IT was almost as if they’d rehearsed it, Lily thought, amused in spite of herself. Maybe because they had.
Rule and Benedict got out on the same side at the same second. Each walked around the Lincoln—Benedict circling the front, Rule the rear—at exactly the same pace. Benedict reached the front seat passenger door precisely when Rule reached the rear door. The two men opened them in unison.
Benedict helped Arjenie out. Rule helped Lily.
She’d resisted this bit of staging. “You are a Chosen, a woman, and injured,” Isen had said last night when they were going over their roles in today’s drama. “We want them to be very aware of that.”
Because they were lupi and therefore nuts about protecting women, he meant. Maybe they’d feel guilty for dragging her out of her sickbed. Maybe they’d listen when Lily told them their great enemy was moving against them. She understood what Isen wanted and why, but it went against the grain. She was a cop. Cops didn’t wait around for someone else to open the door.
Isen had smiled. “What would Madame Yu advise?”
“Unfair,” she’d said. “Grandmother loves to have people wait on her. She’d say …” That Lily was fighting the wrong battle. That her authority in this situation didn’t come from her badge, and her autonomy didn’t depend on opening a car door. That the president of the United States permitted others to open doors for him, and perhaps he knew more than Lily about the visual display of power and authority.
Grandmother could be exquisitely sarcastic even when she was all in Lily’s head.
In the end, Lily had agreed. Rule had taken damnably quick advantage of her agreement to expand on the theme. Somehow she’d agreed to let him carry her up the steepest part of the track.
She only wished that part was only staging. Very likely she’d need it.
She and Rule stepped up onto a wide strip of scruffy grass next to the road. Arjenie and Benedict moved to stand beside them. There was just enough room for the four of them to form a receiving line of sorts. Cullen remained in the car; this part of the show belonged to the two Chosens and their mates.
Doors opened in the four vehicles strung linearly along the curb behind theirs. Fit, attractive men got out.
It was hot. The reserve was far enough from the ocean to get little of its cooling benefit. The sun was high, well into the sweaty part of the day—not the optimal time for a run at Los Penaquitos. That, of course, was why they’d chosen this time. Fewer runners, dog walkers, and such would be around. But the warmth felt good on Lily’s bare legs.
It was funny, really. Lupi were big on formality, but they were also practical. They needed to blend in, so everyone was in shorts and tees and running shoes. Not that a woman with one arm in a sling looked ready for a good run, but she was blending as hard as she could.
The two closest men were those from the Impala. One—six foot, two-ten, buzzed hair—looked like a rent-a-thug. He remained by the car, his eyes as quick and observant as a cop’s. The other strode around the hood of the Impala quickly. He was tall with grizzled dark hair down to his shoulders and the sly, merry smile of a toddler snitching a cookie. He wore the raggediest pair of cutoffs imaginable— the threads looked ready to give up the struggle to remain intact—with a bright Hawaiian shirt, left open. His chest was narrow, but nicely muscled. There was a faded button pinned to the collar of his shirt: make love, not war.
He looked over forty, which meant he was at least sixty and probably more. His voice was resonant as an actor’s. “This is your Chosen! Rule, you will introduce me at once so I can kiss her and make her forget all about you for a few beautiful moments.”
“Lily, the eternal adolescent in front of you is Myron Baker, Lu Nuncio of Kyffin,” Rule said. “Myron, I recommend you check with Lily first about any kissing.”
“My dear?” he said, eyebrows raised as he extended one hand.
Lily never objected to shaking hands. She encouraged it. So far all lupi felt pretty much the same to her Gift, save for the ever-exceptional Cullen—rather like fur and pine needles. Some were pinier, some furrier, and Rhos were distinctly warmer. But you never knew, did you? “Good to meet you, Myron.” She took his hand. Fur-and-pine, nothing more.
Instead of shaking it, Myron bowed with European grace, brushing his lips over the back of her hand. “Such a pleasure, Lily. And such a lovely name! Lilies are the most beautiful flowers in the garden.” He released her hand a second before she grew uncomfortable enough to tug it away and turned toward Benedict and Arjenie. “Benedict. Indomitable as always. But who is the lovely lady with you? Such hair!”
“Good question,” one of the men coming up behind him growled.
There were three of them, with their bodyguards fanned out several feet to their rear. Lily recognized two from photos Rule had shown her. The shortest and youngest one would be Javier Mendoza of Ybirra. He bore watching, and not because of his startling good looks—kind of like a Mexican Brad Pitt—but because of the intensity he radiated. Short fuse?
The man on his right was as average-looking as any lupus could be: five-ten, one-sixty, brown and brown, pale skin, apparent age maybe thirty. Lucas Demeny of Szøs looked like he would want to sell you insurance. The only striking thing about him was the beautiful way he moved.
According to Rule, Lucas was one of the top two-legged fighters in the clans. Also according to Rule, he was as different as it was possible to be from his brother Rikard—who had died last year in a fight with a couple dozen armed gangbangers who held Lily’s sister hostage.
The gangbangers hadn’t been a problem for the lupi. It was the ancient staff wielded by their leader that had done it for Rikard.
The man who’d spoken, though—who was he? Older than the rest, yes, she was pretty sure of that, though with lupi it was easy to get the age wrong. He was sandy all over—tan shorts, tan tank, and weathered skin a shade darker than his sand-colored hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue, unfaded by age. He was built like a battering ram, square and solid, with a beak of a nose, a pugnacious jaw, and thin lips currently twisted in a scowl.
“Well?” Sandyman demanded as he came to a stop. “Who is that woman? Why is she here? Why is Benedict standing at your side instead of falling back decently?”
Rule didn’t answer. Benedict did. “Edgar,” he rumbled, “I will not require your apology, but do not speak of Arjenie as if she weren’t standing in front of you.”
“What?” Edgar Whitman—the Wythe Rho, not the Lu Nuncio—stared at Benedict incredulously. Guards were supposed to be seen and not heard.
Benedict’s expression didn’t change. “I have the honor to present to all of you my Chosen, Arjenie Fox.”
“Hi,” Arjenie said brightly. “It’s good to meet you. We, uh … Benedict and I … the mate bond is very new, which I’m told means we can’t be apart by much distance at all, so I had to come, too. I do apologize for the intrusion.”
“Benedict!” Myron cried happily. He strode forward and slapped Benedict on the back. “This is marvelous! Fantastic!” He beamed at Arjenie. “Arjenie Fox, and with that hair! Amazing! You will allow me to welcome you properly.”
Arjenie beamed back. “I liked the way you greeted Lily.” She held out her hand.
As Myron bowed over it, Javier said in a low, angry voice, “You don’t expect us to believe that—”
“Javier,” Rule said softly, “pause and think before you say more.”
Amazingly, he did—though his expression retained more of volcano than thoughtful consideration.
Rule had told Lily that none would seriously doubt Benedict when he introduced Arjenie as his Chosen. They might be shocked—two Chosens for one man?—but it was unthinkable for any lupus to lie about that. Looked like Javier had gotten the memo, but needed to be reminded about the thinking part.