Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

submissive wolf in the pack. It was inconceivable that a submissive wolf would play power games. If Auriele was right, this had started long before the disastrous bowling-alley incident.
    â€œHow long have you known that Mary Jo would have dropped you like a hot potato for Adam?” I asked.
    He snarled something rude.
    â€œYou have no common sense whatsoever,” said Auriele. I assume she was talking to me, so I answered her.
    â€œHe’s not going to do anything with you between us,” I told her. “He’s smart enough to be afraid of you.”
    â€œSince I was killed for certain,” said Mary Jo, answering the question I’d asked Henry. “Isn’t that right? The first time I regained consciousness. You kissed my forehead, and I called you by Adam’s name. But it sounds like you had a pretty good idea about it even earlier.”
    â€œGet out of here,” said Darryl, his voice low with anger. “Get out of this house, Henry. When you come back to see this fight, you come in from the outside door. And you’d better hope Adam wins this fight, or I’ll wipe the ground with you so hard they won’t need a box to bury you in. All they’ll need is a mop.”
    Henry flushed, went white, then flushed again. He left the room without a word. The outside door opened and slammed shut.
    Ben strolled in, looking grim, Sam right behind him.
    â€œWhere’s Henry going in such a hurry? Darryl, good—I was looking for you. I just got through talking to Warren downstairs. Have you heard . . . ?” His voice trailed off when he saw Jesse standing there. He took a good look at all of us. “I see you have.”
    Darryl stiffened. “Samuel?” His voice was soft.
    â€œHe’s been like this a couple of days,” offered Ben. “So far, so good. It’s a long story, and you can hear it later: we’re due in the garage in five.”

11

    THE ONLY REASON THE GARAGE WASN’T PACKED WITH werewolves was that there hadn’t been enough time for the word to go around.
    Instead of thirty or so, we only had eighteen, not including Sam, who wasn’t pack. But I had to keep looking around and counting because there seemed to be fewer people than my count showed. Most dominance fights, like boxing or wrestling matches, are full of jostling, cheering, jeering, and betting. This one was eerily silent, and only one person was moving.
    Paul jogged in place on one side of the padded floor, stopping every ten or fifteen seconds to stretch or do a little shadowboxing. He was a tall man with blond hair and a short red beard. His skin was the kind that is usual for redheads, pale and freckled. The excitement of the impending fight left him flushed. Like Adam, he wore only a pair of gi pants.
    There is no tradition that dictates dominance fights have to be done in human form. It is common, though, because it makes the challenge more about skill and strength. When you are armed with fangs and claws, a lucky hit can take out a more skilled opponent.
    On the far side of the mats from Paul, Adam stood in horse stance, head bowed, eyes closed, and shoulders relaxed. All signs of pain were gone from his face, but he hadn’t been able to eliminate the pain-caused stiffness in the time that he’d walked from the house to the mat. Even if he had, only an idiot would look at the broken scabs on his feet and hands and not understand that he was in trouble.
    As Alpha, even as badly hurt as he had been, he really should have been healing faster than this. Granted that werewolves, even the same werewolf, will heal wounds at different rates depending upon a number of things. He might have been hurt worse than he’d shown us, or the trouble he’d been having with his pack could be interfering with his ability to heal. I tried not to look worried.
    Jesse and I had the equivalent of ringside seats at the edge of the mat on the side where Adam stood—traditional for the family of the Alpha, but not smart when neither of us could reasonably defend ourselves if the fight rolled off the mats. Sam stood beside Jesse, and Warren stood between us, presumably to keep the combatants from hurting us.
    Adam wasn’t wearing a watch, but at exactly nine thirty by the clock on the wall, he raised his head, opened his eyes, and nodded at Darryl.
    Wolves aren’t much given to long speech-making. Darryl strode from the sidelines to the center of the