Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly
Page 89
“Can’t. My cell phone’s still dead.”
Warren threw back his head and howled.
“That won’t work,” the intruder whispered. I cocked my head. The voice was different, bigger and had a distinct Scots accent. It was Fideal, but I couldn’t tell where he was. “No one can hear you, wolf. She is my prey and so are you.”
Warren shook his head at me; he couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from either.
I heard a pop and saw a spark out of the corner of my eye just before the lights went out.
“Damn it,” I growled. “I cannot afford an electrician.”
I don’t have windows in my pole barn, but it was still bright afternoon and the light leaked in around the RV-sized garage doors. I could still see just fine, but there were a lot more shadows for Fideal to hide in.
“Why are you here?” Warren growled. “She is safe from your kind now. Ask your precious Gray Lords.”
Fideal emerged from hiding to hit him. For a moment I saw him, a darker form vaguely horse shaped, the size of a large donkey. His front hooves connected with Warren’s chest, knocking him off his feet.
I hit the fae with the walking stick and it throbbed in my hands like a cattle prod. Fideal bugled like a stallion, twisted away from the stick’s touch, and vanished into the shadows again.
Warren used the distraction to regain his feet. “I’m fine, Mercy. Get out of the way.”
I couldn’t see Fideal, but Warren held the digging bar like a baseball bat, took two steps to his right, then swung and connected with something.
Warren could perceive the Fideal, but I still couldn’t. He was right—I needed to get out of the way before I blundered and got Warren hurt.
I put the Rabbit between me and the fight and then started looking around for something that would be a better weapon against the fae.
There were lots of aluminum fencing supplies and old copper pipes for plumbing. All my pry bars and good steel tools were on the other side of the garage.
Fideal shrieked, a nasty ear-splitting sound that echoed wildly. It was followed by a ringing clank, like a digging bar being flung across a cement floor.
Then there was no sound at all and Warren lay unmoving on the floor.
“Warren?”
Not even the sound of breathing. I ran across the garage to stand over his body, still armed with the walking stick. There was no sign of Fideal.
Something cut my face. I swiped blindly and this time the stick vibrated like a rattlesnake’s tail when I connected. Fideal hissed and ran, tripping over a jack stand and into a small tool chest. I still couldn’t see him, but he made a mess of my garage.
I jumped over the fallen jack stand, knowing that Fideal couldn’t be too far away. As I rounded the tool chest, something big hit me.
I landed on the cement chin-, elbow-, and knee-first. Helpless. It took me a full second to understand that the buzzing in my head was someone snapping nasty phrases in German.
Even dazed and facedown on the floor, I knew who’d come to my rescue. I only knew one man who snarled in German.
Whatever he said, it made Fideal lose control of whatever magic he’d been doing to block my nose. The whole building suddenly reeked of swamp. But it stank more in one place than any other.
I ran for the place where the shadows were the darkest.
“Mercy, halt,” Zee said.
I swung the walking stick as hard as I could. It connected with something and stuck for a moment, then blazed as brightly as the sun.
Fideal shrieked again and made one of those impossible leaps, jumping over the Rabbit and up against the far wall, knocking the walking stick from my hand as he leapt past me. He wasn’t down or even hurt. He just crouched in a manner no horse could ever adopt and stared at Zee.
Zee didn’t look like someone worthy of the wariness of a monster. He looked as he always had, a man past middle age, lanky and rawboned, except for his small pot belly. He bent over Warren, who started coughing as soon as Zee touched him. He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “He’s all right. Let me handle this, please, Mercy. I owe you at least this.”
“All right.” But I picked up the walking stick.
“Fideal,” Zee said. “This one is under my protection.”
Fideal hissed something in Gaelic.
“You grow old, Fideal. You forget who I am.”
“My prey. She is mine. They said. They said I could eat her and I will. Barnyard animals they give me. That the Fideal should be reduced to eating cow or pig like a dog.” Fideal spat on the ground, showing fangs blacker than the grayish slime that coated his body. “The Fideal takes its tribute from the humans who come into its territory to harvest the rich peat to heat their houses or the children who venture too close. Pig, faugh!”
Zee stood up. The area around him lightened oddly, as if someone were slowly turning up a spotlight on him. And he changed, dropping his glamour. This Zee was a good ten inches taller than mine and his skin was polished teak instead of age-spotted German pale. Glistening hair that could have been gold or gray in better light was braided in a tail that hung down over one shoulder and reached past his waist. Zee’s ears were pointed and decorated with small white slivers of bone threaded through piercings that ran all the way around them. In one dark hand he held a blade that was identical to the one he’d let me borrow except that it was at least twice as long.
Shadows pulled away from Fideal, too. For a moment I saw the monster that Adam and his pack had fought, but that gave way to a creature that looked like a small draft pony, except that ponies don’t have gills in their necks—or fangs. Finally he became the man I’d first met at the Bright Future meeting. He was crying.
“Go home, Fideal,” Zee said. “And leave this one. Leave my child alone and your blood will not feed my sword. It, too, hungers and it feeds best on things less helpless than a human child.” He waved a hand and a motor spun to life, lifting the garage door next to Fideal.
The fae scrambled out of the pole barn and disappeared around the corner.
“He won’t bother you again,” said Zee, who once more looked like himself. The knife was gone, too. “I’ll speak to Uncle Mike and we’ll make certain of it.” He held out a hand and Warren used it to pull himself to his feet.
Warren was pale and his clothes were wet as if he’d been immersed in water, seawater from the smell of him. He straightened himself slowly, as if he hurt.
“Are you all right?”
Warren nodded, but he was still leaning on Zee.
The walking stick was just in front of Zee’s foot—the blackened silver knob had smoke gently rising from it.
I picked it up gingerly, but it was as inert to my touch as the stick I’d thrown for Ben on Saturday. “I thought this was only good for making ewes have twins.”
“It’s very old,” said Zee. “And old things can have a mind of their own.”
“So,” I said, still looking at the smoking stick. “Are you still mad at me?”
Zee’s jaw stiffened. “I want you to know this. I would rather have died in that cell than have you suffer that madman’s attack.”
I pursed my lips and gave him my truth in exchange for his. “I’m alive. You’re alive. Warren’s alive. Our enemies are dead or vanquished. That makes this a good day.”
I went to work on Monday morning and learned that Elizaveta, the pack’s very expensive witch, had been by and done cleanup. The only trace of my run-in with Tim were the scars I’d left on the cement while I was trying to destroy the cup. Even the door Adam broke had been replaced.
Zee had come in on Friday and Saturday, so all my work was caught up. I had a few bad moments, which I had to hide from Honey, who was Monday’s guard, but by lunch I’d reclaimed the shop as mine. Even Gabriel’s hovering (after school was out) and Honey camped in my office didn’t disturb me as much as I’d expected. I finished at five sharp and sent Gabriel home. Honey followed me to my driveway before going home herself.
I turned off the TV as soon as he was gone and took a long hot shower. I shaved my legs in the sink and took my time blow-drying my hair. I braided it, reconsidered, and wore it loose.
“If you keep fussing, you’ll make me come in and get you,” Adam told me.
I knew he was there, of course. Even if I hadn’t heard him drive up or come in, I would have known he was there. There was only one reason that Samuel wouldn’t have called for a replacement. He’d known Adam would be over soon.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My skin was darker on my arms and face from the summer sun than it was on the rest of my body, but at least I’d never be pasty pale. Aside from the cut on my chin that Samuel had put two stitches in and a nice bruise on my shoulder that I didn’t remember getting, there was nothing wrong with my body. Karate and mechanicking kept me in good shape.
My face wasn’t pretty, but my hair was thick and brushed my shoulders.
Adam wouldn’t force me. Wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do—and had wanted him to do for a long time.
I could ask him to leave. To give me more time. I stared at the woman in the mirror, but all she did was stare back.
Was I going to let Tim have the last victory?
“Mercy.”
“Careful,” I told him, pulling on clean underwear and an old T-shirt. “I have an ancient walking stick and I know how to use it.”
“The walking stick is lying across your bed,” he said.
When I came out of the bathroom, Adam was lying across my bed, too.
“When Samuel makes it back from the hospital, he’s going to spend the rest of the night at my house,” Adam said. “We have time to talk.”
His eyes were closed and he had dark circles under them. He hadn’t been getting much sleep.
“You look horrible. Don’t they have beds in D.C.?”
He looked at me, his eyes so dark they were almost black in this light, but I knew they were a shade lighter than mine.
“So have you made up your mind?” he asked.
I thought of his rage when he’d broken down the door to my garage, of his despair when he persuaded me to drink out of the goblet again, of the way he’d pulled me out from under the bed and bitten my nose—then held me all night long.
Tim was dead. And he’d always been a loser.
“Mercy?”
In answer, I pulled the T-shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor.
Titles by Patricia Briggs
The Mercy Thompson Novels
MOON CALLED
BLOOD BOUND
IRON KISSED
BONE CROSSED
The Alpha and Omega Novels
ON THE PROWL
(with Eileen Wilks, Karen Chance, and Sunny)
CRY WOLF
MASQUES
STEAL THE DRAGON
WHEN DEMONS WALK
THE HOB’S BARGAIN
DRAGON BONES
DRAGON BLOOD
RAVEN’S SHADOW
RAVEN’S STRIKE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2009 by Hurog, Inc.
Map illustration by Michael Enzweiler.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
eISBN : 978-1-440-69880-4
1. Thompson, Mercy (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Automobile mechanics—Fiction.
3. Metamorphosis—Fiction. 4. Vampires—Fiction. 5. Werewolves—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.R53165B66 2009
813’.6—dc22
2008046403
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Jordan, whimsical, musical friend of critters furred, scaled, and feathered
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are dozens of people who have helped in this endeavor, but I am especially grateful to those who, on a moment’s notice, went through the manuscript with a fine-tooth comb—Mike Briggs, Dave and Katharine Carson, Laurie Martin, Jean Matteaucci, Anne Peters, Kaye Roberson, and Anne Sowards. I also would like to take a moment to thank the people who’ve worked so hard to determine that, yes, you can indeed cast a silver bullet—Mike Briggs, Dr. Kevin Jaansalu, Dr. Kyle Roberson, and Tom Lenz.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
1
I STARED AT MY REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR. I WASN’T pretty, but my hair was thick and brushed my shoulders. My skin was darker on my arms and face than it was on the rest of my body, but at least, thanks to my Blackfoot father, I’d never be pasty pale.
There were two stitches Samuel had put in the cut on my chin, and the bruise on my shoulder (not extensive damage considering I’d been fighting something that liked to eat children and had knocked out a werewolf). The dark thread looked from some angles like the legs of a shiny black spider. Aside from that slight damage, there was nothing wrong with my body. Karate and mechanicking kept me in good shape.
My soul was a lot more battered than my body, but I couldn’t see it in the mirror. Hopefully no one else could either. It was that invisible damage that left me afraid to leave the bathroom and face Adam, who waited in my bedroom. Though I knew with absolute certainty that Adam wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do—and had wanted him to do for a long time.
I could ask him to leave. To give me more time. I stared at the woman in the mirror, but all she did was stare back.
I’d killed the man who’d raped me. Was I going to let him have this last victory? Let him destroy me as he’d intended?
“Merc
y?” Adam didn’t have to raise his voice. He knew I could hear him.
“Careful,” I told him as I left off mirror-gazing and began pulling on clean underwear and an old T-shirt. “I have an ancient walking stick, and I know how to use it.”
“The walking stick is lying across your bed,” he said.
When I came out of the bathroom, Adam was lying across my bed, too.
He wasn’t tall, but he didn’t need height to add to the impression he made. Wide cheekbones and a full, soft mouth topping a stubborn jaw combined to give him movie-star beauty. When his eyes were open, they were a dark chocolate only a shade lighter than mine. His body was almost as pretty as his face—though I knew he didn’t think of himself that way. He kept himself in shape because he was Alpha and his body was a tool he used to keep his pack safe. He’d been a soldier before he was Changed, and the military training was still there in the way he moved and the way he took charge.
“When Samuel gets back from the hospital, he’s going to spend the rest of the night at my house,” Adam said without opening his eyes. Samuel was my roommate, a doctor, and a lone wolf. Adam’s house was behind mine, with about ten acres between them—three were mine and the rest were Adam’s. “We have time to talk.”
“You look horrible,” I said, not quite truthfully. He did look tired, with dark circles under his eyes, but nothing short of mutilation could make him look terrible. “Don’t they have beds in D.C.?”
He’d had to go to Washington (the capital—we were in the state) this weekend to clean up a little mess that was sort of my fault. Of course if he hadn’t ripped Tim’s corpse into bits on camera, and if the resultant DVD hadn’t landed on a senator’s desk, there wouldn’t have been a problem. So it was partially his fault, too.