Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

along. I hoped that it would draw his attention away from the contents of the trunk, so he wouldn’t notice the staff. If it was still in there at all.
    â€œBlackwood has Chad?” I asked him.
    His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
    â€œLook,” I said, climbing out of the trunk with less grace than I’d planned. Damned Taser or stun gun or whatever it had been. “We don’t have much time. I need to know what the situation is. You said he had Chad. Exactly what did he tell you to do? Did he tell you why he wanted me?”
    â€œHe has Chad,” Corban said. He closed his eyes, and his face flushed red—like a weight lifter after a great effort. His voice came slowly. “I get you when you are alone. No one around. Not your roommate. Not your boyfriend. He would tell me when. I bring you back. My son lives.”
    â€œWhat does he want me for?” I asked, while still absorbing that Blackwood had known when I was alone. I couldn’t believe someone could have been following me—even if I hadn’t detected them, there was still Adam and Samuel.
    He shook his head. “Don’t know.” He reached out and grabbed my wrist. “I have to take you now.”
    â€œFine,” I said, and my heart rate doubled. Even now, I thought with a quick glance at the gate and the ten-foot stone walls. Even now I could break away and run. But there was Chad.
    â€œMercy,” he said, forcing his voice. “One more thing. He wanted me to tell you about Chad. So you would come.”
    Just because you knew it was a trap didn’t mean you could stay out if the bait was good enough. With a ragged sigh, I decided that one deaf boy with the courage to face down a ghost should inspire me to a tenth of his courage.
    My course laid out, I took a good look at the geography of Blackwood’s trap for me. It was dark, but I can see in the dark.
    Blackwood’s house was smaller than Adam‘s, smaller even than Amber’s, though it was meticulously crafted out of warm-colored stone. The grounds encompassed maybe five or six acres of what had once been a garden of roses. But it had been a few years since any gardener had touched these.
    He would have another house, I thought. One suitably grand with a professional garden and lawn service that kept it beautiful. There he would receive his business guests.
    This place, with its neglected and overgrown gardens, was his home. What did it tell me about him? Other than that he liked quality over size and preferred privacy to beauty or order.
    The walls surrounding the grounds were older than the house, made of quarried stone and hand laid without mortar. The gate was wrought iron and ornate. His house wasn’t really small—it just looked undersized for the presentation it was given. Doubtless the house it had replaced had been huge and better suited to the property, if not to the vampire.
    Corban paused in front of the door. “Run if you can,” he said. “It isn’t right ... not your problem.”
    â€œBlackwood has made it my problem,” I told him. I walked in front of him and pushed open the door. “Hey, honey, I’m home,” I announced in my best fifties-movie-starlet voice. Kyle, I felt, would have approved of the voice, but not the wardrobe. My shirt was going on a day and a half, the jeans ... I didn’t remember how long I’d been wearing the jeans. Not much longer than the shirt.
    The entryway was empty. But not for long.
    â€œMercedes Thompson, my dear,” said the vampire. “Welcome to my home at long last.” He glanced at Corban. “You have served. Go rest, my dear guest.”
    Corban hesitated. “Chad?”
    The vampire had been looking at me like I was something that delighted him ... maybe he needed some breakfast. Corban’s interruption caused a flash of irritation to sweep briefly across his face. “Have you not completed the mission I gave you? What harm could the boy come to if that is true? Now go rest.”
    I let all thoughts of Corban drift from me. His fate, his son’s fate ... Amber’s fate were beyond my control right now. I could afford only to concentrate on the here and now.
    It was a trick Bran had taught to us all on our first hunt. Not to worry about what had been or what would be, just the now. Not what a human might feel knowing she’d killed a rabbit that had never done her any harm. That