All of Chapter Five seemed to be about things like the walking stick: gifts of the fae. If O'Donnell had stolen the walking stick, maybe he'd stolen other things, too. Maybe the murderer had stolen them in return.
I took the book to the gun safe in my room and locked it in. It wasn't the best hiding place, but a casual thief was a little less likely to run off with it.
I washed dishes and mused about the book. Not so much about the contents, but what Tad had been trying to tell me about it.
The man at the bookstore had told me that the fae treasure things like the walking stick, no matter how useless they are in our modern world.
I could see that. For a fae, having something that held the remnant of magic lost to them was power. And power in the fae world meant safety. If they had a record of all the fairy-magicked items, then the Gray Lords could keep track of them—and apportion them as they chose. But the fae are a secretive people. I just couldn't see them making up a list of their items of power and handing it over.
I grew up in Montana, where an old, unregistered rifle was worth a lot more than a new gun whose ownership could be traced. Not that the gun owners in Montana are planning on committing crimes with their unregistered guns—they just don't like the federal government knowing their every move.
So what if…what if O'Donnell stole several magic items and no one knew what they were, or maybe what all of them were. Then some fae figured out it was O'Donnell. Someone who had a nose like mine—or who saw him, or maybe tracked him back to his house. That fae could have killed O'Donnell to steal for himself the things O'Donnell had taken.
Maybe the murderer had timed it so Zee would be caught, knowing the Gray Lords would be happy to have a suspect wrapped up in a bow.
If I could find the killer and the things O'Donnell had stolen, I could hold those things hostage for Zee's acquittal and safety.
I could see why a fae would want the walking stick, but what about O'Donnell? Maybe he hadn't known exactly what it was? He'd had to have known something about it, or else why take it? Maybe he'd intended to sell it back to the fae. You'd think that anyone who'd been around them for very long would know better than to think you'd survive long selling back stolen items to the fae.
Of course, O'Donnell was dead, wasn't he?
Someone knocked on my door—and I hadn't heard anyone drive up. It might have been one of the werewolves, walking over from Adam's house. I took a deep breath, but the door effectively blocked anything my nose might have told me.
I opened the door and Dr. Altman was standing on the porch. The seeing eye dog was gone—and there was no extra car in the driveway. Maybe she'd flown here.
"You've come for the walking stick?" I asked. "You're welcome to it."
"May I come in?"
I hesitated. I was pretty sure the threshold thing only worked on vampires, but if not…
She smiled tightly and took a step forward until she was standing on the carpet.
"Fine," I said. "Come in." I got the old stick and handed it to her.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
I deliberately misunderstood. "Because it's not my stick—and that sheep thing won't do me any good."
She gave me an irritated look. "I don't mean the stick. I mean why are you pushing your nose into fae business? You are undermining my standing with the police—and that may be dangerous for them in the long run. My job is to keep the humans safe. You don't know what is going on and you're going to cause more trouble than you can handle."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "You and I both know that Zee didn't kill O'Donnell. I just made sure that the police were aware that someone else might be involved. I don't leave my friends out to swing in the wind."
"The Gray Lords will not allow someone like you to know so much about us." The aggressive tension she'd been carrying in her shoulders relaxed and she strode confidently across my living room and sat in Samuel's big, overstuffed chair.
When she spoke again, her voice had a trace of a Celtic lilt. "Zee's a cantankerous bastard, and I love him, too. Moreover, there are not so many of the iron kissed left that we can lightly lose them. At any other time I would be free to do what I could to save him. But when the werewolves announced themselves to the public, they caused a resurgence of fear that we cannot afford to make worse. An open-and-shut case, with the police willing to keep mum about the condition of the murder victim, won't cause too much fuss. Zee understands that. If you know as much as you think you do, you should know that sometimes sacrifices are necessary for the majority to survive."
Zee had offered himself up as a sacrifice. He wanted me to get mad enough I'd leave him to rot because he knew that otherwise I'd never give up, I'd never agree to leave him as a sacrifice no matter what the cost to the fae.
"I came here tonight for Zee," she told me earnestly, her blind eyes staring through me. "Don't make this harder on him than it already is. Don't let this cost you your life, too."
"I know who you are, more or less, Nemane," I told her.
"Then you should know that not many get a warning before I strike."
"I know that you prefer justice to slaughter," I told her.
"I prefer," she said, "that my people survive. If I have to eliminate a few innocents or—stupidly obtuse people—in the meantime, that will not live long on my conscience."
I didn't say anything. I wouldn't give up on Zee, couldn't give up on Zee. If I told her that, she'd kill me right now. I could feel her power gathering around her like a spring thunderstorm. Layer upon layer it built as I stared at her.
I wouldn't lie and the truth would get me killed—and leave no one to help Zee.
Just then a car turned into the gravel of the driveway. Samuel's car.
I knew then what I could do, but would it be enough? What would it cost?
"I know who you are, Nemane," I whispered. "But you don't know who I am."
"You're a walker," she told me. "A shapeshifter. Zee explained it to me. There aren't many of the native preternatural species left—so you belong nowhere. Neither fae nor wolf, vampire or anything else. You are all alone." Her expression didn't change, but I could smell her sorrow, her sympathy. She was alone, too. I don't know if she meant me to understand that, or if she was unaware how much I could glean from her scent. "I don't want to have to kill you, but I will."
"I don't think so." Thank goodness, I thought, thank goodness that I had told everything to Samuel. He wouldn't have to play catch-up. "Zee told you part of who I am." Maybe because he thought it would make her hesitate to kill me, knowing that I was alone. "You're right, I don't know any other people like me, but I'm not alone."
Samuel opened the door on cue. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked tired and grumpy. I could smell the blood and disinfectant on him. He paused with the door open, taking in Dr. Altman's appearance.
"Dr. Altman," I said pleasantly, "may I introduce you to Dr. Samuel Cornick, my roommate. Samuel, I'd like you to meet Dr. Stacy Altman, police consultant, the Carrion Crow. The fae know her as Nemane."
Samuel's eyes narrowed.
"You're a werewolf," said Nemane. "Samuel Cornick." There was a pause. "The Marrok is Bran Cornick."
I kept my gaze on Samuel. "I was just explaining to Dr. Altman why it would be inadvisable for them to eliminate me even though I'm sticking my nose in their business."
Comprehension lit his eyes, which he narrowed at the fae.
"Killing Mercy would be a mistake," he growled. "My da had Mercy raised in our pack and he couldn't love Mercy more if she were his daughter. For her he would declare open war with the fae and damned be the consequences. You can call him and ask, if you doubt my word."
I'd expected Samuel to defend me—and the fae could not afford to hurt the son of the Marrok, not unless the stakes were a lot higher. I'd counted on that to keep Samuel safe or I'd have found some way to keep him out of it. But the Marrok…
I'd always thought I was an annoyance, the only one Br
an couldn't count on for instant obedience. He'd been protective, still was—but his protective instinct was one of the things that made him dominant. I'd thought I was just one more person he had to take care of. But it was as impossible to doubt the truth in Samuel's voice as it was to believe that he'd be mistaken about Bran.
I was glad that Samuel was focused on Nemane, who had risen to her feet when Samuel began speaking. While I blinked back stupid tears, she leaned on the walking stick and said, "Is that so?"
"Adam Hauptman, the Columbia Basin Pack's Alpha, has named Mercy his mate," continued Samuel grimly.
Nemane smiled suddenly, the expression flowing across her face, giving it a delicate beauty I hadn't noticed before.
"I like you," she said to me. "You play an underhanded and subtle game—and like Coyote, you shake up the order of the world." She laughed. "Coyote indeed. Good for you. Good for you. I don't know what else you'll run into—but I'll let the Others know what they are dealing with." She tapped the walking stick on the floor twice. Then, almost to herself, she murmured, "Perhaps…perhaps this won't be a disaster after all."
She raised the staff up and touched the top end to her forehead in a salute. Then she took a step forward and disappeared from the reach of any of my senses between one moment and the next.
CHAPTER 9
Wednesday night I ate dinner at my favorite Chinese place in Richland then drove out to Tim's house. Since O'Donnell's killer was almost certainly fae, I didn't know how much good it would do me to attend a Bright Future meeting—but maybe someone would know something important. I only had until Friday to prove Zee innocent or Tad would be putting his life on the line, too.
The more time I had to think about it, though, the more sense it made for Tad to come back. I certainly wasn't getting any nearer to figuring out anything. Tad, being fae, could go to the reservation and ask questions—if the Gray Lords didn't kill him for his disobedience. Maybe I could persuade Nemane that it was in the fae's best interest that Zee's son come home to help me save his father. Maybe.
Tim's address was in West Richland, a few miles from Kyle's. It was in a block so new that several houses didn't have lawns yet, and I could see two buildings under construction on the next block over.
Half of the front was beige brick and the rest was adobe the color of oatmeal. It looked upscale and expensive, but it was missing the touches that made Kyle's house a mansion rather than a house. No stained glass, no marble or oak garage doors.
Which meant that it was still several orders of magnitude nicer than my old trailer even with its new siding.
There were four cars parked in the driveway and a 72 once-red Mustang with a lime green left fender parked on the street in front. I pulled in behind it because it's not often I find a car that makes the Rabbit look good.
As I got out of the car, I waved at the woman who was peering out at me from behind a sheer curtain in the house across the street. She jerked a window shade down.
I rang the doorbell and waited for the stocking-footed person who was hopping down a carpeted staircase to open the door. When it opened, I wasn't surprised to see a girl in her late teens or very early twenties. Her footsteps had sounded like a woman—men tend to clomp, thunder, or like Adam, move so silently you can barely hear them.
She was dressed in a thin T-shirt that sported crossed bones, like a pirate flag, but instead of a human skull it boasted a faded panda head with exes for eyes. She was a little overweight, but the extra pounds suited her, rounding her face and softening her strong features. Under the distinctive aura of Juicy Fruit, I recognized her scent from O'Donnell's house.
"I'm Mercy Thompson," I told her. "Tim invited me."
She looked me over with sharp eyes and then gave me a welcoming smile. "I'm Courtney. He said you might be coming. We're not started yet—still waiting for Tim and Austin to get back with goodies. Come on in."
She was one of those women cursed with a little girl's voice. When she was fifty, she'd still sound like she was thirteen.
As I followed her up the stairs, I did the polite thing. "I'm sorry to intrude on this meeting. Tim told me that one of your members was just killed."
"Couldn't have happened to a nicer man," she said airily, but then stopped on the stair landing. "All right, that didn't need to be said, sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."
I shook my head. "I didn't know him."
"Well, he started our chapter of Bright Future and he was all right to the guys, but he only had one use for women and I was getting tired of fighting him off all the time." Her eyes really focused on me for the first time, "Hey, Tim said you were Hispanic, but you aren't, are you?"
I shook my head. "My father was an Indian rodeo rider."
"Yeah?" Her voice was mildly inquiring. She wanted to know more, but didn't want to pry.
I was starting to like her. Somewhere under all the bubbles, I was pretty sure she was hiding a sharp brain. "Yeah."
"A rodeo rider? That's pretty cool. Is he still?"
I shook my head. "Nope. He died before I was born. Left my mother a pregnant unwed teenager. I was raised w—" I'd been spending too much time with Adam's pack and not enough with real people, I thought as I hastily replaced werewolf with whitebread American. Happily she wasn't a werewolf, and didn't sense my lie.
"Wish I was Native American," she said a little wistfully as she started back up the stairs. "Then all the guys would go for me—it's that mysterious Indian thing, you know?"
Not really, but I laughed because she meant me to. "Nothing mysterious about me."
She shook her head. "Maybe not, but if I were an Indian, I'd be mysterious."
She led me into a large room already occupied with five men who were tucked into a circle of chairs in the far corner of the room. They were evidently deep into a very involved conversation because they didn't even look up when we came in. Four of them were young, even younger than Austin and Tim. The fifth looked very university professorish, complete with goatee and brown sport coat.
Even with people in it, there was an unused air to the room. As if everything had just come fresh from a furniture store. The walls and Berber carpet were in the same color scheme as the house.
I thought of the vivid colors in Kyle's house and the pair of life-sized, Greek-inspired, stone statues in the foyer. Kyle called them Dick and Jane and was quite fond of them, though they'd been commissioned by the house's former owner.
One was male, the other female, and both of their faces had a dreamy, romantic expression as they looked up toward heaven—an expression that somehow didn't quite go with the spectacular evidence that the male statue wasn't thinking heavenly thoughts.
Kyle dressed Jane's naked body in a short plaid skirt and an orange halter top. Dick generally wore only a hat—and not on his head. At first it was a top hat—but then Warren went to a thrift store and found a knitted ski cap that hung down about two feet with a six-inch tassel on the end.
In contrast, Tim's house had no more personality than an apartment, as if he didn't have enough confidence in his taste to make the house his own. Even as little as I had talked to him, I knew there was more to him than beige and brown. I don't know what someone else would think, but to me, his house all but screamed with his desire to fit in.
It made me like him more: I know what it's like to not quite fit in.
The room might have been uninspired, but it was still nice. Everything was good quality without being excessive. One corner of the room had been set up as an office. There was a dorm-sized fridge next to a well-made, but not extravagant, oak computer desk. The long wall opposite the door was dominated by a TV large enough to please Samuel with waist-high speakers on either side of it. Comfy-looking chairs and a couch, all upholstered with a medium brown microfiber designed to look like suede, were scattered in a manner appropriate to a home theater.
"Sarah couldn't make it tonight," Courtney told me as if I should know who Sarah was. "I'm glad you did, other
wise I'd have been the lone woman out. Hey, guys, this is Mercy Thompson, the woman Tim told us might be coming, you know, the one he met at the music festival last weekend."
Her voice penetrated where our entrance had not and the men all looked up. Courtney walked me up to them.
"This is Mr. Fideal," she said, indicating the older man.
Close up, his face looked younger than his iron gray hair made him appear. His skin was tanned and healthy and his eyes were a bright blue with the intensity of a six-year-old.
I didn't remember his scent from O'Donnell's house, but it was obvious that he was comfortable in this group—so he must be a regular attendee…
"Aiden," he corrected her kindly.
She laughed and told him, "I just can't do it." To me, she explained, "He was my econ teacher—and so he's forever enshrined upon my heart as Mr. Fideal."
If I hadn't shaken his hand, I don't know if I would have noticed anything odd about his scent. Though brine is not usually a fragrance I associate with people, he might have had a saltwater aquarium hobby or something.
But his grip made my skin buzz with the faint touch of magic. There are things other than fae that carry a feel of magic: witches, vampires, and a few others. But fae magic had a certain feel to it—I was willing to bet that Mr. Fideal was as fae as Zee…or at least as fae as Tad's bookstore guy.
I wondered what he was doing at a Bright Future meeting. It might be that he was here to keep track of what they were doing. Or maybe he was a part-breed and didn't even know what he was. A drop of fae blood could account for those young eyes in the older face and for the faintness of the magic I felt.
"Good to meet you," I told him.
"So you know what I do to earn my bread," he said in a gruffly friendly voice. "What is it that you do?"
"I'm a mechanic," I said.
"Righteous," declared Courtney. "My Mustang's been making odd noises for the last couple of days. Do you think you could take a look at it? I don't have any money right now—just paid for this semester of school."
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