Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

fae, the humans, and the dying forest lord, there was a witch. I could see a witch being tough enough that the fairy queen would want more than just a silver ring around her throat to ensure she was controlled.
    Among those who call themselves witches, there are various types. Least troublesome are the humans who have adopted Wicca as their religion. Some of them have a spark of power, enough to enrich their faith, but not so much to attract the attention of bigger and nastier things.
    Then there are the white witches—people born to the witch families who have chosen to do no harm. Like the mundane-born witches, white witches are usually not very powerful—because witch magic gets its power from death, pain, and sacrifice, and white witches have chosen to eschew that.
    Most witches of any power are black witches. They smell of it, some more than others. There are black witches who skirt the doing of actual evil. Elizaveta Arkadyevna, our pack’s witch, is one of those. She is very powerful as witches—even as black witches—go. But, as I understand it, skirting evil is difficult, time-consuming, and requires a lot more from a practitioner than true black magic does. It is so much easier to use the suffering of others to make magic, and the results are more predictable.
    This witch—and as we closed toward the throne, the smell got stronger and stronger, making my supposition more and more likely—this witch stank of the blackest magic. In her neighborhood, pets and small children would go missing, and even the occasional homeless man. I was betting that the iron chains binding the forest lord were hers.
    The room the others saw, for all its height, was not a terribly big one. The cave I could see was bigger, but almost half of it was taken up by the forest lord behind the throne. It didn’t take long for us to reach the dais.
    The fairy queen sat on the edge of the seat of the silver throne and reached down to pet her witch—who didn’t seem to appreciate it much. The queen’s wings fluttered as she sat, then folded so she could lean against the back of the throne.
    Her eyelids fluttered with a faint wrip-wrip sound. Once I was facing her, I could tell that her eyes were just . . . wrong. She would stare and stare, then blink rapidly. It was hard to watch.
    â€œJesse,” she said. “Tell me your name?”
    â€œJessica Tamarind Hauptman,” Jesse said, her voice not quite right.
    â€œJessica,” said the queen. “Isn’t that a pretty name? Come sit at my feet, Jessica.” She looked at me and smiled as Jesse did as she was bid.
    The queen leaned forward to pet her head—Jesse seemed to appreciate it more than the witch had. “She is half- mine already,” the queen told me. “Your young man, Gabriel, and I have already done this as well. Haven’t we?”
    â€œYes, my queen,” he murmured tightly.
    â€œI haven’t collared him because of our bargain, Mercedes Thompson, but while a human is in my presence, unless I suppress my magic, they belong to me. It was not smart of you to bring me another thrall.” She patted Jesse one last time, then sat back. “But that is not all you brought into my Elphame. Tell me, Mercedes, how is it that you managed to bring not only a fae, but a wolf with you when you were not to speak of this to them?”
    I gave her the short version. “I taped our phone conversation.”
    â€œI see.” She looked like she’d swallowed a lemon, but didn’t complain. “So, Mercedes Thompson, you would cry bargain.” She smiled coolly. “You want to exchange the Silver Borne for your life?”
    Ariana gave me a sharp look, but I knew how to listen—and I knew about fairy bargains that left you ruing the day you made them, even before I’d read Phin’s book. If I wasn’t really careful, I could bargain the book for my life—and end up wishing myself dead. For instance, I could get out of here and be forced to leave Jesse and Gabriel behind.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said, squirming under the weight of the fairy queen’s gaze. I bit the inside of my lip until it bled—and it hurt because human-shaped teeth aren’t sharp enough to cut through skin easily.
    â€œSamuel,” I said, “a kiss for courage and clear-seeing, my love?”
    Samuel turned to me, startled—a kiss was probably the last thing that