by Eileen Wilks
“Shh.” That was Arjenie. She’d come around to his side of the car—as had the others. “He’s talking to Havoc.”
“He’s not talking,” the boy objected.
Robin Delacroix answered. “Yes, he is. It’s a language we don’t speak.”
It occurred to Benedict that this was not the way to blend in with humans.
Havoc stopped. Cocked her head. Gave a single wag of her tail.
Benedict smiled. He held out one hand down low—Come greet me, see, I understand how to do this—
And a wall of power slammed into him like a mountain’s belch or the laughter of gods.
Benedict had no chance to fight. His control was superb, but control governed only whether or not he entered the Change. All the will in the world couldn’t stop the Change once it began—and that giant hand had swatted him into it as easily as a child’s foot can send a beetle tumbling. He could only submit and speed it along.
Between one breath and the next, the man was gone, his clothing fallen to the ground in the instant of transformation, when he was neither truly here nor not-here. An enormous black wolf stood in the Delacroix front yard, snarling with rage at what had been done to him.
Chapter Two
“Stay back! No, he’s safe, he’s perfectly safe, only he isn’t supposed to—that shouldn’t have happened!”
Unlike many lupi, Benedict had never thought of his wolf form as something separate or distinct from the rest of him. He thought differently as a wolf, perceived the world differently, and some instincts were heightened. But he had no sense of the man needing to control the wolf, as many did. Man or wolf, he remained himself. Man or wolf, control was necessary.
Benedict heard his Chosen, heard the fear in her voice, and mastered his anger. “Benedict?” she said, and stepped toward him—and the man beside her, who smelled like charcoal and iron and smoke, seized her arm. “You’ll stay back, too.”
The smoke-and-iron man was not an enemy. Names were uninteresting to him at the moment, but he knew the man was dear to Arjenie, so he forgave him for restraining her. She would rebuke him for it herself, he was sure. Arjenie did not like to be restrained.
He wanted to go to her, but he had no idea what had happened, where the threat lay. So he gave her a quick, reassuring nod and leaped onto the hood of the car, then the roof.
This startled the humans. He was sorry for that, but he had to see and smell out what was going on. His men—had they been Changed, too?
The breeze came from the south, so he allowed his nose to advise him on what lay in that direction while he used his eyes to check north, east, and west. Nothing looked threatening or obviously out of place, but he didn’t know this place.
His men had not been forced into Change; they stood two-legged beside their car, aware something was wrong but not knowing what or if they should come to him.
This form wasn’t good at communication, but he could offer that much direction. He shook his head firmly at them.
The humans were doing a great deal of talking. Arjenie, too—she was angry at the man who still held her arm. The woman—she had an especially interesting smell—had hold of both boys, one by the shoulder, the other by the hand. She told the man to let go of his niece, who was an adult and able to make her own decisions, adding under her breath that Arjenie had better know what she was talking about.
A horse screamed. It was a stallion’s battle cry, and it came from the barn. Where the door was open slightly. It had been closed earlier.
Benedict shot off the roof of the car, sailing over the head of the woman and hitting the ground at a dead run.
Someone followed him. Someone about one-twentieth his size and with no concept of the value of silence. Havoc barked furiously as she raced after him, either believing she had him on the run or delighted by the chance to pursue whatever he was chasing.
There was no point in stealth with the terrier ferociously announcing her approach, but the noise might mask the sound of Benedict’s feet. He might yet surprise whoever or whatever had infuriated the stallion. He angled for the open door, charging inside.
What he smelled brought him up short.
When Muffin screamed, Uncle Clay’s hand relaxed in surprise. That was all Arjenie needed to twist away—just as Benedict sailed off the roof of the car in one of those stunning leaps lupi were capable of. He hit the ground running flat out, which meant very fast indeed.
Havoc took off after him. And Arjenie took off after them both.
She wasn’t fast. She wasn’t graceful. She had to be mindful of her ankle, which could turn under her if she wasn’t careful. She wasn’t much of a fighter, either, but she’d seen Benedict signal Josh and Adam to stay where they were. There was no way she was letting him go after whatever-it-was without backup.
Benedict vanished inside the barn well before she reached the halfway point. Muffin trumpeted again, sounding frantic—but having a huge wolf race into his domain would do that. It didn’t necessarily mean he was being attacked and hurt.
Arjenie heard feet pounding behind her and stole a quick glance. Uncle Hershey and Uncle Clay. Good. They’d be better backup than she would. She kept going, anyway. Her uncles passed her about the time Havoc zipped into the barn, still barking.
The barn was 130 yards from the house. That was just over the length of a football field—American football, that is. In European terms, it was approximately one-and-a-third times the length of a soccer field—facts that Arjenie knew and had shared with her family years ago and was thinking about now because facts soothed her and she was afraid. Afraid for Benedict, for herself, for her uncles, and for silly little Havoc.
Though it was probably foolish to fear for Benedict, who was the best fighter in the clans. That was not her uninformed opinion but what she’d been told by any number of people in the clans—lupi, who ought to know. She’d seen him fight, and he was like one of those anime heroes, doing things that did not look real even when you saw him do them.
But teeth don’t work against every menace, and something had pushed him into the Change. Which is why she pulled on her Gift as she reached the barn.
It wasn’t true invisibility, but it worked almost the same as long as there weren’t any cameras to fool. Or anyone nearby with really good shields against mind magic. Or Benedict, for that matter—he could always see her, even when she was hidden to everyone else. She eased inside the partly open door.
And stopped, her breath huffing out, and dropped the pull on her Gift. “What are you doing?”
Muffin was pacing and blowing, very agitated. Just outside his stall, at the far end of the broad center aisle, Benedict sat on his haunches, looking bored. Her uncles were about halfway down the aisle. Uncle Hershey stood with his legs wide, one hand out as if he was about to call fire. Which he so would not do in a barn. And Uncle Clay—her beloved uncle Clay—had his .45 in his hand and was pointing it at Benedict.
“You put that away right now!” She headed for him.
“Arjenie, stay back.”
Uncle Clay spoke with such crisp assurance that her feet actually checked for a second, out of habit. Clay didn’t give orders often, but when he did, all the kids obeyed.
But she was not a kid. “I most certainly will not. You pulled a gun on Benedict!” She was so mad she wanted to spit. Spitting mad. She had never really understood that phrase before. “How could you do that? Is that the kind of tolerance for those who are different that you taught me? Do you intend to shoot him if he moves? Do you realize he could knock that stupid gun out of your hand in a flash if he weren’t too polite or maybe worried you’d accidentally shoot Muffin or something? You’re only fifteen feet away. That is no distance at all for him.” She reached the two idiots and started to go between them, because she wasn’t so blindingly angry she’d try to knock the gun out of her uncle’s hand. She wanted to, but she’d settle for blocking his shot.
Uncle Hershey grabbed her.
Rage just boil
ed up. She swung around and slapped him.
Sheer astonishment made him drop his hand.
She stared back at him in equal astonishment. She had never even thought about striking anyone in her family—well, except for her cousin Mike who was much too fond of practical jokes, but not in years. And not her uncles. Not ever.
And a beautiful, rumbly deep voice spoke behind her. “Arjenie, your uncles’ response was inconvenient but reasonable.”
She turned and scowled at Benedict, who’d Changed back to human in record time just so he could take her uncles’ side. He was entirely naked, his clothes being back by the car. And he was entirely beautiful without clothes—broad and brawny and muscular—but she was not going to let that distract her. “Drawing a gun on my lover and their own guest is not reasonable.”
“They don’t know me. They saw me turn into a wolf and take off for their barn. They don’t know why I did those things.”
“Maybe we overreacted,” Clay said. Arjenie glanced at him. He was putting his gun back into the belt holster she hadn’t realized he was wearing because his jacket had hidden it.
“No,” Benedict said. “You acted in advance of information, but sometimes that’s necessary. You couldn’t smell the intruder, as I did.”
“Someone was here, then?” Arjenie asked. “Someone who made you Change and scared Muffin?”
“Muffin?” Benedict’s mouth crooked up. “That fire-breather is named Muffin?”
“Seri named him. She was in her cute phase, and—never mind that. Did you see who it was?”
Benedict shook his head slowly. “I smelled him, though. It was Coyote.”
Hershey snorted. “We don’t have coyotes around here.”
“Not a coyote. Coyote.”
In the silence that fell, Arjenie could almost smell the disbelief rolling off her uncles, it was so thick.
Wait a minute. It was way too silent. “Where’s Havoc?”
Chapter Three
The Delacroix family had a great kitchen. It was large, as farm kitchens often are, a big rectangle of a room with a long trestle table made of very old cherry wood at one end surrounded by mismatched chairs and one short bench. The cabinets were cherry, too, but not as old as the table; the stove was old, the refrigerator new, and there were lots of south-facing windows. It smelled wonderful. Meat simmered on the stove and four freshly baked loaves of bread were cooling on the counter.
Benedict was looking forward to the meal those smells portended, but that was still a couple hours away, so he’d eaten three pieces of jerky as soon as he was reunited with his clothes. It didn’t pay to let himself get too hungry, and the Change burned a lot of calories.
He sat at the long trestle table drinking coffee and listening. Large as it was, the kitchen was crowded. Everyone but the twins was back.
Nate and his two oldest children, both teenagers, had returned from a ride while Benedict was still in the barn, pulling on the clothes Arjenie brought him. The others, save for the twins, had been hunting for a Yule tree. That bunch had arrived while Benedict was introducing his guards to Robin and Clay.
Josh and Adam were outside, of course. They might be sleeping in the house, but their duty was the exterior. They needed to familiarize themselves with the grounds. Benedict had donned his earbud so they could report as needed, though he wasn’t keeping an open phone line.
The twins were still gone. They were either looking for holly or for trouble, depending on who was talking.
Havoc was still gone, too.
Benedict had offered to find the little dog—it would be easy to follow the dog’s scent in his other form—or to send one of his men, but after thanking him, Robin had explained that she’d laid a mild compulsion on the terrier so he’d stay on Delacroix land. She thought he’d be okay.
Benedict did, too. Coyote liked dogs. He wasn’t fond of wolves, but he liked dogs.
The kids had been sent to the rec room in the basement under the care of the two oldest, who were teens. That left twelve adults, counting himself, most of whom had something to say. Or thought they did.
The tendency to talk even if you had nothing to contribute was not an essentially human trait, from what Benedict had seen. Lupi did it, too. So did gnomes. Give most species speech, and they wanted to use it.
It was easy to pick out the Delacroix brothers from those married into or otherwise connected to the clan. They were uncannily alike—not in features but in build. To a man they were broad-shouldered, muscular, and between six foot and six two. Their hair varied from dark brown to black, and they all had blue eyes.
They shared a less visible trait, too. They were all Gifted. This was highly unusual. While the ability to work magic was often passed down, it seldom bred completely true.
Clay Delacroix was the oldest. He had the only beard, the most gray, a crooked nose, and thick, muscular arms and legs. Ambrose had a deep tan and wore his hair long, clubbed back at the moment. Nate—Ambrose’s fraternal twin—looked more like a sergeant than a doctor, with his buzz-cut hair and the scar bisecting his jaw. Hershey could have passed for a lumberjack, right down to the flannel shirt, but was in fact a technical writer. The youngest, Stephen, was the leanest, with a narrow face, black hair untouched by gray, and very pale blue eyes. Benedict wasn’t entirely clear on what he did. Some kind of artist.
Two of the Delacroix brothers sat at the table with Benedict—Nate and Stephen. Sheila and her brother sat there, too. The rest were standing around, except for Arjenie, who was pacing.
“. . . as if you’d throw fire in a barn. And at a living being.” She flung those words at Hershey, who looked sheepish and muttered, “She’s really mad.”
“I didn’t think Arjenie even had a temper,” Sheila said. “I’ve never seen her lose it before.”
“People kept grabbing her,” Benedict explained. “She doesn’t like that.”
Stephen slanted him a quizzical look. “Maybe that isn’t the only reason.”
“And you,” Arjenie said, stopping to glare at Clay. “Never mind if it was reasonable to draw on Benedict or not. Why did you even have a gun? You don’t wear a gun. You never wear a gun.”
Clay exchanged a look with Robin, then sighed. “Nate had a disturbing dream.”
Arjenie frowned at Nate, who was sitting beside Benedict. “What kind of dream?”
“One with lots of blood.” The man shrugged. “Not that I expect it to be literally true, but it’s one of the strongest sendings I’ve received. The overwhelming sense was that trouble was coming. Danger.”
Benedict turned to him. “Precog?”
Nate nodded. “Not a strong Gift, so my hunches aren’t always reliable. But when I do have a prescient dream, it’s likely to be accurate. Not in terms of the dream’s contents—my unconscious seems to make those up to fit the feeling, so I don’t know that blood will literally be involved. But the feeling is reliable.”
Arjenie crossed her arms. “And you all assumed that trouble coming meant Benedict?”
Ambrose protested, “Not all of us. I didn’t know anything about Nate’s dream, much less that Big Brother”—he cocked an eyebrow at Clay—“was packing heat.”
“Arjenie,” Benedict said, “it’s all right. I am dangerous.”
She shook her head. “Not to them.”
Robin sighed. “Ambrose, we didn’t tell anyone about Nate’s dream because we hoped to avoid scaring everyone. Arjenie, I understand that you’re upset, but you aren’t thinking. Clay carried the gun because of Nate’s dream, not because of Benedict. We didn’t expect trouble from any particular direction. We simply wanted to be ready.”
Ready? And yet they’d allowed members of the family to ride or wander all over their acreage. Benedict shook his head. Either Robin wasn’t being honest about where they thought the threat lay, or these people did not understand security at all.
Robin’s revelation set off a new round of talk. Some wanted to know the details of Ambrose’s dream. Oth
ers remembered other dreams he’d had and how they hadn’t played out the way anyone expected but had fit events perfectly . . . in hindsight.
That’s how precognition usually worked, from what Benedict understood. He did know one precog who was phenomenally accurate. His hunches were more reliable than many people’s observed facts, and when he did—rarely—have a prescient dream, it was both literal and accurate. But most precogs weren’t like that. On the whole, the Gift seemed more trouble and confusion than help.
Robin didn’t contribute to the speculation, he noticed. She went to the refrigerator and started pulling out things—carrots, onions, celery. She asked Nate to get her a jar of tomatoes from the pantry, and would Clay taste the broth from the stewing meat to see if a bit more thyme was needed?
Nate went for the tomatoes. Clay gave Robin a knowing smile, a kiss, and told her to “give me that knife, woman, and don’t mess with my soup.” Within minutes, and with only the tiniest of nudges, Carmen and Clay were cutting up vegetables, Nate was showing Carmen’s brother—Benedict couldn’t remember his name—something in the living room, and Gary had headed to the basement to check on the kids. Hershey began rolling out a pie crust he’d taken from the refrigerator while Sheila and Ambrose peeled and sliced apples.
The chatter didn’t stop, but it was more general now. Robin collected Arjenie with a glance. The two women came to the table.
Stephen smiled up at Robin. “I think all the chores are taken. You’ll have to be direct.”
“Directly speaking, then—go away.”
Stephen chuckled and rose. “Good luck,” he told Benedict, and wandered over to snatch a piece of carrot.
Benedict had already concluded that Robin was the one in charge here, though in that oddly indirect way humans seemed to like. Or maybe they didn’t notice. Though Stephen had noticed, and Benedict suspected Clay knew exactly what his wife was doing. He wasn’t sure about the others.
Arjenie sat beside Benedict and squeezed his hand. “I’m pretty sure Aunt Robin intends to interrogate you.”
