Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION
loudly.
It could be coincidence. There could be a thousand people in the Tri-Cities who wore that particular cologne; maybe it didnât smell as bad to someone who didnât have my nose.
This was a man who knew Tolkienâs Elvish and Welsh (though not as well as he thought he did, if he was critical of Samuelâs). Hardly qualifications for a fae-hating bigot. He was more likely one of the fae aficionados who made the owner of the little fae bar in Walla Walla so much money, and had turned the reservation in Nevada into another Las Vegas.
I thanked him and took the seat nearest the wall, leaving the outside one for Samuel. Maybe he wasnât one of OâDonnellâs Bright Future crowd. Maybe he was the killerâor a police officer.
I smiled politely and took a good look at him. He wasnât in bad shape, but he was certainly human. He couldnât possibly have beheaded a man without an ax.
So, not a Bright Futurean, nor a killer. He was either just a man who shared poor taste in cologne with someone who was in OâDonnellâs house, or a police officer.
âIâm Tim Milanovich,â he said, all but shouting to get his voice over the sound of all the other people talking, as he extended his arm carefully around his beer and over his pizza. âAnd this is my friend Austin. Austin Summers.â
âMercedes Thompson.â I shook his handâand the other young manâs hand as well. The second man, Austin Summers, was more interesting than Tim Milanovich.
If heâd been a werewolf, heâd have been on the dominant side. He had the same subtle appeal of a really good politician. Not so handsome that people noticed it, but good-looking in a rugged football player way. Medium brown hair, several shades lighter than mine, and root beer brown eyes completed the picture. He was a few years younger than Tim, I thought, but I could see why Tim was hanging around him.
It was too crowded for me to get a good handle on Austinâs scent when he was sitting across the table, but impulsively, I managed to move the hand Iâd used to shake his against my nose as if I had an itchâand abruptly the evening turned into something besides an outing to keep my mind off my worries.
This man had been at OâDonnellâs houseâand I knew why one of Jesseâs attackers had smelled familiar.
Scent is a complicated thing. It is both a single identification marker and an amalgam of many scents. Most people use the same shampoo, deodorant, and toothpaste all the time. They clean their houses with the same cleaners; they wash their clothes with the same laundry soap and dry them with the same dryer sheets. All these scents combine with their own personal scent to make up their distinctive smell.
This Austin wasnât the man whoâd attacked Jesse. He was too old, a couple of years out of high school at least, and not quite the right scentâbut he lived in the same household. A lover or a brother, I thought, and put money on the brother.
Austin Summers. I would remember that name and see if I could come up with an address. Hadnât there been a Summers boy that Jesse had had a crush on last year? Before the werewolves had admitted to their existence. Back when Adam had just been a moderately wealthy businessman. John, Josephâ¦something biblicalâ¦Jacob Summers. That was it. No wonder she was so upset.
I sipped my pop and glanced up at Tim, who was eating a slice of pizza. Iâd have bet my last nickel that he wasnât a police officerâhe had none of the usual tells that mark a cop and he wasnât in the habit of carrying a gun. Even if they are unarmed, police officers always smell a little of gunpowder.
The odds of Tim being Cologne Man had just made it near a hundred percent. So what was a man who loved Celtic folk songs and languages doing in the house of a man who hated the largely Celtic fae?
I smiled at Tim and said sincerely, âActually, Mr. Milanovich, we sort of met this weekend. You were talking to Samuel after his performance.â
There were places where my Native American skin and coloring made me memorable, but not in the Tri-Cities, where I blended in nicely with the Hispanic population.
âCall me Tim,â he said, while trying frantically to place me.
Samuel saved him from continued embarrassment by his arrival.
âHere you are,â he said to me after murmuring an apology to someone
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