A wisp of amusement ghosted across his hard features. “Hi?”
“You think I know what to say? I don’t know what to say, except that I’d be a big mess if I were you. No, I mean I’d be a mess if I’d had done to me what was done to you.” She cocked her head. “You don’t look like a mess.”
“I’m functional. I … have a context for what happened. You don’t.”
“It’s still pinging through me. Little aftershocks. I’ll get shaky all of a sudden, as if … I don’t know why. None of that was aimed at me.”
“The first time I saw someone killed, I threw up.”
She smiled. “That’s a very human reaction.”
“I was ten, so my wolf was still asleep.”
Only ten. Dear gods. “And the first time you killed someone?” Because this wasn’t his first. She was sure of that. Not sure why she asked, what she needed to know, but sure this wasn’t the first time for him.
He was silent so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. “His name was Brad Mettinger. I didn’t know that when I killed him. My father used to leave Clanhome more often. He went to the symphony one night. He was restless afterward, so we headed for the park. We were jumped by a Leidolf strike squad. I killed the one with the gun and disabled two others. My father killed the fourth one. He—the fourth Leidolf—was in wolf form,” Benedict added as if he didn’t want her to think poorly of Isen. “It’s harder to kill a wolf than a man.”
“How did you feel?”
“At the time, satisfied. I hadn’t failed. I was glad I’d refrained from killing all of them. It was best to allow Leidolf to clean up their own mess.”
The bodies, he meant. He’d refrained from killing all of them so the survivors could remove the bodies. “Afterward? How did you feel afterward?”
Again he was silent for a long moment. “I was young, but I’ve never … Rule says that I live close to my wolf. That’s not how I think of it. I don’t feel the division between myself as wolf and myself as man that most do. Wolves don’t regret killing. I didn’t regret it, but it made space between the man and the wolf. I was uncomfortable with that space. Isen told me to learn about the man I’d killed.”
“So you found out his name.”
“His name, his age, that he had had two daughters, no sons. His father was still alive at the time. I learned his name, too. And his uncle’s.”
“Did that help?”
“It allowed me to grieve his death. Wolves don’t, not when it’s an enemy they’ve killed. Men need to, or they get twisted up.”
“You’re grieving now.”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “Isen says humans have a hard time being glad they’re alive when others died, even when those others weren’t close to them. They feel guilty for their joy at surviving. They have trouble grieving those deaths because of the guilt. I understand this in a way. My grief for Claire was muddied and snarled by guilt. Do you feel this way now?”
A sound broke from her, something between a laugh and a sob. “Yes—no—I feel confused! When it was happening—it all happened so fast! I couldn’t believe how quick it all was. And you—” She stopped abruptly.
“I went insane. You saw that. You’re frightened of me now.”
“Lily said you’re angry at what was done to you. She assured me anger doesn’t make you crazy, that it isn’t what I saw today, and you would never fall into the fury if you hadn’t—if someone hadn’t … the fury’s different from regular anger. Isn’t it?”
“They’re alike in the way a puddle is like the ocean.”
She shivered. “It must have been horrible to feel that way.”
“They say women often forget the pain of childbirth. That the mind protects them from a too-keen recall. I remember what I did. What I felt has already begun to fade. Arjenie, I don’t blame you. I don’t blame your sister. I blame Robert Friar.”
In that last, flat statement she heard and saw the anger Lily had regretted mentioning. Deep anger. She couldn’t speak—but not because of his anger. Because what she wanted to say involved Dya.
“You’re frightened of me. Standing here with me scares you.”
“Well, of course. Not because I think you’re going to hurt me, because you’re not doped up by some terrible potion now, so you wouldn’t. It’s more that I saw how much I don’t know about you, and while I guess that’s true for anyone when they fall in love, I—”
“In love?” He started to reach for her. Stopped. His face shifted from anger to hope to … fear? Yes, that was it. Hope and fear were conjoined twins, after all. “You think you love me?”
“Maybe it’s just the mate bond thing for you, so you don’t want to hear the L-word, but I know ‘in love’ when I feel it. Not that I’ve ever felt it this strongly, and I don’t know if the mate bond makes it stronger, or if that’s because of who you are. I’m still at the falling-in-love stage, and there’s so much I don’t know about you, which is scaring me. You have to really know someone to really, deeply love them, don’t you?”
“I know you.” His voice thrummed with certitude.
Her heart was pounding hard. So hard. “Only a few days of knowing. That’s not much.”
“There will be more to learn, but I know you. You’re stubborn and pragmatic and caring. You like people. That liking is genuine and constant, with very few exceptions, so it’s no surprise that people like you back. You delight in the pleasures of the mind and of the body. You think of yourself as fearful, but don’t allow fear to stop you, which is the definition of courage. You’re deeply accepting and deeply loyal. When the half sister you knew for two years nearly twenty years ago calls, you drop everything, risk everything, for her. You feel deeply, see clearly, and talk a lot. You don’t care for wine. You love sweets. You have a strong sense of privacy. You treasure your family. You hate lying and avoid it if you possibly can. I don’t know what it would take to make you really angry. You’re clear and pure, and there are no stagnant places in you.”
Her face was wet. When had she started crying? She stepped forward, into his arms. They closed around her and she held on to him. Held on.
“I didn’t think you’d let me hold you again.” His voice was rough, broken. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head. “Not for a long time. Maybe not ever. Not after what you saw me do.”
“I won’t say that doesn’t matter, because it does, but I don’t know how and why and what it means …” She sighed. “I’m all-over confused. You made me sound so much more together than I am.”
He began stroking her hair. “Together sounds like finished . You’re too alive to be finished. I hope to have fifty or sixty years to watch you try out all sorts of ways to put the pieces of Arjenie together.”
Her breath broke on a small laugh. “Maybe more.” Honesty made her add, “Probably quite a bit more. Part-sidhe, remember? I don’t know how long I’ll live, but almost certainly more than that, and from what you’ve said about the mate bond, that means you’ll be putting up with me a long time.”
He went still. He stayed that way so long that she had to lean back so she could see him … and then couldn’t, not clearly, because of her wet eyes, so she wiped them. Met his eyes.
And saw joy. Stark, bone-deep, glowing like the heart of the sun.
He reached up, cupped her face. “You will live a long time.” There was wonder in his voice.
She nodded. “Most low sidhe live to a hundred, easy. A few live several centuries like the elves do, but they’re the ones who heal really quick, which I don’t. But I do heal faster than straight humans, so …” Suddenly she understood. Wonder seeped into her own voice as she said, “You love me. It isn’t just the mate bond. You love me.”