Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

to put on the ground. I also kept a selection of useful car bits. It was going to be a while before my Rabbit was up and running.
    â€œHow is Mary Jo?”
    â€œShe’s sleeping for real now.”
    â€œBran helped?”
    â€œBran helped.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “You be careful ghost hunting—and don’t let Stefan bite you.”
    There was just a little edge to the last.
    â€œJealous?” I asked. Yep. The RV passed me on the downhill.
    â€œMaybe a little,” he said.
    â€œDon’t be. We’ll be fine. Ghosts aren’t as dangerous as crazy vampire ladies.” I couldn’t help the anxiety that crept into my voice.
    â€œI’ll be careful—and Mercy?”
    â€œUhm?”
    â€œConsider yourself yelled at,” he purred, then hung up.
    I grinned at the phone and closed it.
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    AMBER’S DIRECTIONS TO HER HOUSE HAD BEEN CLEAR and easy to follow. The relief in her voice when I’d called that morning made me want to believe she really had a ghost problem and wasn’t part of some secret vampire conspiracy to get me somewhere I’d be easier to kill. Despite Bran’s assurances that it was unlikely Marsilia would ship me off to Spokane, I was still feeling ... not paranoid, really. Cautious. I was feeling cautious.
    Zee had agreed to work the shop while I was gone. I probably could have gotten him to work cheaper than usual because he was still feeling guilty about stuff that wasn’t his fault. Cheaper would mean I could eat peanut butter instead of ramen noodles for the rest of the month, but I didn’t think any of it was his fault.
    He had talked to Uncle Mike about the crossed bones on my door. Definitely vampire work, he told me. The bones meant that I had broken faith with the vampires and was no longer under their protection—and anyone offering me aid of any kind was likely to find themselves on the wrong side of the vampires as well. The broad interpretation of that was horrifying. It meant that people like Tony and Sensei Johanson were at risk, too.
    It meant that it was probably a good thing that I get out of town for a few days and figure out how to limit the number of victims Marsilia could claim.
    Amber lived in a Victorian mansion complete with a pair of towers. The brick porch had been freshly tuck-pointed, the gingerbread work around the roof edge and the windows bore a new coat of paint. Even the roses looked ready for magazine display.
    Frowning at the leaded glass glistening in the sun, I wondered when I’d last cleaned the windows in my house. Had I ever cleaned the windows? Samuel might have.
    I was still thinking about it when the door opened. A startled boy gawked at me, and I realized I hadn’t rung the doorbell.
    â€œHey,” I said. “Is your mom home?”
    He recovered quickly and gave me a shy look out of a pair of misty green eyes under long, thick eyelashes, and turned to ring the bell I hadn’t.
    â€œI’m Mercy,” I told him, while we waited for Amber to emerge from the depths of the house. “Your mom and I went to school together.”
    His wary look deepened, and he didn’t say anything. So I guessed she hadn’t told him anything.
    â€œMercy, I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” Amber sounded harassed and not at all grateful, and that was before she saw what I looked like—covered in old oil and parking-lot dirt.
    Her son and I turned to look at her.
    She still looked like a show dog, but her eyes were stressed. “Chad, this is my friend who is going to help us with the ghost.” As she spoke, her hands flew in a graceful dance, and I remembered Charles had said her son had some sort of disability: he was deaf.
    She turned her attention to me, but her hands still moved, letting her son know what she was saying. “This is my son, Chad.” She took a deep breath. “Mercy, I’m sorry. My husband has a client coming over for dinner tonight. He didn’t tell me until just a few minutes ago. It’s a formal dinner ...”
    She looked at me, and her voice trailed off.
    â€œWhat?” I said letting sharpness creep into my voice at the insult. “Don’t I look like I’m up to a formal dinner? Sorry, the stitches in my chin don’t come out for at least a week.”
    Suddenly she laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit. If you didn’t bring anything