Dryly, Benedict said, “I don’t think she was enjoying herself. Aside from the danger, which she seemed well aware of, she has a physical impediment of some sort. Hip, maybe knee, on her left side. I couldn’t tell.”
“You said she twisted her ankle.”
“There was something off in her gait before that. It’s slight, nothing obvious, but it’s there. I’d guess it’s something she’s used to. She wasn’t paying attention to that leg the way she would have if it were a recent problem.” She hadn’t been paying attention at all, which was why she’d ended up on her ass.
And then he hadn’t paid attention. He’d stumbled across the ward, attracting the guards, and had been forced to leave her to draw them away. “She’s got a Gift,” he said suddenly. “I don’t know what kind, but she knew about the ward. She knew exactly where it was.”
“Your brain’s starting to work again.”
Benedict grimaced. He should have thought of that earlier. He should have thought of it last night, at least by the time he circled back to follow her scent and make sure she’d gotten away.
But he hadn’t been thinking. Just feeling, feeling way too damned much. “A Gift’s not the only possibility. Could be she has something like that fairy dust Seabourne made for me.” The magical powder Seabourne had rubbed on Benedict’s pads made them tingle when he drew near a ward. That’s why he’d been at Friar’s last night—marking the wards the wolf way, with a few drops of urine, so his people could keep an eye on the man without tripping the wards.
“Could be. You’ll have to ask Cullen how likely it is someone other than him could stir up something like that.”
Cullen Seabourne was Nokolai … now. He’d been born Etorri, but had been kicked out of his clan years ago because he was also a sorcerer, which went against the way things were supposed to work. Lupi didn’t work magic. They were magic. They for damn sure weren’t sorcerers, able to see magic.
Cullen Seabourne was and did. He broke rules. That had been survival for him during his years as a lone wolf. If he’d accepted the usual way of things, he’d have killed himself—either in a straight-up suicide or by losing control in some devastating way that led to him being put down.
Lupi weren’t meant to live clanless.
Benedict respected the man, even liked him. But he didn’t want to see Seabourne now. He was too raw. One smart-ass remark and Benedict might go for his throat. “I will,” he said, rising. “But later. If I’m not going to go to my cabin, I need a workout.”
“I’m feeling some sympathy for Pete,” Isen said dryly as he stood. “Don’t bleed him too much.”
“I won’t damage my second.”
“I know that. You’re in control when you fight. That’s one reason you need to spar now—to reclaim control.”
Of course his father understood that. “I’ll bring Tommy in, too, I think. Or Sean. Sean’s coming along.” Two opponents of their skill would push him. He needed to be pushed, forced to shut off all this damn thinking.
“Ben.” Isen came to him and hugged him hard, then stepped back, still gripping Benedict’s arms. “You’re not coming unwound. I don’t know if you see that, but I do. You’re scared, you’re pissed, you’re shook up. For a bit you weren’t thinking straight. But you aren’t coming apart.”
Yet. Benedict swallowed the word, holding tight to the rope his father tossed him. Isen didn’t always speak the truth, but on this he would. And he knew what Benedict looked like when he came unwound.
“I won’t pretend I understand what you’re feeling. I don’t think anyone can who hasn’t been given what you were, or suffered the loss of that gift. But there’s one who might understand, and I have to tell him anyway. You might talk to your brother.”
Rule was Lu Nuncio to the clan, and so had to be informed. As intimate and personal as this felt, it was also a clan matter. “To Rule.”
Isen nodded.
“No.” His response was immediate and visceral. He took a moment to examine that response and found a solid wall of aversion … and behind that wall, feeling. A bloody tsunami of it. That tsunami would hit if he looked behind the wall.
Eventually, he would have to. He wasn’t ready. Would it be better or worse if, when the time came—when it could no longer be avoided—he talked to his brother? Benedict shook his head. “Not now. Maybe not at all, but I’ll consider it when I’m steadier.”
“Good enough. I won’t speak to Lily about this, and I’ll ask Rule not to, if that’s your wish. I don’t know if he’ll agree, but I’ll ask it on your behalf. You can’t keep this private for long.”
“No.” But he could claw free a day or two. A day or two when he didn’t have to deal with everyone bloody reacting to the news.
“Might be a good idea if Lily knew. She could probably find her for you.”
“I don’t want her found.” Benedict pulled away.
“Ben, you have to. You can’t leave her to—”
“No.” That had been his father talking, not his Rho, so he headed for the door. He didn’t slow down or look back, and he did not give a damn if that was unreasonable. His Rho told him to stay close instead of retreating to his cabin, so he would. His father wanted him to believe he’d be okay. He’d try.
But damned if he’d be reasonable.
Last night, for the second time in his life, he’d felt a mate bond snap into place. The Lady had chosen for him. Again.
As far as he was concerned, the Lady could damned well deliver her precious Chosen to him, if she was so bent on giving him one. If the only thing in his control was whether or not he hunted her down, he voted for not.
FIVE
AIRPLANE air stinks.
Even humans were aware of the problem, Rule thought, shifting to stretch his legs out better. They complained about staleness rather than stink, but they knew there was something wrong with the air. He’d read an article which identified one culprit: TCP, an organophosphate found in jet oil. When that oil leaked, TCP fumes entered the cabin because of the way cabin air was drawn off the engines. Airlines used top-notch filters, but air filters don’t stop fumes.
The overwhelmingly floral cologne of the woman two rows up was a worse irritant. Rule liked the scents of roses, gardenias, and lilies, but they did not play well together, especially when used at saturation level on a woman whose body chemistry turned them acrid. Rule wouldn’t mind the human fondness for perfumes so much if they’d been better at selecting fragrances that complemented their natural scent.
On the upside, the overwhelming fragrance did distract him somewhat from the fact that he was confined in a hollow metal cigar hurtling through the air under someone else’s control.
And that, Rule admitted as he resisted the urge to shift his legs again, was not the real problem. The real problem was that he could not get off.
His heartbeat picked up. He took a slow breath, focusing on the inhale for a count of five … hold briefly … and exhale for five. Two more rounds of controlled breathing and he was okay. Not great, but okay.
The important thing was to keep from giving off any silent cues that LeBron might pick up. It was easy not to look frightened. He was good at that. Keeping his emotions from telegraphing themselves in his scent and heartbeat was trickier, but possible. He didn’t want to contribute to his bodyguards’ unease on the four hour-plus flight.
LeBron, one row up and on the other side of the aisle, seemed to be coping well with their airborne imprisonment. Rule couldn’t tell about Jeff, who was back in economy. But Jeff claimed to be less affected than most by the claustrophobia common to lupi.