Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

was better, but given the choice, he’d opted for the air-conditioned house and chocolate chip cookies.
    I popped the hood and stared down at the old diesel engine. “It’d probably be as cheap to go find another one in a junkyard and use this for parts as it would be to fix it.”
    Problem was I had a lot more places to put money than I had money to put there. I owed Adam for the damage to his house and car. He hadn’t said anything, but I owed him. And I hadn’t been to work since Wednesday.
    Tomorrow was Monday.
    â€œDo you want to try this later?” Warren’s sharp glance lingered on my face.
    â€œNo, I’m all right.”
    â€œYou taste of fear.” It wasn’t Warren’s voice.
    I jerked my head out from under the hood hard enough to kink my neck. “Did you hear that?” I asked. I’d never run into a ghost at my home, but there was a first time for everything.
    But even before he said anything, I saw the answer in Warren’s body posture. He’d heard it all right.
    â€œDo you smell anything unusual?” I asked.
    Something laughed, but Warren ignored it. “No.”
    Let’s see. We were in a brightly lit building with no hiding places and neither Warren nor I could see or smell anything. That left two things it could be, and since it was still daylight outside, vampires were out.
    â€œFae,” I said.
    Warren must have had the same thought because he picked up the digging bar I kept just inside the door. It was five feet long and weighed eighteen pounds and he picked it up in one hand like I’d grab a knife.
    Me, I picked up the walking stick that was lying by my feet where a moment ago there had been nothing but cement. It wasn’t cold iron, but it had saved my life once already. Then we waited, senses alert…and nothing happened.
    â€œCall Adam’s house,” Warren told me.
    â€œCan’t. My cell phone’s still dead.”
    Warren threw back his head and howled.
    â€œThat won’t work,” the intruder whispered. I cocked my head. The voice was different, bigger and had a distinct Scots accent. It was Fideal, but I couldn’t tell where he was. “No one can hear you, wolf. She is my prey and so are you.”
    Warren shook his head at me; he couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from either.
    I heard a pop and saw a spark out of the corner of my eye just before the lights went out.
    â€œDamn it,” I growled. “I cannot afford an electrician.”
    I don’t have windows in my pole barn, but it was still bright afternoon and the light leaked in around the RV-sized garage doors. I could still see just fine, but there were a lot more shadows for Fideal to hide in.
    â€œWhy are you here?” Warren growled. “She is safe from your kind now. Ask your precious Gray Lords.”
    Fideal emerged from hiding to hit him. For a moment I saw him, a darker form vaguely horse shaped, the size of a large donkey. His front hooves connected with Warren’s chest, knocking him off his feet.
    I hit the fae with the walking stick and it throbbed in my hands like a cattle prod. Fideal bugled like a stallion, twisted away from the stick’s touch, and vanished into the shadows again.
    Warren used the distraction to regain his feet. “I’m fine, Mercy. Get out of the way.”
    I couldn’t see Fideal, but Warren held the digging bar like a baseball bat, took two steps to his right, then swung and connected with something.
    Warren could perceive the Fideal, but I still couldn’t. He was right—I needed to get out of the way before I blundered and got Warren hurt.
    I put the Rabbit between me and the fight and then started looking around for something that would be a better weapon against the fae.
    There were lots of aluminum fencing supplies and old copper pipes for plumbing. All my pry bars and good steel tools were on the other side of the garage.
    Fideal shrieked, a nasty ear-splitting sound that echoed wildly. It was followed by a ringing clank, like a digging bar being flung across a cement floor.
    Then there was no sound at all and Warren lay unmoving on the floor.
    â€œWarren?”
    Not even the sound of breathing. I ran across the garage to stand over his body, still armed with the walking stick. There was no sign of Fideal.
    Something cut my face. I swiped blindly and this time the stick vibrated like a rattlesnake’s tail when I