That wouldn’t work.
“Arjenie,” Sammy said urgently, kneeling beside her. “Arjenie, are you okay? He didn’t get you anywhere?”
“Yes. I mean no, he didn’t get me, and yes . . .” A third wolf raced into the clearing, moving slower than the first two—who whooshed past Arjenie and Sammy like cars on the highway. The third wolf was slower because he ran on only three legs. He was black and huge, and her eyes teared up with joy at the sight of him.
A small white shape shot out of the trees behind the black wolf. Barking shrilly and running after him.
“Yes,” Arjenie told her cousin, grinning like a fool. “I am fine. I am perfectly, wonderfully okay now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Arjenie was right, Benedict thought as he washed down the last bite of his coffeecake with a sip of coffee. Christmas morning at the Delacroix homestead was a riot of unrestrained greed. Not to mention chaos, noise, and tons of ripped wrapping paper.
That paper had mostly been gathered up now, and some of the legions had dispersed to other parts of the house, with a few venturing outside now that the sun was out.
Some, not all.
“Look, Uncle Benedict! Look!” Malik dodged a girl cousin, a bicycle, Havoc, and two adults on his headlong run to Benedict—who had somehow become an uncle to every child here in the past three days. “I figured it out! See, if you kill enough of the aliens, then blow up one of the wheel-shaped spaceships, you get a laser beam. You’ve gotta see what it does!”
Obediently Benedict looked. The boy’s parents had given him a new iPod. Benedict had learned about that ahead of time and had gotten him a gift certificate to download the game of his choice. His choice seemed to involve a great deal of shooting and killing of aliens.
It was fun. Benedict had racked up a decent score when a voice said, “Scoot over, bud. You’re in my spot.”
Malik look up at Arjenie. “But we’re playing Space Wars.”
“You’re still in my spot.”
He heaved a great sigh but got up. “We’ll play more later,” he assured Benedict, who handed him back his iPod.
“How’s the leg?” Arjenie asked softly.
“Not bad.” Hershey had loaned him a pair of crutches he’d used a couple years ago, after being tossed off a horse. Benedict had used them for two days but the healing was far enough along now for him to dispense with them.
The footstool Sheila had brought him wasn’t necessary, but he appreciated it. Having his feet propped up let him look at the handmade leather moccasins he was wearing—one of Arjenie’s gifts. She’d also given him two shirts, a book on archaic weapons, a beautiful custom scabbard for his machete with a smaller, matching one for his favorite knife, and a fistful of candy, toys, and novelties in his stocking.
Everyone who was in the Delacroix house on Christmas morning got a stocking. That was one of the rules. Even people who were supposed to be outside guarding the house, which had thrown Josh and Adam into confusion. There were other rules, like everyone had to have at least one item for everyone else’s stocking, and you had to sneak to slip in your contribution. Arjenie had a big advantage on the sneaking part.
Arjenie must have noticed what he was looking at. “You like the moccasins.”
“They’re great. I can’t believe how well they fit.” Though he knew why they fit so well. His old moccasins had vanished for two weeks, mysteriously reappearing shortly before they left. She must have given them to someone to copy.
She snorted. “I give you shoes, a couple shirts, a book, and a scabbard. You give me a house. This is not exactly equality in action.”
He turned his head to look at her. She was glowing, her eyes so bright and happy it made his heart stutter. “You’re forgetting the nightgown and earrings and the holster for your Sig.”
“Well, I do win on the number of presents given, but a house?” She snuggled closer, so he put his arm around her. “What do I get next year? A jet plane?”
“I was thinking of a nice casserole dish. Or maybe a blender.”
She chuckled. Her eyes were happy, but the lids were drooping. They’d been up late last night, fashioning their own, private celebration. Then, of course, they’d been up early this morning. No one could sleep through a tornado of hyperexcited kids on Christmas morning, and who would want to?
All of these kids, happy and healthy and safe. Everyone here—safe.
Benedict’s arm tightened involuntarily around Arjenie as he thought of how nearly . . . but she hadn’t been hurt. Not even a scratch. And K. J. Miller wouldn’t put her family in danger again.
The authorities ruled it a heart attack. The man had been over fifty and had smoked for most of those years, so that was believable. It might even be true. Benedict didn’t know what exactly Coyote had done, but he’d never forget the look of utter terror on Miller’s face when something drifted up out of little Havoc and swept down over the skinwalker.
It had worked out. It had all worked out, even the presents he’d been so worried about.