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.”