“Do you by chance belong to some secretive organization that is interested in Robert Friar?”
She laughed. “You mean like Wiccans for Justice or something? No, the organization I belong to isn’t secret, and I’m an employee, not a member. I work for the FBI. So you can see,” she added as she levered out a large helping of lasagna, “that it would have caused me all kinds of trouble if you’d called the cops.”
Benedict had seldom seen his father even momentarily struck dumb, but Arjenie had managed that. He understood that. The FBI had not figured in any of his speculations about his Chosen, either.
“What a coincidence,” Cullen said pleasantly as he accepted the bread basket. “My wife also works for the FBI.”
“Yes, and I’m really glad you haven’t mentioned me to her. Not by name, at least, or you wouldn’t be surprised now. Cynna would probably have felt obligated to tell Mr. Brooks I was here, and if she didn’t, Lily certainly would. Do you like the handwoven blanket I sent for the baby?”
Cullen stilled. “The blue and green one? It’s lovely.”
“Isn’t it? My cousin Pat is a wonderful weaver.”
Benedict spoke. “You don’t have anything in your wallet identifying you as an FBI agent.”
“I’m not an agent. I work in Research. My specialty is magic-related questions—spells, charms, historical references, anything to do with magic. I work with Unit agents a lot. Mostly it’s all handled in e-mail or over the phone, so I haven’t met everyone in person, but I know Cynna. We’ve had lunch a few times. She can vouch for me. Well, I suppose all she can vouch for is that I’m who I say I am, but that’s a start, isn’t it?” She took a bite of lasagna and hummed in pleasure. “This is really good.”
“I’m puzzled,” Isen said. “Why didn’t you tell us this immediately?”
She was politely incredulous. “I was hoping no one in the Bureau would find out, of course. Once I told you, you’d check with Cynna and Lily, and there would be repercussions, since I couldn’t tell anyone why I snuck onto your land. Believe me, as little as you like me clamming up about that, the Bureau would like it less. Then I realized you were going to find out sooner or later, because Cullen was bound to mention my name to Cynna at some point, or someone would tell Rule Turner, who’d tell Lily. Cynna might not tell Ruben Brooks right away, but I bet Lily would. So I made the best deal I could before telling you.”
Isen picked up the fresh bottle of wine Carl had left for them, already opened so it could breathe. “Are you ready for more? No?” He filled his own glass. “It’s only natural you’d be concerned with your career.”
She nodded. “I love my job. I don’t want to lose it. But there’s more at stake than that. I suspect Friar Listens to Bureau discussions sometimes. I know he Listens in on the local police. He can’t do that all the time, not even most of the time, but something really bad could happen if he were Listening at the wrong time and found out about me.”
“And how do you know this about Friar?”
She frowned and ducked her head. He could almost see the effort she put into thinking that one over. “Research,” she said at last. “I had a reason to do some research, and that’s what I put together based on Bureau records and on—on anecdotal evidence that was available to me.”
“Have we reached the subject you can’t discuss?”
She nodded unhappily.
“It might be best to start with the things you can talk about, then. But let’s enjoy our dinner first. And perhaps I will take your suggestion. It might be best to have Cynna confirm your identity.” He added a subvocal comment she wouldn’t be able to hear: “Once she can be contacted. Benedict?”
“I’d love to see her,” Arjenie said.
That wasn’t going to happen tonight. Whatever the process might be for transferring the memories, it couldn’t be interrupted. Benedict unclipped his phone, selected the camera function, and said, “Arjenie.”
She looked at him. He took three quick pictures—she smiled for the last one, the kind of automatic smile people adopt when they know they’re being photographed—and stood. “I’ll see that she gets the pictures.”
“She’s not going to join us?” Arjenie asked as Benedict left the room. “Is she all right? She isn’t due until next month, is she?”
He could hear Isen reassuring her that Cynna was fine, simply on partial bed rest, as he headed down the hall. He stepped out the front door. “Shannon.”
Shannon stepped out of the shadow of the old cedar near the corner of the house.
“I’m sending three pictures to your phone. Take it and a day’s trail rations with you to the Rhej’s. When you arrive, don’t knock or speak. Wait by the door until the Rhej or Cynna comes to see what you want. If and when Cynna is able to speak to you, show her the photos and ask who is in them. Call me with her answer. If I haven’t heard from you in twenty-four hours, I’ll send someone to relieve you.”
Shannon nodded and took out his phone. Benedict sent the photos, then waited until Shannon confirmed that he had them. He signaled for the guard to go and reentered the house.
When he returned to the rear deck, they were still talking about pregnancy. Arjenie kept quoting statistics. Apparently preeclampsia complicated between five and ten percent of pregnancies in the U.S. and resulted in between seventy thousand and eighty thousand premature births.
Interesting that she was so concerned about Cynna, Benedict thought as he sat down to eat. She hadn’t asked about Lily, who she also knew. Maybe she didn’t know about the attack?
Seabourne tried to steer the conversation to another subject, which had Arjenie patting his arm and saying of course they would talk about something else, and she was an idiot to keep harping on a subject that had to be difficult for him, and did he know that, of those eighty thousand births, the mortality rate was extremely low in this country? Just over one percent. And even in the worst-case scenario, she assured him, involving full placental separation, why, Cynna was in her third trimester, so they’d be able to deliver the baby right away with very few problems.
She was trying to reassure him. She wasn’t very good at it. Her hopeful offerings were undercut by a too-bright smile that announced her anxiety clearly.
Benedict didn’t like it. Her worry was misplaced and unnecessary. Isen should have leveled with her. “Cynna isn’t having problems with her pregnancy,” he told her, helping himself to a second serving.
“No?” Arjenie looked at him, questions flooding her eyes. “But Isen said she’s on bed rest, and—”
“She’s participating in a rite that can’t be interrupted. Isen avoided speaking of it because it’s secret.”
Relief spread over her face like sunrise. “Oh. Whew.” She grinned. “I was babbling like an idiot, wasn’t I?”
“You were worried.” Benedict realized that Isen and Seabourne were staring at him. “She’s Wiccan,” he said in explanation. “She understands that some rites aren’t spoken of.”
Seabourne cocked an eyebrow, his blue eyes bright with amusement, and subvocalized: “You just contradicted your Rho in front of an out-clan stranger who’s keeping some pretty big secrets.”
Benedict’s fork froze in midair. Yes. Yes, he had, he agreed silently as he resumed eating. But whatever else Arjenie might be, she was Lady-touched, a Chosen. His Chosen, and that gave him certain rights. Maybe he couldn’t yet bring himself to tell her about it, or even to say the words aloud when he spoke of her.
But whether she knew it or not, she was his to protect.
TWENTY
LILY’S arm ached and throbbed like a bad tooth. It did not, however, hurt enough for her to take the pills Rule was holding out. “I just woke up. I am not going back to sleep. Or in sleep. Or into a drugged stupor, or anything else resembling unconsciousness.”