Maybe not. And maybe they wouldn’t be upset that he and Arjenie had no plans to marry, even though she couldn’t explain why that legal binding was unimportant compared to what truly held them together.
Humans weren’t told about the mate bond. Ever.
But because of that bond, Arjenie had to live far from her family now. Because of Benedict, she’d been exposed to danger, violence, and death. And probably would be again.
How could they accept that? Why should they?
Benedict thought, however, that they’d be courteous. People who raised someone as generous and openhearted as Arjenie would be courteous to him for her sake and their own. Clearly he had nothing to worry about. “I may be a little nervous.”
Her bright grin flashed across her face. “You think? Oh, look—that’s the oak! Turn there—just beyond that magnificent oak—the gravel road, do you see it?”
Obediently he slowed. She was vibrating with excitement. It had been nearly four months since she’d see her aunt and uncle and cousins. Other aunts and uncles and cousins would be there, too. The gravel road he turned onto would take them to an old farmhouse that had been the home and heart of the Delacroix family for nearly two hundred years. It was like a small clanhome. Everyone who could, came there for Christmas.
Not Christmas, he corrected himself. Yule. They were Wiccan. The center of their celebration was the solstice, which they called Yule, and which fell on the twenty-second this year. Then, on the morning of December 25th, they joined the rest of the country in what Arjenie called a grand explosion of culturally sanctioned greed. Presents, presents, presents.
They turned onto a tree-crowded lane. Branches arched overhead—bare now, but it must be pretty in summer. Moonsong hummed in his veins rather the way the car’s engine sounded to his ears. Her song was constant, having nothing to do with whether the moon was visible, but this close to the full moon it grew ever stronger.
He checked the rearview mirror. The car behind them was identical to the one he drove. Both rented, of course. He hadn’t actually been called on to cross the country on foot. They’d flown to D.C., stopping there for a couple days to pack up Arjenie’s apartment.
She’d cried. When they boxed up the last of the things in her bedroom, she’d cried, and he almost did, too, looking at her wet eyes. She called it “getting all teary, which is not the same thing,” but tears were tears. He’d told her she didn’t have to let her apartment go. She could keep it as long as she wanted—for the rest of her life, if she wished. They’d come to D.C. as often as possible . . . which probably wouldn’t be all that often. Not when they were at war.
Maybe the present he would give her on Christmas morning would help a little. He hoped so.
Arjenie’s phone pinged with her text alert. She checked it and exclaimed, “Oh, Uncle Nate and Aunt Sheila got in last night with their crew! That’s Jacob, Noah, and Emily. Emily’s the one I used to babysit.”
“You thought they were spending the holiday with Sheila’s family this year.”
“Yes, it’s her turn. They alternate between his family and hers, you know, but . . .” She scanned her phone. “Oh my. There was an argument. Aunt Robin doesn’t give any details, but I’ll bet Sheila’s mother got in one of her huffs. She does that. Anyway, the woman decided all of a sudden to go on a cruise. Can you imagine?” She shook her head. “A cruise instead of family at Yule.”
Benedict checked his memory, trying to place people he’d never met. “Nate is the physician. Family practice. He and your uncle Ambrose are twins. Nate’s wife, Sheila, is . . .” He frowned. He’d studied the family pictures Arjenie had on her phone, and he remembered a smiling woman with honey-blond hair. But he was drawing a blank on the details. “A landscape architect?”
“No, that’s Gary, Uncle Hershey’s partner. Sheila’s a stay-at-home mom, though she’s been talking about dusting off her lit degree now that two out of three of the kids are in high school.” Arjenie’s thumbs flew over the screen as she replied to her aunt. She had no problem carrying on multiple conversations. “And Uncle Ambrose and Aunt Carmen are here already with their brood. Oh, and she brought her brother. Good.”
“Her brother.”
“Uh-huh. Ben Avelar. He’s divorced and has joint custody, but his ex has the kids for the holiday and his own family’s in Portugal, so Aunt Robin must’ve told Carmen to bring him along.”
Benedict stopped trying to add up all the people he was about to meet. “The twins are already there, too.”
“Oh, yes. Both their colleges let out a week ago. I just wish Tony could have made it. You’d like him, and he’d be glad of someone to talk to who gets him.”
Tony was the oldest of Clay and Robin Delacroix’s three children and, like the twins, was more of a sibling than a cousin to Arjenie. A younger sibling. Tony had been born the same year Arjenie’s mother died and Arjenie went to live with her aunt and uncle. “He couldn’t get leave.”
“The Air Force does not seem to understand how important it is for him to be home for the holidays.” She shook her head. “Poor Tony. It’s not like Wicca is inherently antiwar, but my family does seem to breed more pacifists than warriors. He’s sort of the odd man out sometimes.”
Benedict wished Tony could have made it, too. As it was, he’d be very much the odd man out. He was nothing but a warrior.
Fortunately, there was a lull in the war at the moment. In October the enemy had launched simultaneous battles at four Humans First rallies, the opening salvo in an intricate yet elegant strategy for destroying the lupi and toppling the U.S. government. It had nearly worked. If Lily hadn’t figured out what was going on . . .
But she had, and even the Great Enemy would need a little time to regroup after such a defeat. She had to work through human agents, after all, who required mundane resources—money, followers, fake IDs, weapons . . . and an ignorant and frightened public she and her people could deceive.
After October, the enemy was ahead on the fear front, but the public was slightly less ignorant. Benedict had no idea how that would play out, but figuring it out wasn’t his job. He was in charge of security at Nokolai Clanhome, not PR and politics. Guessing which way humans would jump—and trying to manipulate that direction—was Rule’s job, not his.
Thank God for his brother. Who was helpful in other ways, too. Benedict had gone to Rule for advice about what clothes to pack. At first Rule had suggested he ask Arjenie, but Benedict had explained that he didn’t need to know what was appropriate. He needed to know what cultural messages his clothes were sending. Rule understood things like that.
It seemed strange that he ended up wearing pretty much what he would have on any other day, except for the jacket. Somehow adding a leather sports jacket changed the message of his jeans and dark blue T-shirt from “I didn’t bother to dress up” to “I’m a casual person but want to honor our meeting.”
“. . . not that you’ve heard a word I said. Which is okay, because I’m babbling to an insane degree, but you’re supposed to nod or say ‘uh-huh’ now and then, anyway.”