Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

matters are settled—unless we keep talking about it.”
    Uncle Mike’s face took on that pleasant blankness he used to conceal his thoughts.
    Zee looked at me. “No more, Mercy. This one time be content with not knowing.”
    I wasn’t, of course. But Zee had no intention of telling me more.
    I started back to the truck and Zee cleared his throat very quietly. I looked at him, but he just stared back. Just as he had when he was teaching me to put together a car and I’d forgotten a step. Forgotten a step…right.
    I met Uncle Mike’s gaze. “This ends my debt to you and yours for killing the second vampire with your artifacts. Paid in full.”
    He gave me a slow, sly smile that made me glad Zee had reminded me. “Of course.”
    Â 
    According to my wristwatch, I’d spent six hours at the reservation, assuming, of course, that a whole day hadn’t passed by. Or a hundred years. Visions of Washington Irving aside, presumably if I had been there a whole day—or longer—either Uncle Mike or Zee would have told me. I must have spent more time staring at the ocean than I’d thought.
    At any rate, it was very late. There were no lights on at Kyle’s house when I arrived, so I decided not to knock. There was an empty spot in Kyle’s driveway, but Zee’s truck was old and I worried about leaving oil stains on the pristine concrete (which was why my Rabbit was parked on the blacktop). So I pulled in and parked it on the street behind my car. I must have been tired, because it wasn’t until I’d already turned off the truck and gotten out that I realized any vehicle belonging to Zee would never drip anything.
    I paused to pat the truck’s hood gently in apology when someone put his hand on my shoulder.
    I grabbed the hand and rotated it into a nice wrist lock. Using that as a convenient handle, I spun him a few degrees to the outside, and locked his elbow with my other hand. A little more rotation, and his shoulder joint was also mine. He was ready to be pulverized.
    â€œDamn it, Mercy, that is enough!”
    Or apologized to.
    I let Warren go and sucked in a deep breath. “Next time, say something.” I should have apologized, really. But I wouldn’t have meant it. It was his own darn fault he’d surprised me.
    He rubbed his shoulder ruefully and said, “I will.” I gave him a dirty look. I hadn’t hurt him—even if he’d been human, I wouldn’t have done any real hurt.
    He stopped faking and grinned. “Okay. Okay. I heard you drive up and wanted to make sure everything was all right.”
    â€œAnd you couldn’t resist sneaking up on me.”
    He shook his head. “I wasn’t sneaking. You need to be more alert. What was up?”
    â€œNo demon-possessed vampires this time,” I told him. “Just a little sleuthing.” And a trip to the seashore.
    A second-floor window opened, and Kyle stuck his head and shoulders out so he could look down at us. “If you two are finished playing Cowboy and Indian out there, some of us would like to get their beauty sleep.”
    I looked at Warren. “You heard ’um, Kemo Sabe. Me go to my little wigwam and get ’um shut-eye.”
    â€œHow come you always get to play the Indian?” whined Warren, deadpan.
    â€œâ€™Cause she’s the Indian, white boy,” said Kyle. He pushed the window up all the way and set a hip on the casement. He was wearing little more than most of the men in the movie we’d been watching, and it looked better on him.
    Warren snorted and ruffled my hair. “She’s only half—and I’ve known more Indians than she has.”
    Kyle grinned wickedly and said, in his best Mae West voice, “Just how many Indians have you known, big boy?”
    â€œStop right there.” I made a play at plugging my ears. “Lalalala. Wait until I hop in my faithful Rabbit and ride off into the sunrise.” I stood on my tiptoes and kissed Warren somewhere in the region of his chin.
    â€œIt is pretty late,” Warren said. “Do you still want to meet us at Tumbleweed tomorrow?”
    Tumbleweed was the yearly folk music festival held on Labor Day weekend. The Tri-Cities were close enough to the coast that the cream of the Seattle and Portland music scene usually showed up in force: blues singers, jazz, Celtic, and everything in between. Cheap, good