“So much.” He smoothed her hair back. “So very much.”
FORTY-TWO
IT was a whippy wind, a darting, daring, sand-in-the-face wind. Perhaps, Isen thought as he listened to it slapping at the car, the wind was annoyed with them for intruding on the empty places it frequented. Or perhaps it was delighted to find a new target for its mischief.
All personification aside, the wind was one more factor to consider when he fought for his life tonight … and, if he could manage it, fought to spare the life of the foolish, whippy young wolf he would face.
He had no desire to kill Javier. He had even less desire to be killed. Pity the odds were against him achieving both desires … or even just the last one.
Sixty-forty. That’s where he put his chances. Though if his hunch was right, the odds would change drastically … but one couldn’t count on an enemy to take the bait, however temptingly it might be offered. So if he were betting on the outcome tonight, he’d give himself a forty percent chance of seeing the dawn.
He suspected his sons put his chances somewhat lower, though they’d done their best to hold their fear hidden. They were good at concealing fear. They’d learned well.
Fine lupi, both of them. Exceptionally fine. Isen took a moment to enjoy the pride and humility of having such sons. He knew they’d survive and do well tonight. He didn’t worry. Oh, he gave lip service to the idea that they could die, but he didn’t believe it. Years ago, he had understood that sanity lay in a single, committed point of irrationality. Nature, circumstance, and duty would put his sons in danger at times—at times through his own orders. In order to do what he must, he had to believe they would live. And so he did. Mostly. Determinedly.
He didn’t want to bring them grief tonight, but every son lost his father someday. Either the father died, as his had, or the son did. As three of his father’s had. As one of his own sons had as well, defying Isen’s deliberate, irrational certainty.
Mick had always been one to defy his father’s expectations.
Strange. It was that lost son, the one he’d failed so thoroughly, who rode with him through the darkness now. Maybe because the dead drew closer when one faced death. Maybe because a tangled love bound more tightly, and the love between him and Mick had certainly been tangled. Maybe simply because regrets always hitched a ride when one traveled to death.
Not that he intended to die. How morbid he was! Isen chuckled at himself, earning a quick glance from Jason, one of his two living companions on this ride. He smiled and shook his head, letting the boy know he didn’t wish for conversation.
Would Jason tell the clan that their Rho had gone to the Challenge in high good humor, chuckling at the prospect? Probably. That wouldn’t hurt.
Isen had the reputation of being an excellent fighter when he was younger. This was part training and skill, part calculation. He’d needed that reputation, so he’d chosen his fights carefully, just as he’d chosen the events he participated in at All-Clans. His father had been a hundred and thirty when he was born—such a late-come babe he’d been! But much cherished, and desperately needed.
His father had lost three sons by then. A bullet took one. Another was killed in Challenge. The third, they had always believed, fell to a Leidolf assassin, though there was no proof. Isen had grown up knowing he would have his father for only a short time, and that he’d be taking up the mantle while still young.
Those youthful battles were long ago, but his strengths remained the same. He was an exceptionally fast healer, a quality enhanced by the mantle. He could take a lot of damage and keep fighting. He possessed both strength and endurance—not as much as he once had, true, but above average. And he fought best as wolf.
This was not as common as it might be. Young lupi fought and trained in wolf-form, certainly, but they either fought instinctively, or they were defeated. A wolf’s instincts for battle were excellent, and if the man attempted to control the wolf instead of relying on him, it interfered with his reactions. But there were useful moves that wolves did not instinctively use, and lupi who fought purely on instinct missed opportunities to use them. This was where age aided Isen. It took many years and a great deal of training to seamlessly blend the two natures in a battle, combining a wolf’s instincts with a man’s canniness.
Isen had only one real weakness. He lacked speed. He always had.
That, alas, had only become truer with age. No matter how clever and canny the fighter, if he was too much slower than his opponent, he would get bloodied. Look at how well Seabourne had done against Benedict today. Benedict was twenty times the fighter Seabourne was—but Seabourne was ungodly fast, and smart enough to rely wholly on his speed. From what Isen had been told, Seabourne had done his damnedest not to close with Benedict.
And still the super-quick Seabourne had ended up concussed. It was a cheering thought.
Not that Isen was in the same league as Benedict. No one was. His oldest son had it all—speed, agility, strength, healing, training, instinct, control, guts. Isen doubted there had been such a fighter in a thousand years. That was sheer speculation, of course, as there was no way to pit Benedict against, say, Armand, who had been legendary among the clans in the sixteenth century.
But it was good to remember that speed didn’t always win. And Javier, thankfully, was no Benedict.
Just young. And fast. And probably lacking Isen’s desire to spare his opponent’s life.
Ah, well. Too much thinking, according to his wolf. Isen smiled and settled himself to wait, but underneath, his wolf was excited and eager. It had been a long time.
“THE wind’s chilly,” Benedict said, tucking Arjenie’s jacket closer around her. “Are you sure you’re warm enough?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’d better get those kneepads on you, then.”
“I can do that.”
“I’d be pleased if you allowed me to do this for you.”
Her smile flickered like a lightbulb with a poor connection. “That’s not exactly asking, but you’re doing much better. All right.” She handed him the kneepads.
They were in the state lands that butted up against Friar’s land—and one corner of Clanhome. That afternoon, Cynna had gone back out to try and Find Brian again, searching close to the underground node. She’d failed in that, but reported that she also couldn’t Find the node. Three possible reasons for that, she’d said. One, it could have closed. That was rare, but possible. Two, she might not be strong enough. Dirt and stone usually didn’t block her Gift, but large amounts of quartz could. Three, the node could be warded in some way she’d never encountered before.
Given the sophistication of the wards around Friar’s property, they were betting on door number three. They were also betting that Brian was being held near the node. The plan was to go in, find him and Dya, subdue whatever militia-types were guarding Brian—and Friar, too, if he was there—and get Brian and Dya out through the tunnel to Friar’s house. Preferably they’d accomplish this before midnight, which was as long as Lily had been willing to wait before she came looking for them. Assuming Cynna Found the tunnel’s entrance by then, that is.
Who knows? It might even work out that way.
The tumble of rock on their immediate right hid a crevice that opened onto a tunnel connected to the cave system. Benedict had sent José in earlier to check out the first part of their descent. It would be steep, twisty, and tight.
Most of them would Change and descend on four feet, except for Sammy and Arjenie. Sammy was the slightest of them. He’d remain two-footed so he could carry their weapons and a pack with some of their clothes. And Arjenie, of course, had to remain two-footed. She’d have a backpack, too, but would have to crawl in places.