Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

“Mercedes Thompson. Come let us partake of your truth. Witness for us the things you have seen and heard.”
    I folded my arms, not in outright refusal—but I didn’t go waltzing over either. This was Marsilia’s show, but I wouldn’t let her have the upper hand completely. Warren’s hand closed over my shoulder—a show of support, I thought. Or maybe he was trying to warn me.
    â€œYou will do as I say because you want me to stop hurting your friends,” she purred. “The wolves are more worthy targets ... but there is that delicious policeman—Tony, isn’t it? And the boy who works for you. He has such a big family, doesn’t he? Children are so fragile.” She looked at Estelle’s man, dead almost at her feet.
    Stefan stared at her, then looked at me. And once I saw his eyes, I knew the emotion he was trying to hold back ... rage.
    â€œYou sure?” I asked him.
    He nodded. “Come.”
    I wasn’t happy about doing it, but she was right. I wanted my friends safe.
    I sat on the chair and scooted forward until my arms wouldn’t be stretched out trying to reach the sharp brass. I slammed both hands down and tried not to wince as the thorns bit deep—or gasp as magic pulsed in my ears.
    â€œYum,” said Wuife—and I nearly jerked my hands away again. Could he taste me through the thorns, or was he just trying to harass me?
    â€œI sent Stefan to you,” Marsilia said. “Will you tell our audience what he looked like?”
    I looked at Stefan, and he nodded. So I described the wizened thing that had fallen to my floor as closely as I could remember it, working to keep my voice impersonal rather than angry or ... anything else inappropriate.
    â€œTruth,” said Wulfe when I finished.
    â€œWhy was he in that state?” Marsilia asked.
    Stefan nodded so I answered her. “Because he tried to save my life by covering up my involvement in Andre’s ... death? Destruction? What do you call it when a vampire is killed permanently?”
    The skin on her face thinned until I could see the bones beneath. And she was even more beautiful, more terrible in her rage. “Dead,” she said.
    â€œTruth,” said Wulfe. “Stefan tried to cover up your involvement in Andre’s death.” He looked around. “I helped cover it up, too. It seemed the thing to do at the time ... though I later repented and confessed.”
    â€œThere are crossed bones on the door of your home,” Marsilia said.
    â€œMy shop,” I answered. “And yes.”
    â€œDid you know,” she said, “that no vampire except Stefan can go into your shop? It is your home as much as that ratty trailer in Finley is.”
    Why had she told me that? Stefan was watching her, too.
    â€œTell our audience the why of the bones.”
    â€œBetrayal,” I said. “Or so I am told. You asked me to kill one monster, and I chose to kill two.”
    â€œTruth,” said Wulfe.
    â€œWhen did Stefan know you were a walker, Mercedes Thompson?”
    â€œThe first time I met him,” I told her. “Almost ten years ago.”
    â€œTruth,” said Wulfe.
    She looked toward the bleachers again and addressed someone there. “Remember that.” She turned to stare at me, then glanced at Stefan as she asked me, “Why did you kill Andre?”
    â€œBecause he knew how to build sorcerers-demon-possessed. He’d done it once, and you and he planned on doing it again. People died for his games—and more people would die for yours, both of yours.”
    â€œTruth,” said Wulfe.
    â€œWhat care we how many people die?” asked Marsilia, waving at the dead man and speaking to everyone here. “They are short-lived, and they are food.”
    She’s meant it rhetorically, but I answered her anyway.
    â€œThey are many, and they could destroy your seethe in a day if they knew it existed. It would take them a month to wipe all of you out of existence in this country. And if you were creating monsters like that thing Andre brought into existence, I would help them.” I leaned forward as I spoke. My hands throbbed in time with my heartbeat, and I found that the rhythm of my words followed the pain.
    â€œTruth,” said Wulfe in a satisfied tone.
    Marsilia put her mouth near my ear. “That was for my soldier,” she murmured in tones that reached no farther than my ears.