Frost Burned

I asked Hao.
    The dead were all around us, looking at me urgently. Their mouths were moving, but I couldn’t hear them. The net of darkness surrounding them was thicker than the one that had tried to capture Peter. Maybe it prevented me from hearing them, or maybe it was just because I was tied to Peter by the pack bonds.
    Hao looked around. “Are they bound? Perhaps he has anticipated us. Are you finished here?”
    “Who is it?” asked Asil, his voice a low, menacing rumble.
    Hao was not intimidated—but then he didn’t know who Asil was. “That is not for me to say. If you are done, we should go.”
    I looked at the dead here, three women and fourteen men. One of the women wore a black cocktail dress, but the rest of them were in power clothes like real-estate agents or business people. Suits and ties for the men, skirts and jackets for the women. If they were here, caught like Peter had been caught, then they, too, were not merely ghosts. But I was not bound to them the way I was bound to Peter; I didn’t know how to help them.
    Then I recognized Jones, from when I’d seen him through Adam’s eyes—Armstrong had called him Bennet, I remembered, Alexander Bennet. I don’t know why it surprised me to realize I was staring at the ghosts of the other people who’d been killed here. I suppose it was because I was so used to seeing ghosts everywhere that I’d quit wondering who they’d been when they were alive.
    Alexander Bennet had killed Peter.
    “Yes,” I said. “I’m done.” I felt no need or obligation to save these people from whatever had caught them. They had killed Peter and would have killed our friends and their families—down to Maia Sandoval, age five, who had ridden a werewolf and tried to feed him cookies.
    These people could hang in limbo for all eternity for all I cared.
    “I’m done.”
    They watched us as we returned to our cars. They’d quit trying to speak. I closed the door to the car, pushed the button to start it, and followed Thomas Hao to the parking lot, driving through several ghosts to get there. But this time I wasn’t weakened by fae magic as I had been when the ghost tried to possess me in the secret stairway in Tad’s house. All I felt was a slight chill as I passed through them. And then they were behind me.
    I knew I was going to have to do something about them later, no matter how angry I was now. It wasn’t a matter of what they deserved—it was a matter of who I was and who I wasn’t. At some point, everyone had to draw a line in the sand over which they would not cross.
    I almost turned the car around right then, but Marsilia—presumably—was waiting. There would be time enough to put things right if I
could
put things right with these ghosts who were not also pack.
    There was only one other car in the lot when we pulled in—and I knew it because I did the maintenance on the seethe’s cars in lieu of making the “protection” payments required of all supernatural creatures who couldn’t defend themselves from the vampires. I suppose as the mate of the Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack, I could have refused service without encountering trouble. But I felt like the interaction, as little as it was, gave both the vampires and the wolves a meeting place where we could interact without a lot of drama. I hoped that would help make the Tri-Cities a little safer for everyone.
    The presence of the seethe’s car meant that Marsilia
was
behind the meeting. It should have reassured me, but I was worried about the “he” who had bound the ghosts and tried to do the same to Peter’s.
    I drove to the far side of the empty parking lot. The formerly sleek Mercedes slid into the space and purred to a halt. I got out of the car, zipped up my coat, and turned to walk over to the winery.
    Marsilia stood by my rear left passenger door as if she had been there all along, though I knew that space had been empty when I pulled in. I managed not to jump.
    The Mistress of the seethe was a beautiful woman. The night robbed her gold hair of its richness, but the moon kissed her even features and made her dark eyes mysterious. She wore the most practical clothes I’d ever seen her in: a formfitting, long-sleeved, dark, rib-knit shirt and khaki pants that were probably green—I can see well in the dark, but colors are tricky, and there was no helpful porch light here. Her shoes were combat boots that looked like she’d worn them a lot—and that didn’t fit in with the