by Eileen Wilks
Blood Challenge
( World of the Lupi - 7 )
Eileen Wilks
Ex-cop Lily Yu and werewolf Rule Turner's engagement announcement is stirring up ugly passions in the Humans First camp. There's hate mail, followed by death threats. And when a lupus in Tennessee goes on a killing spree, Lily realizes that it's only the opening skirmish in an all-out war.
Blood Challenge
World of the Lupi – 7
By
Eileen Wilks
PROLOGUE
Two months ago …
“KNEEL.”
The two young men did as they were bid. One was fair and lean, with hair the color of wheat and eyes the sunny blue of the sky that ripens it. The other was ruddy, with dark hair and a mouth that seemed permanently bent up, as if he smiled so often his face was trained to it. Both wore cutoffs, nothing else.
Isen sat in his favorite armchair and studied them. It was an interesting moment. David Auckley and Jeffrey Lane were the first Leidolf to set foot inside his home since it was built.
Unless, of course, he counted his son.
Isen glanced at Rule standing several feet behind the two youngsters. Somehow, at the gens compleo that brought these two into their clan—into Leidolf—as full adults, Rule had also brought them into Nokolai. Isen had felt it when it happened. The imprint new clan members made on the clan’s mantle was subtle but unmistakable.
This shouldn’t have been possible. But then, Isen’s second-born son was the first lupus in roughly three thousand years to hold more than one mantle. The impossible was becoming commonplace these days.
The next wrinkle was more implausible than impossible. After accidentally bringing David and Jeff into two clans instead of one, Rule had been unable to remove them from Nokolai. Rule held only the heir’s portion of that mantle, but it should have been enough. Neither he nor Isen understood why it hadn’t worked.
Today they amended that. Isen held the full Nokolai mantle, and had for a very long time. In a sense he held even the portion carried by his son and heir, for the full mantle was his to command, regardless of where it lay. It would do his will. He no more doubted that than he doubted his ability to direct his foot or his hand.
They would do this without ceremony. No one was calling seco, though the procedure was the same as when a lupus was made clanless. But there was no shame to these young men in what must be done. They would no longer be Nokolai, but they wouldn’t be left without a clan.
“David,” Isen said, keeping his voice low and matter-of-fact. “Jeffrey.” He placed a hand on each man’s shoulder. The mantle stirred, recognizing them. He held that recognition in his awareness … and denied it, with words and with intent, calling back the tiny portions of mantle swimming in each of them. “You are not Nokolai.”
Nothing happened. For a very long moment, nothing at all happened.
Isen leaned back in his chair and laughed loud and long.
“Isen,” Rule said. Just that, and his tone gave away as little as his words, but Isen knew he was worried. No doubt he meant to hide that from the two pups who were staring at Isen now, the blond one alarmed, the darker one sufficiently astonished to have lost that small, perpetual smile.
That, too, amused Isen. “Ah,” he said, wiping his eyes, which had watered from mirth. “The joke’s on me, isn’t it?”
“I’m not finding the humor,” Rule said dryly.
Isen looked at his son with great love and almost as much patience. He had two living sons, and both were a trifle too serious. Still, he understood Rule’s anxiety. Thus far, he and Rule had managed to conceal the condition of these young Leidolf-Nokolai hybrids by bringing them here to train as guards for their Rho. Supposedly this was to honor Rule’s first gens compleo as Leidolf Rho, and to signal the newly friendly ties between Nokolai and Leidolf.
It did those things, but more importantly, it provided an explanation for the way they smelled. They trained with Nokolai, lived with Nokolai. People would assume the whiff of Nokolai scent they carried was acquired, not innate.
Their little sleight-of-smell wouldn’t work forever. And then, as the saying went, the shit would hit the fan.
Isen met his son’s eyes as one last chuckle escaped. “Ah, well. You and I don’t always laugh at the same things. The mantle didn’t answer me.”
“I noticed that.”
“Rule.” Fond but slightly exasperated, Isen shook his head. “A Rho commands his clan’s mantle entirely … with one exception.”
Rule’s eyes widened. His gaze slid to the men still obediently kneeling. He said nothing, then looked at his father again, a question suspended in his dark eyes.
Isen nodded. Yes, you understand correctly.
Ah, hubris. Isen smiled wryly at himself. He’d forgotten that exception, hadn’t he? Though there was some justification. The Lady hadn’t acted directly on the mantles in over three thousand years. Not since the Great War, in fact. But they, like the lupi she’d created, remained hers to command.
Why did she want these two to remain in two clans? Who knew? Clearly, though, she did. Just as clearly, many in other clans would not believe this.
Interesting times, Isen thought. That was the Chinese curse, wasn’t it? May you live in interesting times.
ONE
FEAR comes in many flavors. Tonight’s dish was sour apples with a soupcon of bile. Arjenie swallowed and swallowed again.
The moon was high and nearly full. A few tatters of high-flying cirrus clouds marred the sky’s dome like scuff marks left by skidding giants. Arjenie held herself still so as not to send any crackles or crunches out into the moon-flooded night.
She was glad of the moonlight. There wasn’t much ambient light this far from the city, just the landscape lighting around Robert Friar’s big, expensive house. That sprouted up everywhere like electronic fungi—path lighting, spots trained on trees and shrubs, the diamond glow of underwater lights in the pool.
Everywhere except at the guesthouse, that is. About fifty feet past the sparkling pool was a log cabin the size of a two-car garage. Here it was dark, especially behind the thorny bush where Arjenie crouched. Neither moonlight nor landscape lighting reached inside the window two feet to her left. The window was open an inch. Behind the glass lay darkness. A whisper floated out to her from that darkness. “You’d better go.”
“Yes.”
“ And yet you aren’t moving.”
“I hate to leave you here.”
“I can’t go with you. You know that. Go now. They’ll bring the tears soon.”
Arjenie said nothing. There was nothing to say. Dya had to have the tears, but Arjenie hated them and everything they stood for.
“Tch. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re not—”
“You’re not about to insult me, are you?”
“You’re frightened.”
“You can hear my knees knocking from in there?”
“Is that what that noise was?” Dya huffed softly. “Don’t worry, little fox. I will be well. Not happy, but well. He doesn’t dare hurt me too much.”
“He doesn’t dare kill you,” Arjenie corrected. “That’s what you said. Because your family would find out—”
“They are your family, too. Jidar relations are still family.”
Family she’d never met and never would. “My point is, if you miss your scheduled contact, they’ll raise a stink and then Friar has to produce you alive and well or they’ll have a grievance. That’s a big deal where you come from, so he’ll be disinclined to kill you.”
“I am also very important to his plans. He does not want me dead.”
“There can be a world of pain between well and dead.”
A sing
le cluck of the tongue. “Then leave before you grow weary and make a mistake and are found with those vials in your pockets. He would punish me severely for them.”
“Good idea.” Especially since no one would hold Friar accountable if she disappeared. Arjenie had a dreadful suspicion that making her go away permanently would be at the top of Friar’s list of options if he caught her here. “You’ve got the prepaid phone I brought. You remember how to use it? Mobile phones are a little different—”
“I can use it, but I won’t. Do not be thinking things are bad if I don’t call you. I don’t want you in danger.”
Big sisters never stop thinking of their little sisters as little, Arjenie supposed. At least Dya had called when she really needed to. “I’ll be back. Love you, Dya.”
“Not unless I call. Love you, Arjenie-hennie.”
The pet name made Arjenie smile. If the smile wobbled, well, she was the only one who knew. She twisted so she could start easing out from behind the bush and … “Ow!”
“What is it?”
“Stupid, vicious bush,” she muttered. “It stabbed me.”
“Is there blood? Arjenie, if there’s blood—”
“Can you fix it?” There was certainly blood on her hand, so there was probably some on the bush.
“Pass me the part that wounded you.”
Arjenie felt for the branch, being more careful this time. She snapped off the offending portion and froze at the crack, instinctively pulling on her Gift—and winced at the stab of pain in her temple. She was too close to the window’s glass to push that much power through her Gift.
No one came to investigate, thank the Light, the Lord, and the Lady. Arjenie leaned forward awkwardly so she could push the thorny twig through that open inch of window.
For a long moment she waited, breathing as quietly as she could. Then: “Done,” Dya whispered. “No one will track you from it now.” The branch slid back outside the window and rustled faintly as it fell to the ground.
“Dya—”
“Go! And don’t bleed on anything else.”
Arjenie made it out from behind the bush with no further injuries, then paused, still crouching, to suck on the side of her hand so she wouldn’t drip blood anywhere. Cursed thorny whatever-it-was. No wonder Friar thought no one could get near his guesthouse. He’d stationed attack plants around it.
Of course, he had the guards, too. And the wards.
The guards wouldn’t be a problem, she told herself firmly. She wasn’t depleted—not too depleted, anyway. They’d never notice her. As for the wards … she’d made it here without tripping any, hadn’t she? She just had to make it out again.
Slowly she stood. There was nothing but fifty feet of path and some low-lying plants between her and the pool—and beyond it, the house. She felt horribly exposed. Her heart pounded. Her mouth was dry.
Stupid, she told herself. No one would notice her, so there was no point in being a scared little bunny. But all the glass in the house worried her.
Her heart kept up its double-time beat as she walked slowly down the stone path that led to the back of the little log cabin, so out of place in southern California. But Friar went for the rustic look. The version of it he’d employed on the main house was far more sophisticated—lots of wood, lots of glass, a gabled roof pitched to repel snow that never fell.
Stupid glass. It buzzed at the edge of her awareness, a low-level but irritating static. Glass disagreed with her Gift. It was too far away to be a real problem, though, she assured herself.
However inappropriate for its setting, Friar’s house was beautiful. She wished it wasn’t. She knew evil didn’t go around fingering its mustache and twirling its cape, but it just seemed wrong that someone like Robert Friar could recognize and appreciate beauty.
The house’s setting was lovely, too, in a rough and wild way. She’d driven past in the daytime … not all the way to the house, which sat well off the highway on a private road. But close enough to appreciate the peculiar beauty of these scrubby mountains … or was she still in the foothills? Where did one end and the next begin?
Never mind, she told herself sternly, aware of her tendency to lose herself in the pursuit of interesting facts. Whatever she called it, the land around Friar’s home was all ups and downs. Not too steeply pitched, thank goodness, since she’d had to make her way over one of those ups to get here. She might be able to hide herself, but her ability didn’t extend to her rental car, which was parked on a dirt road that wasn’t on most maps of the area.
Arjenie was good at finding information that wasn’t readily available.
The cabin didn’t have a backyard. There was a little deck and then trees—pines, mostly, and they were spindly things. She supposed this was what passed for woods on this side of the country, where things were so dry. It wasn’t much like the woods she was used to, back in Virginia.
Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go … no river here, and no grandmother, but she did have to go through the trees and over the hill. Or mountain. Whatever.
She’d just left the path for dirt crunchy with pine needles when she heard voices. She froze, her heart doing its frightened rabbit thing. With an effort, she managed not to pull harder on her Gift. The voices were on the far side of the cabin, and she’d been using her Gift continuously for two hours. She wasn’t that powerful. She couldn’t afford to run out of juice.
The voices were male, the words indistinct … something about having a beer later. A moment later she heard the cabin’s front door thud closed, and the voices were cut off.
Her breath shuddered out. She wished she’d stop panicking. This was no different from hundreds of other times she’d used her Gift for fun or practice … except, of course, for those militia guys. Guys with guns. Multiple guns. Handguns holstered at their hips and rifles slung over their shoulders.
Assault rifles, she thought, and she moved cautiously into the trees. Arjenie had never actually seen an assault rifle, but she’d researched them, and she had an excellent memory. Assault rifles were capable of selective fire, which meant they could be set to fire automatically. The M-16, for example, could fire up to 950 rounds per minute, depending on the model. Of course, those were intermediate-power cartridges, not as powerful as the load in a regular rifle. But 950 rounds per minutes of anything did a fine job of turning a person into bloody hamburger.
How long were those rifles the militia guys carried? She frowned as she began heading upslope, trying to remember. Assault rifles had shorter barrels. But she hadn’t been close to the guns—thank goodness—and she’d been scared spit-less. And she was used to seeing stuff like that on a screen or on paper, not in person.
Maybe they’d been battle rifles, such as the M-14. Arjenie didn’t know as much about them as she did assault rifles, never having researched them specifically, but she knew they were longer in the barrel and fired high-power cartridges. Military units used them to hit targets at ranges up to 1000 meters—which was roughly 1100 yards—but she didn’t think—
A ward—a ward right there, and she was about to step on it. She stumbled back, away from the line she knew but couldn’t see.
Her left foot turned under her. Her arms flailed. She landed on her butt in the dirt with a prickly pain shooting up the side of her ankle.
Her breath came fast. She patted her pockets. Both glass vials seemed intact. She checked the stoppers—still snug—exhaled in relief, and rubbed her ankle, scowling as her eyes teared up.
When would she learn? She couldn’t just walk. She had to pay attention. She really had to pay attention while clambering around on a big hill or small mountain in the darkness—a hill with wards and men with guns who’d come running if she set off one.
“Fudge,” she whispered. Her ankle started to throb in a hot, red way, pulses of pain that kept her eyes wet. “Holy Dalmatian fudge and—and rats.”
At least she hadn’t tripped the ward. Maybe she wouldn’t have
set it off even if she had walked over it—her Gift would fool most wards—but this one had a fair amount of juice, and she didn’t. She’d used a lot of power staying hidden so long.
The ability to sense wards was a side effect of her Gift. She didn’t see them. She didn’t feel them. She just knew. She had to be actively using her Gift, but when she was, she could look around and know if any wards were close. It was as if her Gift did the seeing, not her, so the information didn’t get processed by her visual cortex. It arrived directly. Usually she got a rough idea of how strong a ward was, how complex, and sometimes, what type.
The one she hadn’t quite stepped on was a summoning ward—she knew that much—and a strong one, probably designed to notify Friar if something large and living crossed it. And she’d known to watch out for it. She’d found it on the way in, so she’d known where it was. The plan was to follow it to the place where Earth disliked it.
Many practitioners would pooh-pooh the idea that Earth had likes and dislikes, but Arjenie’s mother had been an Earth witch, and a strong one, and that’s what she’d taught her daughter. Arjenie thought that might be why she could sense Earth a bit herself, even though her own Gift was tied to Air.
Earth was not uniform. It was granite here, sand there, clay somewhere else. Some parts liked to grow plants, some didn’t. The part of Earth that didn’t like the ward wasn’t cooperating with it, so the ward was weak there. Her Gift would let her cross unnoticed.
Now she was genuinely crippled, not just inconvenienced. If only she’d been paying attention, she could have … Arjenie made a face at herself. “If only” never got anything done. Better stand up and see how much damage she’d done herself. No, wait. First see if she could spot a branch to use as a walking stick. That ankle was going to need some kind of help.
Her cheeks were wet, so she wiped them. Pain always made her cry. She used to be embarrassed about that—it seemed so childish—but embarrassment was a waste of worry. Tears were one of many things that were standard for the Arjenie model: trips easily, great memory, cries when she hurts.
