Even as her cousin turned an astonished face her way—he hadn’t done anything—Clay turned to look at him, his arm loosening just enough for Arjenie to pull free, suck in a lungful of air, and fling herself through the fire.
She stopped a few feet outside it and stood, gasping and only slightly singed, in the trampled dirt and grass. At some point in all the chaos she’d lost focus, and all of the mage lights but the original were gone, but that first one still bobbed obediently over her head. Plus the fire gave out light as well as heat, so she saw pretty well.
Sheriff Porter knelt beside one of his deputies. Rick, that was his name. The man lay on the ground. She couldn’t see how badly he was hurt—the sheriff’s body blocked most of her view. But she knew it was Rick because his skin was pale and the other deputy was black, and besides, when she looked around she saw that deputy running toward them from the other side of the cul-de-sac.
It was what she didn’t see that held her mute and still. No bear. No Benedict. And no Havoc.
Arjenie had learned that adventures tended to be ten percent frantic action and ninety percent waiting. The next hour and a half drew a big, red underline beneath the waiting part.
Rick had still been alive when the ambulance pulled away. He’d been lucky in one respect. The bear had only gotten in one good swipe before taking off . . . and Sammy’s Gift was healing. He’d been unlucky in that the swipe had been to his gut. Those claws had ripped through flesh and muscle like it was toilet paper.
Gut wounds were bad. She knew way too many statistics about them. Sammy had kept Rick going, had started the healing—but he’d emptied himself doing it. He’d drawn from Uncle Clay, too. Uncle Clay didn’t have half the spellcraft that Aunt Robin did—it wasn’t a big interest of his—but he had what might be a secondary Gift, or at least an ability that had been passed down in his family. He could share power with another Delacroix without a circle.
He and Aunt Robin were still down in the draw with the swarm of officers. They couldn’t make a proper circle with Sammy depleted, but Aunt Robin could scry for magic and try to find the bear.
Arjenie was up at the top of the draw, sitting in the sheriff’s car. Seri and Sammy were up here, too, perched on the trunk of the deputy’s car. They were playing one of those phone games where you can invite someone to play against you—not with their usual high-spirited rivalry but quietly. As if they needed to think of something else, anything else, other than what had happened.
Arjenie was using a phone, too. Not hers. Benedict’s. His brother had called him on it and Arjenie had answered. “Surgery,” she repeated. “Well, obviously Nettie can’t call me right away. But I really, really need to talk to her as soon as possible.”
“I’m leaving for the hospital now,” Rule said.
“Who is she operating on? Is it someone I know?”
“Noah Stafford. He doesn’t live at Clanhome, so you may not have met him. We don’t know yet what happened, but he was in bad shape when they found him.”
“Do you think it has something to do with the war?”
“Possibly. His chances are good, since he’s lasted this long, but one of the injuries was to his jaw, so he won’t be able to speak for a while.” There was a pause, and what sounded like a car door slamming. “As soon as Nettie’s out of surgery, I’ll ask her to call you.”
“That’s a lousy time to be hit with bad news. Or anxious news, rather, because it isn’t really bad. Benedict couldn’t have been hurt too much or he wouldn’t have taken off after the bear like he did.” Nettie was Benedict’s daughter. She was a shaman and a physician and she was fifty-four years old, which was why they didn’t advertise the relationship outside the clan. People weren’t supposed to know that lupi lived a lot longer than humans . . . if they didn’t get eaten by a bear, that is. “It can be rough being so far away and worrying.”
“She’ll be puzzled, as I am. It’s not like Benedict to take off in pursuit and leave you undefended.”
“I’m ridiculously defended. If I were any more defended I couldn’t get anything done at all. But I need to find him. He’ll be expecting that.”
“I think,” Rule said dryly, “he’d expect you to sit tight in the safest place possible and wait for him.”
“That’s what he’d want. It’s not what he’d expect.” Movement glimpsed out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. “Oh, the sheriff’s here with my aunt and uncle. I need to talk to them. And you probably need to get off the phone, anyway.”
“I can talk and drive, but you go have your discussion. I’ll let Isen know what’s going on. Call or text me when the situation changes.”
“I will.” She disconnected and frowned out at nothing in particular. In the last hour and a half she’d given an official statement, done some thinking, called Benedict’s men, called Uncle Hershey—she’d volunteered for that, since Aunt Robin and Uncle Clay were busy—and called a friend she worked with in Research. Foolishly, she’d left her computer back at the house, and while she could surf the net on her phone, she couldn’t access some of the databases she needed with it. But Susan had promised to do some digging and get back to her.
She’d also called Cullen, who basically agreed with her theory. Or at least he agreed it was a possibility, but neither of them knew enough about that end of things, so she needed to talk to Nettie. And now she’d let Rule know, and he would let their Rho know and see that Nettie called Arjenie. The question lingering in her mind was whether she should call Ruben Brooks in his capacity as head of the FBI’s Unit Twelve. That’s who would investigate an incident involving death magic.
Not that the presence of death magic had been confirmed officially, of course, but Ruben didn’t have to wait on that if he didn’t want to. The Unit had wide latitude to investigate where it wanted.
It was also spread really thin these days. She’d wait and see if the sheriff had contacted the FBI himself, she decided. Sheriff Porter would take the federal intrusion better if it was his idea.
Having done what she could, she opened the car door and got out. More waiting, coming right up.
Several miles away, a wolf lay on his stomach in a shallow depression in the earth tucked between the roots of a large oak. A small short-haired dog curled up next to him, panting softly, her eyes closed. The wolf’s head was up, his eyes alert. He was as still as stone.
His stomach growled.
The little dog’s eyes popped open. He gave the wolf an accusing look. You’re supposed to have such great control.
Benedict had had some experience with mental speech, having conversed with a dragon a few times. It was harder to do in this form. Words were always more work when he was wolf. I’m hungry, yet I haven’t eaten you. That’s control.