Moon Called (Mercy Thompson #1)

Moon Called (Mercy Thompson #1) Page 11

There was an elevator hidden behind one of the doors in the corridor. Stefan leaned wearily against the wall; he carried Samuel, who was bloodstained, limp, but still breathing.

"You're sure he's all right?" I asked, not for the first time.

"He'll not die of it," he said, which was not quite the same thing.

The elevator came to a smooth stop, and the doors slid open to reveal a kitchen. Bright lights gleamed on bird's-eye maple cabinetry and creamy stone countertops. There were no windows, but a clever use of mirrors and backlit stained-glass panels made up for the lack. Next to the refrigerator was something I was a lot more interested in, an outside door. I didn't wait for Stefan, but opened the door and ran out to the manicured lawn. As I sucked in a shaky breath of air that smelled of dust and exhaust rather than vampires, I realized that I'd come out of the main house.

"The houses are connected by the tunnels," I said, as Stefan came down the back steps.

"There's no time to talk," grunted Stefan.

I looked at him and saw that he was struggling with Samuel's weight.

"I thought vampires were strong enough to upend trees," I said.

"Not after Marsilia gets finished with them," said Stefan. He shifted Samuel, trying to get a better grip.

"Why not a fireman's carry?" I asked.

"Because I don't want to be carrying him that way when he starts waking up-he's not going to be a happy wolf. This way I can put him down and get out of the way if I need to."

"I'll carry him," said a stranger's voice.

Stefan turned with a snarl and, for the first time ever, I saw his fangs, white and sharp in the night.

Another vampire stood near us, wearing jeans and one of those white, piratey shirts, open to the waist, that you see at Renaissance Fairs and Errol Flynn movies. It didn't look good on him. His shoulders were too narrow, and his flat stomach just looked cadaverous rather than sexy-or maybe I'd just had enough of vampires that night.

"Peace, Stefan." The vampire held up a hand. "Marsilia thought you could use some help."

"You mean she didn't want Dr. Cornick to be here when he came out of the Kiss's hold." Stefan relaxed a little. "All right."

They transferred Samuel from one vampire to the other-the newcomer apparently wasn't suffering from Stefan's worries because he lifted the werewolf over his shoulder.

The night was quiet, but there was a waiting quality to it that I recognized from the hunt. Someone was watching us-big surprise. None of us talked as we made our way through the garden and out the main gates, which someone had propped open while we had been inside.

I slid the door of the van open and pointed to the long bench seat. The pirate-clad vampire pulled Samuel off his shoulder and put him on the far backseat. I decided that much strength was creepier in vampires than it was in werewolves-at least the wolves looked like people who should be strong.

With Samuel safely stowed, the vampire turned directly to me.

"Mercedes Thompson," he said. "My mistress thanks you for your visit, which has allowed us to discover problems that otherwise might have gone unnoticed. She also thanks you for allowing her to keep her honor and that of her vassal, Stefano Uccello." He saw the skepticism on my face and smiled. "She said that she'd never been repulsed by a sheep before. Crosses, scriptures, and holy water, but not a sheep."

"The lamb of God," explained Stefan. He was looking almost like his usual self, with one elbow propped against the door of the van. "I didn't think it would work either. Otherwise, of course, I would have told her to give it to Estelle."

"Of course." The other vampire gave me another quick, charming smile. "In any case, I am to extend Signora Marsilia's apologies for any discomfort you or yours experienced this night and we hope that you will extend our apologies also to Dr. Cornick. Please explain that the Mistress intended him no hurt, but that her recent indisposition has allowed some of her people to become... obstreperous. They will be punished."

"Tell the Signora that I find her apologies gracious and that I, too, regret any trouble she suffered this night," I lied. But I must have done it well, because Stefan gave me a half nod of approval.

The vampire bowed, then, holding it gingerly by its chain, handed me Samuel's cross and a small sheet of paper, the thick handmade kind. It smelled of the same herbs that scented the house and upon it, written in a flourishing hand that had learned to write with a quill, was a Kennewick address.

"She had intended to give this to you herself, but has asked me to tell you more. The wolves paid us just under ten thousand dollars for the rights to live at this address for two months."

Stefan straightened. "That's too much. Why did she charge them so much?"

"She didn't. They paid us without any negotiation. I expressed my concerns about the oddity of the transaction to the Signora, but..." He glanced at Stefan and shrugged.

"Marsilia has not been herself since she was exiled here from Milan," Stefan told me. He looked at the other vampire, and said, "It is a good thing that happened tonight. To see our Mistress potent with her hunger again is wondrous, Andre."

"Wondrous" was not the word I'd have chosen.

"I hope so," said the other harshly. "But she has been asleep for two centuries. Who knows what will happen when the Mistress awakens? You may have outsmarted yourself this time."

"It was not I," murmured Stefan. "Someone was trying to stir up trouble again. Our Mistress has said I might investigate."

The two vampires stared at each other, neither of them breathing.

At last Stefan said, "Whatever their purpose, they have succeeded in awakening Her at last. If they had not put my guests in danger, I would not willingly hunt them."

Vampire politics, I thought. Humans, werewolves, or, apparently, vampires, it doesn't matter; get more than three of them together and the jockeying for power begins.

I understood some of it. The older wolves pull away from the world as it changes until some of them live like hermits in their caves, only coming out to feed and eventually even losing interest in that. It sounded as if Marsilia suffered from the same malady. Evidently some of the vampires were happy with their Mistress's neglect while Stefan was not. Andre sounded as if he didn't know which side he was on. I was on whichever side meant that they left me alone.

"The Mistress told me to give you something, too." Andre told Stefan.

There was a sound, like the crack of a bullet, and Stefan staggered back against the van, one hand over his face. It wasn't until the faint blush of a handprint appeared on Stefan's cheek that I realized what had happened.

"A foretaste," Andre told him. "Today she is busy, but tomorrow you will report to her at dusk. You should have told her what Mercedes Thompson was when you first knew. You should have warned the Mistress, not let her find out when the walker stood against her magic. You should not have brought her here."

"She brought no stake or holy water." Stefan's voice gave no indication that the blow bothered him. "She is no danger to us-she barely understands what she is, and there is no one to teach her. She does not hunt vampires, nor attack those who leave her in peace."

Andre jerked his head around faster than anyone should and looked at me. "Is that true, Mercedes Thompson? You do not hunt those who merely frighten you?"

I was tired, worried about Samuel, and somewhat surprised to have survived my encounter with Signora Marsilia and her people.

"I don't hunt anything except the occasional rabbit, mouse, or pheasant," I said. "Until this week, that was it for me." If I hadn't been so tired, I'd never have uttered that last sentence.

"What about this week?" It was Stefan who asked.

"I killed two werewolves."

"You killed two werewolves?" Andre gave me a look that was hardly flattering. "I suppose you were defending yourself and just happened to have a gun at hand?"

I shook my head. "One of them was moonstruck-he'd have killed anyone near him. I tore his throat out and he bled to death. The other one I shot before he could kill the Alpha."

"Tore his throat out?" murmured Stefan, while Andre clearly didn't know whether to believe me or not.

"I was coyote, and trying to get his attention so that he'd chase me."

Stefan frowned at me. "Werewolves are fast."

"I know that," I said irritably. "I'm faster." I thought about the wild chase with Bran's mate, and added, "Most of the time anyway. I didn't intend to kill-"

Someone screamed, and I quit talking. We waited, but there were no more sounds.

"I had better attend the Signora," said Andre, and was gone, just gone.

"I'll drive," Stefan told me. "You'll need to ride in the back with Dr. Cornick so he has someone he trusts with him when he wakes up."

I gave him the keys and hopped in the back.

"What's going to happen when he wakes up?" I asked as I settled onto the backseat, lifting Samuel's head so I could scoot underneath it and sit down. My hands smoothed over his hair and slid over his neck. The marks of the vampires were already scabbed over, rough under my light touch.

"Maybe nothing will happen," Stefan said, getting in the driver's seat and starting the van. "But sometimes they don't react well to being Kissed. Signora Marsilia used to prefer wolves to more mundane prey-that's why she lost her place in Italy and was sent here."

"Feeding off of werewolves is taboo?" I asked.

"No." He turned the van around and started back up the drive. "Feeding off the werewolf mistress of the Lord of Night is taboo."

He said Lord of Night as if I should know who that was, so I asked, "Who is the Lord of Night?"

"The Master of Milan-or he was last we heard."

"When was that?"

"Two hundred years, more or less. He exiled Signora Marsilia here with those who owed her life or vassalage."

"There wasn't anything here two hundred years ago," I said.

"I was told he stuck a pin in a map. You are right; there was nothing here. Nothing but desert, dust, and Indians." He'd adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see me, and his eyes met mine as he continued. "Indians and something we'd never encountered before, Mercy. Shapeshifters who were not moon called. Men and women who could take on the coyote's form as they chose. They were immune to most of the magics that allow us to live among humans undetected."

I stared at him. "I'm not immune to magic."

"I didn't say you were," he answered. "But some of our magics pass you by. Why do you think you stood against Marsilia's rage when the rest of us fell?"

"It was the sheep."

"It wasn't the sheep. Once upon a time, Mercedes, what you are would have been your death sentence. We killed your kind wherever we found them, and they returned the favor." He smiled at me, and my blood ran chill at the expression in those cool, cool eyes. "There are vampires everywhere, Mercedes, and you are the only walker here."

I'd always thought of Stefan as my friend. Even in the heart of the vampires' seethe I hadn't questioned his friendship, not really. Stupid me.

"I can drive myself home," I told him.

He returned his gaze to the street in front of him and laughed softly as he pulled the van over. He got out and left it running. I loosened my grip on Samuel's shoulder and forced myself away from the safety of the back bench seat.

I didn't see Stefan or smell him when I got out of the van and moved to the driver's seat, but I could feel his eyes on my back. I started to drive off, then pulled my foot off the gas and stomped on the brakes.

I rolled down the window and spoke to the darkness. "I know you don't live there-you smell of woodsmoke and popcorn. Do you need a ride home?"

He laughed. I jumped, then jumped again when he leaned in the window and patted my shoulder.

"Go home, Mercy," he said, and was gone-for real this time.

I chugged along behind semis and Suburbans and thought about what I'd just learned.

I knew that vampires, like the fae, and werewolves and their kindred were all Old World preternatural creatures. They'd come over for the same reasons most humans did: to gain wealth, power, or land, and to escape persecution.

During the Renaissance, vampires had been an open secret; being thought one added power and prestige. The cities of Italy and France became havens for them. Even so, their numbers were not great. Like werewolves, humans who would become vampires died more often than they accomplished their goal. Most of the princes and nobles believed to be vampires were just clever men who saw the claim as a way to discourage rivals.

The Church saw it differently. When the Spanish invasion of the New World filled the coffers of the Church so they no longer had to depend upon the favor of the nobles, they went after the vampires as well as any other preternatural creature they could find.

Hundreds of people died, if not thousands, accused of vampirism, witchcraft, or lycanthropy. Only a small percentage of those who died actually were vampires, but those losses were still severe-humans (lucky for them) breed much faster than the undead.

So vampires came to the New World, victims of religious persecution like the Quakers and the Puritans-only different. Werewolves and their moon-called kindred came to find new territory to hunt. The fae came to escape the cold iron of the Industrial Revolution, which followed them anyway. Together these immigrants destroyed most of the preternatural creatures who had lived in the Americas, until at last, even the bare stories of their existence were mostly gone.

My people, apparently, among them.

As I took the on-ramp onto the highway to Richland, I remembered something my mother once told me. She hadn't known my father very well. In my mostly empty jewelry box was a silver belt buckle he'd won in a rodeo and given her. She told me his eyes were the color of sunlit root beer, and that he snored if he slept on his back. The only other thing I knew about him was that if someone had found his wrecked truck sooner, he might have lived. The wreck hadn't killed him outright. Something sharp had sliced open a big vein, and he bled to death.

There was a noise from the back of the van. I jerked the rearview mirror around until I could see the backseat. Samuel's eyes were open, and he was shaking violently.

Stefan hadn't told me what the bad reaction to the Kiss might be, but I was pretty sure I was about to find out. I was already passing the exit for Columbia Park, but I managed to take it without getting rear-ended.

I drove until I came to a small parking lot next to a maintenance shed. I parked, killed the lights, then slipped between the seats of the van and approached Samuel cautiously.

"Sam?" I said, and for a heartbeat his struggles slowed down.

His eyes gleamed in the shadows of the van's depths. I smelled adrenaline, terror, sweat, and blood.

I had to fight not to flee. Part of me knew that so much fear must have a cause. The rest of me figured out why some werewolves had a bad reaction to the vampire's Kiss-waking up unable to move, his last memory being something sucking his blood was bound to hit every panic button in a werewolf's arsenal.

"Shhh," I said, crouching in the space between the second seat and the sliding door. "The vampires are gone. What you are feeling is something they can do with their bite. It makes their victims passive so they can feed without drawing attention. It's wearing off now-Stefan said it will leave no ill effects."

He was beginning to listen to me. I could see it in the softening of his shoulders-then my cell phone rang.

I answered it, but the sudden noise had been too much. The van bumped and bobbed as Samuel scrambled over the backseat and into the luggage space behind the seat.

"Hey," I said, keeping my voice soft.

"Mercy." It was Warren, his voice urgent. "You need to come here as soon as you can-and bring Samuel."

Samuel was making harsh noises behind the seat. Changing was painful for the wolves at the best of times-when they are comfortable and eager to hunt. Changing when the air is thick with fear and blood would not be good. Not good at all.

"Samuel is indisposed," I said, as he screamed, a roar of agony and despair. He was fighting the change.

Warren swore. "Tell me this then. Is Adam afraid someone in the pack betrayed him?"

"That's my fault," I said. "Warren, is the pack coming to your house?"

He grunted. I assumed it was a yes.

"Tell Adam."

"I made steaks and fed him about an hour ago, and he's sleeping it off. I tried to wake him up before I called, but he's shut down hard in a healing sleep. I don't know what it would take to wake him up."

"Dr. Cornick would," I muttered, wincing at the noises Sam was making in the back of the van. "But he's not available to come to the phone right now."

"It's all right, Mercy." He sounded suddenly calm. "I'll take care of it. If that's Samuel in the middle of an involuntary change, you need to get away from there and give him time to calm down."

"What? And leave Samuel to go hunting in the middle of Kennewick? I don't think so."

"He won't know you, not if he's changing like that. It won't be Samuel Bran's son, it will be only the wolf."

The sounds behind the seat were becoming more canid and less human.

"Mercy, get out of there."

"It's all right, Warren," I said, hoping I was right.

Wolves, the real wolves, are not usually vicious animals unless they are frightened, hurt, or cornered. Werewolves are always vicious, always ready for the kill.

"If this doesn't work-tell him the vampires got me," I said. "I don't think he'll remember. It'll be true enough. The vampires are what forced this change. You tell him that." I hung up the phone.

It was already too late to run, but I wouldn't have anyway. Leave Samuel to deal with the aftermath of his wolf's rampage? Samuel was a healer, a defender of the weak. I wasn't certain that he would live with innocent blood on his hands.

I'd deserted him once, a long time ago. I wouldn't do it again.

The sounds died down until all I could hear was the harsh panting of his breath, but I could smell his rage. I didn't bother undressing before I shifted-it would have taken too long. When Samuel's white head appeared over the top of the seat, I was backing out of my T-shirt and bra.

I stopped what I was doing and crouched on the floor of the van, tail tucked between my legs. I didn't look up, but I felt the springs give way as he climbed slowly over the back and stood on the seat.

I was so scared it was hard to breathe. I knew what I had to do next, but I wasn't certain I could manage it. If some part of me weren't absolutely convinced that Sam, my Sam, could never hurt me, I wouldn't have been able to do the next part.

He was utterly silent. In Montana, on a hunt, the wolves howl and cry, but in the city all hunting is done soundlessly. Growls, whines, and barks are all bluffing tools-it is the quiet wolf that will kill you.

With Samuel perched silently on the backseat, I rolled over onto my back and exposed my belly to his jaws. I stretched my chin so that my neck was vulnerable to him as well. It was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. It wasn't as if he couldn't kill me as easily if I were lying on my belly, but there was something worse about exposing my unprotected underside. Being submissive is a bitch.

The van dipped again as he jumped down, landing almost on top of me. I could smell his anger-the sour smell of his fear had faded all away with his humanity, leaving only the wolf. Hot breath moved my fur as he sniffed his way upward, his nose parting my hair as he went. Slowly the anger faded along with the intensity that had allowed me to know what he was feeling.

I tilted my head and risked a glance. Samuel filled the space between the short bench seat and the sliding door. Caught beneath him, one front paw on either side of my shoulders, I felt a sudden claustrophobia and instinctively tried to roll over.

I stopped the movement as soon as it began, but Samuel lunged forward with a warning growl and a snap of teeth in my face. I tried to take comfort from the growl, since theoretically, if he was growling he wasn't likely to kill me-but I was too aware of the volatile nature of the werewolves.

He moved suddenly, closing his mouth over my throat-but too wide for a jugular strike. I could feel his teeth through the fur on my neck, but they stopped as soon as they touched my skin.

I prayed then that Bran was right, and Samuel's wolf looked upon me as his mate. If he was wrong, then both Samuel and I would pay the price.

I held very still as my heart tried desperately to pound its way out of my rib cage. He released me, nipped gently at my nose, then slipped soundlessly away.

I rolled to my feet and shook my fur to resettle it, shedding my bra at last. Samuel was stretched along the backseat, watching me with his beautiful white eyes. He blinked at me once, then resettled his muzzle on his front paws and closed his eyes, saying, as clearly as he could without words, that the two halves of his soul were together again.

I heard the quiet purr of a big engine coming down the park road. I shifted to human as quickly as I could and began scrambling for clothes. My underwear was pale green and I found them first. The sports bra went on easier than it had come off, and I found my T-shirt when my foot touched it.

The car slowed as it approached, its headlights glinting through the window of my van.

"Pants, pants, pants," I chanted as I brushed my hands over the floor. My fingers found them as tires crunched gravel and the car parked behind us. They also found Zee's dagger. I shoved it under the rubber mat near the side of the van farthest from the sliding door.

Feverishly, I jerked my pants up, zipped, and buttoned them as the driver's side door of the other car opened. Shoes. Luckily they were white and I snatched them up and pulled them on over my bare feet without untying them.

I gave the hulking brute stretched across the full length of the van's backseat a frantic look. Samuel wouldn't be able to change back for a while yet, probably a few hours. A forced change takes time to recover from, even for a wolf of Samuel's power, and it was too late to try to hide him.

"You're a good dog, Samuel," I told him sternly. "Don't scare the nice police officer. We don't have time to be escorted down to the station house."

A flashlight found me, and I waved, then slowly opened the sliding door.

"Jogging, Officer," I said. The flashlight kept me from picking out a face.

There was a long pause. "It's one in the morning, ma'am."

"I couldn't sleep." I gave him an apologetic smile.

"Jogging alone at night isn't safe, ma'am." He lowered the flashlight, and I blinked rapidly, hoping the residual afterimages would fade soon.

"That's why I always take him," I said, and jerked a thumb toward the back of the van.

The policeman swore. "Sorry, ma'am. That's just the biggest damn dog I've ever seen-and I grew up with Saint Bernards."

"Don't ask me what he is," I said, sliding through the door so I stood beside the policeman rather than below him. "I got him from the pound when he was a puppy. My vet says he might be an Irish Wolfhound cross of some sort, maybe with something with a little wolf like a Husky or Samoyed."

"Or Siberian Tiger," he muttered, not intending me to hear. In a louder voice, he said, "Why don't you let me see your license, registration, and insurance, ma'am." He was relaxed, now, not expecting trouble.

I opened the front passenger door and retrieved my purse from the jockey box, where I'd tucked it when we'd stopped at Uncle Mike's. Right next to the registration, insurance cards and my SIG.

Life would be much easier if the nice police officer didn't see that-or the. 444 Marlin in the far back. I had a concealed carry permit, but I'd rather keep this low-key. Especially since, according to Stefan, Zee's dagger was not legal.

I gathered the insurance card and registration, then shut the jockey box-gingerly, so the SIG didn't rattle. I needn't have worried. When I looked for him, the police officer was sitting on the floor of the van petting Samuel.

Any other werewolf of my acquaintance I'd have been worried about-they aren't pets, and some of them resent being treated like one. Samuel canted his face so that the policeman's fingers found just the right spot behind his ear and groaned with pleasure.

Samuel liked humans. I remember him coming down to play with the elementary-school kids-all human-at recess. Most werewolves avoid children, but not Samuel. They all knew who he was, of course, and when they saw him as a man they called him Dr. Cornick and treated him as they would have treated any other adult. But when he came to school as a wolf, they put him to work playing pony, runaway dog, and ferocious, but loyal, wolf-friend. He did it with the same fierce enjoyment as the children.

"He's beautiful," the policeman said, getting out of the van at last and taking my paperwork. "How big is he when he's standing up?"

I clicked my fingers. "Samuel, come."

He stood up on the bench seat, and the top of his back brushed the roof of the van. Then he stretched and hopped off the seat and onto the gravel road without touching the floor of the van. He deliberately moved like a big dog, a little clumsy and slow. His thick winter coat and the night provided some camouflage of the differences that no amount of mixed breeding could account for.

Werewolves' front legs are built more like a bear's or a lion's than a timber wolf's. Like the former two, werewolves used their claws to rip and tear flesh, and that means their musculature is different, too.

The policeman whistled and walked around him. He was careful to keep the flashlight out of Samuel's eyes. "Look at you," he murmured. "Not an ounce of fat and every bit of two hundred pounds."

"You think so? I've never weighed him," I said. "I know he's heavier than I am, and that's good enough for me."

The policeman gave me back my license and assorted papers without actually looking at any of them. "I'd still be happier if you ran in the daylight, ma'am. In any case, this park is closed at night-safer for everyone."

"I appreciate your concern for my safety," I said earnestly, patting the werewolf lightly on the head.

The police officer moved his car, but he waited while I closed Samuel back into the van and followed me out of the park as far as the on-ramp to the highway-so I couldn't stop to put my socks on. I hate going barefoot in leather tennis shoes.

Samuel levered his bulk up on the front passenger seat and stuck his head out the window, flattening his ears against the tear of the wind.

"Stop that," I chided him. "Keep all your body parts in the van."

He ignored me and opened his mouth, letting his tongue get swept back like his ears. After a while, he pulled his head in and grinned at me.

"I've always wanted to do that," I confessed. "Maybe when this is all over, you can drive, and I'll stick my head out the window."

He turned toward me and let his front paws rest on the floor between our seats. Then he stuck his nose in my midriff and whined.

"Stop that!" I shrieked, and slapped his muzzle. "That's just rude."

He pulled his head back and gave me a quizzical look. I took the opportunity to glance at my speedometer and make sure I wasn't speeding.

"You're going to cause a wreck, Samuel Llewellyn Cornick. Just you keep your nose out of my business."

He snorted and put one paw on my knee, patted it twice-then stuck his nose in my belly button again. He was quicker than my slap this time, withdrawing all the way back onto his seat.

"My tattoo?" I asked, and he yipped-a very bassy yip. Just below my naval I had a pawprint. He must have seen it while I was scrambling into my clothes. I have a couple on my arms, too.

"Karen, my college roommate, was an art major. She earned her spending money giving people tattoos. I helped her pass her chemistry class, and she offered to give me one for free."

I'd spent the previous two years living with my mother and pretending to be perfect, afraid that if I weren't, I'd lose my place in my second home as abruptly as I had the first. It would never have occurred to me to do something as outrageous as getting a tattoo.

My mother still blames Karen for my switching my major from engineering to history-which makes her directly responsible for my current occupation, fixing old cars. My mother is probably right, but I am much happier as I am than I would have been as a mechanical engineer.

"She handed me a book of tattoos that she had done and about halfway through was a guy who'd had wolf tracks tattooed across his back from one hip to the opposite shoulder. I wanted something smaller, so we settled on a single pawprint."

My mother and her family had known what I was, but they'd asked no questions, and I'd hidden my coyote self from them, becoming someone who fit their lives better. It had been my own choice. Coyotes are very adaptable.

I remember staring at the man's back and understanding that, although I must hide from everyone else, I could not hide from myself anymore. So I had Karen put the tattoo on the center of my body, where I could protect my secret and it could keep me whole. I'd finally started to enjoy being who I was instead of wishing that I were a werewolf or human so I'd fit in better.

"It's a coyote pawprint," I said firmly. "Not a wolf's."

He grinned at me and stuck his head out the window again; this time his shoulders followed.

"You're going to fall out," I told him.