Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

went down to the basement—which was also trashed—and while we were down there, one of the fae who had destroyed the store turned up on the stairs.”
    â€œThat’s the one who was dead in the basement,” Alicia said in an odd tone. “The one someone started to eat.”
    â€œSam’s not been himself lately,” I told Jesse. “The fae knocked me cold, and when I woke up Sam had killed him and . . .”
    â€œSam,” the fae said softly—and her hands clenched on her lap. “You have friends who are werewolves, Zee tells me. This Sam is a werewolf?”
    â€œSam is a werewolf and my friend,” I told her. Maybe my tone was a little sharp, but I was getting tired of people attacking Samuel. “Who saved my life by killing the not-so-jolly green giant. I’m okay with it if he helped himself to a little snack.” If it squicked my thou-shalt-not-be-a-cannibal button, that was a button my mother gave me, not the werewolves. He hadn’t violated any werewolf taboos—eating your prey is better than leaving the bodies lying around.
    Alicia didn’t seem to be too upset about my snapping at her, though.
    â€œSamuel Cornick,” she said, her eyes catching mine. “Samuel Marrokson, Samuel Branson, Samuel Whitewolf, Samuel Swift-foot, Samuel Deathbringer, Samuel Avenger.” I couldn’t remember what color her eyes had been in the bookstore, but I knew it hadn’t been green. Not hazel, not a human color at all, but a brilliant grass green that darkened to blue and brightened.
    â€œThat would be me,” said Samuel, standing in the doorway. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and had managed to find a pair of jeans that were only a little baggy. “Hello, Ari. It’s been a few centuries.” His voice was soft. “I didn’t know you had a talent for true naming.”
    She looked at him, and I saw the pupils of her eyes widen past her changeable irises until her eyes were as black as a starless night. And then her glamour went all funky.
    I’ve seen fae drop their glamour before. Sometimes it’s cool, with colors sliding and mixing; sometimes it’s like when I shapeshift—just blink and the man in front of you suddenly has antennae and six-inch-long hair growing from his hands.
    But this was different. It reminded me of an electrical appliance shorting out, complete with quiet fizzling noises. A patch of skin appeared on her arm that had been covered by the sweater she wore, and on the patch of skin was a little scar. Then there was a sound and the sweater reappeared and there was a six-inch-by-four-inch section of skin revealed on her thigh, but most of that space was taken up by a horrendous scar that looked deep and stiff—a wound that healed badly enough that it probably interfered with her ability to use her leg. After an instant it disappeared, and three scarred areas appeared on her face, hand, and neck. Her skin tone around the scars was darker than the one she wore to hide from the world. The color was nothing outlandish, a few shades darker than mine or lighter than Darryl’s, but to my eyes the texture was softer than human skin. It appeared as if the old wounds were presenting themselves to us—or rather to Samuel, because she never took her attention off him.
    Jesse reached out and grabbed my knee, but her face didn’t change as the fae woman slowly stood up. She began to breathe hard as she took several steps back, sliding her chair behind her until it bumped into the shelving in back of her, and she couldn’t retreat anymore. Her mouth opened and she began panting, and I realized what I was seeing was a full-blown panic attack done fae-style.
    Zee had said her panic attacks were dangerous.
    â€œAriana,” Samuel said, in a voice like Medea’s gentlest purr.
    He didn’t move from the door, giving her space. “Ari. Your father is dead and so are his beasts. I promise you are safe.”
    â€œDon’t move,” Zee told Jesse and me in a low voice, his eyes on the fae woman. “This could go very badly. I told you not to bring any of the wolves.”
    â€œI brought myself, old man,” said Samuel. “And I told Ariana that if she ever needed me, I would come. It was a promise and a threat, though I didn’t mean it that way at the time.”
    Alicia Brewster—whom Samuel had apparently known as Ariana—hummed three notes and