Frost Burned mt-7

by Patricia Briggs

  Ghosts didn’t look at me with intelligence and need, didn’t respond to pack bonds. I looked, as I’d been learning how to do, I looked for the pack bonds and saw them, tinsel bright still, strengthened by my will. Pack bonds were soul binding soul—Adam had told me that. Though I could not perceive souls—pack bonds were another matter. Those bonds were firmly set in Peter’s soul, and that soul was still here in his ghost, where it had no business being—here, where it was in danger from whoever it was who called him.

  My senses were still expanded to their fullest, which is why I saw something else, too—a cloud of darkness that surrounded Peter and tried to slice through the pack bonds and take him from me. Asil touched my shoulder and abruptly lowered his head to stare at Peter. Honey leaned against my hip and froze, her body tightening until it felt like stone.

  “Peter,” I said, “you belong to us, to the pack. You are mine.” The touch of pack, of Honey, helped. I brushed at the cloud of darkness, and as I touched it … it dissolved under my hands, but not before I caught the tingle of magic. Vampire magic.

  “Leave this place, Peter,” I told him. I needed to do something about the way his soul lingered when it should have gone on after his death, but instinct—and I trusted what my coyote knew—my instinct said it was more important to get him out of here. Away from whatever had been trying to claim him.

  He glanced at Honey, who was watching my face.

  “She loves you, too,” I said. “Peter, get out of here. Go somewhere safe.”

  And then he was gone, and some of the life died in Honey’s eyes, too.

  “It’s all right,” I told her. I felt down the pack bonds to be sure, and Peter was still there. He didn’t feel alive, didn’t feel like the others, but we still held him safely. I straightened and felt a buzz of relief that left me dizzy. “He’s safe.”

  Hao watched me. “They are right,” he said. “You speak to the dead.”

  “Who is binding the ghosts?” I asked Hao.

  The dead were all around us, looking at me urgently. Their mouths were moving, but I couldn’t hear them. The net of darkness surrounding them was thicker than the one that had tried to capture Peter. Maybe it prevented me from hearing them, or maybe it was just because I was tied to Peter by the pack bonds.

  Hao looked around. “Are they bound? Perhaps he has anticipated us. Are you finished here?”

  “Who is it?” asked Asil, his voice a low, menacing rumble.

  Hao was not intimidated—but then he didn’t know who Asil was. “That is not for me to say. If you are done, we should go.”

  I looked at the dead here, three women and fourteen men. One of the women wore a black cocktail dress, but the rest of them were in power clothes like real-estate agents or business people. Suits and ties for the men, skirts and jackets for the women. If they were here, caught like Peter had been caught, then they, too, were not merely ghosts. But I was not bound to them the way I was bound to Peter; I didn’t know how to help them.

  Then I recognized Jones, from when I’d seen him through Adam’s eyes—Armstrong had called him Bennet, I remembered, Alexander Bennet. I don’t know why it surprised me to realize I was staring at the ghosts of the other people who’d been killed here. I suppose it was because I was so used to seeing ghosts everywhere that I’d quit wondering who they’d been when they were alive.

  Alexander Bennet had killed Peter.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m done.” I felt no need or obligation to save these people from whatever had caught them. They had killed Peter and would have killed our friends and their families—down to Maia Sandoval, age five, who had ridden a werewolf and tried to feed him cookies.

  These people could hang in limbo for all eternity for all I cared.

  “I’m done.”

  They watched us as we returned to our cars. They’d quit trying to speak. I closed the door to the car, pushed the button to start it, and followed Thomas Hao to the parking lot, driving through several ghosts to get there. But this time I wasn’t weakened by fae magic as I had been when the ghost tried to possess me in the secret stairway in Tad’s house. All I felt was a slight chill as I passed through them. And then they were behind me.

  I knew I was going to have to do something about them later, no matter how angry I was now. It wasn’t a matter of what they deserved—it was a matter of who I was and who I wasn’t. At some point, everyone had to draw a line in the sand over which they would not cross.

  I almost turned the car around right then, but Marsilia—presumably—was waiting. There would be time enough to put things right if I could put things right with these ghosts who were not also pack.

  There was only one other car in the lot when we pulled in—and I knew it because I did the maintenance on the seethe’s cars in lieu of making the “protection” payments required of all supernatural creatures who couldn’t defend themselves from the vampires. I suppose as the mate of the Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack, I could have refused service without encountering trouble. But I felt like the interaction, as little as it was, gave both the vampires and the wolves a meeting place where we could interact without a lot of drama. I hoped that would help make the Tri-Cities a little safer for everyone.

  The presence of the seethe’s car meant that Marsilia was behind the meeting. It should have reassured me, but I was worried about the “he” who had bound the ghosts and tried to do the same to Peter’s.

  I drove to the far side of the empty parking lot. The formerly sleek Mercedes slid into the space and purred to a halt. I got out of the car, zipped up my coat, and turned to walk over to the winery.

  Marsilia stood by my rear left passenger door as if she had been there all along, though I knew that space had been empty when I pulled in. I managed not to jump.

  The Mistress of the seethe was a beautiful woman. The night robbed her gold hair of its richness, but the moon kissed her even features and made her dark eyes mysterious. She wore the most practical clothes I’d ever seen her in: a formfitting, long-sleeved, dark, rib-knit shirt and khaki pants that were probably green—I can see well in the dark, but colors are tricky, and there was no helpful porch light here. Her shoes were combat boots that looked like she’d worn them a lot—and that didn’t fit in with the Marsilia I knew at all.

  I took the key fob to the car out of my pocket and handed it to her. She looked at me, looked at the dent in the driver’s side door, and paced slowly around the Mercedes, saving the trunk for last.

  “Remind me not to leave an expensive item in your care again,” she said. And that was the Marsilia who despised me, the one I felt just fine hating right back.

  “You haven’t shown yourself to be all that wonderful at taking care of your treasures, either,” I said coolly. “At least the car can be fixed.” She’d hurt my friend with her carelessness, and I wasn’t sure Stefan would ever recover. “Besides, if what I suspect is true, this damage”—I waved at the car—“as well as the death of my wolf Peter Jorgenson is a result of vampire politics.”

  She didn’t say anything, which meant my speculation was accurate.

  “An assassin attacked me,” I continued. “Her head hit the driver’s side door during the fight and left the first dent. She broke out of the trunk—still quite dead.” I tapped my nose. “I could smell it on her.”

  Marsilia gave me a tight smile. “Perhaps you are right,” she said, and her hand went to the damaged trunk.

  “But the bloodstains and claw scratch marks in the back seat are my responsibility,” I told her, stepping off my high horse. “I took the car without asking you because I needed one that could not be traced to me. Adam and I will foot the bill for repairs.”

  Asil and Honey came up to flank me.

  “No,” said Marsilia with a sigh. “You are right, this was vampire business.” She patted the trunk as if it were a living thing. “Especially this. Perhaps you can recommend a good repair shop.”

  She looked at my face and laughed. The subtle wrongne
ss of the sound set the hair on the back of my neck rising. Marsilia was really old, and did not do emotions quite right. The effect was disturbing.

  “Really Mercy, what did you expect? I can be civilized, too. It is only a car. Come inside.” She waved her hand at the ruins of the winery behind her. “Come inside, and learn why your pack was targeted.”

  “Because someone saw us, saw the werewolves as your allies,” I told her. “They wanted you weakened.” The rest of the explanation hinged on that first part. “They hired mercenaries and dissatisfied Cantrip zealots so that Bran would go hunting for federal agents and hired guns—and miss the one who was behind it all. Personally, I think they underestimate Bran, but a lot of people do. He likes it that way. The bottom line, Marsilia, is that someone, some vampire, wants your seethe.”

  “Yes. And you, cunning little coyote,” she purred affectionately, so I knew that my accuracy had displeased her, “you have been so clever as not to die.” She reached out suddenly, and her face loosened with lust as she ran her fingers over Asil’s face. “And look what you brought me. A new toy.”

  Marsilia had a thing for werewolves.

  Asil smiled wickedly and deftly avoided her gaze—dominant werewolf instincts to stare down everyone they meet are all wrong when it comes to vampires. Vampires can capture most people’s minds with their gaze. That is what allows them to hunt people and not get caught. The Moor was apparently aware of vampire eye tricks.

  “I like you,” Marsilia said to him. “You are pretty.”

  “I like you, too,” said Asil. “Vampires are an acquired taste.” He smiled, with white teeth showing.

  She frowned.

  “Marsilia,” said Stefan, stepping out of the darkness. “You distract yourself.”

  She didn’t look at him, didn’t take her eyes off Asil, just angled her head a little toward Stefan. “And if I do? What is the harm?”

  “Mercy might kill you before anyone else gets a chance.” Stefan sounded bored.

  Marsilia flashed her fangs at me with sudden rage. “Do you think you can kill me, little coyote?” Her voice deepened, and her eyes no longer looked black. “Do you think I am so easy?”

  “Hey,” I told those brilliant red eyes. “I’m not the one making threats. But if you try to do something to my wolves, you’ll have to go through me to do it.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Asil smile, just a little.

  “Your wolf would enjoy it,” Marsilia said, evidently dismissing Asil’s earlier remark as admiration rather than a threat. More fool her. “You should let him make his own choice.”

  I stepped between her and Asil. “Leave him alone, Marsilia.” Not that Asil couldn’t defend himself. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that I’d quit fearing Asil somewhere along the way and started liking him. Not that he couldn’t still go crazy and kill me—but I grew up with werewolves. Any werewolf can kill you if you are stupid and quit respecting him. The trick is not to be stupid.

  “She takes care of what is hers, Marsilia. You should learn from her,” Stefan said silkily.

  “Are you trying to get me killed?” I asked him coolly, as Marsilia hissed. “We were actually almost having a conversation before you stepped in to help.”

  He laughed, sounding a lot more like himself. “Is that what you thought you were doing? I heard Marsilia trying to take your new wolf from you.”

  Asil smiled again, with teeth, but he didn’t say anything.

  “No,” I told Stefan. “She wasn’t. She just thought she was.”

  Marsilia shook her head—and changed before my eyes. Not physically, not a change of shape, but a change of personality. Gone was the sex goddess, the vicious woman who hated and despised me. Instead, she looked—ordinary, tired, and … and maybe a little scared.

  “You are right, Stefan,” she said. “I am sorry, Mercedes. Tonight, we need to be allies.”

  Marsilia had just apologized to me. Hell must have been experiencing some climate change.

  “So,” I said, “are you going to tell me what you know? Or are we going to spend another hour on drama and one-upmanship?”

  11

  “Come on inside, then,” Marsilia said, though she didn’t sound angry. “Come inside, and we will talk.”

  I followed her, and everyone else followed me. If Stefan hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have let Hao trail behind. I didn’t really have a lot of confidence in Honey, and I didn’t entirely trust Asil, though I liked him. But Stefan I trusted to watch my back against the strange vampire.

  Marsilia walked to the edge of the burnt-out shell of the winery and stepped up until she stood on the rim of the foundation, then jumped the ten feet or so to the floor of what had been the basement. I jumped after her and landed with loose knees and ankles to take up the strain of landing. The hard floor still made my feet sting. I was macho, though, and didn’t whine about it. Posturing like a werewolf, I thought with some amusement. Probably I wouldn’t have yelped in front of Marsilia even without the wolf pack’s reputation to worry about. Honey hopped down like the ten-foot leap was nothing, and Asil, Asil didn’t make a sound when he landed.

  Marsilia continued across the floor toward the center. Above us, twin steel I-beams loomed dark and menacing. I didn’t like them because something could stand on them and attack us from above when we weren’t looking. The vampires, the night, and the ghosts were making me paranoid. The moon had disappeared behind clouds, and only a few stars peeped out at us.

  I could tell from the way the floor felt under my feet that we walked across tiles, but there was a good inch or more of black ash on top. My toe caught an uneven spot, and I realized that debris was scattered across the floor, large and small, hidden by the soot and the shadows. Unburnable bits of the building had fallen into the basement. I watched my footing and followed Marsilia, who had no more trouble than if she’d been walking across a ballroom floor. I could see in the dark, but maybe vampires could see better. Asil stumbled over something, which made me feel less clumsy.

  Somehow, I expected there to be more vampires in the building, but, except for us, it was empty. In my experience, Marsilia did everything with an audience. But the only vampires here were Marsilia, Hao, and Stefan.

  In the semi-enclosed basement, the acrid smell of the fire was much worse than it had been in the parking lot. The stink of it burned my sinuses, clogged my throat, and made me impatient. “Is there a reason we can’t talk outside?”

  “Yes.” It was Hao who answered. “But it needn’t concern you yet.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that “yet,” nor the subtle, patronizing feel, so I stopped where I was.

  “It seems to me that it might concern me very much.” I turned to look at him even though it left Marsilia behind me. Asil and Honey were keeping an eye on her—and it was a coup to have the guts to turn my back to the Mistress of the City. “Who is it that has Marsilia running scared? Who is it that keeps the dead from moving on?” Accusing her of being scared while my back was to her wasn’t the smartest move I’d ever made—but smart coyotes don’t fall in love with werewolves or go to meetings with vampires.

  “You’ve met him.” Stefan could smile and keep his voice totally serious. He wouldn’t have smiled if Marsilia was coming up behind me, so I relaxed that little bit more. “Do you remember the vampire who was pulling Estelle’s strings, who talked Bernard into rebellion?” When Stefan had been driven from the seethe with unpardonable brutality so that he could be an impartial witness.

  “Gauntlet Boy?”

  Marsilia laughed. One of those horrible not happy laughs. Like the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland. And on that thought I had to turn around so I could keep an eye on her. I noticed as I moved around that Honey’s ruff was up, and Asil had stiffened.

  “Gauntlet Boy?” She knew she’d creeped me out. I could read the pleasure of it in her expression. “Gauntlet Boy. Yes, Mercedes, Gauntlet Boy. He started amassing power five years ago, taking over
one city after another. He sees himself as the vampire’s version of Bran.”

  “Bran is not a bad thing.” He might rule with sharp fangs, but life was better for everyone, werewolf and human alike, because he did so.

  “A vampire’s version of Bran is not Bran.” Stefan spoke from right behind me. I hadn’t heard him approach.

  I moved casually so that I had my back to empty space, with Honey on my left and Asil on my right—and all of the bloody scary vampires (Stefan included) in front. I knew they saw me do it—but they were willing to let me get away with it without commenting. Maybe Marsilia was serious about working together.

  “Not Bran,” agreed Hao. “He goes by the name of William Frost. We do not know how old he is or where he came from. I first heard of him when the Master of Portland disappeared. For three weeks his seethe searched for him. As you know, Ms. Hauptman, because I am told that you do, vampires who are not powerful cannot live without feeding upon a vampire strong enough to maintain them. This is the most powerful hold that the master or mistress of a seethe has over their fledglings. The vampires of Portland were dying without their master, and so they called upon me. When I got there, though, they had already been … saved.” He said the word with a twist of his lips. “William Frost had them in hand, he said. Then he invited me to join him. He was quite forceful. I did not, however, wish to join his seethe. I refused, but because I also did not want to command a seethe, I left him unharmed. Mostly.”

  Hao was not one of Marsilia’s minions. He’d told me that she’d sent him to get me, but if he went, it had been because he wanted to. Both of them were acting as though he was her equal.

  Stefan put a hand on Hao’s shoulder. “You couldn’t know.”

  Stefan liked Hao. I hadn’t known that there were any vampires left that Stefan liked.