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.”
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.