My breathing picked up, but I didn’t jerk back and whine, “Get it off! Get it off!”—full points to me. Instead, I leaned over Stefan and put my head into Adam’s shoulder. It put my neck at risk, but the smell of werewolf and Adam helped mask the stench of what had been done to Stefan. If Stefan needed blood to survive, I’d donate to him.
“It’s all right, Adam,” I said. “Let him go.”
“Don’t put down the gun,” Adam told my mother. “Mercy, if this doesn’t work, you call my house and tell Darryl to collect whoever is there and bring them here.”
And, in an act of bravery that was completely in character, Adam put his wrist in front of Stefan’s face. The vampire didn’t appear to notice, still pulling himself up by his grip on my arm. He wasn’t breathing, so he couldn’t scent Adam, and I didn’t think he was focusing any too well either.
I should have tried to stop Adam—I’d fed Stefan before without any ill effects that I knew of, and I was pretty sure that Stefan cared whether I lived or died. I wasn’t so sure how he felt about Adam. But I was remembering Stefan telling me that there “shouldn’t” be any problems because it had only been the once, and I’d met a few of Stefan’s band of sheep—the people who served as his breakfast, dinner, and lunch. They were all completely devoted to him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy for a vampire—but I somehow doubted that those people, mostly women, could live together devoted to one man without some sort of vampire mesmerism at work. And I’d sort of had my fill of magical compulsion for the year.
Any protest I made to Adam would be an exercise in futility anyway. He was feeling especially protective of me at that moment—and all I would do was stir up tempers, his, mine, and my mother’s.
Adam pressed his wrist against Stefan’s mouth, and the vampire paused his incremental closing of the distance between my arm and his fangs. He seemed confused for a moment—then he drew air in through his nose.
Stefan’s teeth sank into Adam’s wrist, his free hand shot up to grab Adam’s arm, and his eyes closed—all so fast it looked like the motion of a cheaply drawn cartoon.
Adam sucked in his breath, but I couldn’t tell if it was because it hurt him or because it felt good. When Stefan had fed from me, I’d been in pretty rough shape. I didn’t remember much about it.
It was strangely intimate, Stefan holding me as he drank from Adam’s wrist, and Adam leaning harder into me as Stefan fed. Intimate with an audience. I turned my head to see that my mother still held her gun in a steady two-handed grip, pointed at Stefan’s head. Her face as calm as if she saw burnt bodies appear out of nowhere, then rise from the dead to sink fangs into whoever was closest to them all the time, though I knew that wasn’t true. I wasn’t sure she’d ever even seen one of the werewolves in wolf form.
“Mom,” I said, “the vampire is Stefan, he’s a friend of mine.”
“I should put the gun away? Are you sure? He doesn’t look like a friend.”
I looked at Stefan, who was looking better, though I still wouldn’t have recognized him without my nose. “Truthfully, I’m not sure how much good it would do anyway. Bullets, if they are silver, may work on werewolves, but I don’t think any bullets do much to vampires.”
She tucked the Glock, hot, into the holster inside the waistline of the back of her jeans. “So what do you do to vampires?”
Someone knocked on the door. I hadn’t heard anyone drive up, but I’d been a little distracted.
“Don’t let them in your home in the first place,” suggested Adam.
Mom, who’d been on the way to the door, stopped. “Is this likely to be a vampire?”
“Better let me get it,” I said. I wiggled my arm, and Stefan released me and took a better grip on Adam. “Are you all right, Adam?”
“He’s too weak to feed fast,” Adam commented. “I’m good for a while yet. If you’ll get my phone out for me and hit the speed dial, I’ll call for some more wolves, though. I doubt one feeding will be enough.”
With Mom watching, I behaved myself while I dug his phone out of the holder on his belt. Instead of taking the time to sort through his contacts, I just punched in his house number and handed him the ringing phone. Whoever was outside was growing impatient.
I straightened my shirt and took a quick look at myself to make sure there wasn’t anything that said, “Hey, I have a vampire in my house.”
I was going to have a bruise on my forearm, but it wasn’t too noticeable yet. I slipped past Mom and opened the door about six inches.
The woman standing on the porch didn’t look familiar. She was about my height and age. Her dark hair had been highlighted with a lighter shade (or her light brown hair had been striped with a darker color). She wore so much foundation that I could smell it over the perfume that a purely human nose might find light and attractive. Her grooming was immaculate, like a purebred dog ready to be shown—or a very expensive call girl.
Not a person you’d expect to find on the porch of an old mobile home out in the boonies of Eastern Washington at night.
“Mercy?”
If she hadn’t spoken, I’d never have recognized her because my nose was full of perfume and she didn’t look anything like the girl I’d gone to college with. “Amber?”
Amber had been my college roommate Charla’s best friend. She’d been studying to be a veterinarian, but I’d heard she’d dropped out her first year in vet school. I hadn’t heard from her since I’d graduated.
When I’d last seen Amber she’d been wearing a Mohawk and had had a ring in her nose (which had been bigger) and a small tattooed hummingbird at the corner of her eye. She and Charla had been best friends in high school. Though it had been Charla who had decided they shouldn’t room together, Amber had always blamed me for it. We had been acquaintances rather than friends.
Amber laughed, doubtless at the bewildered look on my face. There was something brittle in the sound, not that I was in any position to be picky. My manner was stiffer than usual, too. I had a vampire feeding from a werewolf behind me; I wondered what she was hiding.
“It’s been a long time,” she said, after a short, awkward silence.
I joined her out on the porch and shut the door behind me, trying not to look like I was keeping her out. “What brings you here?”
She folded her arms over her chest and turned to gaze at my scraggly-looking field where a rusty VW Rabbit rested on three tires. From where we stood, the graffiti, the missing door, and the cracked windshield weren’t visible, but it looked junky anyway. The old wreck was a joke between Adam and me, and I wasn’t going to apologize for it.
“I read about you in the paper,” she said.
“You live in the Tri-Cities?”
She shook her head. “Spokane. It made CNN, too, didn’t you know? The fae, werewolves, death ... how could they resist?” For a moment there was a flash of humor in her voice, though her face stayed disconcertingly blank.
Lovely. The whole world knew I’d been raped. Yeah, that might have struck me as funny, too—if I’d been Lucrezia Borgia. There were a lot of reasons I’d never bothered to keep in contact with Amber.
She hadn’t driven over from Spokane to hunt me down after ten years and tell me she’d read about the attack, either. “So you read about me and decided it might be fun to tell me that the story about how I killed my rapist was all over the country? You drove a hundred and fifty miles for that?”
“Obviously not.” She turned back to face me, and the awkward stranger had been replaced by the polished pro who was even more a stranger to me. “Look. Do you remember when we took a day trip to Portland to see that play? We went to the bar afterward, and you told us about the ghost in the ladies’ room.”
“I was drunk,” I told her—which was true enough. “I think I told you I was raised by werewolves, too.”
“Yes,” she said with sudden intentness. “I thought you were just telling stories, but now we all know that werewolves are real, just like the fae. And you
’re dating one.”
That would have come out in the newspaper story, I thought. Double yippee. There was a time when I tried to stay out of the spotlight because it was safer. It was still safer, but I hadn’t been doing so good at stealthy living the past year.
Unaffected by my inner dialogue, Amber kept talking. “So I thought if you were dating one now, you had probably been telling the truth then. And if you told the truth about the werewolves, then you were probably telling the truth about seeing ghosts, too.”
Anyone else would have forgotten about that, but Amber had a mind like a steel trap. She remembered everything. It was after that trip that I quit drinking alcohol. People who know other people’s secrets can’t afford to do things that impair their ability to control their mouths.
“My house is haunted,” she said.
I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. I took a step toward Amber and turned a little. I still couldn’t see anything out there, but with Amber a little downwind so her perfume didn’t ruin my nose, I could smell it: vampire.
“And you want me to do something about it?” I asked. “You need to call a priest.” Amber was Catholic.
“No one believes me,” she said starkly. “My husband thinks I’m crazy.” The porch light caught her eyes, just for a minute, and I could see that her pupils were dilated. I wondered if it was just the darkness of the night or if she was on something.
She was making me uneasy, but I was pretty sure it was just the weirdness of seeing Amber, queen of the unconventional, dressed up like a rich man’s mistress. There was something soft and helpless about her now that made me think prey, while the Amber I’d known would have taken a baseball bat to anyone who annoyed her. She wouldn’t have been afraid of a ghost.
Of course, my unease could have been caused by the vampire lurking in the shadows or by the one in my home.
“Look,” I said. Stefan and what had been done to him were more important to me than what had happened to Amber, or anything she might want from me. “I can’t get away right now—I have company. Why don’t you give me your phone number, and I’ll call you as soon as things calm down.”
She fumbled her purse open and handed me a card. It was printed on expensive high-cotton paper, but all that was on it was her first name and a phone number.
“Thank you.” She sounded relieved, the tension flowing from her shoulders. She gave me a small smile. “I’m sorry that you were attacked—but I’m not surprised you got your own back. You were always rather good at that.” Without waiting for me to answer, she walked down the steps and got into her car, a newer Miata convertible with the soft top up. She backed out of the driveway without looking at me again and sped off into the night.
I wished she hadn’t been wearing perfume. She’d been upset about something—she’d always been a terrible liar. But the timing was just a little too convenient: Stefan arrives, tells me to run, and Amber arrives with a place for me to run to.
I knew what Stefan had been telling me to run from, and it wasn’t him. “She knows,” he’d said.
“She” was Marsilia, the Mistress of the Tri-Cities’ vampires. She’d sent me out hunting a vampire who’d been on a killing spree that risked her seethe. She’d figured I was her best chance to find him because I can sense ghosts that other people don’t see, and vampire lairs tend to attract ghosts.
She hadn’t thought I would really be able to kill him. When I did, it made her very unhappy. The vamp I’d killed had been special, more powerful than the others because he’d been demon-ridden. That the demon had made him crazy and he’d been killing humans left and right hadn’t bothered her except that it might have exposed the vampires to the human world. He’d gone out of control when he’d grown more powerful than his maker, but Marsilia believed that she could have fixed that, taken control of him. She used me to find him—she’d been sure he’d kill me.
And she’d have been right if I hadn’t had friends.
Since she’d sent me after him, she couldn’t seek retribution without risking losing control of her seethe. Vampires take things like that very seriously.
I’d have been safe if it hadn’t been for the second vampire.
Andre had been Marsilia’s left hand where Stefan was her right. He’d also been responsible for creating the demon-possessing vampire who’d killed more people than I could count on both hands. And Andre and Marsilia had intended to make more. One had been more than enough for me. So I’d killed Andre, knowing that it meant my death.
But Stefan had hidden my crime. Hidden it with the deaths of two innocent people whose only crimes had been that they were Andre’s victims. He’d saved me, but the cost had been too high. Their deaths had bought me two months.
Marsilia knew. She’d have never hurt Stefan so badly for anything else.
She’d tortured and starved him and let him free to come to me. I looked down at the red marks Stefan had put on my arm—if he’d killed me, no blame would have fallen on her.
There was a noise, and I looked up. Darryl and Peter were walking past the battered hulk of the Rabbit.
Darryl was tall, athletic, and Adam’s second. He got his dark skin from his African father and his eyes from his Chinese mother. His perfect features came from the happy combination of very different genes, but the grace of his stride came from the accident that had turned him into a werewolf. He liked nice clothes, and the crisp cotton shirt he wore probably cost more than I made in a week.
I didn’t know how old he was, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t much older than he looked. There’s something about the older wolves, an air they carry of being not quite of this age of cars, cell phones, and TVs, that Darryl didn’t have.
Peter was old enough to have been in the cavalry, but here and now he worked as a plumber. He was good at his job, and he had a half dozen people (human) on his payroll. But he walked to the right and behind Darryl because Darryl was very dominant and Peter was one of the few submissives in Adam’s pack.
Darryl stopped at the foot of the porch. He didn’t like me much most of the time. I’d finally decided it was snobbery—he was a wolf and I a coyote. He was a Ph.D. working in a high-priced think tank, and I was a mechanic with dirt under my fingernails.
And worst of all, if I was Adam’s mate, he had to follow my orders. Sometimes the chauvinism that permeates the rules by which the werewolves operate works backward. No matter how submissive the mate of the Alpha is, her commands are second only to his.
When he didn’t say anything, I just opened the door and led Adam’s two wolves into my home.
2
STEFAN WASN’T AMENABLE TO CHANGING DONORS, SO Peter and Darryl knelt, one on either side, and began to pry his grip loose. When I approached to help, Adam snarled at me.
If he hadn’t snarled, I’d probably have let the wolves take care of it. After all, they all have awesome werewolf superstrength. But if Adam and I were going to have a relationship, something that was giving me butterflies already, it was going to be on an equal footing. I couldn’t afford to back down when Adam growled.
Besides, I despised the cowardly part of me that flinched at his anger. Even if I was pretty sure it was the smart part.
Peter and Darryl were working on Stefan’s hands, so I went to his head. I slipped my fingers into one side of his mouth, hoping that vampires had the same reaction to pressure points as the rest of us. But I didn’t need to use any nerve pinches, because as soon as my fingers touched his mouth, he shuddered and released Adam, his arms going limp at the same time as he pulled his fangs out.
“Won’t,” Stefan said as I pulled my fingers out of his mouth. “Won’t.” It came out a whisper and faded eerily as he ran out of air.
His head moved until he rested against my shoulder, his eyes closed. His face almost looked like his now, filled out and healing. The broken places on his skin, hands, and lips looked like wounds now. It said something about how bad he’d been that oozing wounds were an improvement.
If his body hadn’t shook against me as if he were having an epileptic fit, I’d have been happier.
“Do you know what’s wrong with him?” I asked Adam helplessly.
“I do,” Peter said. He casually pulled a huge pocketknife out of its belt sheath and made a small cut in his wrist.
He moved me out from under Stefan and moved him around until Stefan was lying down with his head on Peter’s lap, held steady by the werewolf’s unwounded hand. Peter held his bloody wrist in front of the vampire, who clamped his lips together and turned his head away.
Adam, who had wrapped his hand around his own wrist to staunch the bleeding, leaned forward. “Stefan. It’s all right. It’s not Mercy. It’s not Mercy.”
Red eyes slitted open, and the vampire made a sound I’d never heard before ... and wished I could still say that. It raised every hair on the back of my neck, high-pitched and thin like a dog whistle but harsher somehow. He struck and Peter jerked, gritting his teeth and hissing.
I didn’t notice when my mother left us, but she must have at some point because she had Samuel’s big first-aid kit from the main bathroom open on the couch. She knelt by Adam, but he surged to his feet.
Alpha werewolves don’t admit to any pain in public, and seldom in private. His wrist might look like it had been savaged, but he’d never let my mother do anything about it. I stood up, too.
“Here,” I said, before he could say something to offend her or vice versa. “Let me see.”
I tugged and pulled until I could see the wounds. “He’ll be all right,” I told Mom with satisfaction. “It’s scabbed over already. A half hour from now it’ll just be a few red marks.”
That was good.
My mother raised her eyebrow, and murmured, “And to think I was always worried that you didn’t have any friends. I suppose I should have been counting my blessings.”
Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly Page 91