Humon Error

Chapter Three

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.

Two of the Delacroix brothers sat at the table with Benedict—Nate and Stephen. Sheila and her brother sat there, too. The rest were standing around, except for Arjenie, who was pacing.

“. . . as if you’d throw fire in a barn. And at a living being.” She flung those words at Hershey, who looked sheepish and muttered, “She’s really mad.”

“I didn’t think Arjenie even had a temper,” Sheila said. “I’ve never seen her lose it before.”

“People kept grabbing her,” Benedict explained. “She doesn’t like that.”

Stephen slanted him a quizzical look. “Maybe that isn’t the only reason.”

“And you,” Arjenie said, stopping to glare at Clay. “Never mind if it was reasonable to draw on Benedict or not. Why did you even have a gun? You don’t wear a gun. You never wear a gun.”

Clay exchanged a look with Robin, then sighed. “Nate had a disturbing dream.”

Arjenie frowned at Nate, who was sitting beside Benedict. “What kind of dream?”

“One with lots of blood.” The man shrugged. “Not that I expect it to be literally true, but it’s one of the strongest sendings I’ve received. The overwhelming sense was that trouble was coming. Danger.”

Benedict turned to him. “Precog?”

Nate nodded. “Not a strong Gift, so my hunches aren’t always reliable. But when I do have a prescient dream, it’s likely to be accurate. Not in terms of the dream’s contents—my unconscious seems to make those up to fit the feeling, so I don’t know that blood will literally be involved. But the feeling is reliable.”

Arjenie crossed her arms. “And you all assumed that trouble coming meant Benedict?”

Ambrose protested, “Not all of us. I didn’t know anything about Nate’s dream, much less that Big Brother”—he cocked an eyebrow at Clay—“was packing heat.”

“Arjenie,” Benedict said, “it’s all right. I am dangerous.”

She shook her head. “Not to them.”

Robin sighed. “Ambrose, we didn’t tell anyone about Nate’s dream because we hoped to avoid scaring everyone. Arjenie, I understand that you’re upset, but you aren’t thinking. Clay carried the gun because of Nate’s dream, not because of Benedict. We didn’t expect trouble from any particular direction. We simply wanted to be ready.”

Ready? And yet they’d allowed members of the family to ride or wander all over their acreage. Benedict shook his head. Either Robin wasn’t being honest about where they thought the threat lay, or these people did not understand security at all.

Robin’s revelation set off a new round of talk. Some wanted to know the details of Ambrose’s dream. Others remembered other dreams he’d had and how they hadn’t played out the way anyone expected but had fit events perfectly . . . in hindsight.

That’s how precognition usually worked, from what Benedict understood. He did know one precog who was phenomenally accurate. His hunches were more reliable than many people’s observed facts, and when he did—rarely—have a prescient dream, it was both literal and accurate. But most precogs weren’t like that. On the whole, the Gift seemed more trouble and confusion than help.

Robin didn’t contribute to the speculation, he noticed. She went to the refrigerator and started pulling out things—carrots, onions, celery. She asked Nate to get her a jar of tomatoes from the pantry, and would Clay taste the broth from the stewing meat to see if a bit more thyme was needed?

Nate went for the tomatoes. Clay gave Robin a knowing smile, a kiss, and told her to “give me that knife, woman, and don’t mess with my soup.” Within minutes, and with only the tiniest of nudges, Carmen and Clay were cutting up vegetables, Nate was showing Carmen’s brother—Benedict couldn’t remember his name—something in the living room, and Gary had headed to the basement to check on the kids. Hershey began rolling out a pie crust he’d taken from the refrigerator while Sheila and Ambrose peeled and sliced apples.

The chatter didn’t stop, but it was more general now. Robin collected Arjenie with a glance. The two women came to the table.

Stephen smiled up at Robin. “I think all the chores are taken. You’ll have to be direct.”

“Directly speaking, then—go away.”

Stephen chuckled and rose. “Good luck,” he told Benedict, and wandered over to snatch a piece of carrot.

Benedict had already concluded that Robin was the one in charge here, though in that oddly indirect way humans seemed to like. Or maybe they didn’t notice. Though Stephen had noticed, and Benedict suspected Clay knew exactly what his wife was doing. He wasn’t sure about the others.

Arjenie sat beside Benedict and squeezed his hand. “I’m pretty sure Aunt Robin intends to interrogate you.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Robin said, sliding into a chair across from him. “But we do need to talk. We need to figure out what happened, why it happened, and how it might relate to the danger Ambrose sensed.”

“I was forced into the Change. My subjective impression is that this was intentional—that I was shoved. Normally, that would be impossible for any being save my Rho to do.” He considered that a moment. “Possibly my Lu Nuncio could force the Change on me, but he’s never tried, so I can’t say for sure.”

“But you’re certain it wasn’t your Rho who did this.”

“Quite certain.” There was no mistaking the feel of the mantle enforcing the Rho’s will. Robin, of course, didn’t know about mantles. No human did, save for their own female children, who were clan; the Rhejes, of course; and those Chosen by the Lady. He looked at Arjenie—his Chosen—a bright bloom of happiness opening inside him.

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

Benedict looked back at Robin. “That my Rho didn’t force the Change?”

She smiled. Robin Delacroix was a round sort of woman—round cheeks in a heart-shaped face, rounded body tucked neatly into jeans and a soft pink sweater. Her nose was just shy of pug, her eyes brown and warm. She was the shortest person in the room. “I was referring to the wonderfully gooey look on your face when you look at Arjenie.”

Gooey? No one had ever called him . . . gooey.

“But that’s not what we need to discuss. Not right now, anyway. Why did you think the intruder in the barn was Coyote? By which,” she added, “we’ve been assuming you meant the Coyote of Native legend and lore. The Trickster.”

“That Coyote, yes. I smelled him.”

“How would you know what he smells like?”

He was silent a moment. “It is traditional among my mother’s people not to speak of certain experiences.”

“Are you talking about a spirit quest?” Her eyes widened. “Do you mean that Coyote is your spirit guide?”

“No!” What an appalling thought. “No, but . . . it is possible, on a spirit quest, to meet more than one Power.”

“This spirit quest must have taken place many years ago.”

“Yes.”

“I know your sense of smell is much more acute than mine. However, I can’t help thinking that to recognize a particular scent, after so many years, would be difficult. Rather like me recognizing a particular shade of purple that I saw once, in my youth.”

“What if you had never seen the color purple in your life, and then you did? Only once, however. Many years pass, and then one day you saw purple again. Would recognize it?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “This scent is that distinctive?”

“Scents are distinctive in ways that vision doesn’t approach. Coyote’s scent . . .” Like a coyote, of course, the very essence of coyote, which included the meaty musk of a predator . . . but also sage and sand and wind, sun-baked earth and beetles, and the thin, clear singing of stars through air cold enough to make your eyes water . . . “There is nothing like it.”

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.”