Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

werewolf.
    â€œHey, Zee,” I said when he showed no sign of noticing my presence. “Thanks for coming out this morning.”
    He rolled himself out from under the car and frowned deeply at me. “You need to stay away from the vampires, Mercedes Athena Thompson.” Like my mother, he only used my full name when he was angry with me. I’d never tell him, but I’ve always kind of liked the way it sounds when pronounced with a German accent.
    He took in my face in a single glance and continued. “You should be home sleeping. What is the use of having a man in the house, if he cannot take care of you for a while?”
    â€œMmm,” I said. “I give up. What’s the use of having a man in the house?”
    He didn’t smile, but I was used to that.
    â€œAnyway,” I continued briskly, though I kept my voice down so the people in the office couldn’t hear anything. “There are two werewolves and a dead vampire in my house and I thought it was full enough to do without me for a while.”
    â€œYou killed a vampire?” He gave me a look of respect—which was pretty impressive since he was still lying on his back on the creeper.
    â€œNope. The sun did. But Stefan should recover in time to face Marsilia tonight.”
    At least I was assuming it would be tonight. I didn’t know much about the vampires, but the werewolves’ trials tend to convene on the spot rather than six months after a crime. They are also over in a matter of hours, sometimes minutes, rather than months. Can’t convince your pack Alpha you are less trouble to him alive than dead? Too bad. Pack law, necessarily brutal, was one of those nasty things that Bran was keeping under wraps for a while.
    â€œSamuel told me you are going to be at a trial for the vampire.”
    â€œHe called you,” I said, outraged. “What did he do? Ask you to call him when I got here safely?”
    Zee smiled at me for the first time and got out his cell phone. With oil-stained fingers he punched in my number. “She’s here,” he said. “Made it fine.”
    He hung up without waiting for a reply and widened his smile further as he dialed another number. I knew that one, too. But in case I’d missed it, he used names. “Hello, Adam,” he said. “She’s here.” He listened for a moment; I did too, but he must have had the volume turned down low because all I could hear was the rumble of a male voice. Zee’s smile turned into a malevolent grin. He looked at me and said, “Adam wants to know what took you so long?”
    I started to roll my eyes, but it made the sore half of my face hurt worse so I stopped. “Tell him I had wild, passionate sex with a complete stranger.”
    I didn’t stick around to hear if Zee passed my message on or not. I snatched my coveralls off their hook, and stalked into the bathroom.
    Werewolves are control freaks, I reminded myself as I dressed for work. Being control freaks keeps them in charge of their wolf—which is a good thing. If I didn’t like the side effects, I shouldn’t hang out with werewolves. Which I wouldn’t be doing if I didn’t have one living with me and another living on the other side of my back fence.
    Alone in the bathroom though, I could admit to myself that even though I was really, really angry…I’d have been disappointed if they hadn’t checked up on me. How’s that for illogical?
    When I came out, Zee gave me the next repair job. I may have bought the business from him, but when we worked together, he still gave the orders. Part of it was habit, I suppose, but a larger part of it was that, though I am a good mechanic, Zee is magic. Literally and figuratively.
    If it weren’t for his tendency to get bored with easy stuff, he’d never have hired me. Then I’d have had to take my liberal arts degree and gotten a job at McDonald’s or Burger King like all the rest of the history majors.
    We worked companionably in silence for a while until I ran into a job that required four hands rather than two.
    While I turned the rachet, Zee, who was holding a part in place for me, said, “I took a peek under that cover”—he nodded toward the corner of the shop where my latest restoration project lay in wait.
    â€œPretty, isn’t she?” I said. “Or at least she will be when I get her fixed up.” She was a 1968