Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

the side. The effect was somehow more grisly than if the head had been completely severed.
    â€œLet go,” I said, almost not recognizing the hoarse croak as my own voice. I jerked my hand, but he wouldn’t release his grip.
    â€œMarsilia needs him. She can control him.”
    Metal fell with a loud crash: the sorcerer’s power was failing, allowing his prisoners to escape. Adam crouched beside me just a hair sooner than Samuel appeared on my other side. Both werewolves were snarling almost soundlessly and I knew, almost without looking at them that the human parts of them were gone, leaving only the predator behind.
    That the knowledge didn’t frighten me to death is a measure of how traumatized I was.
    â€œLet go of me,” I said again, this time softly so as not to alarm the werewolves who were quivering with eagerness and the smell of fresh blood. I wasn’t really sure why they hadn’t just attacked.
    Andre stared first at Adam, then at Samuel. I don’t know that he was trying to control them, but if he was, it didn’t work. Adam growled and Samuel whined eagerly and took a half step closer.
    Andre released my wrist. I didn’t wait any longer, pressing the knife through meat, gristle, and bone until Littleton’s head rolled free and the knife cut into the linoleum.
    I’d been wrong: it was worse when the head was all the way severed.
    Throw up later, I thought. Destroy the body now.
    The backpack wasn’t more than a body length from me, but I couldn’t find the energy to get to it.
    â€œWhat do you need?” asked Stefan who was crouched on the other side of the body, next to Andre. I hadn’t noticed that he’d left his cage, too—or that he’d moved at all. He was just suddenly in front of me.
    â€œThe backpack,” I said.
    He got up like it hurt, and moved with none of his usual energy, returning with the backpack in hand. Both of the wolves stiffened when he held the pack out toward me, over Littleton’s body. Stefan was moving slowly because he was in bad shape—but it was probably a good thing. Making sudden moves around the werewolves would have been a bad idea, even if they had relaxed, just a bit, when I’d removed the sorcerer’s head.
    As I reached out to take the pack, Andre spoke again. “Marsilia needs him, Stefan. If she has a sorcerer at her beck and call, the others will have to cower in her presence.”
    â€œMarsilia can cow them on her own,” Stefan responded tiredly. “A sorcerer is not a comfortable pet. Marsilia has allowed greed to overcome her common sense.”
    The medallion wasn’t a very big item and it hid from my fingers. It was heavy though, so I finally managed to locate it in the bottom. I took it out and put it on Littleton’s chest.
    â€œWhat is that?” asked Stefan.
    Rather than answering him, I leaned over Littleton’s chest and whispered, “Drachen.” Burn you bastard, burn.
    The metal disk started to glow cherry red. For a moment I thought that was all it would do. But after a moment the body burst into flame, the almost-invisible blue flame of a Bunsen burner with the gas adjusted perfectly. I had a moment to wonder at the suddenness of it, then Stefan leapt over the body, grabbed me under the arms and pulled me back before I was caught up in the hungry flames.
    His grip reminded me I had an injured shoulder in the worst way. The sudden pain was so intense I screamed.
    â€œShh,” said Stefan ignoring the werewolves who were eyeing him with hungry eyes. “It’ll settle down in a minute.”
    He sat me down and put my head between my knees. His hands were still cold, like those of a corpse. Which he was.
    â€œBreathe,” he said.
    I couldn’t help a hiccoughing laugh at having a dead man tell me to breathe.
    â€œMercy?” he asked.
    I was saved from trying to explain why I was laughing because the outside doors were pulled open with a screech of bending metal.
    Stefan turned to face this new threat, a werewolf on either side. Andre stood up as well. All of them kept me from seeing the doorway, but I could smell them.
    Darryl and two others. The frightened child inside my heart, unappeased by Littleton’s immolation, relaxed at last.
    â€œYou’re late, Bran.” I told him as the light from the burning vampire flickered and died.
    It wasn’t the Marrok who answered me, but his second son,