“A long time ago.” He dismissed it with a shrug. “When I talked to you that night, I did my son a disservice. I have decided that perhaps I was overzealous with the truth and still only gave you part of it.”
“Oh?”
“I told you what I knew, as much as I thought necessary at the time,” he said. “But in light of subsequent events, I underestimated my son and led you to do the same.”
I’ve always hated it when he chose to become obscure. I started to object sharply—then realized he was looking away from my face, his eyes lowered. I’d gotten used to living among humans, whose body language is less important to communication, so I’d almost missed it. Alphas—especially this Alpha—never looked away when others were watching them. It was a mark of how bad he felt that he would do it now.
So I kept my voice quiet, and said simply, “Tell me now.”
“Samuel is old,” he said. “Nearly as old as I am. His first wife died of cholera, his second of old age. His third wife died in childbirth. His wives miscarried eighteen children between them; a handful died in infancy, and only eight lived to their third birthday. One died of old age, four of the plague, three of failing the Change. He has no living children and only one, born before Samuel Changed, made it into adulthood.”
He paused and lifted his eyes to mine. “This perhaps gives you an idea of how much it meant to him that in you he’d found a mate who could give him children less vulnerable to the whims of fate, children who could be born werewolves like Charles was. I have had a long time to think about our talk, and I came to understand that I should have told you this as well. You aren’t the only one who has mistaken Samuel for a young wolf.” He gave me a little smile. “In the days Samuel walked as human, it was not uncommon for a sixteen-year-old to marry a man much older than she. Sometimes the world shifts its ideas of right and wrong too fast for us to keep up with it.”
Would it have changed how I felt to know the extent of Samuel’s need? A passionate, love-starved teenager confronted with cold facts? Would I have seen beyond the numbers to the pain that each of those deaths had cost?
I don’t think it would have changed my decision. I knew that because I still wouldn’t have married someone who didn’t love me; but I think I would have thought more kindly of him. I would have left him a letter or called him after I reached my mother’s house. Perhaps I’d even have gathered the courage to talk to him if I hadn’t been so hurt and angry.
I refused to examine how Bran’s words changed my feelings about Samuel now. It wouldn’t matter anyway. I was going home tomorrow.
“There were also some things I didn’t know to tell you.” Bran smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “I sometimes believe my own press, you know. I forget that I don’t know everything. Two months after you left, Samuel disappeared.”
“He was angry at your interference?”
Bran shook his head. “At first, maybe. But we talked that out the day you left. He would have been more angry if he hadn’t felt guilty about taking advantage of a child’s need.” He reached out and patted my hand. “He knew what he was doing, and he knew what you would have felt about it, whatever he tells himself or you. Don’t make him out to be the victim.”
Not a problem. “I won’t. So if he wasn’t angry with you, why did he leave?”
“I know you understand most of what we are because you were raised among us,” Bran told me slowly. “But sometimes even I miss the larger implications. Samuel saw in you the answer to his pain, and not the answer to his heart. But that wasn’t all Samuel felt for you—I doubt he knew it himself.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He pined when you left,” Bran said, the old-fashioned wording sounding odd coming from the young man he looked to be. “He lost weight, he couldn’t sleep. After the first month he spent most of his time as a wolf.”
“What do you think was wrong with him?” I asked carefully.
“He was grieving over his lost mate,” said Bran. “Werewolves aren’t that different from our wild cousins in some respects. It took me too long to figure it out, though. Before I did, he left us without a word. For two years, I waited for the newspapers to report his body discovered in the river like Bryan’s had been. Charles tracked Samuel down when he finally started to use the money in his bank account. He’d bought some papers and gone back to college.” Samuel had been through college at least once before that I knew of, for medicine. “He became a medical doctor again, set up a clinic in Texas for a while, then came back to us about two years ago.”
“He didn’t love me,” I said. “Not as a man loves a woman.”
“No,” agreed Bran. “But he had chosen you as his mate.” He stood up abruptly and put on his coat. “Don’t worry about it now. I just thought you ought to know. Sleep in tomorrow.”
chapter 7
I ventured out to the gas station the next morning in my borrowed coat and bought a breakfast burrito. It was hot, if not tasty, and I was hungry enough to eat almost anything.
The young man working the till looked as though he’d have liked to ask questions, but I cowed him with my stare. People around here know better than to get into staring contests. I wasn’t a were-anything, but he didn’t know that because he wasn’t either. It wasn’t nice to intimidate him, but I wasn’t feeling very nice.
I needed to do something, anything, and I was stuck waiting here all morning. Waiting meant worrying about what Jesse was suffering at the hands of her captors and thinking of Mac and wondering what I could have done to prevent his death. It meant reliving the old humiliation of having Bran tell me the man I loved was using me. I wanted to be out of Aspen Creek, where the memories of being sixteen and alone tried to cling no matter how hard I flinched away; but obedience to Bran was too ingrained—especially when his orders made sense. I didn’t have to be nice about it, though.
I’d started back to the motel, my breath raising a fog and the snow crunching beneath my shoes, when someone called out my name.
“Mercy!”
I looked across the highway where a green truck had pulled over—evidently at the sight of me, but the driver didn’t look familiar. The bright morning sun glittering on the snow made it hard to pick out details, so I shaded my eyes with my hand and veered toward him for a better look.
As soon as I changed directions, the driver turned off the truck, hopped out, and jogged across the highway.
“I just heard that you were here,” he said, “but I thought you’d be long gone this morning or else I’d have stopped in earlier.”
The voice was definitely familiar, but it didn’t go with the curling red hair and unlined face. He looked puzzled for a moment, even hurt, when I didn’t recognize him immediately. Then he laughed and shook his head. “I forgot, even though every time I look in a mirror it still feels like I’m looking at a stranger.”
The eyes, pale blue and soft, went with the voice, but it was his laugh that finally clued me in. “Dr. Wallace?” I asked. “Is that really you?”
He tucked his hands in his pockets, tilted his head, and gave me a wicked grin. “Sure as moonlight, Mercedes Thompson, sure as moonlight.”
Carter Wallace was the Aspen Creek veterinarian. No, he didn’t usually treat the werewolves, but there were dogs, cats, and livestock enough to keep him busy. His house had been the nearest to the one I grew up in, and he’d helped me make it through those first few months after my foster parents died.
The Dr. Wallace I’d known growing up had been middle-aged and balding, with a belly that covered his belt buckle. His face and hands had had been weathered from years spent outside in the sun. This man was lean and hungry; his skin pale and perfect like that of a twenty-year-old—but the greatest difference was not in his appearance.
The Carter Wallace I’d known was slow-moving and gentle. I’d seen him coax a skunk out of a pile of tires without it spraying everything, and keep a frightened horse still with his voice while he clipped away the barbed
wire it had become tangled in. There had been something peaceful about him, solid and true like an oak.
Not anymore. His eyes were still bright and kind, but there was also something predatory that peered out at me. The promise of violence clung to him until I could almost smell the blood.
“How long have you been wolf?” I asked.
“A year last month,” he said. “I know, I know, I swore I’d never do it. I knew too much about the wolves and not enough. But I had to retire year before last because my hands quit working right.” He looked down, a little anxiously, at his hands and relaxed a bit as he showed me he could move all his fingers easily. “I was all right with that. If there is anything a vet gets used to—especially around here—it is aging and death. Gerry started in on me again, but I’m stubborn. It took more than a little arthritis and Gerry to make me change my mind.” Gerry was his son and a werewolf.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Bone cancer.” Dr. Wallace shook his head. “It was too far gone, they said. Nothing but months in a bed hoping you die before the morphine quits working on the pain. Everyone has their price, and that was more than I could bear. So I asked Bran.”
“Most people don’t survive the Change if they’re already too sick,” I said.
“Bran says I’m too stubborn to die.” He grinned at me again, and the expression was beginning to bother me because it had an edge that Dr. Wallace’s, my Dr. Wallace’s, had never had. I’d forgotten how odd it was to know someone from both sides of the Change, forgotten just how much the wolf alters the human personality. Especially when the human wasn’t in control.
“I thought I’d be practicing again by now,” Dr. Wallace said. “But Bran says not yet.” He rocked a little on his heels and closed his eyes as if he could see something I didn’t. “It’s the smell of blood and meat. I’m all right as long as nothing is bleeding.” He whispered the last sentence and I heard the desire in his voice.
He gathered himself together with a deep breath, then looked at me with eyes only a shade darker than the snow. “You know, for years I’ve said that werewolves aren’t much different from other wild predators.” Like the great white, he’d told me, or the grizzly bear.
“I remember,” I said.
“Grizzly bears don’t attack their families, Mercy. They don’t crave violence and blood.” He closed his eyes. “I almost killed my daughter a few days ago because she said something I disagreed with. If Bran hadn’t stopped by . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve become a monster, not an animal. I’ll never be able to be a vet again. My family never will be safe, not while I’m alive.”
The last two words echoed between us.
Damn, damn, and damn some more, I thought. He should have had more control by now. If he’d been a wolf for a full year and still couldn’t control himself when he was angry, he’d never have the control he needed to survive. Wolves who can’t control themselves are eliminated for the safety of the pack. The only question, really, was why Bran hadn’t already taken care of it—but I knew the answer to that. Dr. Wallace had been one of the few humans Bran considered a friend.
“I wish Gerry could make it back for Thanksgiving,” Dr. Wallace told me. “But I’m glad I got a chance to see you before you left again.”
“Why isn’t Gerry here?” I asked. Gerry had always traveled on business for Bran, but surely he could come back to see his father before . . .
Dr. Wallace brushed his hand over my cheek, and I realized I was crying.
“He’s on business. He’s in charge of keeping an eye on the lone wolves who live where there is no pack to watch them. It’s important.”
It was. But since Dr. Wallace was going to die soon, Gerry should be here.
“Livin’s easier than dyin’ most times, Mercy girl,” he said kindly, repeating my foster father’s favorite saying. “Dance when the moon sings, and don’t cry about troubles that haven’t yet come.”
His smile softened, and for a minute I could see the man he used to be quite clearly. “It’s cold out here, Mercy, and that coat isn’t helping you much. Go get warm, girl.”
I didn’t know how to say good-bye, so I didn’t. I just turned and walked away.
When the clock in the motel room ticked over to noon, I walked out to the van, which Charles—or Carl—had parked just outside the door to number one. If Adam isn’t ready to go, he’ll just have to find another ride. I can’t stand another minute here.
I opened the back to check my antifreeze because the van had a small leak I hadn’t fixed yet. When I shut the back hatch, Samuel was just there, holding a bulging canvas bag.
“What are you doing?” I asked warily.
“Didn’t my father tell you?” He gave me the lazy grin that had always had the power to make my heart beat faster. I was dismayed to see that it still worked. “He’s sending me with you. Someone’s got to take care of the rogues who attacked Adam, and he’s barely mobile.”
I turned on my heel, but stopped because I had no idea where to find Bran. And because Samuel was right, damn him. We needed help.
Happily, before I had to come up with something suitable to say in apology for my too-obvious dismay, the door to room one opened.
Adam looked as though he’d lost twenty pounds in the last twenty-four hours. He was wearing borrowed sweatpants and an unzipped jacket over the bare skin of his chest. Most of the visible skin was bruised, mottled technicolor with purple, blue, and black touched with lighter spots of red, but there were no open wounds. Adam was always meticulous in his dress and grooming, but his cheeks were dark with stubble, and his hair was uncombed. He limped slowly onto the sidewalk and kept a tight grip on a cane.
I hadn’t expected him to be walking this soon, and my surprise must have shown on my face because he smiled faintly.
“Motivation aids healing,” he said. “I need to find Jesse.”
“Motivation aids stupidity,” muttered Samuel beside me, and Adam’s smile widened, though it wasn’t a happy smile anymore.
“I have to find Jesse,” was all that Adam said in reply to Samuel’s obvious disapproval. “Mercy, if you hadn’t arrived when you did, I’d have been a dead man. Thank you.”
I hadn’t figured out yet exactly what our relationship was, and knowing that Bran had told him to look after me hadn’t helped. Even so, I couldn’t resist the urge to tease him—he took life so seriously.
“Always happy to come to your rescue,” I told him lightly, and was pleased at the temper that flashed in his eyes before he laughed.
He had to stop moving and catch his breath. “Damn it,” he told me, with his eyes shut. “Don’t make me do that.”
Samuel had stepped unobtrusively closer, but relaxed when Adam resumed his forward progress without toppling over. I opened the sliding door behind the passenger seat.
“Do you want to lie down?” I asked him. “Or would you rather sit up on the bench seat? Sitting shotgun is out—you need something easier to get in and out of.”
“I’ll sit up,” Adam grunted. “Ribs still aren’t happy about lying down.”
When he got close to the van, I backed out of the way and let Samuel help him up.
“Mercy,” said Bran behind my shoulder, surprising me because I’d been paying attention to the expression on Adam’s face.
He was carrying a couple of blankets.
“I meant to get here sooner to tell you that Samuel was coming with you,” Bran said, handing the blankets to me. “But I had business that took a little longer than I expected.”
“Did you know that you were sending him with me when you talked to me last night?” I asked.
He smiled. “I thought it was probable, yes. Though I had another talk with Adam after I left you, and it clarified some things. I’m sending Charles to Chicago with a couple of wolves for backup.” He smiled wider, a nasty predatory smile. “He will find out who is out trying to create new wolves without permission and see that it is stopped in such a way that w
e’ll not see a problem like this again.”
“Why not send Samuel and give me Charles?”
“Samuel has too weak a stomach to handle Chicago,” said Adam, sounding breathless. I glanced at him and saw that he was sitting upright on the short middle bench seat, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Samuel is a doctor and dominant enough to keep Adam from eating anyone until he gets better,” responded Samuel, climbing back out of the van and snatching the blankets out of my hands.
Bran’s smile softened with amusement. “Samuel was gone for a long time,” he explained. “Other than Adam, I think that only Darryl, Adam’s second, has ever met him. Until we know what is going on, I’d rather not have everyone know I’m investigating matters.”
“We think the time is coming when we will no longer be able to hide from the humans,” said Samuel, who had finished wrapping Adam in the blankets. “But we’d rather control how that happens than have a group of murdering wolves reveal our existence before we’re ready.”
I must have looked shocked because Bran laughed.
“It’s only a matter of time,” he said. “The fae are right. Forensics, satellite surveillance, and digital cameras are making the keeping of our secrets difficult. No matter how many Irish Wolfhounds and English Mastiffs George Brown breeds and crossbreeds, they don’t look like werewolves.”
Aspen Creek had three or four people breeding very large dogs to explain away odd tracks and sightings—George Brown, a werewolf himself, had won several national titles with his Mastiffs. Dogs, unlike most cats, tended to like werewolves just fine.
“Are you looking for a poster boy like Kieran McBride?” I asked.
“Nope,” Adam grunted. “There aren’t any Kieran McBrides who make it as werewolves. Harmless and cute we are not. But he might be able to find a hero: a police officer or someone in the military.”
“You knew about this?” I asked.
“I’d heard rumors.”
Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly Page 11