Eileen Wilks: Humon Error

Arjenie nodded. “So you think Coyote pushed you into the Change—”

“I didn’t say that. Coyote is around, yes. He was in the barn. I don’t know if he’s the one who pushed me into Change.” Benedict shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing he would do, though. Stir things up. Laugh about it.”

Robin was frowning. “You think he’s here physically.”

“I smelled him. Your stallion did, too.”

“The tribes native to this area don’t include him in their lore.”

“Coyote isn’t always Coyote. Probably they knew him in some other guise.”

“I should have said that their lore doesn’t include a Coyote analogue. No trickster figures. I know some of the Native lore,” she added. “When Adam and Sarah Delacroix came here in 1814, they were careful to learn what they could and pass it on. Remnant powers, even if they’re no longer worshipped, can react unpredictably to Wiccan rites.”

He shrugged. “Could be that too many people died to pass down the relevant stories.” When Europeans showed up on this side of the ocean, they brought their diseases with them—smallpox, whooping cough, typhus, cholera. The experts argued about just how many died of the new diseases, but even conservative estimates put it well above the one-third kill rate of Europe’s Black Death. “And Coyote isn’t a remnant power, if I understand the way you mean that.”

“A power indigenous to the land that has faded over the centuries.”

“That’s what I thought. Coyote hasn’t faded.”

Arjenie spoke up. “Coyote range—I mean little- c coyote—has increased greatly since the eighteen hundreds. They exist in all forty-nine continental states now, including some urban areas. Maybe that’s why Coyote hasn’t faded.”

“Maybe.” He had to pause and smile at her. Arjenie collected facts the way some people collect stamps or coins or Star Wars figures. She loved them, shared them, sucked them up like a vacuum cleaner. “Or maybe his little brothers have prospered because he’s here.” He looked back at Robin. “You don’t believe it was Coyote.”

“I’m sorry. No.”

Arjenie shoved her chair back suddenly and stood. “We should take a walk.”

Her aunt frowned at her. “Arjenie—”

“He needs to know. We can all three take a walk, or it can be just me and Benedict.”

“You will not speak of it to him.” The words were quietly spoken, but for the first time, Robin’s authority was unsheathed. She meant it.

Arjenie didn’t say a word. Just looked at her aunt.

“Gods help me,” Robin muttered, standing. “You weren’t this stupidly lovesick as a teenager.”

The problem with arguing with someone who raised you was that the other side had all the ammo. Arjenie considered her aunt’s comment unworthy of her, a cheap shot, but if she pointed that out, they’d still be arguing, only about the wrong thing.

Stupidly lovesick . That stung.

Everything kept going wrong. She’d wanted so much for everyone to see Benedict like he really was, to appreciate him and stop worrying about her. And he’d been so anxious, determined to do everything he could to get them to like him, or at least accept him, and then the whatever-it-was forced him to Change and Uncle Clay pulled a gun on him, and she was so mad at Clay, and now she was mad at her aunt, too, and she hated that.

So Arjenie maintained a dignified silence as the three of them put on jackets and went out the back door. Not without a lot of questioning looks—and a few spoken questions—from the rest of the family, but she let her aunt handle those.

The sun was well on its way down. Shadows were long and crisp and the air had a bite. Not yet freezing, she judged, but headed that way, and the breeze had grown up. It was wind now, and a frisky one, suggesting a front was blowing in. Maybe they would end up with the snow the forecast called for. Not that a sixty percent chance meant it was a sure thing, but snow on Yule would be wonderful and . . . and it was stupid to be worrying about snow when she had more important things to settle. Only she’d had this picture of snow outside and the family inside, all warm and together and . . .

Benedict took her hand. She sighed at herself and smiled at him.

“We’ll head toward the barn,” Robin announced as she shut the door behind her. “No, wait. Will Josh and Adam be able to hear us?”

“Josh is on the roof of the barn. He’d certainly hear. Adam is patrolling.”

Her mouth tightened unhappily. “I want to be flexible, but the idea of having people patrolling my land, peering down at me from the roof of the barn, is . . . uncomfortable. When you said you needed to bring guards along, this wasn’t what I expected.”

Arjenie decided to field that one. “I told you why the guards are needed. You know what happened in October. You know it’s not over.”

“That won’t happen here.”

“Maybe you’re right. Benedict needs to know why you’re sure of that.”

Aunt Robin grimaced and started walking—heading away from the barn on the winding stone path that led to Uncle Clay’s workshop and forge.

Arjenie remembered when they’d laid that path. Uncle Clay had done most of the moving of rocks, but she’d helped dig and she’d put the smaller stones in place. Seri and Sammy had been too little to do anything, but Tony had helped scoop out gravel for the underlayment, using a trowel instead of a shovel. He’d really wanted a shovel, though.

She smiled, but it faded quickly. She hated being mad at her aunt and uncle. Or not so much mad now—she never held on to anger for long—but its departure left this whole ache of sad behind.

After several paces her aunt said, “Benedict, Arjenie tells me your people are meticulous about honoring your promises. I’ll need your word that you won’t repeat what I tell you to anyone.”

“I can’t give you my word on that. First, I can’t promise to withhold information from my Rho. I could promise not to offer the information to him unsolicited unless in my judgment revealing it might avert a serious threat. Second, the promise as stated would restrict me from discussing what you tell me with anyone, including yourself and Arjenie.”

Robin’s eyebrows climbed. She glanced at Arjenie. “Meticulous, you said. I didn’t grasp how literally you meant that.”

“Lupi are careful with how they word a promise because they consider it truly binding.” She sounded stiff. She couldn’t help it. “Not binding in a magical sense, but personally.”

Benedict spoke. “If I may suggest an alternate wording . . . I will promise to hold whatever secret you share with me as closely as I hold clan secrets.”

“The way I understand it,” Arjenie said, “that means that torture couldn’t drag it out of him, but in certain dire situations where speaking of it might save people, he might do that. Or he might not. It would depend on the situation.”

“You want me to trust his judgment.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do. And I think you might trust me, too.”

Robin gave her a look freighted with all sorts of things. Disappointment was part of the mix. Arjenie knew why. She knew what her aunt had hoped.

“Very well,” Robin said after a moment. “Do I have your word, Benedict, as stated? You’ll hold what I tell you as closely as you hold clan secrets?”

He answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

“This land, Delacroix land, is protected and has been for generations.”

“I’m familiar with wards. Wards wouldn’t stop a Humans Firster from crossing onto your land and shooting one of us.”

“I’m not talking about wards. The land itself is tied to me, as High Priestess. It tells me about all who are on it. If anyone or anything crosses onto my land, I know. If he comes with violent intent—as a Humans Firster would—I will know and take action.”