Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

said. “And the wolves have set precedent. They paid for permission to come into our territory because we are dominant to Adam’s little pack.”
    Samuel’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. The vampire’s contributors were the people who’d killed Mac, the people who had Jesse.
    â€œSo the new visitors have werewolves among them,” I said sharply. “They are not Bran’s wolves. They cannot be a pack. They are less than nothing. Outlaws with no status.I killed two of them myself, and Adam killed another two. And you know I am no great power. Real wolves, wolves who were pack, would never have fallen to something as weak as I.” That was the truth, and I hoped they both could hear it.
    There was a long pause. I could hear murmuring in the background, but I could not tell what they said.
    â€œPerhaps that is so,” said Stefan at last, sounding tired. “Bring your wolf and come to us. We’ll determine if he needs a visitor’s pass. If not, we see no reason not to tell you what we know of these outlaws who are so much less than pack.”
    â€œI don’t know where your seethe is,” I said.
    â€œI’ll come and get you,” said Stefan, apparently speaking on his own. He hung up.
    â€œI guess we’re going to visit the vampires tonight,” I said. Sometime during the conversation, Zee had come out as well. I hadn’t noticed when, but he was standing beside Samuel. “Do you know vampires?”
    Samuel shrugged. “A little. I’ve run into one a time or two.”
    â€œI’ll go with you,” the old mechanic said softly, and tossed back the last of the scotch in the shot glass he’d brought out with him. “Nothing I am will help you—metal is not their bane. But I know something of vampires.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I need you for something else. If I don’t call you tomorrow morning, I want you to call this number.” I pulled an old grocery receipt out of my purse and wrote Warren’s home number on the back of it. “This is Warren’s, the wolf who’s Adam’s third. Tell him as much as you know.”
    He took the number. “I don’t like this.” But he shoved the note into his pocket in tacit agreement. “I wish you had more time to prepare. Do you have a symbol of your faith, Mercy, a cross, perhaps? It is not quite as effective as Mr. Stoker made it out to be, but it will help.”
    â€œI’m wearing a cross,” Samuel said. “Bran makes us all wear them. We don’t have vampires in our part ofMontana, but there are other things crosses are good for.” Like some of the nastier fae—but Samuel wouldn’t mention that in front of Zee—it would be rude. Just as Zee would never mention that the third and fourth bullets in the gun he carried were silver—I made them for him myself. Not that he couldn’t do it better himself, but if he got tangled up with werewolves, I figured it would be because of me.
    â€œMercy?” asked Samuel.
    I don’t like crosses. My distaste has nothing to do with the metaphysical like it does for vampires; when I lived in Bran’s pack, I wore crosses, too. I have a whole spiel about how sick it is to carry around the instrument of Christ’s torture as a symbol for the Prince of Peace who taught us to love one another. It’s a good spiel, and I even believe it.
    Really though, they just give me the willies. I have a very vivid memory of going to church with my mother on one of her rare visits when I was four or five. She was poor and living in Portland; she just couldn’t afford to come very often. So when she could come, she liked to do something special. We went to Missoula for a mother-daughter weekend and, on Sunday, picked a church to attend at random—more, I think, because my mother felt she ought to take me to church than because she was particularly religious.
    She stopped to talk to the pastor or priest, and I wandered farther into the building so I was alone when I turned the corner and saw, hanging on the wall, a bigger-than-life-size statue of Christ dying on the cross. My eyes were just level with his feet, which were tacked to the cross with a huge nail. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but someone with talent had painted it true to life, complete with blood. We didn’t go to church that day—and ever since then, I couldn’t