Silver Borne mt-5

by Patricia Briggs

  “Paul, do you still want to continue with your challenge?”

  He looked at Henry. “You hit Mary Jo?”

  Was he still a little off balance? I couldn’t tell.

  “It was an accident,” Henry said. “Mercy said . . .” He looked at me. “You know, something as fragile as you are should learn to keep your mouth shut, then other people wouldn’t have to take the fall for you.”

  “People with as much to lose as you have,” I said, “should control their tempers better.” As an insult it lacked . . . substance. But it was more important to get a quick reply out than it was to be clever. I looked at Paul. “Mary Jo stepped between me and Henry.”

  “And you still let her fight?” Paul asked me incredulously. “You didn’t think that might be dangerous?”

  “A fight to the death is dangerous,” I told him. “She knew about her ribs. I knew you didn’t want to kill her.”

  He stared at me. Glanced at Henry. To Darryl, he said, “Yes. Let’s get this over with.”

  Darryl gave him a half bow, stepped off the mat, and said, “Gentlemen, you may begin.”

  It started slowly.

  With most of the expanse of the dojo between them, Paul made some fancy salute that I didn’t recognize; a graceful flutter of the hands and forearms combined with a half step forward, then back. He made a breathy, hissing noise that sounded alien and predatory.

  Adam placed his fists together at his chest, then lowered them slowly and silently, flowing smoothly into an openhanded guard: a more common salute, simple and direct. It looked very similar to the salute my sensei had taught me. The scabs on his hands broke as he moved his fingers.

  Paul advanced, a quick series of zigzag steps that let him glide across the mat while making it virtually impossible to predict where his next step would take him. His left arm was high, almost vertical, while his right maintained a low guard, hand positioned unconsciously near his groin.

  Adam watched him, pivoting slightly to face him squarely as he crossed the mat. Had he seen what I had? That Paul was blinking as if he were trying to clear his vision.

  Adam smiled just a little. For me? I decided that I’d do better to try to keep out of his head if I could figure out how—and let him concentrate on Paul.

  Paul’s foot flashed out in a low, scything kick to the knee, and Adam’s weight shifted as he raised his foot in response. As Adam completed the block, Paul’s foot stopped short, then zipped up toward Adam’s right cheek in a modified roundhouse. Paul was strong enough to put some serious muscle behind the kick despite the short distance. Adam barely blocked in time, and the force of the kick made him stumble a half step. Paul danced back out of range.

  Adam moved forward slowly, deliberately, a couple of bold steps, eyes on his quarry. Paul retreated, automatically giving ground to the Alpha. He caught himself and glared at Adam, who met his eyes and held them. With weres, a battle could be waged on multiple fronts.

  To get away from Adam’s gaze, Paul threw another roundhouse with his left foot, but he was too far away to connect effectively. Stupid waste of energy, I thought, but at least the move let him break eye contact without actually losing the contest. He was using his legs more than his arms, and I wondered if he had hurt his hands in the fight with Mary Jo. If so, it wasn’t enough to matter.

  Paul used the momentum from the wasted kick to spin sharply and drive his right heel in a savage back kick aimed at Adam’s stomach. He might be a jerk, but Paul knew how to move, and he was blazingly fast.

  Adam again managed to block the kick, but the block only muted the force. Adam let the kick fold him over and throw him back across the mat, springing back with it. Paul came in right behind, arms rising to the high-block position he’d used on Mary Jo. Adam regained his balance just as Paul closed with him, and spun on his left foot and drove his right leg in a side kick. There was the crisp pop of fabric snapping as his leg flashed out to full extension, but it missed Paul by a handspan or more.

  Paul’s hands clenched, and both fists came down in an instant replay of the attack he’d used on Mary Jo. Adam was bent at the waist, failed kick still extended, his back exposed to Paul’s descending fists. And then he did one of those kung-fu movie moves, spinning horizontally. I wasn’t the only one who gasped.

  The kick hadn’t missed; it was the start of something beautiful and dangerous. Adam’s left leg hit Paul’s shoulder with such force that Paul’s blow went wide, flailing at empty space, as he spun in midair before crashing to the mats.

  Paul hit like a pine tree falling, and the sound of his arm breaking was loud enough for everyone to hear. Adam landed on his stomach, one leg trapped under Paul’s body, which was perpendicular to Adam’s. Unlike Paul, Adam’s landing was deliberate and controlled. Before Paul could react, Adam twisted his body and drove the shin of his free leg into Paul’s chest.

  In karate movies, they break celery to mimic the sound of breaking bones. Trust me, my hearing is acute, and I know these things: Paul’s ribs didn’t sound anything like celery. A human might have died from that blow; he certainly would have needed CPR. Werewolves are tougher than that.

  Paul’s hand slammed the mat.

  “He yields,” said Adam.

  “Adam wins,” announced Darryl. “Do you accept Paul’s yield, Alpha?”

  “I do,” replied Adam.

  “This fight is over,” said Darryl.

  Adam leaned down to Paul. “That edge you lost in your fight with Mary Jo is what allowed me to take the time to find something that would hurt you—instead of kill you. You can thank her for your life.”

  Paul moved his head, exposing his throat to Adam. “I will, Alpha.”

  Adam smiled. “I’d give you a hand up—but we’d better have Warren look at your ribs first. One punctured lung is enough.”

  I’d been keeping an eye on Henry throughout the fight. I glanced at him just as he stepped onto the mat.

  “Alpha,” he called. “I chal—”

  He never got the whole word out—because I drew my foster father’s SIG and shot him in the throat before he could.

  For a split second everyone stared at him, as if they couldn’t figure out where all that blood had come from.

  “Stop the bleeding,” I said. Though I made no move to do it myself. The rat could die for all I cared. “That was a lead bullet. He’ll be fine.” Though he wouldn’t be talking—or challenging Adam—for a while. “When he’s stable, put him in the holding cell, where he can’t do any more harm.”

  Adam looked at me. “Trust you to bring a gun to a fistfight,” he said with every evidence of admiration. Then he looked at his pack. Our pack. “What she said,” he told them.

  Chapter 12

  WHEN THE PACK ESCORTED ADAM IN A TRIUMPHANT procession into the house, I hung back with Jesse and Sam—both of whom looked pretty wrung out.

  Paul had left the dojo the same way Mary Jo had, in the stretcher—and he should be resting beside her in one of the downstairs bedrooms that were considered pack property rather than Adam’s. Any member of the pack could and did claim one for sleeping or reading or whatever they needed. With Adam in the house, neither Paul nor Mary Jo would have a problem with control while they healed—their wolves knew their Alpha was in residence to keep them safe.

  There were some awful things about being a werewolf. Lots of them. But there were some okay parts, too—and some that were nice. One of those was knowing that as long as the Alpha was around, you had a safe place to be.

  Henry hadn’t died from the blood loss, so far as I knew, and had probably already healed. A bullet is a small thing, and the hole it cuts is clean if it doesn’t hit anything hard on the way through—like bone. He’d be up before either Mary Jo or Paul. Of course, what happened to him after that was in question. I suppose it would be Adam’s decision.

  Warren hung back until everyone else except for me, Sam, and Jesse were gone. And then he shut the door.

  “Adam will miss you in abo
ut five minutes,” he told me. “And in six minutes you’re going to need to get him upstairs and in bed without letting the whole pack know that in ten minutes that man is going to be unconscious on the floor.”

  “I know,” I told him.

  The big cowboy smiled tiredly, though, like me, all he’d done was watch the challenge. “That was a nice bit of fighting. I suspect he could have taken Paul without Mary Jo stepping in.”

  I nodded. “But now Paul is back in the pack again, happier than before. And I don’t think that could have happened without Mary Jo.”

  “I hate this part,” said Jesse shakily.

  “The part where everyone is safe, and you want to find a quiet corner and bawl like a newborn?” Warren glanced at me. “I reckon it’s better than when people aren’t safe—but it’s not my favorite, either.” He wrapped his arm around Adam’s daughter’s shoulder and she snuggled into him.

  “There you go,” he said. “You go ahead and cry, baby. Ain’t no one going to say you don’t have the right. Get it over with and cry some for me—’cause if Kyle catches me crying, he’s gonna think I turned into one of those sissy boys.”

  Jesse laughed, but left her head where it was.

  Warren looked at me. “You go on. You got someone else’s shoulder to cry on. You tell him I got Jesse’s back. And, Samuel, you stay with me, too. We don’t need any more drama, and I doubt that Adam is up to showing his weakness to someone who could be his rival until the adrenaline eases a bit.”

  Sam stretched, yawned, and lay down.

  “Thanks, Warren,” I said.

  He smiled and tipped the front of his imaginary cowboy hat. “Shucks, ma’am, I’m only doin’ my job. Darryl’s gonna feed the masses again, and I’m riding herd on the stragglers.”

  Jesse pulled back and wiped her eyes, a smile on her face. “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite cowboy?”

  “Of course I am,” he said smugly.

  “You’re the only cowboy she knows,” I informed him.

  He glanced at his watch. “You got about two minutes left.”

  “Mercy?” Jesse asked, catching my arm before I could go. “What about Gabriel?”

  “We’ll find him,” Warren said, before I could respond. He smiled at me. “I have good hearing, and the house was plenty quiet enough last night to hear a phone call in the kitchen.” He bent down so he could look Jesse in the eye. “Running around when we don’t know anything won’t help him. Zee’s looking into it, and waiting for him is our best option at the moment.”

  “If Zee couldn’t help us, he’d have told us by now,” I said, looking only at Jesse. I wasn’t talking to Warren; I was talking to Jesse. No oath breaking here. “We’ll get Gabriel out of this.”

  “Maybe we’ll sic Sylvia on them,” said Warren.

  “You heard?” Of course he had. News travels fast in the pack.

  “Heard what?” Jesse was coming back online, I thought. Warren’s hug had been exactly what she needed.

  “Sylvia threatened to set the police on me if I darkened their doorstep again. Gabriel isn’t working for me anymore.” I frowned. I hadn’t thought about it, but it might affect Jesse, too. “I don’t know if you’re considered one of the prohibited people—but since she got mad because I didn’t warn her that Sam was a werewolf before Maia adopted him as her new pony, I expect that werewolves of any kind are going to be a hot button for a little while. Once we get him home, you need to talk it over with Gabriel.”

  She nodded. “If we get him home, I’ll be happy to fight with Sylvia about my right to hang out with Gabriel.”

  “Good for you,” said Warren.

  She stepped back from him and almost fell over Sam. “Hey,” she said to him. “How come you let Warren and Dad take care of Mary Jo?”

  “He’s not himself,” I said. “It wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

  Sam gave me a look full of guilt and turned his head away.

  I thought about that guilty look all the way in the house and into the living room where the pack was scattered all over the furniture and the floor. There were more wolves—latecomers receiving the blow-by-blow account of the fight. And I hadn’t seen Adam’s pack this relaxed since . . . ever. I hadn’t hung out with the werewolves much until this last year—and it hadn’t been a peaceful one for the pack.

  Honey caught me on my way to get Adam, who was sitting on one end of the leather couch. I hadn’t noticed her in the garage—and I would have because Honey doesn’t go unnoticed, partly because she is very dominant and partly because she is very beautiful—so she must have been one of the latecomers.

  “Mary Jo was recognized as more dominant than Alec?” she asked. She didn’t sound happy, which was odd. Because her mate, Peter, was a submissive wolf, Honey was considered the lowest member of the pack except for Mary Jo, though by personality and fighting power she was actually closer to the top. Maybe the idea that they might rank her where she belonged offended her idea of what a lady should be. Maybe she worried it would cause trouble in the pack, or between her and her mate. Maybe she was afraid that she was going to get targeted in the dominance fights. Whatever it was, her trouble ranked way down in my priorities at the moment—Adam was listing to the right. In a few moments, someone else was bound to notice.

  “Yes,” I said, sliding by her and stepping over someone who was lying on their side on the floor. “Don’t ask me what it means long-term; I don’t think anyone knows. Adam?”

  He looked up, and I wondered if Warren should have knocked a minute off his countdown to the crash; he looked that bad.

  “You should come with me. We need to call the Marrok.” Invoking the Marrok’s name should make it unlikely that anyone would follow us. I ensured that by adding, “He’s not going to be happy about being left out of this. The sooner he hears, the better.”

  There was a twinkle in Adam’s eyes, though he kept the rest of his face stoic. “Better be in my bedroom, if I’m going to get chewed on. Give me a hand up, would you? Paul gave me a few good ones.”

  He held up one of his poor, sore hands, and I took it without wincing for the pain that closing his hand over mine must have given him. It was a show to reassure the pack he was as strong as ever. The twinkle left his eyes though his mouth turned up in a smile as he stood up easily, without pulling on my hand at all.

  When we got to the moron who was sitting in the only path to the stairway, Adam caught my waist and lifted me over before stepping over the man himself.

  “Scott?” Adam said as we headed upstairs.

  “Yeah?”

  “Unless someone shoots you, skins you, and throws the results on the floor, I don’t want to see you lying in the walkway again.”

  “Yessir!”

  When we reached the top of the stairway, his hand was heavy on my shoulder, and he leaned harder on me all the way to the bedroom.

  Someone—and I was betting it was Darryl—had left three huge roast beef sandwiches, a cup of hot coffee, and a glass of ice water on the table by the side of the bed. Medea was sleeping on the pillow in the middle of the bed. She looked up at us and, when I didn’t make any move to oust her, closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

  “Crumbs on the sheets,” muttered Adam, watching the sandwiches intently as I pushed him down on the bed.

  “Bet there are clean sheets in this mausoleum somewhere,” I told him. “We can find them tonight and remake the bed. Presto, no more crumbs.” I took half a sandwich and held it up to his face. “Eat.”

  He smiled and bit my finger with a playfulness I’d have thought beyond him, as beat as he was.

  “Eat,” I said sternly. “Food, then sleep. Rescue—” I bit my lip. Adam was a wolf. I couldn’t talk to him about Gabriel, no matter how wrong that felt. “Food, then sleep. Everything else can wait.”

  But it was too late. He’d never let that word go by without a challenge. He accepted the sandwich from me, took a bite, and swallowed it. “Rescue?”

&n
bsp; “I can’t talk about it. Talk to Jesse or Darryl.”

  Mercy?

  His voice wrapped around my head like a bracing winter wind, fresh and sweet to my taste. Here was a way I could communicate without speech—if I could just figure out how. I stared at him intently.

  Finally, he smiled. “You can’t talk about it. You promised . . . someone. I got that much. I keep a notebook in my briefcase in the closet. Why don’t you get that and spend some time writing a letter to me about whatever it is you can’t say.”

  I kissed his nose. “You’ve been hanging out with the fae again, haven’t you? Wolves are usually a little better about keeping the spirit as well as the letter of the law.”

  “Good thing you aren’t a werewolf, then.” His voice was gravelly with fatigue and smoke damage.

  “You really think so?” I asked. When I was growing up, I’d wanted to be a werewolf so I could really belong to the Marrok’s pack. I’d always wondered whether, if I had been a werewolf instead of a coyote, my foster father would have reconsidered his decision to follow his mate in death. But when Adam said he was glad I wasn’t a werewolf, it sounded like he meant it.

  “I wouldn’t change a hair on your head,” he told me. “Now, go get the notebook and write it all down before I die of curiosity.”

  “I will if you eat.”

  He obligingly took another bite, so I rummaged through his closet until I found the briefcase. He scooted over, making Medea protest until he scooped her into his lap so I could sit on the edge of the bed. While I sat beside him and wrote down everything I could think of, he finished all but half a sandwich (“Yours,” he said. “Eat.”) and fell asleep while I was still writing.

  I finished. “Adam?”

  He didn’t move, but I noticed that his hands were looking better. His pack was behind him again—for the moment at least. Or maybe it was just the way his magic chose to work this time. People who try too hard to explain how magic works end up in funny farms.

  I added “Sweet Dreams” at the bottom of the last page and left the notebook beside him. I slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door. I hadn’t taken two steps before my phone rang. It was Zee.