Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

a puppy. My vet says he might be an Irish Wolfhound cross of some sort, maybe with something with a little wolf like a Husky or Samoyed.”
    â€œOr Siberian Tiger,” he muttered, not intending me to hear. In a louder voice, he said, “Why don’t you let me see your license, registration, and insurance, ma’am.” He was relaxed, now, not expecting trouble.
    I opened the front passenger door and retrieved my purse from the jockey box, where I’d tucked it when we’d stopped at Uncle Mike’s. Right next to the registration, insurance cards and my SIG.
    Life would be much easier if the nice police officer didn’t see that—or the .444 Marlin in the far back. I had a concealed carry permit, but I’d rather keep this low-key. Especially since, according to Stefan, Zee’s dagger was not legal.
    I gathered the insurance card and registration, then shut the jockey box—gingerly, so the SIG didn’t rattle. I needn’t have worried. When I looked for him, the police officer was sitting on the floor of the van petting Samuel.
    Any other werewolf of my acquaintance I’d have been worried about—they aren’t pets, and some of them resent being treated like one. Samuel canted his face so that the policeman’s fingers found just the right spot behind his ear and groaned with pleasure.
    Samuel liked humans. I remember him coming down to play with the elementary-school kids—all human—at recess. Most werewolves avoid children, but not Samuel. They all knew who he was, of course, and when they saw him as a man they called him Dr. Cornick and treated him as they would have treated any other adult. But when he came to school as a wolf, they put him to work playing pony, runaway dog, and ferocious, but loyal, wolf-friend. He did it with the same fierce enjoyment as the children.
    â€œHe’s beautiful,” the policeman said, getting out of the van at last and taking my paperwork. “How big is he when he’s standing up?”
    I clicked my fingers. “Samuel, come.”
    He stood up on the bench seat, and the top of his back brushed the roof of the van. Then he stretched and hopped off the seat and onto the gravel road without touching the floor of the van. He deliberately moved like a big dog, a little clumsy and slow. His thick winter coat and the night provided some camouflage of the differences that no amount of mixed breeding could account for.
    Werewolves’ front legs are built more like a bear’s or a lion’s than a timber wolf’s. Like the former two, werewolves used their claws to rip and tear flesh, and that means their musculature is different, too.
    The policeman whistled and walked around him. He was careful to keep the flashlight out of Samuel’s eyes. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Not an ounce of fat and every bit of two hundred pounds.”
    â€œYou think so? I’ve never weighed him,” I said. “I know he’s heavier than I am, and that’s good enough for me.”
    The policeman gave me back my license and assorted papers without actually looking at any of them. “I’d still be happier if you ran in the daylight, ma’am. In any case, this park is closed at night—safer for everyone.”
    â€œI appreciate your concern for my safety,” I said earnestly, patting the werewolf lightly on the head.
    The police officer moved his car, but he waited while I closed Samuel back into the van and followed me out of the park as far as the on-ramp to the highway—so I couldn’t stop to put my socks on. I hate going barefoot in leather tennis shoes.
    Samuel levered his bulk up on the front passenger seat and stuck his head out the window, flattening his ears against the tear of the wind.
    â€œStop that,” I chided him. “Keep all your body parts in the van.”
    He ignored me and opened his mouth, letting his tongueget swept back like his ears. After a while, he pulled his head in and grinned at me.
    â€œI’ve always wanted to do that,” I confessed. “Maybe when this is all over, you can drive, and I’ll stick my head out the window.”
    He turned toward me and let his front paws rest on the floor between our seats. Then he stuck his nose in my midriff and whined.
    â€œStop that!” I shrieked, and slapped his muzzle. “That’s just rude.”
    He pulled his head back and gave me a quizzical