Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

Cory told him, but the diction and tone of his voice was different. “Not amusing at all. I’ll have to fix that.”
    He left Stefan kneeling and went to the bathroom door.
    I whined at Stefan and stretched up on my hind feet so I could lick his face, but he didn’t even look at me. His eyes were vague and unfocused; he wasn’t breathing. Vampires didn’t need to, of course, but Stefan mostly did.
    The sorcerer had bespelled him somehow.
    I tugged at the leash, but Stefan’s hand was still closed upon it. Vampires are strong, and even when I threw my whole thirty-two pounds into it, his hand didn’t move. If I’d had half an hour I could have chewed through the leather, but I didn’t want to be caught here when the sorcerer returned.
    Panting, I looked across the room at the open bathroom. What new monster was waiting inside? If I got out of this alive, I’d never let anyone put a leash on me again. Werewolves have strength, semiretractable claws, and inch-long fangs— Samuel wouldn’t have been caught by the stupid leather harness and leash. One bite and it would have been gone. All I had was speed—which the leash effectively limited.
    I was prepared for a horrifying sight, something that could destroy Stefan. But what Cory Littleton dragged out of that room left me stunned with an entirely different sort of horror.
    The woman wore one of those fifties-style uniforms that hotels give their maids; this one was mint green with a stiff blue apron. Her color scheme matched the drapes and the hallway carpets, but the rope around her wrists, dark with blood, didn’t.
    Other than her bleeding wrists, she seemed mostly unharmed, though the sounds she was making made me wonder about that. Her chest was heaving with the effort of her screaming, but even without the bathroom door between us she wasn’t making much noise, more of a series of grunts.
    I jerked against the harness again and when Stefan still didn’t move, I bit him, hard, drawing blood. He didn’t even flinch.
    I couldn’t bear to listen to the woman’s terror. She was breathing in hoarse gulping pants and she struggled against Littleton’s hold, so focused on him that I don’t think she saw Stefan or me at all.
    I hit the end of the leash again. When that didn’t work I snarled and snapped, twisting around so that I could chew on the leather. My own collar was equipped with a safety fastening that I could have broken, but Stefan’s leather harness was fastened with old-fashioned metal buckles.
    The sorcerer dropped his victim on the floor in front of me, just out of reach—though I’m not sure what I could have done for her even if I could get within touching distance. She didn’t see me; she was too busy trying not to see Littleton. But my struggles had drawn the sorcerer’s attention and he squatted down so he was closer to my level.
    â€œI wonder what you’d do if I let you go?” he asked me. “Are you afraid? Would you run? Would you attack me or does the smell of her blood rouse you as it does a vampire?” He looked up at Stefan then. “I see your fangs, Soldier. The rich scent of blood and terror: it calls to us, doesn’t it? They keep us leashed as tightly as you keep your coyote.” He used the Spanish pronunciation, three syllables rather than two. “They demand we take only a sip from each when our hearts crave so much more. Blood is not really filling without death is it? You are old enough to remember the Before Times, aren’t you, Stefan? When vampires ate as we chose and reveled in the terror and the last throes of our prey. When we fed truly.”
    Stefan made a noise and I risked a glance at him. His eyes had changed. I don’t know why that was the first thing I noticed about him, when so much else was different. Stefan’s eyes were usually the shade of oiled walnut, but now they gleamed like blood-rubies. His lips were drawn back, revealing fangs shorter and more delicate than a werewolf ’s. His hand, which had tightened on my leash, bore curved claws on the ends of his elongated fingers. After a brief glimpse, I had to turn away, almost as frightened of him as I was of the sorcerer.
    â€œYes, Stefan,” said Littleton, laughing like the villain in an old black and white movie. “I see you remember the taste of death. Benjamin Franklin once said that those who give up their