Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

death should be kept from you.” Bryan had been my foster father.
    I remembered waking up shortly after Christmas to Bran’s low-key voice in the kitchen. When I came out of my room, Bran told me that the police had found Bryan’s body in the Kootenai River.
    Suicide is difficult for werewolves. Even silver bullets don’t always defeat the wolf’s ability to heal itself. Decapitation is effective, but rather difficult to achieve in a suicidal situation. Drowning works very well. Werewolves are very densely muscled; they tend to have a difficult time swimming even if they want to, because, like chimpanzees, they have too much muscle and not enough fat to float.
    â€œSome of the pack would have told you that Bryan had an accident.” Bran’s voice was contemplative. “They told me that fourteen was too young to deal with a suicide, especially on top of the death of Bryan’s mate.”
    â€œHer name was Evelyn,” I told him. Bran had a tendency to dismiss the humans around him as if they didn’t exist. Samuel once told me that it was because humans were so fragile, and Bran had seen too many of them die. I thought that if I could handle Evelyn’s death when I was fourteen, then, by hang, Bran could, too.
    He gave me a quelling look. When I didn’t look down as protocol demanded, his lips turned up before he hid them with the cup.
    â€œEvelyn, indeed,” he said, then sighed. “When you chose to live alone, rather than go to your mother, I agreed to that, too. You had proven your mettle to me; I thought you had earned the right to make your own choices.” His eyes roved around the room. “Do you remember the last time you and I talked?”
    I nodded and sat down finally. Even if he wasn’t insisting on protocol tonight, it felt awkward to be standing while he was sitting in the chair.
    â€œYou were sixteen,” he said. “Too young for him—and too young to know what it was that he wanted from you.”
    When Bran had caught Samuel kissing me in the woods, he’d sent me home, then shown up the next morning to tell me that he’d already spoken with my real mother, and she would be expecting me at the end of the week. He was sending me away, and I should pack what I wanted to take.
    I’d packed all right, but not to go to Portland; I waspacked to leave with Samuel. We’d get married, he’d said. It never occurred to me that at sixteen, I’d have trouble getting married without parental permission. Doubtless Samuel would have had an answer for that as well. We’d planned to move to a city and live outside of any pack.
    I loved Samuel, had loved him since my foster father had died and Samuel had taken over his role as my protector. Bryan had been a dear, but Samuel was a much more effective defense. Even the women didn’t bother me as much once I had Samuel at my back. He’d been funny and charming. Lightheartedness is not a gift often given to werewolves, but Samuel had it in abundance. Under his wing, I learned joy—a very seductive emotion.
    â€œYou told me that Samuel didn’t love me,” I told Bran, my mouth tasting like sawdust. I don’t know how he’d found out what Samuel had planned. “You told me he needed a mate who could bear his children.”
    Human women miscarry a little over half of the children they conceive by a werewolf father. They carry to term only those babies who are wholly human. Werewolf women miscarry at the first full moon. But coyotes and wolves can interbreed with viable offspring, so why not Samuel and me? Samuel believed that some of our children would be human, maybe some would be walkers like me, and some would be born werewolves—but they all would live.
    It wasn’t until Bran explained it all to me that I understood the antagonism Leah had toward me, an antagonism that all the other females had adopted.
    â€œI should not have told you that way,” Bran said.
    â€œAre you trying to apologize?” I asked. I couldn’t understand what Bran was trying to say. “I was sixteen. Samuel may seem young, but he’s been a full-grown adult as long as I can remember—so he’s what, fifty? Sixty?”
    I hadn’t worried about it when I had loved him. He’d never acted any older than I. Werewolves didn’t usually talk about the past, not the way humans do. Most of what I knew about Bran’s history,