Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly

by Patricia Briggs

  The corner of his mouth kicked up, and I could have bitten off my tongue when I realized I’d just let him know that I was keeping track of his movements. “My schedule changed. I was supposed to fly out to Los Angeles a few hours ago. D.C. was last week and next week.”

  “So why are you still here?”

  The amusement left his face and his eyes narrowed as he said curtly. “My ex-wife decided she is in love again. She and her new boyfriend headed off to Italy for an indefinite period. When I called, Jesse had already been alone for three days.” Jesse was his fifteen-year-old daughter who had been living with her mother in Eugene for the summer. “I bought her a plane ticket and she should be here in a couple of hours. I told Bran I’m off duty. He’ll have to shuffle politicians on his own for a while.”

  “Poor Jesse,” I said. Jesse was one of the reasons I’d always respected Adam, even when he frustrated me the most. He’d never let anything, not business, not the pack, come before his daughter.

  “So I’ll be around for a while.” It wasn’t the words, it was the way he looked at me when he said them that forced me back a step. I hate it when that happens.

  I decided to change the subject. “Good. Darryl’s a great guy, but he’s pretty hard on Warren when you aren’t around.”

  Darryl was Adam’s second and Warren his third. In most packs the two ranks were so close that there was always some tension between the wolves who held them, especially without the Alpha around. Warren’s sexual preferences made the tension even worse.

  Being different among humans is hard. Being different among wolves is usually deadly. There aren’t very many homosexual werewolves who survive for long. Warren was tough, self-reliant and Adam’s best friend. The combination was enough to keep him alive but not always comfortable in the pack.

  “I know,” Adam said.

  “It would help if Darryl weren’t so cute,” Samuel said casually as he crossed the living room to stand beside Adam.

  Technically, he should have stood behind him, since Adam was the Alpha, and Samuel was a lone wolf, outside the pack hierarchy. But Samuel wasn’t just any lone wolf, he was the Marrok’s son and more dominant even than Adam if he’d wanted to push matters.

  “I dare you to say that to Darryl,” I challenged.

  “Don’t.” Adam smiled, but his voice was serious. Though he spoke to Samuel, he’d never looked away from me. To me he said, “Samuel says you’re going to need an escort to the vampire seethe sometime in the near future. Call me and I’ll find someone to go with you.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  He touched my sore cheek with a light finger. “I’d do it myself, but I don’t think it would be wise.”

  I agreed with him wholeheartedly. A werewolf escort would serve both as a bodyguard and a statement that I wasn’t without friends. The Alpha’s escort would turn it into a power play between him and the vampires’ leaders with Stefan caught in the middle.

  “I know,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I couldn’t stay in that room with both men one more minute. Even a human woman could have drowned in the testosterone in the air, it was so strong. If I didn’t leave, they were going to start fighting—I hadn’t missed the way Samuel’s eyes had whitened when Adam touched my cheek.

  Then there was the need I had to bury my nose in Adam’s neck and inhale the exotic scent of his skin. I looked away from him and found myself gazing into Samuel’s white eyes. He was so close to turning that the distinctive black ring around the outside of his pupils was clearly visible. It should have scared me.

  Samuel’s nostrils flared—I smelled it, too. Arousal.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, properly panicked.

  I gave them a hasty wave as I scuttled out of the house, hastily pulling the door shut behind me. The relief of having a door between me and both men was intense. I was breathing hard, as if I’d run a race, adrenaline pushing the pain of the sorcerer’s attack away. I took a deep breath of the morning air, trying to clear my lungs of werewolf, before heading out to my car.

  I opened the Rabbit’s door and the sudden smell of blood made me step abruptly back. The car had been parked where I always left it: I’d forgotten that Stefan must have used it to bring me back home. There were stains on both front seat covers—both of us must have been pretty bloody. But the most impressive thing was the fist-shaped dent on my dash, just above the radio.

  Stefan had been upset.

  I pulled into my garage and parked at the far end of the lot next to Zee’s old truck. Never trust a mechanic who drives new cars. They’re either charging too much money for their work, or they can’t keep an old car running—maybe both.

  VWs are good cars. They used to be cheap good cars; now they’re expensive good cars. But every make has a few lemons. VW had the Thing (which at least looked cool), the Fox, and the Rabbit. I figured in another couple of years, my Rabbit would be the only one still running in the greater Tri-Cities.

  I let the Rabbit idle for a moment and debated going in. I’d stopped at the nearest auto-parts store and picked up seat covers to replace the ones I’d had to throw away. Judging from the sick looks I’d gotten from the clerk, my battered face wasn’t going to be drumming up business for me anytime soon.

  But there were four cars parked in the lot, which meant we were busy. If I stayed in the garage, no one would see my face.

  I got out of the car, slowly. The dry heat of late morning wrapped around me and I closed my eyes for a moment to enjoy it.

  “Good morning, Mercedes,” said a sweet old voice. “Beautiful day.”

  I opened my eyes and smiled. “Yes, Mrs. Hanna, it is.”

  The Tri-Cities, unlike Portland and Seattle, doesn’t have much of a permanent homeless population. Our temperatures get up well over a hundred in the summers and below zero in the winters, so most of our homeless people are only traveling through.

  Mrs. Hanna looked homeless, with her battered shopping cart full of plastic bags of cans and other useful items, but someone once told me she lived in a small trailer in the park by the river and had taught piano lessons until her arthritis made it impossible. After that she walked the streets of downtown Kennewick collecting aluminum cans and selling pictures she colored out of coloring books so she could buy food for her cats.

  Her white-gray hair was braided and tucked under the battered old baseball cap that kept the sun out of her face. She wore a woolen A-line skirt with bobby socks and tennis shoes, a size too large. Her T-shirt celebrated some long past Spokane Lilac Festival, and its lavender color was an interesting contrast to the black and red plaid flannel shirt that hung loosely over her shoulders.

  Age had bent her over until she was barely as tall as the cart she pushed. Her tanned, big-knuckled hands sported chipped red nail polish that matched her lipstick. She smelled of roses and her cats.

  She frowned at me and squinted. “Boys don’t want girls who have more muscles than they do, Mercedes. Boys like girls who can dance and play piano. Mr. Hanna, God rest his soul, used to tell me that I floated over a dance floor.”

  This was an old argument. She’d grown up in a time when the only proper place for a woman was next to her man.

  “It wasn’t the karate this time,” I told her, touching my face lightly.

  “Put some frozen peas on that, dear,” she said. “That’ll keep the swelling down.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She nodded her head briskly and set off down the road, her cart squeaking. It was too hot for flannel and wool, but then it had been a cool spring evening when she’d died a few months ago.

  Most ghosts fade after a while, so probably in a few months we wouldn’t be able to converse anymore. I don’t know why she came by to talk to me, maybe she was still worried about my unmarried state.

  I was still smiling when I walked into the office.

  Gabriel, my part-time tool rustler/receptionist was working full time in the summer. He looked up when I walked i
n and took a startled double take.

  “Karate,” I lied, inspired by Mrs. Hanna’s assumption, and saw him relax.

  He was a good kid and as human as it got. He knew that Zee was fae, of course, because Zee had been forced to come out a few years ago by the Gray Lords who rule the fae (like the werewolves, the fae had come out a little at a time to avoid alarming the public).

  Gabriel knew about Adam because that was also a matter of public record. I had no intention of opening his eyes further, though—it was too dangerous. So no stories of vampires or sorcerers for him if I could manage it—especially since there were a few customers around.

  “Geez,” he said. “I hope the other guy looks worse.”

  I shook my head. “Stupid white belt.”

  There were a couple of men sitting on the battered-but-comfortable chairs in the corner of the office. At my words, one of them leaned forward and said, “I’d rather fight a dozen black belts at the same time than one white belt.”

  He was so well-groomed that he was handsome, despite a nose that was a little too broad and deep set eyes.

  I brightened my smile like any good businesswomen, and said, “Me, too,” with feeling.

  “I’m guessing you’d be Mercedes Thompson?” he asked, coming to his feet and walking up to the counter with his hand outstretched.

  “That’s right,” I took his hand, and he shook mine with a firm grip that would have done credit to a politician.

  “Tom Black.” He smiled, showing pearly white teeth. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Mercedes the Volkswagen mechanic.”

  Like I hadn’t heard that one before. Still, he didn’t sound obnoxious, just mildly flirtatious.

  “Nice to meet you.” I wasn’t interested in flirtation so I turned my attention back to Gabriel. “Any problems this morning?”

  He smiled. “With Zee here? Listen, Mercy, my mother asked me to ask if you want the girls here this weekend to clean again.”

  Gabriel had a generous handful of siblings, all girls—the youngest in preschool and the oldest just entering high school—and all supported by their widowed mother who worked as a dispatcher for the Kennewick Police Department, not a high paying career. The two oldest girls had been coming in on a semi-regular basis and cleaning the office. They did a good job, too. I hadn’t realized that the film on my front window had been grease—I thought Zee had had some sort of treatment done to it to block out the sun.

  “Sounds fine to me,” I told him. “If I’m not here, they can use your key.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Good. I’m going to head into the garage and stay out of sight today—don’t want to scare away customers.”

  I gave Tom Black a brisk nod, that was friendly but aloof. Then stopped to say a few words to the other man who was waiting. He was an old customer who liked to chat. Then I slipped into the garage before someone new could come in.

  I found Zee lying on his back under a car, so all I could see of him was from the belly down.

  Siebold Adelbertsmiter, my former boss, is an old fae, a metalworker, which is unusual for the fae who mostly can’t handle cold iron. He calls himself a gremlin, though he is a lot older than the name, coined by flyboys in WWI. I have a degree in history, so I know useless things like that.

  He looked like a fiftyish, thinish (with a little potbelly), grumpy man. Only the grumpy part was true. Thanks to glamour, a fae can look like anyone they want to. Glamour is the thing that makes something a fae—as opposed to, say, a witch or werewolf.

  “Hey, Zee,” I said when he showed no sign of noticing my presence. “Thanks for coming out this morning.”

  He rolled himself out from under the car and frowned deeply at me. “You need to stay away from the vampires, Mercedes Athena Thompson.” Like my mother, he only used my full name when he was angry with me. I’d never tell him, but I’ve always kind of liked the way it sounds when pronounced with a German accent.

  He took in my face in a single glance and continued. “You should be home sleeping. What is the use of having a man in the house, if he cannot take care of you for a while?”

  “Mmm,” I said. “I give up. What’s the use of having a man in the house?”

  He didn’t smile, but I was used to that.

  “Anyway,” I continued briskly, though I kept my voice down so the people in the office couldn’t hear anything. “There are two werewolves and a dead vampire in my house and I thought it was full enough to do without me for a while.”

  “You killed a vampire?” He gave me a look of respect—which was pretty impressive since he was still lying on his back on the creeper.

  “Nope. The sun did. But Stefan should recover in time to face Marsilia tonight.”

  At least I was assuming it would be tonight. I didn’t know much about the vampires, but the werewolves’ trials tend to convene on the spot rather than six months after a crime. They are also over in a matter of hours, sometimes minutes, rather than months. Can’t convince your pack Alpha you are less trouble to him alive than dead? Too bad. Pack law, necessarily brutal, was one of those nasty things that Bran was keeping under wraps for a while.

  “Samuel told me you are going to be at a trial for the vampire.”

  “He called you,” I said, outraged. “What did he do? Ask you to call him when I got here safely?”

  Zee smiled at me for the first time and got out his cell phone. With oil-stained fingers he punched in my number. “She’s here,” he said. “Made it fine.”

  He hung up without waiting for a reply and widened his smile further as he dialed another number. I knew that one, too. But in case I’d missed it, he used names. “Hello, Adam,” he said. “She’s here.” He listened for a moment; I did too, but he must have had the volume turned down low because all I could hear was the rumble of a male voice. Zee’s smile turned into a malevolent grin. He looked at me and said, “Adam wants to know what took you so long?”

  I started to roll my eyes, but it made the sore half of my face hurt worse so I stopped. “Tell him I had wild, passionate sex with a complete stranger.”

  I didn’t stick around to hear if Zee passed my message on or not. I snatched my coveralls off their hook, and stalked into the bathroom.

  Werewolves are control freaks, I reminded myself as I dressed for work. Being control freaks keeps them in charge of their wolf—which is a good thing. If I didn’t like the side effects, I shouldn’t hang out with werewolves. Which I wouldn’t be doing if I didn’t have one living with me and another living on the other side of my back fence.

  Alone in the bathroom though, I could admit to myself that even though I was really, really angry…I’d have been disappointed if they hadn’t checked up on me. How’s that for illogical?

  When I came out, Zee gave me the next repair job. I may have bought the business from him, but when we worked together, he still gave the orders. Part of it was habit, I suppose, but a larger part of it was that, though I am a good mechanic, Zee is magic. Literally and figuratively.

  If it weren’t for his tendency to get bored with easy stuff, he’d never have hired me. Then I’d have had to take my liberal arts degree and gotten a job at McDonald’s or Burger King like all the rest of the history majors.

  We worked companionably in silence for a while until I ran into a job that required four hands rather than two.

  While I turned the rachet, Zee, who was holding a part in place for me, said, “I took a peek under that cover”—he nodded toward the corner of the shop where my latest restoration project lay in wait.

  “Pretty, isn’t she?” I said. “Or at least she will be when I get her fixed up.” She was a 1968 Karmann Ghia in almost pristine condition.

  “Are you going to restore it or make a street rod?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Her paint is still the original and there’s only a little cracking on the hood. I hate to mess with it unless I have to. If I can get her running well with original parts and Kim can stitch up
the seats, I’ll leave it at that.”

  There are three groups of old car enthusiasts: people who think a car should be left as much original as possible; the ones who restore it better than factory; and the people who gut them and replace the brakes, engine, and suspension with more modern equipment. Zee is firmly in the latter group.

  He is not sentimental—if something works better, that’s what you should use. I suppose forty or fifty years doesn’t mean the same thing to him as it does to the rest of us—one person’s antique is another’s rusting hulk.

  Since a good part of my income comes from restoring rusting hulks, I’m not picky. I have a partnership with an upholstery genius, Kim, and a painter who also likes to drive around and show the cars so we can sell them. After deducting the actual material cost of the restore and the shows, we split the profits according to hours spent on the project.

  “Air-cooled takes a lot of upkeep,” Zee said.

  “Someone who wants an original condition Ghia won’t care about that,” I told him. He grunted, unconvinced, and went back to his job.

  Gabriel took my Rabbit out to get sandwiches, then sat in the garage to eat with us. I uncovered the Ghia, and the three of us ate and debated the best thing to do with the car until it was time to go back to work.

  “Zee,” I asked as he raised a Passat in the air to take a look at the exhaust.

  He grunted as he tapped with his index finger the exhaust pipe where it was badly dented, just in front of the first muffler.

  “What do you know about sorcerers?”

  He stopped his tapping and sighed. “Old gremlins go out of their way to stay away from demon-hosts, and it’s been a while since humans believed enough in the Devil to sell their souls to him.”

  I got a little light-headed. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in evil—quite the opposite. I’ve had ample proof of God, so I accepted that His opponent exists, too. I just didn’t particularly want to know that someone who made a deal with Satan was lurking ten miles from my home killing hotel maids.

  “I thought it was a just a demon,” I said faintly.