The Rouje Kith, page 10
Which was terrifying. But the sense of contact receded like the sea she’d never seen, waves rushing along a pebbled beach. “I do know you.” She sounded as dazed as Mama on her medicine. Was there something in the coffee? Not likely, Zoe would have smelled it.
Besides, the one time she’d stolen some of Mama’s medicine to try, it did nothing but make her skin tingle for a little bit. The worst part was preparing the needle, but she’d seen her mother do it so many times there was no mystery in the process, just a bright hot loathing when it pierced her skin.
“Always,” Jack said. There was nothing in his tone but honesty. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you, Zo.”
You can’t promise that.
Maybe he read it on her face; she wasn’t doing too well at keeping her expression neutral.
“Oh, yes I can.” He straightened slightly, pushing his shoulders back, and for the first time he looked…young. That calm, confident self-possession cracked just the slightest bit, and underneath he felt just like she did.
He just hid it better.
“That’ll be Allison at the front door,” he continued, and the wall between them was back up. Still, his hands were warm, and he didn’t let go. “You’ll like her. She tends to show up just when she’s needed.”
Is she the stepmother? And you can hear things too? Zoe couldn’t make herself ask, but at least her thoughts were all her own again. He pulled on her hands, gently, and the coffee in her mug trembled.
“What if I don’t want…” The words died in her throat, and she waited for the anger. There would be a price for this new paradise, and she had to pay it sooner or later if she wanted to stay.
She hadn’t had to make small talk with the other visitor, but this one was obviously different.
“Don’t want to see her? Then you don’t have to. Easy.” One of his broad shoulders lifted, dropped in a casual shrug. The two of them really didn’t look very similar, Zoe thought.
Still, she knew him. Or that deep, unavoidable instinct did. “But you want me to.”
“I think you’ll like it. And it’ll help. She’s kind of…a therapist.” Jack went still, watching her expression. “But if you don’t want to, I’ll just tell Dad so.”
And have him get mad at me the first day. Yeah. That’ll be great. “It’s all right.” Her words fell like the tinsel crown had, weightless, discarded. Therapists were easy, like school counselors. You simply lied, and they agreed with you because they were overworked and didn’t really care anyway. “I’ll meet her.”
“You really don’t have to. I didn’t think she’d be here so quickly.”
“I’ll do it.” To prove it, Zoe leaned back, and though he clearly didn’t want to let go, he had to, or else slop hot coffee over them both. “I will.”
“Brave girl,” her brother said, gravely, and she wished it were true.
18
SECRETS
Dad wasn’t wearing Christmas ornaments over his ears anymore, but his hair wasn’t as ruthlessly controlled as usual and he wore the very slightest of smiles when Jack pushed open the study door, taking in the terrain with a brief glance before allowing his demie to come into view.
It was, after all, traditional.
Trevor Rouje’s study was a wonderland of shelves lined with leatherbound spines, ranks of books broken every so often by an antique curio—an ivory statue of a snarling jungle cat, a gilded cedar box, a globe of rock crystal with a single vertical crimson flaw in its heart, and others. Dad sometimes returned from business trips with yet another small, priceless thing, and it went into a handy space with no trouble at all.
The furniture was chunky and likewise antique, dark wood and red leather, comfortable and marked with long use. His desk was mahogany, a real monster, and cluttered with paper—file folders, ephemera, invitations. No computer here; this was where Trevor spent time largely without electronic interruption.
The vast heavy oak mantel, beeswax-polished, held family photos in heavy, tarnished silver frames. There was one of toddler-Zoe in the middle with a small glass votive set before it. Nights when a candle burned there, everyone in the house knew to move quietly and not to address the Pride leader unless it was with news of a death, or of his missing daughter.
A merry blaze crackled in the cavernous stone fireplace, breathing softly as frozen wind swept across the chimney-mouth. And there, her long dark mane holding one stripe of silver at the left temple, the Pride’s most powerful shaman turned her hazel gaze upon Jackson and his demie. Allison wore a dark silk Chinese-collared shirt, faded jeans, and boots with heavy silver buckles bearing traces of damp; tiny drops of melted snow clung to her hair. Someone must have taken her jacket—probably Hermann, since Amelia was busy and Lev deathly nervous of all shamans.
As anyone with any sense should be, Jack thought.
Trevor handed the shaman a martini glass. The leader of the Pride was power visible, leonine stride and muscle married to force of will. Allison was…otherwise.
She accepted the cosmo with a nod, her hair moving slightly as her own personal breeze touched it. It was even funny after a while, like the old joke. Did you feel that? Must be a shaman.
“Zoe.” Dad spoke first. “This is Allison, a friend of ours. She met you right after you were born, but you wouldn’t remember that. Allison, this is my daughter, returned to us at last.”
Zoe took a half-step aside, obviously meaning to go around her brother. Jack, though, paralleled the movement, keeping himself between his demie and the shaman. She had to peer around him, still clutching her coffee cup like it was an anchor.
“How do you do,” his sister said, politely, and of course neither Allison nor Dad would miss his unspoken point.
Dad would further guess his daughter had sensed the new arrival, and might even be coming to the same conclusion Jack had—the Sorcerer’s Gene, and all its attendant sensitivity.
It would make him even prouder, if that were possible.
“How do you do.” Allison’s voice was a restful stroke along soft fur, quiet and controlled. “My goodness, you grew up beautifully. Your eyes are just the same as when you were little.”
It was, of course, the right thing to say. Zoe relaxed slightly and freed one hand, her fingers brushing Jack’s arm. It was the first time she’d deliberately touched him, and he wasn’t prepared for the spike of heat straight through his bones. “They told me about some of the Christmas ornaments you gave them.” Was that a shy smile in her voice? “I’m sorry I don’t remember you. It’s been a long time.”
“No apology necessary, kitten.” Allison’s laugh was just as soft, just as calming as ever. “I wanted to welcome you, but if this isn’t a good time I’ll simply stay for a drink and hop back home.” She was emitting relaxation with a vengeance; a less dominant Kith would be a puddle on the floor.
His demie, though, was made of much sterner stuff. “It’s nice of you to stop by.” Zoe’s fingers were still on Jack’s sleeve as she edged past. Was she trying to keep him calm? Maybe it was instinctive. “Jack tells me you’re like a therapist.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Allison didn’t glance at Dad; instead, her gaze settled on Jack as if she suspected his temper might slip.
It wasn’t likely, with his demie right next to him. Zoe surprised him again, stepping fully into view, her chin lifted. She smiled like a queen bestowing favor on a foreign ambassador, and Dad’s satisfaction was visible.
Jack decided nothing would go too badly wrong in the next few moments, and turned to pull the heavy study door closed. He didn’t like losing contact with her, but…
When he turned back, Zoe stared at Allison. It wasn’t a dominance challenge; there was no edge of hot intransigence to her gaze or body language. In fact, she looked thoughtful, slightly surprised—and interested.
The shaman stared back, her pupils swelling, and another soft breeze circled the study, brushing every surface.
“Well done,” Allison said, softly. “Trevor, your daughter bears the Gene. And it’s awake.” Her tone didn’t change, dreamy and slow, but Jack had seen her shift from utter immobility to blinking through space, finishing by wrapping her fingers almost casually around an angry Pride member’s throat—no claws, but an indestructible iron band forcing a fellow Kith to stillness. “Oh, my little kitten.” The words shifted to a croon, Allison’s eyes now bearing a bright blue spark in dark pupil-wells. “You have secrets.”
Zoe shuddered, her hand loosening; Jack moved, catching the coffee mug on its way to the floor. Not a drop spilled. “I think you want to sit down.” Nice and easy was the way to play this, he decided. Allison would do her best to figure out if his little sister had changed already, and if she was at risk of losing control. She could also tell them the best way to help Zoe adjust to her new status.
But if the shaman did anything that truly disturbed his demie, he was going to take issue.
Zoe didn’t answer. She stared at the shaman, that same blue spark struggling in her own pupils, her irises simply a thin glowing thread. She was so thin cords on her neck stood out as she surged against Allison’s hold, but even a demie was little match for a fully trained shaman. Finally his twin stepped forward, still visibly fighting unfamiliar sensations.
“I think that’s best.” Allison lifted her glass, took a long hit off the Cosmo. “Come, sit down. Fear nothing.”
Tension fled Zoe’s slim frame. She moved with fluid Kith grace now; Jack set their coffee cups on the sideboard. He considered the brandy decanter, poured himself a measure. The sound of splashing liquid was very loud, married to the fire’s soughing and the spatter of ice pellets against the window.
“Rum, Dad?” His back ran with gooseflesh; his instincts howled.
No. Allison won’t hurt her; you know that. You serve her best by showing your own control.
“A fine idea.” Trevor would not normally sound so hushed. Even a Pride leader with extraordinary dominance could feel a little awe at the power of the unseen. “What do you think she’ll prefer?”
“I don’t think my demie drinks. When she starts, she’ll let me know.” He brought a tumbler of spiced rum to Trevor, every inch of his skin aware of Zoe sinking down upon an old, scarred oxblood leather couch, the upholstery barely making a sound as it accepted her slight weight. She still stared at Allison; the line of their linked gazes hummed with force.
“So many secrets,” Allison crooned. “Don’t worry, you can keep them, little kitten. You helped your mother hide, didn’t you.”
Zoe shivered.
That would explain a lot. Jack settled next to her, cradling his brandy, just close enough to feel her heat. Which meant she would feel his, on some level.
He hoped it was comforting.
“She was so frightened,” Zoe whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”
“A little girl loves her mother,” Allison soothed, immediately. “You did what you should, Zoe. Of course you did.” And a demie with the Sorcerer’s Gene, even dormant, was capable of misdirecting a jäger’s keen nose or a patterner’s anticipation.
“So that’s why.” Trevor turned away, bolting half his rum in a single shot. After all, he’d married Angelina; he should have been able to predict the behavior of a simple skin.
Even one who could throw a pair of usanaugh.
Zoe flinched, but Jack had her hand, his warm fingers lacing with her slim cool ones. “It’s all right.” He pitched the words low and soft, Voice thrumming through them. Allison still held her gaze, an eternity measured in slow ticks from the grandfather clock in the hall.
Finally, Allison raised her drink, finishing the martini with a long swallow. The blue sparks in her eyes burned steadily. Her hand drifted down and aside; Trevor, sensing the motion, took the discarded glass with a slight, unseen bow.
The white stripe in the shaman’s hair glowed as she took one step, another, her now-dry boots silent. She bore down upon Zoe, feeling her way with fluid authority, every motion controlled.
Zoe’s hand slowly warmed in his. Jackson held still despite the growl rising along his spine, threading through his ribs. The biggest danger to her calm was his own easily triggered protectiveness.
Well, it could also be called fury, but that was beside the point.
Allison’s boots settled a short distance from Zoe’s canvas shoes. The shaman bent as Zoe’s chin tipped further up. She looked so small, and so heartbreakingly vulnerable—Jack had to exhale sharply, a lifetime of control without his demie clamping down hard as Trevor’s fingers.
“You’re going to be all right,” the shaman said, quietly but with deep force behind every word. “You’re going to trust your brother, your demi. Do you know what that word means?”
The faintest suggestion of shaking her head. Zoe’s hair rippled, black silk running with blue highlights. “N-no,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“It means he’s your twin, your other half,” Allison said, ruthlessly calm. “And you will trust him, Zoe Arcadia Rouje. That’s your true name, and you will accept it. You will not fear him or your father.” Her tone sharpened as Zoe made a restless movement. “Answer me, little kitten. You will trust, and will not fear.”
“Yes.” The word ended with a hot sibilant.
A flush slipped through Jack’s body, fading reluctantly. Her scent shifted, losing that constant sharp, yellowish edge of trepidation. He hadn’t realized how integral the fear was to her smell, and how maddening. His grasp on his own temper firmed, and the relief of finding her alive was a puddle next to the ocean of calm swallowing him now.
Allison straightened. “Put her to bed,” she said, suddenly businesslike, the contact between her and Zoe snapping cleanly in two. “Let her sleep until tomorrow. She needs it; it’s a wonder she’s still conscious.”
“Will she…” Trevor glanced at his son and heir, weighing the question against the likelihood of Jackson’s control slipping, as usual.
“Oh, she’ll change. If she has trouble, her demi will take over and do it for her. The bond’s indissoluble.” Allison glanced at Jack too, but hers was a quick, pleased smile, a teacher with a slow but thorough student. “He’s already holding her still, I barely had to do anything. But a word of warning, she suffered things that will…upset you.” The pause held all the caution in the world. “If she does feel like talking about it, any show of anger or disgust will be taken as a judgment on her. I’d avoid that, if I were you.”
“Duly noted.” Trevor nodded briskly. The fire popped, but none of them moved. Even Zoe didn’t flinch. Her eyelids drifted half-shut, long dark lashes veiling blue as her pupils shrank. “She’ll need training.”
“Right now what she needs is her demi, and some rest. We’ll approach training in a short while.” Allison stepped back, stretching gracefully; she paced to the fire. “We have a few other items to address once you’ve settled her, Jackson.”
“They’ve raised their heads again.” It was a depressingly simple guess; Jack had been waiting for Dad to broach the subject since Houston. He dispelled the urge to draw Zoe closer, slip an arm over her shoulders. The closeness might be comforting for him, but it might also disturb her sedation. “An actual kill, or just an attempt?”
“An attempt, overseas. Lucile, the Golden’s mate. She’s fine, all defenses are working as intended.”
“At least that.” But it might not last. “How did Michel take it?”
“He’s livid, of course.” Allison sighed. “But at least now he understands that Swiss group is an actual danger. He was somewhat dismissive, before.”
“Of course he was.” Most Kith leaders considered skins nothing more than an annoyance, though one deserving cautious treatment by virtue of sheer numbers. Jack quelled a restless movement, watching Zoe’s somnolent profile. He was somewhat glad she wasn’t truly hearing this, lost in the peculiar rest a shaman could induce, granting a wounded Kith surcease. “They’ve graduated to open attempts. This is a problem.”
“Which we’re well equipped to handle,” Trevor reminded them both. “Another cosmo, Allison?”
“I’d love one, thanks.” The shaman paced to the fireplace, bracing a graceful hand on the mantel and looking into the flames. She was unmated so far, though there was no shortage of interested parties. The lady believed in taking her time. “Go ahead and put her to bed, Jack. Then if you could manage it, I’d like you here for the discussion. It won’t take more than an hour.”
Attending to his demie was paramount, and this was yet another test—could he step away, knowing she was safe? Did his control stretch that far? “I’ll be back as soon as she’s settled, then.” He rose, cautiously; Zoe unfolded with clockwork grace, her hand caught in his. “I’ll want to see the particulars of the attempt on the Golden’s mate. I don’t like that the time between European incidents is getting shorter.”
The incidents were also mounting in seriousness. They hadn’t managed to get much usable data on the new Swiss skin hunters yet, either. Perhaps it was only a function of their utter failure to cause any damage so far.
“Exactly.” Trevor stalked for the heavy oak sideboard. “I’ll pour you another brandy. Good work, Jackson.”
He hadn’t done much, but the approbation was still welcome. “Thank you, sir. Come on, demie. You need some rest.”
She nodded, slowly, a trustful sleepwalker. The profound relaxation would ease her into healing slumber as soon as he had her recumbent in the blue bedroom; the only difficult part would be tearing himself away to attend what promised to be a highly unpleasant strategy meeting.
He led Zoe for the door, carefully steering her around furniture.
“Are you certain she’s all right?” Trevor, for once, sounded almost wistful.
“Bent but not broken.” Allison pitched the answer loud enough to qualify as a response for both the Pride leader and his son. “Who wouldn’t be frightened, in her shoes? Poor girl.”
It wasn’t perfect. But it was a damn sight better than Jack had expected, and he almost staggered with relief once they were in the hall. His demie’s hand lay trustingly in his, and he steered her through warm safety to her suite, just a few steps away from his own.
