Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

My ears were still ringing. I was breathing too hard, my heart racing too fast and loud: it might be enough to cover the sound of his heart, of his breath. This was more damage than I’d ever seen a werewolf heal from, far more than the other two dead wolves or the one I’d killed last night.
    I put the rifle back on quarter cock, and waded through the remains of the table to touch Adam’s nose. I still couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
    I needed help.
    I ran to the kitchen where, in true Adam fashion, he had a tidy list of names and numbers on the counter just below the wall phone. My finger found Darryl’s name with his work, home, and pager number printed in black block letters. I set my gun down where I could reach it fast and dialed his home number first.
    â€œYou have reached the home of Dr. Darryl Zao. You may leave a message after the tone or call his pager at 543—” Darryl’s bassy-rumble sounded intimate despite the impersonal message.
    I hung up and tried his work number, but he wasn’t there either. I’d started dialing his pager, but while I’d been trying to call him, I’d been thinking about our encounter last night.
    â€œThis isn’t the time,” he’d told Ben. I hadn’t given it a second thought last night, but had there been a special emphasis in his voice? Had he meant, as I’d assumed: not after all the effort Ben had put into being on his best behavior since his banishment from London? Or had it been more specific as in: not now, when we have greater matters to deal with? Greater matters like killing the Alpha.
    In Europe, murder was still mostly the way the rule of the pack changed hands. The old Alpha ruled until one of the younger, hungrier dominant males decided the old one had grown weak and attacked him. I knew of at least one European Alpha who killed any male who showed signs of being dominant.
    In the New World, thanks to the iron hand of the Marrok, things were more civilized. Leadership was mostly imposed from above—and no one challenged the Marrok’s decisions, at least not as long as I had known him. But could someone have come into Adam’s house and done this much damage without help from Adam’s pack?
    I hung up the phone and stared at the list of names, none of whom I dared call for help until I knew more about what was going on. My gaze dropped and rested on a photograph in a wooden frame set out beside the list.
    A younger Jesse grinned at me with a baseball bat over her shoulder and a cap pulled a little to one side.
    Jesse.
    I snatched up my rifle and sprinted up the stairs to her room. She wasn’t there. I couldn’t tell if there had been a struggle in it or not—Jesse tended to live in a tumult that reflected itself in the way she kept her room.
    In coyote form, my senses are stronger. So I hid both of my guns under her bed, stripped out of my clothes, and changed.
    Jesse’s scent was all over the room, but I also caught a hint of the human who’d confronted Mac at my garage last night. I followed the trail of his scent down the stairs because Jesse’s scent was too prevalent to find a single trail.
    I was almost out the door when a sound stopped me in my tracks. I temporarily abandoned the trail to investigate. At first I thought perhaps I had only heard one of the pieces of overturned furniture settling, but then I noticed Adam’s left front paw had moved.
    Once I saw that, I realized I could hear the almost imperceptible sound of his breathing. Maybe it was only the sharper senses of the coyote, but I would have sworn he hadn’t been breathing earlier. If he was alive, there was a very good chance he’d stay that way. Werewolves are tough.
    I whined happily, crawled over the wreckage of his table, and licked his bloody face once before resuming my search for his daughter.
    Adam’s house is at the end of a dead-end road. Directly in front of his house is a turnaround. The SUV I’d seen take off—presumably with Jesse—had left a short trail of burning rubber—but most cars have very little individual scent until they grow old. This one had not left enough behind for me to trail once the tang of burnt rubber faded from its tires.
    There was no more trail to follow, nothing I could do for Jesse, nothing I could do for Mac. I turned my attention to Adam.
    That he was alive meant I really could not contact his pack, not with him