Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

the staff?” I asked. “I could tell it was magic, but nothing else.”
    â€œNaught of interest to you, I trust,” said Uncle Mike, coming to his feet. “Naught for you to fuss with when there’s the Carrion Crow about. There’s money in the briefcase…” For the first time I noticed a brown leather case tucked against the arm of his chair. “If it is not enough to cover Zee’s expenses, let me know.”
    He tipped an imaginary hat toward Samuel, then took my hand, bowed, and kissed it. “Mercy, I’d be doing you no favors if I didn’t tell you to stop. We appreciate the help you have given us so far, but your usefulness ends here. There are things going on that I’m not at liberty to tell you. If you continue, you are not going to discover anything—and if those Nameless Ones find out how much you know, it will go ill with you. And there are two too many of them about.” He nodded sharply at me, then at Samuel. “I’ll bid you both good mornin’.”
    And he was out the door.
    â€œKeep your weather eye on him, Mercy,” Samuel said, still standing with his back to me as we watched Uncle Mike’s headlights turn on as he backed out of the driveway. “He’s not Zee. His loyalties are to himself and his alone.”
    I rubbed my shoulders and stood up myself. Never have a discussion with a werewolf when he’s standing and you’re sitting; it puts you at a disadvantage and makes them think they can give you orders.
    â€œI trust him about as far as I can throw him,” I agreed. Uncle Mike wouldn’t go out of his way to harm me, but…“You know, one of the things I learned growing up about you wolves was that sometimes the most interesting part of the conversation with someone who can’t lie is the questions they don’t answer.”
    Samuel nodded. “I noticed it, too. That staff, whatever it is, was stolen from one of the murder victims—and he didn’t want to talk about it.”
    I yawned twice and heard my jaw pop the second time. “I’m going to bed tonight. I have to go to church in the morning.” I hesitated. “What do you know about the Black Smith of Drontheim?”
    He gave me a small smile. “Not as much as you do, I expect, if you’ve worked with him for ten years.”
    â€œSamuel Cornick,” I snapped.
    He laughed.
    â€œDo you know a story about this Black Smith of Drontheim?” I was tired and the heap of my worries was a weight I was staggering under: Zee, the Gray Lords, Adam, and Samuel—and the wait for Marsilia to find out that Andre had not been killed by his helpless victims. However, I’d been searching for stories about Zee for years. Too many of the fae treated him with awed respect for him not to be in stories somewhere. I just couldn’t find them.
    â€œThe Dark Smith, Mercy, the Dark Smith.”
    I tapped my toe and Samuel gave in. “Ever since I saw his knife, I’ve wondered if he was the Dark Smith. That one was supposed to have forged at least one blade that would cut through anything.”
    â€œDrontheim…” I muttered. “Trondheim? The old capital of Norway? Zee’s German.”
    Samuel shrugged. “Or he’s pretending to be German—or the old story could have it wrong. In the stories I heard, the Dark Smith was a genius and a malicious bastard, a son of the King of Norway. The sword he made had a nasty habit of turning on the man who wielded it.”
    I thought about it for a moment. “I guess I could believe a villain before I’d believe a story about him being a goody-goody hero.”
    â€œPeople change over the years,” said Samuel.
    I looked up sharply and met his eyes. He wasn’t talking about Zee anymore.
    There were only a few feet between us, but the gulf of history was much larger: I’d loved him so much, once. I’d been sixteen and he’d been centuries older. I’d seen in him a gentle protector, a knight who would rescue me and build his world around me. Someone for whom I would not be an obligation, a burden, or a bother. He’d seen in me a mother who could bear his living children.
    Werewolves, with one exception, are made, not born. It takes more than a nip or two—or as I read in a comic book once, a scratch of a claw. A human who wants to change must be savaged so badly that he either dies or becomes