Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

figured out who the snow elf was chasing and took a sharp right.
    The doorway slowed the monster down. He hit it with his shoulder, taking the whole entryway wall with him as he left the building. He threw the chunk of wall at me, but I hopped through the half-open doorway a second time, just before it hit the ground. I crossed the street at full speed and narrowly missed being hit by a semi on its way to the industrial district just past Uncle Mike’s. Safe on the far side, I glanced behind me, then stopped.
    The man the snow elf had been was on his knees at the edge of the parking lot, shaking his head as if he was slightly dazed. He looked up at me. The silvery eyes were the same.
    â€œAre you all right?” he asked. “Sorry, so sorry. I haven’t felt like that since ... since my last battle. I didn’t hurt you, did I?” His gaze caught on the chunks of wall and door that were left from when his missile had missed me.
    The effects of the little bag were evidently limited by distance.
    I dropped the bag on the ground and shook myself and gave him an “all’s well” yip. I wasn’t sure he got the message, but he didn’t try to cross the road after me. I’d have changed back, but my clothes—my favorite dress, a pair of expensive (even at half-off) Italian sandals, and my underwear—were still in the bar somewhere. I’m not modest, but the snow elf and I didn’t know each other well enough for me to want be naked in front of him.
    He was dazedly trying to pick up the mess he’d made when people started leaving. One of Uncle Mike’s people, easily distinguished from the patrons by the distinctive green doublet, stood on the edge of the parking lot and waved his hands at me in a pushing motion. I thought it was the bouncer who’d been at the door, but I’d have to have seen his face frozen in terror again to be certain of it.
    I picked up the bag and backed away from the road a dozen yards, until my butt hit the side of an old warehouse fifty yards from the road.
    Uncle Mike’s parking lot gradually emptied, with Uncle Mike’s minions directing traffic and helping the snow elf with his cleanup efforts. Adam’s car sat in lonely splendor.
    So did Mary Jo’s Jeep. The one I’d given a free tune-up to when she’d taken her shift at guard-the-wimpy-coyote duty. I like Mary Jo. She’s a firefighter, five-foot-three-and-a-half of solid muscle and solider nerve.
    One of the pack was dead. In the sudden quiet of the night, I could feel the wave of mourning spreading through the pack as the others acknowledged the absence of one of their own. They knew who it was, but I wasn’t familiar enough with the pack magic to be certain. I only had Mary Jo’s car.
    There were just six cars left in the patron’s parking lot when Uncle Mike strode out of the hole that used to be a door. He clapped a hand on the snow elf’s shoulder and patted him before hopping over a cement parking curb and crossing the street toward me. He had my dress in his hands.
    I changed and grabbed the dress and pulled it on. No bra, no underwear, but at least I wasn’t naked. I kicked the bag toward Uncle Mike. “What happened?”
    He bent and picked up the bag. His face tightened, and he made a low, huffing sound ... rather more like a lion or big cat of some kind than anything I’d ever heard out of him before.
    â€œCobweb,” he said, “come throw this nasty bit of magic in the river for me, would you?”
    Something small and bright, about the size of a lightning bug (there are none in the Tri-Cities) hovered over the bag for a moment, then it, and the bag, disappeared.
    â€œIt affected you, too?” I asked.
    I don’t know what kind of a fae Uncle Mike is. Something powerful enough to control a tavern full of drunken fae seven nights a week.
    â€œNo,” he said. “Just that it was put in my territory, and I did not sense it.”
    He dusted off his hands, and his face regained its usual cheerful mien, but I’d seen beneath that facade a few times so his mask of affable tavern keeper didn’t reassure me the way it once would have. You have to remember never to believe what you see with the fae.
    â€œSmart coyote,” he told me. “I didn’t even check to see if there was a cause for their snarling, just assumed they were being nasty-tempered, the way werewolves are—and