Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

and abrasive. What do you expect him to do?”
    â€œGo home, Ben,” said a molasses-deep voice from just behind my right shoulder. I needed to get more sleep, darn it, if I was letting everyone sneak up on me.
    â€œDarryl,” I said, glancing back at Adam’s second.
    Darryl was a big man, well over six feet. His mother had been Chinese, Jesse had told me, and his father an African tribesman who had been getting an engineering degree at an American university when they met. Darryl’s featureswere an arresting blend of the two cultures. He looked like someone who should have been modeling or starring in movies, but he was a Ph.D. engineer working at the Pacific Northwest Laboratories in some sort of government hush-hush project.
    I didn’t know him well, but he had that eminently respectable air that college professors sometimes have. I much preferred him at my back to Ben, but I wasn’t happy being between two werewolves, whoever they were. I stepped sideways until I could see them both.
    â€œMercy.” He nodded at me but kept his eyes on Ben. “Adam noticed you were missing and sent me to find you.” When Ben didn’t respond, he said, “Don’t screw up. This is not the time.”
    Ben pursed his lips thoughtfully, then smiled, an expression that made a remarkable difference to his face. Only for an instant, he looked boyishly charming. “No fuss. Just telling a pretty lady good night. Good night, sweet Mercedes. Dream of me.”
    I opened my mouth to make a smart comment, but Darryl caught my eye and made a cutoff gesture with his hand. If I’d had a really good comeback, I’d have said it anyway, but I didn’t, so I kept my mouth shut.
    Darryl waited until Ben started off, before saying brusquely, “Good night, Mercy. Lock your doors.” Then he strode off toward Adam’s.
    Â 
    Between the dead wolf and Ben’s wish, I suppose I should have had nightmares, but instead I slept deeply and without dreams—none I remembered anyway.
    I slept with the radio on, because otherwise, with my hearing, all I did was catnap all night. I’d tried earplugs, but that blocked sound a little too well for my peace of mind. So I turned music on low to block the normal sounds of night and figured anything louder would wake me up.
    Something woke me up that morning about an hour before the alarm, but though I turned down the music andlistened, all I heard was a car with a well-muffled Chevy 350 driving away.
    I rolled over to go back to sleep, but Medea realized I was awake and began yowling at me to let her out. She wasn’t particularly loud, but very persistent. I decided it had been long enough since Adam’s note that letting her run wouldn’t make him feel like I was deliberately defying him. It would also buy me some quiet so I could catch that last hour of sleep.
    Reluctantly, I got out of my warm bed and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. Happy to have me up and moving, Medea stropped my shins and generally got in the way as I staggered blearily out of my room, across the living room to the front door. I yawned and turned the doorknob, but when I tried to open the door, it resisted. Something was holding it shut.
    With an exasperated sigh, I put my shoulder against the door and it moved a reluctant inch or so, far enough for me to catch a whiff of what lay on the other side: death.
    Wide-awake, I shut the door and locked it. I’d smelled something else, too, but I didn’t want to admit it. I ran back to my room, shoved my feet in my shoes, and opened the gun safe. I grabbed the SIG 9mm and shoved a silver-loaded magazine in it, then tucked the gun into the top of my pants. It was cold, uncomfortable, and reassuring. But not reassuring enough.
    I’d never actually shot anything but targets. If I hunted, I did it on four paws. My foster father, a werewolf himself, had insisted I learn how to shoot and how to make the bullets.
    If this was werewolf business, and, after the previous night, I had to assume it was—I needed a bigger gun. I took down the .444 Marlin and loaded it for werewolf. It was a short rifle, and small unless you took a good look at the size of the barrel. The lipstick-sized silver bullets were guaranteed, as my foster father used to say, to make even a werewolf sit up and take notice. Then he’d put a finger alongsidehis nose, smile, and say, “Or lie down and take notice, if you know