Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

between her and her mate. Maybe she was afraid that she was going to get targeted in the dominance fights. Whatever it was, her trouble ranked way down in my priorities at the moment—Adam was listing to the right. In a few moments, someone else was bound to notice.
    â€œYes,” I said, sliding by her and stepping over someone who was lying on their side on the floor. “Don’t ask me what it means long-term; I don’t think anyone knows. Adam?”
    He looked up, and I wondered if Warren should have knocked a minute off his countdown to the crash; he looked that bad.
    â€œYou should come with me. We need to call the Marrok.” Invoking the Marrok’s name should make it unlikely that anyone would follow us. I ensured that by adding, “He’s not going to be happy about being left out of this. The sooner he hears, the better.”
    There was a twinkle in Adam’s eyes, though he kept the rest of his face stoic. “Better be in my bedroom, if I’m going to get chewed on. Give me a hand up, would you? Paul gave me a few good ones.”
    He held up one of his poor, sore hands, and I took it without wincing for the pain that closing his hand over mine must have given him. It was a show to reassure the pack he was as strong as ever. The twinkle left his eyes though his mouth turned up in a smile as he stood up easily, without pulling on my hand at all.
    When we got to the moron who was sitting in the only path to the stairway, Adam caught my waist and lifted me over before stepping over the man himself.
    â€œScott?” Adam said as we headed upstairs.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œUnless someone shoots you, skins you, and throws the results on the floor, I don’t want to see you lying in the walkway again.”
    â€œYessir!”
    When we reached the top of the stairway, his hand was heavy on my shoulder, and he leaned harder on me all the way to the bedroom.
    Someone—and I was betting it was Darryl—had left three huge roast beef sandwiches, a cup of hot coffee, and a glass of ice water on the table by the side of the bed. Medea was sleeping on the pillow in the middle of the bed. She looked up at us and, when I didn’t make any move to oust her, closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
    â€œCrumbs on the sheets,” muttered Adam, watching the sandwiches intently as I pushed him down on the bed.
    â€œBet there are clean sheets in this mausoleum somewhere,” I told him. “We can find them tonight and remake the bed. Presto, no more crumbs.” I took half a sandwich and held it up to his face. “Eat.”
    He smiled and bit my finger with a playfulness I’d have thought beyond him, as beat as he was.
    â€œEat,” I said sternly. “Food, then sleep. Rescue—” I bit my lip. Adam was a wolf. I couldn’t talk to him about Gabriel, no matter how wrong that felt. “Food, then sleep. Everything else can wait.”
    But it was too late. He’d never let that word go by without a challenge. He accepted the sandwich from me, took a bite, and swallowed it. “Rescue?”
    â€œI can’t talk about it. Talk to Jesse or Darryl.”
    Mercy?
    His voice wrapped around my head like a bracing winter wind, fresh and sweet to my taste. Here was a way I could communicate without speech—if I could just figure out how. I stared at him intently.
    Finally, he smiled. “You can’t talk about it. You promised . . . someone. I got that much. I keep a notebook in my briefcase in the closet. Why don’t you get that and spend some time writing a letter to me about whatever it is you can’t say.”
    I kissed his nose. “You’ve been hanging out with the fae again, haven’t you? Wolves are usually a little better about keeping the spirit as well as the letter of the law.”
    â€œGood thing you aren’t a werewolf, then.” His voice was gravelly with fatigue and smoke damage.
    â€œYou really think so?” I asked. When I was growing up, I’d wanted to be a werewolf so I could really belong to the Marrok’s pack. I’d always wondered whether, if I had been a werewolf instead of a coyote, my foster father would have reconsidered his decision to follow his mate in death. But when Adam said he was glad I wasn’t a werewolf, it sounded like he meant it.
    â€œI wouldn’t change a hair on your head,” he told me. “Now, go get the notebook and write