“I had no choice,” he snapped at me.
I stared at him without the foggiest notion what he was talking about.
My doubtlessly stupid look seemed to enrage him further. “This will keep Paul from ambushing him. It has to be a real challenge, in front of witnesses.”
“I know,” I told him. Did he think I was stupid?
Adam watched me for a few seconds then turned away and began to pace rapidly back and forth across the room. When he stopped, he faced me again and said, “Warren has more control of his wolf than any of my others, and Ben, despite his attitude is nearly as good. They were the best of my wolves to send after the sorcerer.”
“Did I ever say differently?” I snapped. The painting had distracted me—but Adam reminded me that I was trying to be angry with him. Happily that wasn’t difficult.
“You’re angry with me,” he said.
“You’re yelling at me,” I told him. “Of course I’m mad.”
He waved his hands impatiently. “I don’t mean now. I mean earlier in Warren’s room.”
“I was angry with the stupid wolf who came in to challenge Warren as soon as he was lying on his back.” which reminded me of how Adam had scared me when he’d used the Alpha thing to calm me down. But I wasn’t up to talking about that yet. “I wasn’t mad at you until you grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of the room to yell at me.”
“Damn it,” he said. “Sorry.” He looked at me and then looked away. Robbed of his defensive anger, he looked tired and worried.
“Warren and Ben are not your fault,” I told him. “They both volunteered.”
“They wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t allowed it. I knew it was dangerous,” he snarled, the anger back as quickly as it had gone.
“Do you think that you are the only one entitled to feel guilty about Warren—and about Ben?”
“You didn’t send them out,” he said. “I did.”
“The only reason they knew about the sorcerer was because of me,” I said. Then because I could see that he really felt guilty I told him my own worse deed. “I prayed that they would catch the sorcerer.”
He looked at me incredulously, then laughed, a harsh and bitter sound. “You think that praying makes you responsible for Warren’s condition?”
He didn’t believe. I don’t know why it shocked me so. I knew a lot of people who didn’t believe in God, any God. But all the werewolves I’d grown up with were believers. Adam looked at my face and laughed again at the expression.
“You are such an innocent,” he said in a low angry purr. “I learned a long time ago that God is a myth. I prayed every hour for six months in a stinking foreign swamp before I opened my eyes—and a crazy werewolf finished teaching me that there is no God.” His eyes lightened from warm brown to cool yellow as he spoke. “I don’t know. Maybe there is. If so, He’s a sadist who watches His children shoot at each other and blow themselves up without doing something.”
He was pretty wound up because he wasn’t even making sense—–and Adam usually made sense even when he was shouting at the top of his lungs. He knew it too, because he turned abruptly and strode over to the big picture window that looked out over the Columbia.
The river was nearly a mile wide just here. Sometimes, when it was stormy, the water could appear nearly black, but today the sun turned it a glittery, bright blue.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, sounding calmer.
The other window looked out over my place. I was gratified to see that the partially dissected Rabbit was framed in the center of his view.
“Mercy.”
I just kept looking out the window. Lying would be pointless and telling the truth would lead to the next question, which I didn’t want to answer.
“Why?” He asked it anyway.
I glanced over my shoulder, but he was still looking out the other window. I turned around and hitched a hip on the window sill. He knew why. I’d seen it in his eyes when I walked away from the garage. And if he didn’t know…well, I wasn’t going to explain it to him.
“I don’t know,” I said finally.
He spun around and looked at me, as if spotting unexpected prey, his eyes still hunter’s yellow. I’d been wrong. Lying was worse than pointless.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “Why?”
I rubbed my face. “Look, I’m just not up to your fighting weight tonight. Can it wait until Warren is out of danger?”
He watched me out of narrowed amber eyes, but at least he didn’t prod any more.
Desperate to change the subject, I said, “Did the reporter get in touch with you? The one with the daughter.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep, lingering breath. When he opened his eyes again they were the color of a good chocolate bar. “Yes, and thank you for dropping that one on me without warning. He thought you had already called me: it took us both a while to realize I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.”
“So are they coming here?”
Adam waved his hand toward Warren’s room, “When there is something that can do that to one of my wolves here? They were supposed to come here. I’ll have to call him and tell him it’s not advisable. I don’t know who to send them to, though. There’s not an Alpha I know that I’d trust to watch over my daughter—and his is even younger than Jesse.”
“Send him to Bran,” I suggested. “Bran said he’s raised a few strays in his time.”
Adam gave me an assessing look. “You’d trust the Marrok with a child?”
“He didn’t hurt me,” I said. “And a lot of Alphas would have.”
Adam grinned suddenly. “And that’s saying something. Did you really run his Lamborghini into a tree?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said hotly. “A lot of Alphas would have killed a coyote pup thrust upon them.”
I strode across the room to the door. I stopped there.
“It was a Porsche,” I said with dignity. “And the road was covered with ice. If it was Samuel who told you about it, I hope he told you he was the one who egged me into taking the car out in the first place. I’m going back to see how Warren is.”
Adam was laughing quietly as I shut the door behind me.
I drove home alone a few hours later. Samuel was staying all night to make sure nothing went wrong—at least nothing more wrong than it already had. Kyle was staying as well: I was pretty sure it would have taken more than a pack of werewolves to get him out of that room.
There was nothing I could do for Warren, or for Stefan. Or Ben. Why couldn’t the people I cared about just need someone to fix their cars? I could do that. And when had I started worrying about Ben? He was a rat bastard.
But the sick feeling in my stomach was partly on his account, too. Damn it. Damn it all.
There were two phone messages waiting for me when I got home. One from my mother and the other from Gabriel. I returned Gabriel’s call and told him that Warren had been badly hurt, but should be fine. My mother I couldn’t face. Not without crying, and I didn’t intend to cry until I found out for certain what had happened.
I ate ramen noodles for dinner and fed most of it to Medea who purred as she licked the broth. I cleaned up my meal, then vacuumed and dusted. You can tell the shape of my life by how clean my house is. When I’m upset I cook, or I clean. I couldn’t eat anything more, so I cleaned.
I turned the vacuum off to move the couch and realized that the phone had been ringing. Had something else gone wrong?
I picked up the receiver and hit TALK. “Thompson residence.”
“Mercedes Thompson, the Mistress would like to speak with you.” The voice was urbane and female, a secretary’s voice. I looked out the window and saw that the sun was setting, bathing the Horse Heaven Hills in brilliant orange light.
All the frustrated anger I’d been working off returned with a vengeance. If Stefan’s mistress had sent out all of her minions after the sorcerer, instead of playing petty power games, Warren wouldn’t be f
ighting for his life.
“I’m sorry,” I said insincerely. “Please inform your mistress that I am not interested in visiting with her.” I hung up the phone. When it rang again, I turned off the ringer and pulled the cushions off the couch so I could clean underneath them.
When my cell phone rang, I almost ignored it, too, because I didn’t recognize the number. But it might have been one of Adam’s pack calling, or Stefan.
“Hello?”
“Mercedes Thompson, I need you to help me find Stefan and kill this sorcerer,” said Marsilia.
I knew what I should do. If she’d said anything else I could have hung up on her, I would have done it, too, no matter how stupid hanging up on the Mistress of the vampire seethe would be. But she needed me, needed me to do something.
To kill the sorcerer.
But that was ridiculous—what could I do that two vampires and a pair of werewolves could not?
“Why me?”
“I’ll explain it to you face-to-face.”
She was good, I had to give her that much—if I hadn’t been listening for it, I don’t think I’d have heard the satisfaction in her voice.
Chapter 8
Though it was nearly midnight, the parking lot at Uncle Mike’s was full and I had to park in the warehouse’s lot next door. My little Rabbit wasn’t alone, but it looked worried among all the SUVs and trucks. I don’t know why the fae like big vehicles, but you never see one driving a Geo Metro.
There are several bars near the fae reservation in Walla Walla, about sixty miles up the highway, that claim to be fae hangouts to attract publicity. There was a new bar, not too far from my shop, that billed itself out as a werewolf den. But you won’t find Uncle Mike advertising for customers, nor will you find many humans there. If some stupid human, attracted by the number of cars in the lot, stops by, a subtle spell has him hurrying along his way. Uncle Mike’s is for the fae—though he tolerates most any kind of preternatural creature, as long as they don’t cause any problems.
I’d refused to go to the seethe without Stefan. Stubborn, I might be, but not stupid. I wouldn’t invite her to my house either—it’s much easier to invite evil in than it is to keep it out afterwards. I wasn’t even certain how you uninvited a vampire, beyond knowing that it was possible. So I’d suggested Uncle Mike’s as a neutral meeting place.
I’d expected it to be less crowded since it was a work night. Apparently Uncle Mike’s clientele wasn’t worried about getting up in the morning like I had to.
I opened the door and noise poured out like water over a dam. Caught by the sheer volume of sound, I hesitated—then a firm hand caught my breastbone and pushed me, sending me stumbling back outside. The door swung shut, leaving me alone in the parking lot with my assailant.
I took a second step back, putting space between us, wishing I’d brought a gun. Then I took a good look and relaxed. He was dressed in a lincoln green tunic and hose, looking not unlike one of Robin Hood’s Merry Men, the uniform of Uncle Mike’s staff.
He looked about sixteen, tall and thin with just a faint shadow of hair about his mouth that might be a moustache in a few years. His features were ordinary, neither too big nor too small, but not neatly arranged enough to be overtly attractive.
He made a little gesture at me and I smelled the sharp astringent scent of fae magic. Then he turned on his heel and started back to the door. He was a bouncer. Damn it all, this was the second time today someone tried to throw me out of someplace.
“I’m not human.” I told him impatiently, following behind him. “Uncle Mike doesn’t mind me coming here.” Not that Uncle Mike had taken much notice of me.
The boy hissed and turned to face me, anger darkening his features. He held his hands up between us and cupped them. This time the smell of magic was as strong as ammonia, clearing my sinuses. I gave a choked cough at the unexpected strength of the scent.
I don’t know what he intended to do to me because the door behind him opened again and Uncle Mike himself came out.
“Hsst now, Fergus, you’ll not be wanting to do that, do ya hear me? Put that out. Of all the…You know better than that.” Ireland lay thick as honey on his tongue and his voice worked its own kind of magic on the bouncer, who dropped his hands at the first word.
Uncle Mike looked like a tavern owner ought to. As if he’d reached into my mind and pulled out all the tavern owners in all the books and movies and stories I’d ever experienced, and then distilled them to produce the perfect caricature. His face was pleasing, but more charismatic than handsome. He was average in height with wide shoulders, thick arms, and short-fingered, powerful hands. His hair was reddish brown, but there were no freckles on his tanned face. His eyes, I knew, though the night robbed them of their color, were bright hazel and he turned their power on his hapless employee.
“Now, then, Fergus, you make yourself useful and tell Biddy she’s to guard the door for the rest of the night. Then you are to go to Cook and tell him I want you to stay busy until you remember that killing customers isn’t good for business.”
“Yes, sir.” Thoroughly cowed, the bouncer scuttled through the door and disappeared inside. I might have felt sorry for him, if it hadn’t been for the “killing customers” part.
“Now then,” Uncle Mike said, turning to me. “You’ll have to excuse my help. That demon is raising all sorts of havoc for us here, keeping tempers at a killing edge as you have seen. I’m thinkin’ that it might not be the best night for one of your kind to join us in revelry.”
It was more polite than a death curse perhaps, but even more effective at keeping me out. Damn it.
I swallowed my growl and tried to keep my voice as polite as his. “If I am not welcome, would you have someone find Marsilia and tell her to meet me out here?”
His face went blank with surprise. “And what are you doing meeting the Vampire queen? You play in waters much too deep to swim in for long, little girl.”
I think it was the “little girl” that did it. Or maybe it was the shift in wind that brought the smell of garbage, wolf, and blood to my nose as well as the distinct scent that was Warren’s alone—reminding me that he had been dumped here, bleeding and dying only hours ago.
“Maybe if the fae would stir their asses once in a while, I could stay in shallow water,” I said, all attempts at politeness gone. “I know the old stories. I know you have power, damn it all. Why are you all just sitting around and watching the sorcerer kill people?” I was trying not to include Stefan among the dead, but part of me was already in mourning—it added a reckless edge to my tongue. “I suppose if you are afraid it might put you ‘on a killing edge,’ it makes better sense to wait it out.” Warren could have done that, too. Then he’d be safe at home instead of bleeding in Adam’s guest bedroom. “Especially since it is a vampire matter. The people who die along the way are merely effluvia and nothing to be concerned about.”
He smiled, just a little, and it flamed my temper higher.
“Fine, smile away. I suppose you’ve killed your share. Well, this affects you, too. The humans aren’t stupid, they know this is something out of the ordinary, something evil—and the only people they know who might do this are yours.”
He was grinning now, but he held up a staying hand. “Sorry, love. It’s just the image. One doesn’t think of mechanics using words like effluvia, does one?”
I stared at him. Maybe there was something about being old, and I suspected Uncle Mike was very old, that gave him a different perspective, but…
“I’m sorry,” I said, and even I could hear that my voice was thick with rage. “I’ll try to keep to commonly used, very small words when discussing something that has a body count of what…” I tried to add it up in my head, though I was foiled somewhat because I didn’t know how many people had died while Daniel had been under the sorcerer’s control. “Fifteen?”
The smile left his face altogether, and he stopped looking like a tavern owner. “More like forty, I think
, though I doubt not there are more we’ve yet to find. Not all of them here in the three cities, either. Demons deal in death and rot. Nothing to smile at, nor to let pass. My apologies,” he bowed, a jerky motion that was over so quickly I couldn’t be absolutely certain I’d really seen it. “I was amused as much at myself as at your use of the language. Even after all this time, I keep forgetting that heroes can be found in unlikely places and persons—like mechanics who can turn into coyotes.” He stared at me a minute and a sly smile slid into his eyes, nothing like the expressions he usually had on his face.
“So, as you have the right, being a hero about to throw yourself on a grenade for the rest of us, I’ll tell you why we’re not bestirring ourselves against it.” He nodded his head toward the tavern. “We fae are holding to survival by our fingertips, Mercedes Thompson. We are dying faster than we are reproducing, even counting our half bloods. It started the first time a human forged a cold-iron blade, but bullet lead kills us just as quickly as steel ever did—gremlins like Siebold Adelbertsmiter being the exception among us.”
He paused, but I waited. I knew all of this, as did anyone who cared to turn on the TV or read a newspaper.
“There are beings of power here,” he said. “Beings who would scare the human population into launching a genocidal wave that would wipe every fae off the face of the earth if they knew of them. If the sorcerer turns its attention to us, makes one of us kill humans in front of cameras—which it can do—there will be no more fae.”
“The werewolves are under the same constraints,” I said. “It hasn’t stopped Adam. He could have left it all to the vampires. I bet that there are four people in that bar right now that could destroy this monster before it even knew they were looking for him.”
He clenched his fists and turned away, but not before I saw something else on his face, something hungry. “No. You underestimate its power, Mercedes. Most of us have no more resistance to vampiric powers than any human—nor are there many souls pure enough to resist the demon. You don’t want it controlling one of us.” He swung back to me, and he looked just as he always had, that instant of something more was gone as if it had never been.
Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly Page 45