Lily put down her spoon and sipped the ice water Carl had provided. It was cold, like her insides. I’ll be careful with myself, she wanted to tell Rule. I don’t want to scare you. I’ll be careful for your sake.
How careful? What did she owe him in that way? Why had that always been obvious before?
Because of her job. Understanding hit, as clear and icy as the water. She’d known what risks were justified because she knew what her job required of her. Rule had the same sort of guidance. He knew what was required of him as Lu Nuncio to Nokolai, as Rho to Leidolf. They each understood duty. But whatever she was doing now, it wasn’t about the job. As far as the Bureau was concerned, she had no investigation. She was on sick leave.
But they had to find out what Arjenie knew. Didn’t they?
Lily ate slowly and thought about duty, about Robert Friar, mindspeech, mysterious potions, Arjenie Fox, and three attacks. One by bullet. One by magic. One by madness.
THIRTY
ARJENIE wasn’t hungry, but the scones were too good to pass up. Especially with clotted cream. Maybe, she thought as she bit into her second one, if she stayed here long enough she’d actually put on a little weight.
But she wouldn’t be staying, would she?
She snuck a quick peek at Benedict, who was listening carefully to what Cullen the Beautiful said about enhancing the insulating properties of silk. Benedict’s eyes were steady and dark and turned away from her, so she indulged herself by watching him beneath her lashes.
She loved his skin, the color of it, the texture … such a warm, coppery shade, not chocolate or tea or cinnamon or any of the food names people often used for skin, but a living color, as infused by sun as it was by blood. She loved his body, bulky with muscle, yet he moved lightly in it, adept as a dancer. Then there were his hands, with their flat, square nails …
Thoughtfully she applied more of the clotted cream to what remained of her scone. Maybe it was just as well she wouldn’t be here much longer … or just as well if she could convince herself it was just as well. Arjenie had nothing against a quick, hot interlude. She was pretty sure she could have the quick and hot with Benedict—pretty sure she would have that if she was here much longer. But she had the uneasy feeling the interlude part of the equation might not end cleanly. It might hurt her, haunt her, afterward.
But you could be haunted by the things you didn’t do, too.
“There’s probably more stew in the kitchen,” Rule said to Lily on the other side of the table. “No? Dessert, then.” He tried to hand her the last scone.
She shook her head, her mouth quirking up. “Am I a goose? Stop feeding me.”
Arjenie liked watching the two of them together. The Bureau’s files held all sorts of facts, but they weren’t always the ones she wanted. Everyone knew that these two were engaged, but what did that mean to a lupus? Would Rule Turner really commit himself to a single woman?
Sure looked like it from where Arjenie sat. They weren’t obvious about it. They didn’t hang all over each other. But they kept track of each other in a lovely, unthinking way. Rule had been talking to Isen, but he’d known it when Lily finished her stew.
They touched easily and often … eleven times in ten minutes.
Arjenie counted touches. She hadn’t mentioned this hobby to anyone in years, since most people found it peculiar. But the way people touched said so much about a relationship. This was true with sisters and friends, with mothers and children, but it was especially true with couples.
She’d started counting with her aunt and uncle. After thirty years, they still averaged five touches in ten minutes when they sat next to each other. Less when they’d been fighting. More when they were planning for intimate touches as soon as they could be alone.
There were those afflicted with glued-at-the-hip syndrome. Most teens and some new couples fell into that category. The inability to stop touching wasn’t a sign of soul mates, but of need, insecurity, or hormones. Then there were couples who seemed to have a great marriage, who never fought, whose friends believed they were solid and forever … but who seldom touched except at the expected times. He’d help her on with her coat. She’d peck his cheek to say “’bye.”
Arjenie had sadly but successfully predicted a couple of divorces based on that kind of touching.
The couples who worried her were the ones where one partner touched and the other didn’t. Sometimes that was a power thing—a man who wanted to keep his woman physically under his thumb, and reminded her constantly with little touches. Or maybe the woman exerted control with constant, vaguely sexual touches. And sometimes, sadly, one partner was simply indifferent.
New couples touched more often than established ones, of course, and it meant less. Sex was a form of intimacy, but it said little about long-term prospects. And admittedly, a few established couples defied the touch rule. But most of the time, Arjenie’s touch-counting gave her a pretty good idea of how a couple was doing.
Not that it was any of her business, of course. Which was another reason not to mention her touch-counting.
Benedict leaned close enough that his arm brushed hers. Heat swept through her and she forgot about anyone else’s touches.
“You’re staring,” he rumbled very softly. “And you look gooey. Do you have a crush on Rule? Or maybe on Lily?’
“On … oh!” She flushed, ducked her head, and grinned inside the privacy of the curtain formed by her hair. “No. No, I’m just nosy, and they’re so sweet together. I’m about an eighty on the hetero scale. Maybe eighty-five. I gave it a try in college, because you can’t really know otherwise, can you? And there was this sweet lesbian girl who wanted to date me, but we never got past a kiss or two. I’m just not turned on by breasts, even real pretty ones.”
Dead silence. She tilted her head to look at him. “You’re shocked. I didn’t think lupi got shocked.”
“Surprised,” he said dryly. “I expected to fluster or annoy you.”
“I’m Wiccan. I fluster about lots of things, but sex isn’t one of them. Why did you want me flustered or annoyed?”
His mouth turned wry. “The same reason I would have pulled your hair a few decades ago. Or turned cartwheels, or lifted something impressively heavy.”
“You want my attention.” Delighted, she propped her chin on one hand, elbow on the table, so she could look straight at him. “Okay. You’ve got it.”
He hesitated. “I think I’m flustered.”
That made her laugh.
At the head of the table, Isen tapped the coffeepot on the table like a gavel. “There’s a couple cups left. Anyone want some before we give Lily the floor? Unless I’m mistaken, she’s ready to get us all lined up.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lily said wryly, “but I’ve got my own thinking lined up. I’ve got a couple of ideas to share and some questions.”
For some reason that made everyone chuckle or grin. Everyone but Arjenie. There were much more important things going on than a bit of flirtation … but she’d wanted the flirtation.
“Okay,” Lily said. “Three topics up for discussion: the Great Bitch, Friar, and Arjenie. First question.” She looked at Isen. “Are we speaking openly about her and related matters? Arjenie isn’t clan.”
“We are.” Isen’s smile was placid. “With one exception.” His gaze flicked to Benedict so fast Arjenie wasn’t sure that’s who he’d indicated—until Lily looked at Benedict, too. She didn’t speak, just raised her eyebrows.