Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

rider.”
    â€œYeah?” Her voice was mildly inquiring. She wanted to know more, but didn’t want to pry.
    I was starting to like her. Somewhere under all the bubbles, I was pretty sure she was hiding a sharp brain. “Yeah.”
    â€œA rodeo rider? That’s pretty cool. Is he still?”
    I shook my head. “Nope. He died before I was born. Left my mother a pregnant unwed teenager. I was raised w—” I’d been spending too much time with Adam’s pack and not enough with real people, I thought as I hastily replaced werewolf with whitebread American . Happily she wasn’t a werewolf, and didn’t sense my lie.
    â€œWish I was Native American,” she said a little wistfully as she started back up the stairs. “Then all the guys would go for me—it’s that mysterious Indian thing, you know?”
    Not really, but I laughed because she meant me to. “Nothing mysterious about me.”
    She shook her head. “Maybe not, but if I were an Indian, I’d be mysterious.”
    She led me into a large room already occupied with five men who were tucked into a circle of chairs in the far corner of the room. They were evidently deep into a very involved conversation because they didn’t even look up when we came in. Four of them were young, even younger than Austin and Tim. The fifth looked very university professorish, complete with goatee and brown sport coat.
    Even with people in it, there was an unused air to the room. As if everything had just come fresh from a furniture store. The walls and Berber carpet were in the same color scheme as the house.
    I thought of the vivid colors in Kyle’s house and the pair of life-sized, Greek-inspired, stone statues in the foyer. Kyle called them Dick and Jane and was quite fond of them, though they’d been commissioned by the house’s former owner.
    One was male, the other female, and both of their faces had a dreamy, romantic expression as they looked up toward heaven—an expression that somehow didn’t quite go with the spectacular evidence that the male statue wasn’t thinking heavenly thoughts.
    Kyle dressed Jane’s naked body in a short plaid skirt and an orange halter top. Dick generally wore only a hat—and not on his head. At first it was a top hat—but then Warren went to a thrift store and found a knitted ski cap that hung down about two feet with a six-inch tassel on the end.
    In contrast, Tim’s house had no more personality than an apartment, as if he didn’t have enough confidence in his taste to make the house his own. Even as little as I had talked to him, I knew there was more to him than beige and brown. I don’t know what someone else would think, but to me, his house all but screamed with his desire to fit in.
    It made me like him more: I know what it’s like to not quite fit in.
    The room might have been uninspired, but it was still nice. Everything was good quality without being excessive. One corner of the room had been set up as an office. There was a dorm-sized fridge next to a well-made, but not extravagant, oak computer desk. The long wall opposite the door was dominated by a TV large enough to please Samuel with waist-high speakers on either side of it. Comfy-looking chairs and a couch, all upholstered with a medium brown microfiber designed to look like suede, were scattered in a manner appropriate to a home theater.
    â€œSarah couldn’t make it tonight,” Courtney told me as if I should know who Sarah was. “I’m glad you did, otherwise I’d have been the lone woman out. Hey, guys, this is Mercy Thompson, the woman Tim told us might be coming, you know, the one he met at the music festival last weekend.”
    Her voice penetrated where our entrance had not and the men all looked up. Courtney walked me up to them.
    â€œThis is Mr. Fideal,” she said, indicating the older man.
    Close up, his face looked younger than his iron gray hair made him appear. His skin was tanned and healthy and his eyes were a bright blue with the intensity of a six-year-old.
    I didn’t remember his scent from O’Donnell’s house, but it was obvious that he was comfortable in this group—so he must be a regular attendee…
    â€œAiden,” he corrected her kindly.
    She laughed and told him, “I just can’t do it.” To me, she explained, “He was my econ teacher—and so he’s forever