Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

wolves has your brother killed to keep your people safe? Do you begrudge us the same necessity?”
    â€œWhen they come after Mercy, I do. And Charles only kills the guilty, not the inconvenient.”
    I cleared my throat. “Let’s not get diverted from the point. Could Nemane have killed O’Donnell?”
    â€œShe’s better than that,” Uncle Mike said. “If she’d killed O’Donnell, no one would have known it wasn’t an accident.”
    Once more I was left without a suspect.
    Any of the werewolves could have done it, I thought, remembering the speed that ripped O’Donnell’s head from his body. But they had no reason to, and I hadn’t smelled them at O’Donnell’s house. The vampires? I didn’t know enough about them—though I knew more than I wanted to. I knew they could hide their scents from me if they thought about it. No, O’Donnell’s killer had been one of the fae.
    Well, if Uncle Mike wanted me to investigate, maybe he’d answer some questions.
    â€œO’Donnell was taking things from the people he killed, wasn’t he?” I asked. “The walking stick—which is in my Rabbit, parked off Finley Road over by Two Rivers, Uncle Mike—was one of those. But there were others, weren’t there? The first fae killed, Connora, she was a librarian—she’d have had some of the artifacts, wouldn’t she? Small things because she was not powerful enough to keep anything anyone else wanted. The walking stick came from the house of the fae with a forest for a backyard. I could smell him on it. What else was stolen?”
    I’d been reading Tad’s friend’s book. There were a lot of things that I wouldn’t want in just anyone’s hands. There were some things I wouldn’t want in anyone’s hands.
    There was a long pause, then Uncle Mike said, “I’ll be over in a few minutes. Stay there.”
    I tossed Samuel the phone and he hung it up. Then I got to my feet, and retrieved the book I’d borrowed out of the gun safe in my room.
    There were actually several walking sticks—one that would lead you home no matter where you roamed, one that allowed you to see people for what they were, and the third, the one that had been following me, was the stick that multiplied the farmer’s sheep. None of them sounded bad until you read the stories. No matter how good they seemed, fae artifacts had a way of making their human owners miserable.
    I’d found Zee’s knife, too. The book called it a sword, but the hand-drawn illustration certainly depicted the weapon I’d twice borrowed from Zee.
    Samuel, who’d left the couch to kneel beside my chair as I paged through the section I’d read, hissed between his teeth and touched the illustration: He’d seen Zee’s knife, too.
    Uncle Mike came in without knocking on the door.
    I knew it was him by the deliberate sound of his footsteps and by his scent—spice and old beer—but I didn’t look up from the book when I asked, “Was there something that allows the murderer to hide from magic? Is that why you had to call me in to identify the murderer?”
    There were a couple of things in the book that would protect someone from the fae’s anger or make them invisible.
    Uncle Mike shut the door, but stayed just in front of it. “We retrieved seven artifacts from O’Donnell’s house. That’s why Zee didn’t have time to hide from the police—and why I left him to take the blame alone. The things we found were items of small power, nothing important except that they existed—and fae power in human hands is not usually a good thing.”
    â€œYou missed the walking stick,” I said, looking up. Uncle Mike looked more wrinkled and tired than his T-shirt and jeans.
    He nodded. “And there was nothing we found that could have prevented us from finding O’Donnell—so we have to believe that the murderer left with at least one more item.”
    Samuel, like me, had refrained from looking at Uncle Mike when he’d entered—a small power play that subtly put us in charge. That Samuel had done it told me that he, too, didn’t entirely believe Uncle Mike was on our side. Samuel came to his feet before he turned his attention from the book to the fae. He used his extra inches of height to stare down at Uncle Mike.
    â€œYou don’t know what