

She shivered. “These Challenges are to the death?”

“They can be.”

“Has Isen ever—”

“No. Not for greed. I haven’t been Nokolai long enough to know that in an absolute sense—internal Challenges aren’t supposed to be spoken of outside the clan, so theoretically it could have happened without my knowing. But I can’t imagine it. Nothing matters to Isen the way Nokolai does. His sons come close, but Nokolai comes first. Whatever Challenges he’s faced, they weren’t because he was greedy.”

“What do you mean, you haven’t been Nokolai long? I thought lupi were born into their clans.”

“Stop asking so many questions.”

She grinned. “Why?”

He snorted. “Back to the way glass affects you. Clearly your Gift is tied to Air. We can’t rely too strongly on human models since it isn’t a human Gift, but it seems that—”

A deep, growly voice spoke. “You’re supposed to be guarding her. I could have taken you both out while you yammered on about Gifts and Challenges.” Benedict stood in the doorway that opened onto the entry hall, his hands on his hips.

Cullen glanced over his shoulder, unruffled. “You could take us both out with or without warning, though I did know you were here. I warded the house last night.”

The funny thing was, Arjenie hadn’t been startled, either. She hadn’t heard the front door open or close. She hadn’t seen Benedict appear in the hall. No, it was as if she’d known Benedict was there. She just hadn’t noticed that she knew until he spoke. “Hi,” she said happily.

Benedict gave her a nod, but spoke to Cullen. “Cynna’s ready to come home. She’s pretty worn-out. This was a hard one.”

Cullen left. He didn’t say ’bye, nice talking to you, gotta go, or anything else. He just left, moving fast. This time she heard the front door open and slam closed. She looked at Benedict. “He’s a sudden one, isn’t he? Though I guess we have to expect that with a Fire-Gifted. Cynna’s all right?”

“She will be. Where’s your cane?”

“In my room. I don’t need it anymore.”

He frowned and started for her. “I need to check your ankle.”

“Ask.”

“If you object, I—”

“Giving me a chance to object is not the same as asking permission. You’re used to telling people what to do. That works with those guards you’re in charge of. You aren’t in charge of me. You have to ask.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “It’s more efficient my way.”

“If your primary goal in life is efficiency, you should just die.”

That startled him. His head actually jerked back. “What?”

“The most efficient way to live a life is to die a couple seconds after you’re born. Pfft. Done.” She dusted her hands to demonstrate that. “It’s too late for you to achieve optimal efficiency, but you could still …”

Benedict was laughing. Silently. She couldn’t hear a thing, but his face, his open mouth, his whole body said laughter. It only lasted a few seconds before dwindling to an audible chuckle. “You have a strange mind. I like it. I like you.”

He sounded surprised. She was surprised, too. Also delighted. And turned on. Her cheeks heated.

“May I check your ankle now?” he asked courteously.

She gave permission, and he knelt in front of her to unwrap the elastic bandage, which made the flutters in her belly worse. The man said he liked her, and she reacted like a tween with a crush. It was almost as mortifying as it was wonderful.

He took her foot in one big hand and rotated it. “Good movement.”

“I want to know who this enemy is Isen spoke about last night.”

“You’ll be told about her, but not now.”

“Why not?”

“I’m taking the day off. Swelling’s gone,” he added, beginning to rewrap the ankle.

“You won’t answer questions because you’re on vacation?”

“More or less.” His mouth turned up wryly, as if at some private joke. He tucked the end in securely. “A brief vacation. One day. How does your ankle feel?”

“Fine.”

His eyebrows lifted. “A one-word answer?”

“I got tired of answering questions about my health twenty years ago.”

“After the accident.”

She nodded.

“I imagine there was a long recovery and therapy. You mentioned additional surgeries, as well, later on.” He nodded as if he’d added up a column. “I may have to ask about your physical status sometimes, but I’ll avoid it when possible.” He rose. “Today I needed to know because I’d like to show you around Clanhome.”

She beamed. “I’d like that. My ankle really does feel fine. There may be some lingering weakness I won’t notice until I’ve been walking on it awhile, but Dr. Two Horses’s treatment helped, plus I heal faster than most.”

His eyebrows lifted. “The sidhe blood?”

She nodded. “Obviously I don’t always heal completely, or at the rate your people do. But I heal fast for a human.”

“I’ll get your cane.”

“I’m not taking it.”

“It’s a precaution, in case you need it later.”

She stood and patted his arm reassuringly and smiled. “No.”