I felt sorry for his daughter—and for him. Sorrier still because finding an Alpha who wouldn’t abuse her might be the least of his problems if she hadn’t managed to control her wolf yet. Wolves who are out of control are killed by their Alpha so they don’t hurt anyone else.
I didn’t want to give Adam responsibility for a young girl’s death.
“There may be someone closer to where you live,” I said. “Let me make a phone call.”
“No,” said Black, taking two steps back. He might not be a werewolf, but he was fast. I never noticed the gun until it was in his hands. “It’s loaded with silver,” he said, the spike of fear I felt from him made me want to pat him on the back and tell him it would be all right—or it would if he didn’t shoot me and Honey didn’t kill him.
I don’t think he was used to combat situations, because he ignored Honey and kept the gun on me.
“He’s not going to shoot anyone, Honey,” I told her as she started to move. “It’s all right, Mr. Black, I won’t mention your name. Has your contact told you anything about the Marrok?”
He shook his head.
Honey waited, her eyes locked on his gun.
“Okay. The Marrok is like, the Alpha of all the Alphas.” That there was a head werewolf was kind of an open secret. Everyone knew that there was someone pulling the werewolves’ strings, and there was a lot of speculation about who it might be. So I hadn’t given away any great secret.
Bran wasn’t out to the public—if things went badly, he wanted to make sure that the sanctuary he’d established in Montana remained a safe haven. Even if he had been out, no one would think that he was the Marrok. Being unremarkable was one of Bran’s favorite talents and he was good at it.
“He’ll know which Alphas will take care of your daughter, and which ones to stay away from better than any lone wolf could. It’s his job to take care of the werewolves, Mr. Black, to make sure the ones like your daughter are safe.”
And to make sure the ones who were not able to control their wolfish side were killed quickly and painlessly before they started killing people, people like their parents and families.
“All right,” he said, at last. “Call him. But if you say something I don’t like, I’ll kill you.”
I believed him; he had the look of a man with his back to the wall. Honey eased closer, close enough that she’d probably be able to stop him before he pulled the trigger. Probably. If she wanted to badly enough.
I took out my cell phone and placed the call.
“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.
Damn. Bran’s wife didn’t like me. Not like Honey disliked me, but the I’ll-kill-you-if-I-get-a-chance kind of not like. She’d tried it a couple of times. She was the reason I always called Bran’s cell phone and not his home number.
“This is Mercedes,” I said. “I’m calling on official business. I need to talk to your husband.” I heard Bran’s voice, but he was speaking too low for me to hear anything except the command in his tone. There were a few clicks and unidentifiable noises and then Bran came on the line.
“How can I help you?” he asked sounding calm, though I could hear his mate’s bitter voice in the background.
Briefly, I explained the situation to him. I didn’t tell him that I was worried about a wolf who couldn’t control herself after three years, but he must have heard it in my voice because he interrupted me.
“It’s all right, Mercy. A child chained in the basement doesn’t learn control because it is not expected of her. With a little help she might be fine. Any child who survives a werewolf attack before adolescence has willpower to spare. Where does he live?”
I relayed Bran’s question.
Black shook his head. He still had his gun out, pointed at me.
I gave an exaggerated sigh. “No one intends your daughter harm.”
“Fine,” said Bran’s voice in my ear. “Roughly three years ago? A rogue werewolf killed by a lone wolf. There were two incidents that might fit, but only one of the lone wolves would take it upon himself to help a girl. Tell your gentleman that he’s from somewhere near Washington D.C., probably in Virginia, and his werewolf friend is Josef Riddlesback.”
“Not a good idea,” I told Bran as I looked Black in the eyes. It was hard to blame him for the gun when I could read the fear in his face. “He’s worried about his daughter. She’s thirteen and he doesn’t want her hurt.” I had to use the tone of my voice to convey just how worried Black was. Much too worried to amaze him with Bran’s powers of deduction.
“I see. A little paranoid is he?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
There was a short pause, then Bran said, “Do you have a sheet of paper handy?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Josef is right, neither of the pack leaders in that area are the sort I’d trust with a child. I’m going to give you the names of the pack leaders who would be safe with a child. Leaders who would not mind a reporter knowing who they are. It is very short, and none of them are anywhere near Virginia. There are others. Do you believe his story?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then I’ll also give you places where the Alphas have not come out to the public and don’t want to do so, but who would take care of a young girl. If he wants to chance it, he could go there and see if the Alpha would meet with him.”
I wrote down the names he told me, four men, including Adam, complete with phone numbers. Then I wrote down fifteen towns. Nineteen Alphas out of maybe a hundred and fifty that Bran thought could be trusted to help a child without abusing her.
It made me acknowledge just how lucky I was that the werewolf relative my mother went to for help once she realized I could turn into a coyote belonged to the Marrok and not to some other pack.
“You can send them to me, too,” he said, when he was done.
“But—” I bit my tongue. I wasn’t going to tell a reporter that the Marrok was one of the wolves who wasn’t out yet.
“I trust your judgement, Mercy—and I’ve raised a few strays before.” Like me.
“I know.”
He must have heard the gratitude in my voice, because I heard the smile in his. “One or two, anyway, Mercy. Tell your gentleman that he needs to find someone to help as soon as possible. Unless he uses silver, which will hurt her, I doubt he’ll be able to keep her in his cage forever. Not to mention that she doesn’t need the moon to change. Some day she’s going to be hurt or startled into changing and then she’ll kill someone.” Bran hung up.
I gave Tom Black the list and explained what it meant. Then I gave him Bran’s warning. As the words sank in, he lowered his gun, but I don’t think it was on purpose. It was more as though he was sunk in despair and nothing mattered anymore.
“Listen,” I told him. “There’s nothing you can do about her being a werewolf—”
“She tried to commit suicide,” he told me, tears welling in his eyes. “The day after the full moon. She’s worried she will hurt someone. She used a knife on her wrist, but the cuts kept healing too fast. I’d take her to a damned shrink, but I don’t want to risk telling anyone what she is. She already thinks she’s a monster, she doesn’t need anyone else telling her so.”
I saw Honey’s eyes widen, when he said that bit about being a monster. From the expression on her face, she thought she was a monster, too.
I frowned at her. I didn’t want to have sympathy for Honey—it was so much easier to dislike her. She frowned back.
“Put the gun away,” I told Black in the firm voice that sometimes worked on werewolves. I guess it worked on grieving fathers, too, because he slipped the pistol back in his shoulder holster.
“She doesn’t need a shrink,” I told him. “Every thirteen year old girl wants to kill themselves at some point or other.”
I remembered being thirteen. When I was fourteen my foster father had killed himself, and that permanently removed the impulse. I’d never do that to people I cared about.
�
�I expect getting locked in the basement once a month doesn’t help,” I continued. “The Marrok told me that there’s every reason to expect she’ll be able to control her wolf if you find an Alpha to guide her.”
He turned away and raised his hands to his face. When he turned back his tears were gone, though his eyes were moist. He took the piece of paper I’d written on, and, only after I handed it to him, the roll of money. “Thank you for your help.”
“Wait,” I said, glancing at Honey. “Mr. Black, that werewolf who talks to you, has he ever shown you his wolf?”
“No.”
“Has he shown your daughter?”
“We only saw him once, the night he brought her back to us. The night of the attack. He left a number where he could be reached.”
“So the only wolf you’ve seen is your daughter, chained and out of control in her cage—and the only wolf she’s ever seen is the one who attacked her?”
“That’s right.”
Honey was, if anything, more beautiful in her wolf form than she was in her human form. I looked at her. Wolves communicate very well without words; she understood what I asked her to do. She also very clearly didn’t understand why, though she wasn’t strictly opposed to it. Black had his own secrets; he wouldn’t tell anyone that Honey was a werewolf.
After a few moments of silent arguing while Black grew puzzled, I finally said, “Honey, as much as I hate to admit it, your wolf is glorious. No one would ever think you were a monster—any more than a Siberian tiger or a golden eagle is a monster.”
Her mouth opened and closed, then she glanced at Black. “All right,” she said in a curiously shy voice. “Can I borrow your bathroom?”
“It will take her a little time,” I told Black when she was gone. “Fifteen minutes or so—and she might wait a few minutes beyond that. Changing is painful and newly changed werewolves tend to be a little grumpy about it.”
“You know an awful lot about werewolves,” he said.
“I was raised by them,” I told him. I waited a moment or two, but he didn’t ask me why. I suppose he was more concerned with other matters right then.
“If I were you,” I told him. “I’d bring your daughter here to Adam.” Bran thought the girl might make it with a little help—that she wasn’t a hopeless case. Adam was very strong—and he had Samuel here, who was good with young wolves. Her chances in Adam’s pack were better than they would be anywhere else. “Adam has a big house because pack members and other wolves have the tendency to drop in on him without a moment’s notice. Big enough that you and your wife could stay for a while.” Adam would honor my invitation. I knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t even resent it. “With Adam around, your daughter wouldn’t have to be caged—and I think that she, and the rest of your family, would benefit from being around a pack of wolves for a while. They are dangerous and terrifying, but they can be beautiful, too.” Adam would keep his pack from scaring the humans.
“Josef—the werewolf I know—told me that there are benefits to being a werewolf. He said—” Black’s voice tightened and he had to stop for a moment. “He said that hunting was the best thing he’d every felt. The kill. The blood.”
Stupid werewolf, I thought. Heck of a thing to tell the parent of a thirteen-year-old girl, truthful or not.
“Werewolves heal incredibly fast,” I told him. “They are strong, graceful. She’ll never grow old. And the pack…I don’t know how to explain it to you, I’m not sure that I understand it myself, but a wolf with a good pack is never alone.”
I looked him straight in the eye and said, “She can be happy, Mr. Black. Safe and happy, and not a danger to herself or anyone else. It’s horrible that she was attacked and a miracle that she survived—I’ve never heard of a child that young surviving an attack. Being a werewolf is different, but it is not terrible.”
I smelled fur and turned to look at the doorway before Honey walked in. She was a small werewolf, about the height of a large German Shepherd though heavier in the body and leg. Her fur was a light fawn color with a darker undercoat and a silvery stripe down her back almost the same color as her crystal gray eyes.
A werewolf’s shoulder is articulated more like a tiger or bear than a wolf, giving them lateral motion and the ability to use their impressive claws. With some of the bigger males, the effect can be almost grotesque, but Honey fit together well. When she moved she looked gracile and strong, just not entirely canid.
I smiled at her—she wagged her tail and ducked her head. It took me a moment to realize why she did that. Since Adam had claimed me as his mate, I was higher in the pecking order than she was.
I didn’t remember any of the rest of Adam’s pack acting submissive to me, though. But then I didn’t usually run into Adam’s pack in wolf form—and in human form…well, theoretically their behavior should be the same. But some things were harder on a human mind than a wolf’s. I imagine they all had a hard time being submissive to a coyote, especially because they all knew I was Adam’s mate only as a courtesy.
I felt my smile widen though, as I thought about the havoc I could cause by insisting that they all treat me with proper pack etiquette. Wouldn’t work; I was actually surprised that Adam’s claim had worked well enough to keep some of them from bothering me, but it might be worth trying just to see Adam’s face.
Honey’s summer coat wasn’t as splendid as her winter one, but it revealed the play of muscle in a way her thicker fur would not have. She knew it, too, and found a square of sunlight to pose in.
Black took a step back as she approached, but, after that first step, he held his ground. Honey gave him time to adjust before she continued forward, sitting down within touching distance.
“She’s beautiful,” he said, his voice only a little tight. If I hadn’t been able to hear the speed of his pulse, I wouldn’t have known how scared he was. If he reacted this way to his daughter, it was no wonder she was having troubles.
Honey, though, had been a werewolf for a long time and her control was excellent. She gave no sign that he was able to detect how much the scent of his fear was exciting her, and after a few minutes his fear began to die down.
“My daughter could be like this?” he asked me, sounding more naked than a man should when surrounded by strangers.
I nodded my head.
“How soon?”
“On her own? That depends upon her. But in the presence of an Alpha, immediately.”
“No more cages,” he whispered.
I couldn’t let him think that. “Not metal ones,” I told him. “But once she is a member of the pack, she’ll fall out of your control and into the Alpha’s. That can be a cage of sorts, though a more comfortable cage.”
He took a deep, shaky breath. “Can she understand me?” he asked, nodding toward Honey.
“Yes, but she can’t talk.”
“All right.” He looked straight in her eyes, not realizing he was challenging her. I almost said something to him, but Honey didn’t seem to be bothered, so I let it go.
“If you had a daughter,” he asked her, “would you bring her here? Would you trust her to Hauptman?”
She smiled at him, not so widely as to display her sharp white teeth, and wagged her tail.
He looked at me. “If I bring her here, will he take her away from us?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer him. Adam wouldn’t see it that way, to him the wolves were all his family, but conveying that to someone who hadn’t be around a pack was difficult—and I’m not sure that a father would find it any better. How do you give up your child, even for their own good? That was a question I had never asked my mother.
“He’ll take her under his wing,” I said at last. “He’ll take responsibility for her welfare—and he will not lightly give up that responsibility. He’d never refuse to let you see her. If she is unhappy in Adam’s pack, there are other options, especially once she has control of herself.”
“She can become a lone wolf,” he said,
relaxing.
I shook my head. I wouldn’t lie to him. “No. They’d never let a female out on her own. There are too few of them, for one thing, and the males…are too protective to allow a female to fend for themselves. But she could request to change packs.”
The lines on his face deepened and he swore. Three times. Honey whined. She might have been sympathetic, or just protesting the foul language. I didn’t trust myself to predict Honey anymore.
“What are your alternatives?” I asked him. “If she kills someone, the wolves will have to hunt her down. How would she feel if she hurts you or her mother?”
He took out his cell phone and stared at it.
“Would you like me to call him for you?” I asked.
“No,” he said and riffled around in his pocket for the paper with Adam’s phone number on it. He stared at it for a moment, then almost whispered, “I’ll call him tonight.”
Chapter 7
“Hey, Mercy, what’cha workin’ on? Looks like a miniature Corvette.”
I looked up to see Tony, cop and old friend—usually in that order—leaning up against one of my work benches. Today he was dressed casually in a thin shirt and khaki shorts appropriate to the hot summer day. Tony looked a bit frayed around the edges. It had been a little over two weeks since the sorcerer had moved into town and, according to the local news, the crime rate had been skyrocketing.
“Good eye,” I told him. “It’s a ’71 Opel GT, designed by the same guy who designed the Corvette. Friend of mine bought it from some guy who replaced its wussy original engine with a Honda engine.”
“He didn’t do it right?”
“He did it fine. Excellent job of refitting it, as a matter of fact. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.” I grinned at him. “Only problem is that a Honda engine turns to the right and the Opel was designed for a lefty.”
Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly Page 42