Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

He smiled faintly with a hint of contempt in his voice. “But my brother needs to know I didn’t abandon him, all right? And you’re right. Here is a good place. It’s his thinking place.”
    I leaned into his hand a little.
    â€œGood,” he said.
    We sat there a long time before he faded away. I lost his scent soon after, but I felt his fingers in my fur until I hopped off the rock and headed back home, with Warren walking beside me, two crumpled beer cans in his hand.
    â€œSo did you have something you wanted to do?” Warren asked. “Or did you just want to stare at the river—which you could have done without coming all of this way.”
    I wagged my tail, but made no effort to answer him any other way.
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    The next step required me to be human. It took me twenty minutes in the bathroom with the door shut before I managed it. It was stupid, but for some reason I felt more vulnerable as a human than I did as a coyote.
    Warren knocked on the door to tell me that he was going home to catch some shut-eye and that Samuel was home for the night.
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re going to be just fine, girl.” He banged his knuckles one more time on the door and left.
    I stared at my human face in the mirror and hoped he was right. Life would be simpler as a coyote.
    â€œYou wuss,” I told myself and got in the shower without warming it up first.
    I showered until the water was cold again, which took a while. One of the upgrades Samuel had put in was a huge hot water tank, even though there hadn’t been anything wrong with the old one.
    With goose bumps on my skin, I braided my hair without looking in the mirror. I’d forgotten to bring in clothes so I wrapped myself in a towel. But the bedroom was empty, and I dressed in peace.
    Safely covered in a sweatshirt with a picture of the two-masted sailing vessel, Lady Washington , on the front and black jeans, I headed into the kitchen to look for a newspaper to see when Austin Summer’s funeral was going to be—if they hadn’t already held it. I figured after the funeral was as good a time as any for Jacob Summers to head for the river.
    I found yesterday’s newspaper on a counter in the kitchen and made myself a cup of chocolate from the water that was already hot in the teakettle. It was the instant kind, but I didn’t feel like doing the work to make the good stuff. So I dumped a handful of stale minimarshmallows on top.
    I took the paper and my mug and sat down at the table next to Samuel. Unfolding the paper, I began to read.
    â€œFeeling better?” he said.
    Politely I said, “Yes, thank you.” And went back to reading, ignoring him when he tugged at my braid.
    I’d made the front page. I hadn’t expected that. When you run with werewolves and other things that people aren’t supposed to know too much about, you get used to fake news. MAN DIES IN MYSTERIOUS FIRE, ARSONIST SOUGHT , or WOMAN FOUND STABBED TO DEATH . Things like that.
    LOCAL MECHANIC KILLS RAPIST was just above STUDENT DROWNS IN COLUMBIA . I read my story first. When I finished, I put down the newspaper and took a thoughtful sip of cocoa in which the marshmallows had softened to chewy.
    â€œNow that you can talk, tell me how you are,” Samuel said.
    I looked at him. He appeared composed and self-contained, but that wasn’t how he smelled.
    â€œI think Tim Milanovich is dead. I killed him and Adam ripped him into pieces small enough that not even Elizaveta Arkadyevna is witch enough to call back to unlife if she decided to make zombies instead of money.” I took another sip of cocoa, chewed on a marshmallow, and said reflectively, “I wonder if killing your rapist will ever become a recognized therapy practice. Worked for me.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œHonest to Pete,” I said, slamming my cup down on the table. “Really. That is, if everyone else quits running around here like their best friend died and it was their fault.”
    He smiled, just a little and only with his lips. “Message received. No victims in this house?”
    â€œDamn straight.” I picked up the newspaper.
    Thursday. Today was Friday. Tad was going to fly down Friday if his father was still in danger.
    â€œDid someone call Tad?” I asked.
    He nodded. “You asked us to do that. Adam called him when he got back from the police