Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

eh?” He grabbed me by the shoulders. “What did you think? Flirt with the geek a little and he’ll fall in love?”
    I had worried that he’d take it too seriously—once I realized I’d been flirting. “Yes,” I said.
    He shoved me with an inhuman sound and I stumbled back, then fell hard, knocking into a rolling tool tray that spilled a few tools on the ground.
    â€œYou’ll do it with me,” he said, breathing hard. “You’ll do it with the poor pathetic loser—and you’ll like it…no, be grateful to me.” He looked around frantically, then noticed I was carrying the cup. “You drink. Drink it all.”
    It was hard. My stomach was so full. I wasn’t thirsty, but with his words ringing in my ear, I couldn’t do anything else. And the magic in it burned.
    He took the cup from me and set it on the ground, next to the walking stick.
    â€œYou’ll be so grateful to me and you’ll know that you’ll never feel anything like it again.” He dropped to his knees beside me. His beautiful skin was flushed an ugly red. “When I finish…when I leave—you won’t be able to stand it all alone, because you know that no one will ever love you after I’m done. No one. You’ll go to the river and swim until you can’t swim anymore. Just like Austin did.”
    He unzipped his jeans, and I knew with bleak certainty that he was right. No one would love me after this. Adam would never love me after this. I might as well drown myself when I lost my love, just as my foster father had.
    â€œQuit crying,” he said. “What do you have to cry about? You want this. Say it. You want me.”
    â€œI want you,” I said.
    â€œNot like that. Not like that.” He reached out and grabbed the end of the walking stick and used it to knock the cup over, so it rolled toward him. He dropped the stick and grabbed the cup.
    â€œDrink,” he said.
    I don’t remember exactly what happened from there. The next remotely clear thought I had was when my hand touched something smooth and old, something that spread its coolness up my arm when I closed my hand over it.
    I stared at Tim’s face. His eyes were closed as he made animal grunts, but almost as if he felt the intensity of my gaze, they opened.
    The angle was bad, so I didn’t try anything fancy. I just shoved the silver end of the walking stick into his face, visualizing it going through his eye and out the back of his skull.
    It didn’t, of course. I didn’t have the strength of giants, or even of werewolves. There is only so much force you can gather when you are flat on your back hitting someone who is on top of you. But I hurt him.
    He reared back and I scrambled away, dropping the stick as I moved. I knew where there was a better weapon. I ran to the counter, where my big crowbar sat right where I’d put it after prying the engine I was replacing this afternoon that extra quarter of an inch.
    I could have run away. I could have shifted into my coyote form and run while he was distracted. But I had nowhere to run. No one could love me after tonight. I was all alone.
    I’d learned to make the strange noises that seem to go along with all the martial arts—though part of me had always winced away at the stupid sounds. As I raised the crowbar as if it were a spear, the sound I made came from the depths of my anger and despair. Somehow it didn’t sound stupid at all.
    He was strong, but I was faster. When I closed with him, he grabbed my right arm, the one he’d already injured, and squeezed.
    I screamed, but not in pain. I was too far gone to feel something as finite as physical pain. I shoved the end of the pry bar into his stomach with my left hand.
    He dropped, vomiting and wheezing, to the ground. Even with only my left hand to guide it, the pry bar was heavy enough to crush his skull when I brought it down on his head.
    Part of me wanted to beat his head in until there was nothing left but splinters of bone. Part of me knew I loved him. But I didn’t give in to love. Not with Samuel so long ago, not with Adam, and not with Tim.
    I didn’t bring the pry bar back down on his head—I had something more important to do.
    But no matter how hard I hit it, the iron bar did nothing to the cup. It didn’t make sense because the cup was clearly made of pottery and iron broke through most fae enchantments.