Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

not to be hurt when Mary Jo and Aurielle deliberately avoided looking at me. I didn’t know what cause ... or rather which cause was bothering them—coyote, vampire prey, or causing Marsilia to target the pack. It didn’t matter, really—there was nothing I could do about any of it.
    Warren, Samuel, and Darryl waited until the others were gone, then Warren gave me a little smile and went ahead. Darryl paused, and I looked at him. I outranked him, which put me at the end of the pack, to protect us from attack from behind. Then he smiled, a warm expression I couldn’t say I’d ever seen on his face, not directed at me anyway. And he went ahead.
    â€œOh no, you don’t,” said Samuel, amused. “I’m outside the pack, and so I can tag along with you.”
    â€œI really need a good night’s sleep,” I told him as I fell into step beside him.
    â€œI guess that’s what comes from fraternizing with vampires.” He put a hand over my shoulder. A cold hand.
    I’d been so busy sweating with fear I’d become accustomed to both the feeling and the smell. I hadn’t noticed that Samuel was scared, too.
    The last time he’d come here, Lily had taken him for a snack—and Marsilia had done worse, robbing him of his will until he was hers.
    For me it would have been terrifying. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to a werewolf who lived only because he controlled his wolf. All the time.
    I reached up and put my hand over his. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. And all the way through the room, I was conscious of the two still bodies on the floor, and of the vampires and their menageries, who sat silently on the bleachers, obedient to orders I couldn’t hear. They watched us leave with their predatory eyes, and I felt them on my back all the way to the door.
    Just like the ghost in the bathroom at Amber’s house.
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    I SAT SHOTGUN IN THE SUBURBAN ADAM HAD DRIVEN over. I didn’t know if it was a rental or a new vehicle—which is what it smelled like. Paul, Darryl, and Aurielle filled the first backseat. Samuel drove his own car, a nifty new Mercedes in bing cherry red.
    Mary Jo, who had been heading toward Adam’s vehicle until she saw me, abruptly changed directions and got into Warren’s old truck. Alec, trailing her around like a lost puppy, followed.
    â€œAnd I thought Bran could be Byzantine,” I said finally, trying to relax in the safety of the leather upholstery as Adam drove through the gates.
    â€œI didn’t catch it all,” said Darryl. He must have been tired because his voice was even deeper than usual, buzzing my ears so I had to listen closely to catch all of his words. “For some reason she had to convince Stefan that he was out of the seethe. Then, when her traitors approached him, he had to refuse their offers before he could witness that they’d made them?”
    â€œThat’s what it sounded like to me,” said Adam. “And only with his witness and their maker’s consent could she deal with her traitors.”
    â€œMakes sense,” offered Paul almost shyly. “The way the seethe works, if he belonged to her—his witness is hers. If those two were imposed on her, she couldn’t have them killed at her word. She’d need outside verification.”
    I wondered if I’d been set up. I thought of Wulfe’s oh-so-convenient aid when I’d killed Andre. He’d known I was looking for Andre—I’d stumbled upon his resting place before I found Andre’s. I’d thought he kept it from the Mistress for his own reasons ... but maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Marsilia had planned it.
    My head hurt.
    â€œMaybe we were suspecting the wrong vampire of trying to take over Marsilia’s seethe,” Adam said.
    I thought about the vampire who had been Bernard’s maker and had stood to watch this ... trial.
    I didn’t want to be sympathetic; I wanted to hate Marsilia cleanly for what she had done to Stefan. But I’d become passing familiar with evil and all its shades, and that vampire, Bernard’s maker, set off every alarm that I had. Not that all vampires weren’t evil ... I wished suddenly that I could say except for Stefan. But I couldn’t. I’d met his menagerie, the ones Marsilia had killed—and I knew that for most of them, except for the very few who became vampire, Stefan