Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

glanced at me just then, and I didn’t know what was in my face, but it stopped him. Just stopped all the expression, and for a moment he looked amazingly like his half brother, Charles—one of the scariest people I’ve ever met. Charles can just look at raging werewolves and have them whimpering in the corner.
    But it was only for an instant. He patted me on my head and said something funny to Jesse.
    â€œSo,” I said. “Did you call Marsilia, Adam?”
    He watched Samuel, but said, “Yes, ma’am. I got Estelle. She’s supposed to give Marsilia my message and have her call me back.”
    â€œShe’s playing one-upmanship games,” observed Samuel.
    â€œLet her,” Adam said. “Doesn’t mean I need to do the same.”
    â€œBecause you have the edge,” I said with satisfaction. “You have a bigger threat.”
    â€œWhat?” asked Jesse.
    â€œThe Big Bad Boogeyman vampire of Spokane,” I said, sitting on the table. “He’s coming to get her.”
    It wasn’t a sure thing, but it didn’t have to be as long as we could convince Marsilia of it. If I had been Marsilia, I would’ve been worried about Blackwood.
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    ADAM AND JESSE WENT HOME. SAMUEL WENT TO BED, and so did I. When my cell phone rang, I was in the middle of a dream about garbage cans and frogs—don’t ask, and I won’t tell.
    â€œMercy,” Adam purred.
    I looked down at my feet, where Medea slept. She blinked her big green-gold eyes at me and purred again.
    â€œAdam.”
    â€œI called to tell you that I finally got in touch with Marsilia herself.”
    I sat up, suddenly not sleepy at all. “And?”
    â€œI told her about Blackwood. She listened all the way through, thanked me for my concern, and hung up.”
    â€œShe’s hardly going to panic over the phone and swear to be forever friends,” I said, and he laughed.
    â€œNo, I don’t think so. But I thought I’d do my bit for goodwill and let her two baby vamps go.”
    â€œBesides, now that Jesse knows they’re there, you’re not going to be able to keep her away.”
    â€œThanks for that.”
    â€œAnytime. Hostage-holding is for the bad guys.”
    He laughed again, this time faintly bitterly. “You obviously haven’t seen the good guys in action.”
    â€œNo,” I told him. “Maybe you were just mistaken on who the good guys were.”
    There was a long pause, and he said in a soft, midnight voice, “Maybe you’re right.”
    â€œYou’re the good guy,” I explained to him. “So you have to cope with all the good-guy rules. Fortunately, you have an exceptionally talented and incredibly gifted sidekick ...”
    â€œWho turns into a coyote,” he said, a smile in his voice.
    â€œSo you don’t have to worry about the bad guys very much.”
    And we settled into some serious, heart-accelerating flirting. Over the phone, passion brought on no panic attack.
    I hung up eventually. We both had to get up in the morning, but the call left me restless and not sleepy in the slightest. After a few minutes I got up and took a good look at the stitches in my face. They were tiny and neat, individually tied and set so when my face altered, they wouldn’t pull. Trust a werewolf to give me stitches so I could shift with them.
    I stripped out of my clothes and opened my bedroom door. And as a coyote, I popped out of the newly installed dog door and dashed out into the night.
    I covered several miles before heading out to the river and my favorite running ground. It wasn’t until I stopped to get a drink from the river that I smelled vampire—and not my vampire. I stood in the shallows of the river and lapped at the water as if I hadn’t sensed a thing.
    But it didn’t matter because this vampire had no desire to remain unseen. If I hadn’t smelled him, the distinctive sound of a shotgun shell jacked into place was quite an announcement of intentions. He must have followed me from home. Or maybe his sense of smell was werewolf good. At any rate, he knew who I was.
    Bernard stood on the bank, the gun held with obvious familiarity with the barrel pointed at yours truly. Vampire with shotgun—it seemed a little like Jaws with a chain saw, too much of a good thing.
    I’d have preferred a chain saw in this case. I hate shotguns. I have scars on my butt