Eileen Wilks: Humon Error

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 boiled 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?”

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.