Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

recall them upon command. My memory for scent is somewhat better than for sight. I might forget someone’s face, but I seldom forget their scent—or their voice, for that matter.
    I opened my eyes to head back to search the house further and…everything had changed.
    The living room had been smallish, tidy, and every bit as bland as the outside of the house. The room I found myself standing in now was nearly twice as big. Instead of drywall, polished oak panels lined the walls, laden with small intricate tapestries of forest scenes. The victim’s blood, which I’d just seen splattered over an oatmeal-colored carpet, coated, instead, a rag rug and spilled over onto the glossy wood floor.
    A fireplace of river stone stood against the front wall where a window had looked out over the street. There were no windows on that side of the room now, but there were lots of windows on the other side, and through the glass, I could see a forest that had never grown in the dry climate of Eastern Washington. It was much, much too large to be contained in the small backyard that had been enclosed in a six-foot cedar fence.
    I put my paws on the window ledge and stared out at the woods beyond, and wonder replaced the childish disappointment of discovering the reservation to be a particularly unimaginative suburbia.
    The coyote wanted to go explore the secrets that we just knew lay within the deep green forest. But we had a job to do. So I pulled my nose away from the glass and hop-scotched on the dry places on the floor until I was back out in the hallway—which looked just as it always had.
    There were two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen. My job was made easier because I was only interested in fresh scents, so the search didn’t take me long.
    When I looked back into the living room, on my way out of the house, its windows still looked out to forest rather than backyard. My eyes lingered for a moment on the easy chair which was positioned to look out at the trees. I could almost see him sitting there, enjoying the wild as he smoked his pipe in a haze of rich-smelling smoke.
    But I didn’t see him, not really. He wasn’t a ghost, just a figment of my imagination and the scent of pipe smoke and forest. I still didn’t know what he’d been, other than powerful. This house would remember him for a long time, but it held no unquiet ghosts.
    I walked out the open front door and back into the bland little world the humans had built for the fae to keep them out of their cities. I wondered how many of those opaque cedar fences hid forests—or swamps—and I was grateful that my coyote form kept me from being able to ask questions. I doubt I’d have had the willpower to keep my mouth shut otherwise, and I thought the forest was one of those things I wasn’t supposed to see.
    Zee opened the truck door for me and I hopped in so he could drive me to the next place. The girl watched us drive off, still not speaking. I couldn’t read the expression on her face.
    The second house we stopped at was a clone of the first, right down to the color of the trim around the windows. The only difference was that the front yard had a small lilac tree and a flower bed on one side of the sidewalk, one of the few flower beds I had seen since I came in here. The flowers were all dead and the lawn was yellowed and in desperate need of a lawn mower.
    There was no guardian at this porch. Zee put his hand on the door and paused without opening it. “The house you were in was the last one who was killed. This house belongs to the first and I imagine that there have been a lot of people in and out since.”
    I sat down and stared up into his face: he cared about this one.
    â€œShe was a friend,” he said slowly as his hand on the door curled into a fist. “Her name was Connora. She had human blood like Tad. Hers was further back, but left her weak.” Tad was his son, half-human and currently at college. His human blood hadn’t, as far as I could see, lessened the affinity for metals he shared with his father. I don’t know whether he’d gotten his father’s immortality: he was nineteen and looked it.
    â€œShe was our librarian, our keeper of records, and collector of stories. She knew every tale, every power that cold iron and Christianity robbed us of. She hated being weak; hated and despised humans even more. But she was kind to Tad.”
    Zee turned his face