“Benedict,” Arjenie said quietly.
He turned to look at her. She had beautiful eyes. Ocean eyes, not blue or green or gray but partaking of all those and varying according to the lighting. Or maybe they reflected her surroundings and her self the way water reflects the mood of the sky . . .
At the moment, they were the color of the sea beneath a cloudy sky. He put a hand on her thigh. “Yes?”
“I’m going to tell them. Not all of them,” she said softly, “but Aunt Robin and Uncle Clay. They need to know, and they’ll keep our secret, just like you’re keeping theirs.”
Shit. She was talking about the mate bond. “We don’t speak of that to out-clan. Ever.”
Her chin came up. “And my family doesn’t talk about the land-tie to those who aren’t coven. Ever.”
He frowned, trying to put into words down why speaking of the mate bond would be wrong when it hadn’t been wrong for Robin to tell him about the land-tie. Which, admittedly, did seem the same, on the surface . . .
Arjenie patted his hand. “Don’t worry. It’s not your decision or responsibility. If Isen wants to yell at me later, he can.”
The front door opened. Clay stood in the doorway. Something about him reminded Benedict of his father and Rho. Isen often stood just like that, his wide stance matching his wide shoulders. He sent a glance around the room. “Robin and I will be going with Sheriff Porter. We’re requesting volunteers, enough for a small circle. Arjenie, Seri, Sammy—we’d like you to participate, an’ you so will.”
Ambrose frowned. “You want the twins instead of me and Nate or Stephen?”
“Trouble’s coming,” Stephen said softly. “If Robin’s going to be off the land for a while, and Clay with her, we need people here who can act, if necessary.”
Ambrose accepted that with a nod. “You’ll have to link us to the wards, Clay.”
“Of course.” Clay looked at Benedict. “Robin explained to Sheriff Porter about your heritage and abilities. If you’re willing, you may be able to help, too.”
That was convenient, since there was no way he was letting Arjenie go without him. He stood. “My men—”
But Clay was shaking his head. “The sheriff is willing to take a chance by including you, but he doesn’t want to be, ah, surrounded by wolves who might not see things his way. They’ll need to stay here.”
Benedict considered signaling Josh that he and Adam were to follow discreetly, but decided to comply with the sheriff’s restriction. They might be needed here. He didn’t know what, if anything, Robin could do defensively when she wasn’t on her land, and he and Arjenie would be with law enforcement officers. Not the backup he’d choose, maybe, but they had some training and they’d be armed. “All right. Will I need to Change?”
“No, you’re fine.”
“He means into a wolf,” Arjenie said.
“Oh, ah, I don’t know. Yes, probably. We thought you might be able to track by smell.”
“My other form will be better for that. I should eat something.”
“Ack.” Arjenie popped up. “I’m a bad mate. I should’ve made sure you had something to eat earlier. Uncle Clay, can I dig in the refrigerator for whatever’s defrosted?” She looked at Benedict. “I’m thinking that you eat faster when you’re four-footed, so—raw?”
“Good thinking.”
“There’s not time for a meal,” Clay said.
“We’ll take some meat along,” Benedict explained as Arjenie hurried to the kitchen. “I can eat after I Change. Like she said, I eat fast as a wolf.” He decided they needed more information. “I’ve Changed twice already. The Change makes me hungry. A hungry wolf wants to hunt. My control is excellent, so you needn’t worry that I’d be a danger to you, but hunger would be a distraction for me.”
Clay looked at him a moment, then nodded and raised his voice. “Arjenie? Not the turkey.”
Arjenie had always felt uncomfortable around Sheriff Porter. It was nothing he’d said or done or not done. It wasn’t intuition or distrust or anything like that. It was memory.
Twenty-three years ago, he’d been a deputy. His was the first face she remembered seeing after the accident. She’d been told that she was conscious earlier, that she’d responded to the people who stopped after a drunk drove his pickup into them, but she didn’t remember any of that. She remembered Ab Porter’s face, those deep-set eyes dark and steady as he told her to hold still, hold on, that the ambulance would be there soon and they’d get her fixed up.
He’d been right about that, though it took three major surgeries, a couple of patch-ups, and a whole lot of rehab. And, of course, she was never fully fixed. They hadn’t known as much about growth plate injuries back then as they did now. Her left leg would always be a bit shorter than her right, her ankle a bit weak.
Twenty-three years ago, Deputy Porter had climbed into the backseat with her, using his body to block her view of the front of the car. He’d stayed there until the paramedics arrived, in a position she realized later must have been hideously uncomfortable, given how smashed up the car was. He hadn’t wanted her to see what two tons of truck had done to her mother.
Ab Porter was a kind man, a good man, and she was grateful to him. But she was not quite comfortable with him, so she would rather have ridden with Uncle Clay in the pickup. But when he said the twins would ride with him he used his “don’t argue” voice, which meant he intended to have a talk with them. Arjenie ended up in the back of the sheriff’s car with her aunt.
Benedict rode up front. That was her suggestion, and he’d given her a hard look when she made it because he didn’t like anyone knowing about his vulnerabilities. Not that he was terribly claustrophobic, but neither she nor her aunt was bothered by that sort of thing, so why should he be uncomfortable? The back of the sheriff’s car locked automatically. He’d feel like he was in a cage.
Anyway, she’d just said she wanted to talk to her aunt, so she hadn’t given him away.
“I haven’t met a lupus before,” Porter said as he pulled away from the house, “much less worked with one. I need to know what to expect.”
“First, you should know I’m armed. I have a concealed carry permit from your state. Do you want to see it?”
The sheriff did want to, so they sat there a moment with the dome light on—it was getting too dark to see well—while he inspected it. “What are you carrying?”
“Smith and Wesson .357 chambered with .357 Magnum JHPs.”
In deference to her family, Benedict had left his weapon in their room with his jacket. But when he’d said, “I’ll get my jacket,” and gone to their room, she’d been pretty sure he’d come back wearing more than his new leather jacket. He did not, she noted, mention the knives. He was wearing at least two of them—one in his boot, the other in a belt sheath. Virginia law concerning knives was rather murky, but she suspected neither knife was strictly legal.
“That’s a lot of stopping power,” Porter said, starting the car.
“If something needs to be shot, I want it to stay down.”
Porter grunted. “Resist the urge to use it. I need you for your nose, not your weapon. Robin says you’ll be as good as a bloodhound.”
“I did not say bloodhound,” Robin corrected mildly. “I suspect bloodhounds can outsmell a wolf.”
“Robin’s correct,” Benedict said. “Bloodhounds have extraordinary noses, and their ears and wrinkled skin trap the scent to help them track. But wolf noses are good—somewhere between ten thousand and a couple hundred thousand times as good as a human’s, depending on which expert you listen to.”
Porter nodded. “And you’ll be able to understand us when you’re a wolf? You’ll still think like a man?”