Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

or if he just liked cinnamon.
    The things in the room—plastic bin and bed, pillow and bedding, were brand-new. So were the paint and the carpet.
    I pulled on my shirt and pants, regretting the underwire bra he’d taken. I could maybe have managed something with the underwire. I’ve jimmied my share of car door locks and a few house locks along the way as well. The shoes I didn’t mind so much.
    Someone knocked tentatively at the door. I hadn’t heard anyone walking. Maybe it was the ghost.
    The scrape of a lock and the door opened. Amber opened the door, and said, “Silly, Mercy. Why did you lock yourself in?” Her voice was as light as her smile, but something wild lurked behind her eyes. Something very close to a wolf.
    Vampire? I wondered. I’d met one of Stefan’s menagerie who was well on his way to vampirehood. Or maybe it was just the part of Amber who knew what was going on.
    â€œI didn’t,” I told her. “Blackwood did.” She smelled funny, but the cinnamon kept me from pinpointing it.
    â€œSilly,” she said again. “Why would he do that?” Her hair looked as if she hadn’t combed it since the last time I’d seen her, and her striped shirt was buttoned one button off.
    â€œI don’t know,” I told her.
    But she had changed subjects already. “I have dinner ready. You’re supposed to join us for dinner.”
    â€œUs?”
    She laughed, but there was no smile in her eyes, just a trapped beast growing wild with frustration. “Why Corban, Chad, and Jim, of course.”
    She turned to lead the way, and I noticed she was limping badly.
    â€œAre you hurt?” I asked her.
    â€œNo, why do you ask?”
    â€œNever mind,” I said gently, because I’d noticed something else. “Don’t worry about it.”
    She wasn’t breathing.
    Here and now, I counseled myself. No fear, no rage. Just observation: know your enemy. Rot. That’s what I’d been smelling: that first hint that a steak’s been in the fridge too long.
    She was dead and walking, but she wasn’t a ghost. The word that occurred to me was zombie.
    Vampires, Stefan had once told me, have different talents. He and Marsilia could vanish and reappear somewhere else. There were vampires who could move things without touching them.
    This one had power over the dead. Ghosts who obeyed him. No one escapes, he’d told me. Not even in death.
    I followed Amber up a long flight of stairs to the main floor of the house. We arrived in a broad swath of space that was both dining room, kitchen, and living room. It was daylight ... morning from the position of the sun—maybe ten o’clock or so. But it was dinner that was set at the table. A roast—pork, my nose belatedly told me—sat splendidly adorned with roasted carrots and potatoes. A pitcher of ice water, a bottle of wine, and a loaf of sliced homemade bread.
    The table was big enough to seat eight, but there were only five chairs. Corban and Chad were sitting next to each other, with their backs to us on the only side set with two places. The remaining three chairs were obviously of the same set, but one, the one opposite Corban and Chad, had a padded backrest and arms.
    I sat down next to Chad.
    â€œBut, Mercy, that’s my place,” Amber said.
    I looked at the boy’s tear-stained face and Corban’s blank one ... He, at least, was still breathing. “Hey, you know I like kids,” I told her. “You get him all the time.”
    Blackwood still hadn’t arrived. “Does Jim speak ASL?” I asked Amber.
    Her face went blank. “I can’t answer any questions about Jim. You’ll have to ask him.” She blinked a couple of times, then she smiled at someone just behind me.
    â€œNo, I don’t,” said Blackwood.
    â€œYou don’t speak ASL?” I looked over my shoulder—not incidentally letting Chad see my lips. “Me either. It was one of those things I always meant to learn.”
    â€œIndeed.” I’d amused him, it seems.
    He sat down in the armchair and gestured to Amber to take the other.
    â€œShe’s dead,” I told him. “You broke her.”
    He went very still. “She serves me still.”
    â€œDoes she? Looks more like a puppet. I bet she’s more work and trouble dead than she was alive.” Poor Amber. But I couldn’t let him see my grief. Focus on