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.
EIGHTEEN
SHE took a shower. A long shower.
Benedict hadn’t expected that. When she said she needed to use the restroom, he’d assumed she meant she wanted to empty her bladder. She did that, but then turned on the shower.
He didn’t object. The window in that bathroom was large enough for her to escape through, but he doubted she could do it without him hearing. Not once he’d opened the door a crack, that is. And he could use a few minutes to get himself under control. Fear was partly a physical phenomenon. Exertion would diminish or eliminate the effects, but he couldn’t go for a run right now, so he used the breathing exercises he taught young Nokolai.
The fear had receded to a manageable level and the shower was still running when his brother called. “Can you talk?” Rule asked.
“Yes, though we’d best keep it brief. My charge”—he couldn’t bring himself to say “my Chosen”—“is awake and showering. Isen told you about her.”
“Both her unusual arrival in your life and her equally odd reappearance last night. Also that, according to Cullen, she’s part-sidhe. Not just the tiny whiff of Fae blood some people possess, but perhaps as much as a quarter-blood.”
“He couldn’t quantify it that closely, but yes.” Benedict understood the disbelief in his brother’s voice. The sidhe had never dallied much in this realm. Conventional wisdom had it that they’d stopped coming entirely after the Purge. Earth had become too dry for them, magically speaking, or too unfriendly.
But conventional wisdom was often right in the general, wrong in the specific. Seabourne claimed to have once met a sidhe lord who’d wandered here—“gone walkabout” was the term he used. “He said the power signature was unmistakable.”
“What does she say?”
“Nothing yet,” Benedict said dryly. “She passed out when he spoke of it. After she woke she admitted it, but called it a long story and changed the subject. Isen will question her about that once Seabourne finishes the charm he’s making. How’s Lily? Have you told her about any of this?”
“Not yet, but I will. She’s sleeping a lot, which is what she needs. Normal sleep at first, but Nettie’s here, so Lily’s in sleep now. Nettie confirmed what the surgeon said about the muscle damage, but snorted when I repeated his opinion on healers and nerve regeneration. Nettie says there shouldn’t be any lasting nerve damage.”
Emotion roughened Benedict’s voice. “Good. That’s good.”
“The lost muscle tissue is another story. Nettie can’t make human muscle regrow the way ours does. The mate bond may make a difference, but it isn’t predictable.”
“No, it isn’t.” Benedict gave himself a moment before he added, “But there’s hope. Soon after our bonding, Claire was practicing with her knives and nearly severed her index finger. It was attached only by a bit of skin. The doctors didn’t see any point in reattaching it. Back then there was a very poor success rate for that sort of surgery. I persuaded them to try. Her finger healed perfectly. I have always believed the mate bond was responsible.”
“I didn’t know that.” Surprise echoed in his brother’s voice, then warmth. “Thank you.”
Had he spoken to Rule about Claire at all? Very little, he realized, and Rule’s memories of her would be limited. She hadn’t stayed at Clanhome much, and she’d died when Rule was eleven. “You didn’t call me about this.”
“No. First I need to let you know that the heirs’ circle will take place in San Diego, not St. Paul. Isen has what few details we’ve hashed out.”
Surprised, Benedict asked, “How did you pull that off?”
“I didn’t. Edgar called and suggested it. Lily still means to attend.”
“You dislike that.”
“Immensely. She’s right, however, and she should be as safe within a circle as she could be anywhere but the heart of Clanhome. We await Nettie’s opinion on whether she’s up to it, physically.”
Benedict understood. The other clans had accepted a major tactical deficit when they agreed to allow the circle to take place in Nokolai’s territory. Lily’s presence was more important than ever, the one solid assurance the others had that Nokolai wouldn’t take advantage of the changed venue.
“I also called you because I’m trying to decide if there’s a connection between the attack on Lily and your visitor.”
Benedict glanced at the door he’d left ajar. The shower still ran. “The connection is Friar. She was on his land, and he’s responsible for the attack—either directly by ordering it, or indirectly by inspiring some random nutcase.”
“Do you think the attack was carried out by a random nutcase?”
“Could have been. Doesn’t mean it was. It would have to be a pair of nutcases, for one thing. One to drive and one to shoot. What do the police say?”
Rule growled in frustration. “Neither they nor the FBI office here will tell me anything. They’re too busy marking their territory and trying to keep the other side—which ought to be the same side, dammit—from learning anything.”