Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly

by Patricia Briggs

  As I waited at the bottom of the stairs, trying to see into the warehouse past the impossible maze of crates that could conceal a dozen werewolves with a host of hiding places to spare, I thought about what Shawn had said at last. He was right. If Gerry wanted Adam to kill Bran, he’d need him in a lot better shape. It wouldn’t take Bran more than a few seconds to kill Adam in his present condition.

  Gerry wasn’t stupid, Samuel had told me. So maybe that was the result he intended.

  It occurred to me that there were an awful lot of things that didn’t make sense if Gerry wasn’t stupid—and Samuel was a pretty good judge of character. David seemed to think that the bloodbath at Adam’s house had served to rid Gerry of some unwanted competition—but it had also drawn the Marrok’s attention. And it would have drawn Bran’s eye, even if I hadn’t taken Adam to him. An attack at an Alpha’s home was important. Then there was that payment to the vampires. I might have found out about it sooner than expected, but if Bran had come sniffing around, I was pretty sure he’d’ve discovered it, too.

  If I were trying to get someone to challenge for Marrok, I wouldn’t make my candidate hate me by kidnapping his daughter. If I were going to use underhanded methods to force a challenge I wasn’t certain my candidate would win, I would make sure to cover my tracks so Bran would never find out—and Bran had a deserved reputation for finding out everything.

  Gerry had all but painted a billboard that said, “Look at what I’m doing!” and, if he wasn’t stupid, he’d done it on purpose. Why?

  “Mercy.” Shawn’s whisper jerked me back to the present. They were down the stairs, and I was blocking their way.

  “Sorry,” I said in the same soundless whisper.

  I took point, walking a few steps ahead and looking around the crates as we passed. It was slow going. Adam was having problems with the leg he’d damaged in the first attack, and Jesse was too short to be a good crutch when paired with Shawn, who was nearly six feet tall.

  I’d heard something, or thought I had, and I stopped. But when the sound didn’t repeat, I decided it was still the ringing in my ears, which was coming and going a little. I hadn’t taken but three steps when power ran through me like a warm, sweet wind.

  “The pack’s here,” said Adam.

  I’d never felt them like that before, though I suppose I’d never been in a situation where they were all coming together with one purpose. That might have been all it was, or it might have been because I was standing so close to the pack’s Alpha.

  Adam stopped and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. I could almost see the strength pouring into him, and he straightened, taking all of his own weight.

  Jesse was watching her father, too. Only Shawn kept his mind and his eyes on the job, and it was the widening of his eyes that had me spinning back around.

  If the werewolf had been after me, I’d have been dead. But he had picked out the most dangerous of us and brushed by me like a cannonball, knocking me into a crate. The Smith & Wesson flew out of my hand, but didn’t go off when it hit the ground. I heard my upper arm crack and felt a wash of pain as the force of his passing continued to spin me until I landed on the floor facing Adam as the wolf jumped on him.

  Jesse screamed. Shawn had emptied his gun without slowing down the wolf. He drew a wicked-looking knife and closed in to use it, but the werewolf caught him with one of those quick catlike sideswipes that no canid should have the lateral motion to do. Like me, Shawn hit a crate and collapsed on the floor.

  I struggled to my feet and took out Zee’s dagger with my left hand. I don’t know why I didn’t draw my SIG except that the shocking speed of the attack had left me dazed. This week aside, I usually kept the violence in my life controlled and confined to a dojo.

  I started forward, and something red rushed past me in a blur of motion. Another werewolf. I had time to believe that we were out of luck, when it grabbed the first wolf by the scruff of the neck and tossed it back down the aisle, away from Adam.

  The red wolf didn’t pause there, but was on the gray-and-tan animal almost before it landed. Adam was covered in blood, but before I made it to him, the wounds closed in a rush of power that was pack-scented. He rolled to his feet, looking better than I’d seen him since Monday night.

  I, rather belatedly, remembered I had another gun, and dropped Zee’s knife so I could draw the SIG, waiting for the two wolves to separate enough that I could shoot. With a little perspective I could see that the red animal was taller and leaner than usual, as if he’d been bred for running rather than fighting.

  “I don’t want them dead if I can help it,” Adam said, though he didn’t try to take the gun from me.

  “This one needs to die,” I said, because I’d recognized his scent. He was the one who had slapped Jesse’s face.

  Adam didn’t have the chance to argue with me because the gray-and-tan wolf came out on top of the wrestling match and I pulled the trigger three times. It wasn’t the .44, but even a 9mm does a lot of damage when it hits the back of a skull at under fifteen feet.

  Adam was saying something. I could see his mouth move, but my abused ears were roaring with a sound as big as the seashore. One of the downsides of good hearing is sensitive ears—something the wolves, with their healing abilities, don’t have to worry about much.

  He must have realized I was having trouble hearing him because he tapped my gun and raised an eyebrow, asking me a question. I looked at the crumpled werewolf, then at Jesse. Adam followed my gaze, and his face grew cold and hard. When he held out his hand, I gave him the SIG.

  He stalked to the werewolves, no trace of a limp in his stride. He reached down and grabbed the dead wolf with one hand and hauled him off the other one, who rolled to his feet then stood still, head down, looking dazed. Adam cupped a hand under the red wolf’s jaw, checking for damage. Apparently satisfied, he turned to the defeated opponent and emptied the gun into the body.

  I saw him snap his fingers, and the red wolf shook his whole body as if he’d just come out of a swimming pool, then came to sit at Adam’s heel, just like a well-trained dog. Jesse picked up the dagger and sheathed it for me as Shawn got slowly to his feet. He put a fresh magazine in his gun, then put a hand on my broken arm.

  I must have made a noise, but the next thing I remember is being on my knees with my head low and a big, warm hand on the back of my neck. Adam’s scent, rich and exotic, was all around me, giving me the strength to calm my queasy stomach. I don’t think I lost consciousness completely, but it was a near thing.

  When I lifted my head, the red wolf stuck his nose in my face and ran a long tongue over my cheek before Adam cuffed him lightly. I got to my feet with Adam’s help, but stood on my own.

  Adam reloaded the automatic when I handed him a fresh clip—though he grinned when I took it out of my bra. I think I was glad I couldn’t hear well enough to decipher what he said. He put the SIG in my holster, picked up my revolver, and handed it to me. Then he turned his attention to Shawn, who waved away Adam’s concern.

  The werewolf at our side was more reassuring than the loaded gun I carried as we walked toward the door. It wasn’t that he was more effective than the .44, but his presence meant that the pack was near. All we had to do was join them, and we were safe.

  I glanced at Adam. He looked healthy, as if he’d never been hurt. I’d heard that the Alpha could take strength from his pack; but I didn’t know why it had worked here, when it hadn’t had the same effect at Warren’s house.

  Shawn went through the door first, the red wolf at his heels. It was night, and the waxing moon was high in the sky. Adam held the door open for Jesse and me, then walked out into the field of parked cars like a man walking into his own living room.

  At first I could see no one, but then a shadowy form emerged from behind a car, then another one, and another. Silently Adam’s pack formed around him. Most of them were in wolf form, but Warren and then Darryl came as humans. They wore dark clothing and both of them were ar
med.

  Warren looked at the red wolf, our rescuer, and raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t break the silence. He examined Adam and then touched Jesse’s bruised cheek.

  “Warren.” Adam spoke in a soft voice that wouldn’t carry far. “Would you take my daughter and Mercedes to safety, please?”

  Another time I would have argued with Adam. After all, who had rescued whom? But my arm was throbbing brutally and I’d done my killing for the day. The only good thing was that my ears had quit ringing. Let Adam and his people finish this, I was ready to go home.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” said Jesse, taking a firm grip on her father’s borrowed T-shirt.

  “I’ll take her to my house,” Warren said, with a reassuring smile at Jesse. “You can stop and pick her up on the way home.” In a softer voice, he said, “I’ll stay with you until he comes. You’ll be safe with me.”

  “All right.” Jesse nodded in a quick, jerky motion. I think she’d just figured out that her father wanted her out of the way before he dealt with the people who’d kidnapped her.

  “I don’t have a car here, though,” Warren told Adam. “We ran about three miles as the crow flies to get here.”

  “Shawn?” I said, trying to keep my voice as quiet as everyone else’s had been. “You told me that there was an old truck around her somewhere that was easy to hot-wire? If you can tell me where to look for it, I can hot-wire it so Warren can get us out of here.”

  “On the far side of the warehouse, away from everyone else’s cars,” he said.

  I started off alone, but Warren and Jesse were soon on my heels. The truck was the only car on the far side of the warehouse. Parked in the center of the pale illumination of one of the warehouse’s exterior lights, was a ’69 Chevy, painted some dark color that glittered. Someone was going to be very unhappy to see his toy missing—if he survived Adam’s wrath.

  But that wasn’t my problem. My problem was how to hot-wire a car when my right arm was broken. I’d been keeping it tucked against my side, but that wasn’t going to be enough for much longer. The pain was steadily getting worse and making me light-headed.

  “Do you know how to hot-wire a car?” I asked Warren hopefully, as we approached the truck.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “How about you, Jesse?”

  She looked up. “What?”

  “Do you know how to hot-wire a car?” I asked again, and she shook her head. She smelled of fear, and I thought of how she had clung to her father.

  “That guard tonight,” I said.

  She looked puzzled for a minute, then flushed and hunched her shoulders.

  “He’s not going to bother anyone ever again.”

  “He was the dead werewolf?” I couldn’t read the expression on her face. “That’s why you killed him?” She frowned suddenly. “That’s why Dad shot him like that. How did he know? He was unconscious—and you didn’t say anything to him.”

  “I didn’t need to,” I answered, and tried to explain that moment of perfect understanding, where a gesture had told Adam everything he needed to know. “He saw it in my face, I suppose.” I turned to Warren and handed him the .44 so I could do my best with the truck.

  Hot-wiring the truck with one hand took me longer than the keys would have, and the awkward position I had to take in order to strip the housing off the steering wheel and touch wires had me bumping my injured arm. But the engine roared to life at last—something bigger than the original powerhouse rumbled underneath its hood—and I realized my hearing had cleared up completely.

  “I’ve never heard you swear before,” said Jesse, sounding a little better. “At least not like that.”

  “Power words. Without which mechanics the world over would be lost.” Warren’s tone was light, but his hands were gentle as they helped me extract myself from the cab. He handed me my gun and, when I fumbled, took it back and made sure it was at half-cock before he handed it to me again.

  He opened the passenger door and helped Jesse inside and then held his hand out to me. I took a step toward him, then something attracted my attention.

  At first I thought it was a sound, but that was only because I was tired. It was magic. It wasn’t wolf magic or fae magic.

  And I remembered Elizaveta.

  Samuel knew about her, I told myself. But I knew that I couldn’t leave. None of the werewolves could feel her magic, not until it was too late, and Samuel might not know how important it was that Adam know that Elizaveta was working with Gerry.

  Elizaveta Arkadyevna Vyshnevetskaya was not just any witch. She was the most powerful witch in the Pacific Northwest.

  I had to warn Adam.

  “Get Jesse to your house,” I told him. “Feed her, make her drink gallons of orange juice, cover her with a blanket. But I have to stay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Bran brings the wolves out in the open, Adam’s witch on retainer loses her income.”

  “Elizaveta?”

  A gun went off, echoed by a second and third crack.

  “Get Jesse out of here, I have to warn Adam. Elizaveta’s here and she’s working on some sort of spell.”

  He gave me a grim look. “How do I turn off the truck?”

  Bless him. He wasn’t going to argue.

  “Just pull the wires apart.”

  There was gunfire from the other side of the warehouse, four shots. They sounded like they were coming from somewhere near the boarded-up house.

  “Be careful,” I told him. He kissed me on the forehead without touching my poor sore body, then hopped in the cab.

  I watched him back out, turn on the lights, and drive away. Jesse was safe.

  I’ve always been able to sense magic of all kinds, be it werewolf, witch, or fae—and I know that isn’t usual. Charles, when he found out, told me to keep it secret—in light of the vampire’s reaction to finding out what I was, I could see that there was more to Charles’s advice than I’d thought.

  From what Stefan had told me, I was somewhat immune to the vampire’s magic, but I wasn’t such a fool as to assume the same was true of witchcraft. Once I found her I had no idea what I was going to do with her—but I try not to worry about one impossible task until I’ve completed the first.

  Turning in a slow circle gave me a direction. The pulse of magic felt like a warm wind in my face. I took two steps toward it . . . and the spell drifted away into nothing. All I knew for sure was that Elizaveta was here, and she was somewhere in front of me. The best thing to do was to find Adam and warn him, so I walked back around the warehouse.

  Things had changed since I left. Adam, the red wolf still sitting at his feet, had only a handful of wolves with him. Shawn, David’s grandsons, and a couple of other humans I didn’t know, held guns on a group of men who were stretched out on the ground in a spread eagle.

  As I approached them, David and Darryl escorted another man out and sent him sprawling by the other men.

  “That’s all the humans, Sarge,” David said. “We left a couple dead in the house. But the wolves have scattered, and I couldn’t pick up Gerry’s trail, though, not even when I started from the last place I saw him. His scent just fades away.”

  “Adam,” I said.

  He turned to look at me and the red wolf suddenly leaped into the air as a shot rang out. It wasn’t a particularly loud shot; it sounded like a small caliber.

  “Get down!” barked David as he dropped to the ground. His men crouched, still holding their guns on their prisoners.

  The wolf beside Adam stood for just a moment longer, then collapsed, as if it had listened to David as well—but I could see the dart dangling on his side and knew he’d been hit by one of the tranquilizer guns.

  Adam didn’t drop. Instead he closed his eyes and canted his face upward. For a moment I wondered what he was doing, then I realized the light on his face came from the moon, which rose above us almost exactly half-full.

  Darryl, low to the ground, surged over the dist
ance between Adam and him. He stopped beside the downed wolf, jerked the dart out.

  “Ben’s okay,” Darryl said, raising his gun so he’d be ready to shoot as he scanned the darkness surrounding us.

  Ben was the red wolf. It had been Ben, the psycho-killer from London, who had saved us. Saved Adam twice.

  Another shot fired. Adam moved his hand and the dart fell to the ground to roll harmlessly against his feet. His eyes were still closed.

  “Sarge, Mercy,” hissed David. “Get down!”

  I realized then that I was still standing, too, leaning a little toward Adam as he called down the moon. I might have knelt then, if only because David told me to, but Adam threw back his head and howled, a wolf’s song rising from his human throat.

  For a moment the eerie sound rose, echoed, and died away into silence, but not an empty silence. More like the deadly quiet that precedes the start of the hunt. When he howled again, he was answered by every werewolf within hearing distance.

  I could feel a song surging into my throat, but like my wild brethren, I knew better than to sing with the wolves.

  When Adam called a third time, Darryl and David both dropped their weapons and began to change. The moon’s call sang through the trees and I could feel it catch the rest of the wolves and force them into their wolf form. I could hear cries of agony from those who fought it and groans from those who didn’t.

  Adam stood in the moonlight, which seemed somehow brighter than it had been moments ago. He opened his eyes and looked at the moon’s face. This time he used words.

  “Come,” he said.

  He didn’t speak loudly, but somehow his voice, like his song, spread through the abandoned tree-farm like a roll of thunder, powerful and unavoidable. And the wolves came.

  They came by ones or twos. Some came with joyful dancing steps, others with feet dragging and tails low. Some were still changing, their bodies stretched and hunched unnaturally.

  The warehouse door banged open and a man staggered out, one hand clutched to his chest. It was the guard Shawn had shot. Too weak to change, he still answered the power of Adam’s call.