Mercy Thompson 06 - River Marked

basalt cliffs that ranged from two feet to twenty or thirty feet high. The first kind we scrambled over; the second we worked our way around.
    We’d made it about halfway by my hazy reckoning when Adam caught up to us. He was human and clothed, but his eyes were yellow bright from the adrenaline and the pain of his rushed changes.
    He handed me a backpack, and said, “Clothes, shoes, and first aid.” His voice was a low, growling sound, and his hand shook.
    “Thank you,” I said. “I’m safe with them.” I found that I believed that now, and it was a relief. “Can you get Benny up to the road to wait for the ambulance?” It would be dangerous, all that blood. But the men were tiring, and tired people make missteps.
    Adam didn’t look directly at any of the strangers—so they wouldn’t have the opportunity to meet his eyes. That was good and bad. It told me he was still in control—but he didn’t trust himself to stay that way.
    He took Benny off Hank’s back without a word, cradling the wounded man like a baby—which kept Benny’s foot up higher though it was a much more difficult way to carry an unconscious person than the fireman’s carry the Owens brothers had been using.
    Hank didn’t fight Adam—just held very still, as though he sensed how much danger he was in. Adam lifted his head once, then took a quick look at all the men before sprinting off for the road at a dead run.
    “Who the hell was that?” asked Calvin.
    He had to have had a fair idea of who it was—after all, Adam had brought clothes for me. What he meant, I thought, was how did Adam run up the side of the canyon carrying Benny at a speed that would have done credit to an Olympic sprinter. “That was my husband,” I said nonchalantly to the adrenaline-filled air as I opened the backpack and pulled out my jeans. “He’s a werewolf—and Hank was smart enough not to make an issue of handing Benny off to him.”
    Adam’s status was not a secret, though there were still a lot of werewolves who hid what they were. Adam was almost a celebrity in the Tri-Cities, though we were hoping the fascination with him would die down. It did no harm for Calvin and the others to know what he was—and maybe it would give them a little caution when we caught up to him.
    Putting on my jeans was slow work because I was still a little damp, but the warmth felt wonderful. He’d packed a sweatshirt that smelled like Adam, came down to my knees, and was warmer than anything I’d brought. I dusted off my sore and bleeding feet and stuffed them into a pair of socks, then into my tennis shoes. Heaven.
    I looked up to see all four men watching me.
    “Don’t meet his eyes if you can help it—he’s had a rough day,” I told them. Then, with the blanket in one hand, I took off after Adam, leaving the others to follow however they would. They’d been swift and sure in the face of their friend’s trouble. They’d recover from the werewolf pretty fast.
    Adam was waiting for us at the highway’s shoulder when I found him. He’d set the injured man down a few yards away, where there was a big rock he’d used to keep Benny’s leg elevated.
    “Hey.” I spread the blanket over Benny and tucked it in around him. “How are you doing, Adam?”
    “Not good,” he admitted without looking at me. “I need someone to kill.” I think he was trying to be funny, but it came out seriously.
    I could hear the others approaching. My feet were battered, shoes or no shoes, and my calf ached where the water plant had been pulled off so abruptly. I hadn’t made the best time up to the highway and, without Benny slowing them down, evidently they had been able to speed up a lot. I stood up and walked to Adam.
    “No one here needs killing,” I told him with quiet urgency. “These men were out looking for Benny here. They are the good guys, so you can’t kill them.”
    Adam still wasn’t meeting my eyes, but he laughed, and it sounded genuinely amused. “Shouldn’t.”
    “Shouldn’t what?”
    “Shouldn’t kill them, Mercy. Not can’t.”
    I put my forehead against his shoulder. “It’s the same thing for you,” I told him confidently.
    He took a deep breath and turned around to meet the four men who were approaching us a little warily—because they weren’t stupid.
    “Hello,” he said, his voice still growly and about a half octave lower than usual. “I’m Adam Hauptman. Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack.”
    “Jim Alvin,” said Jim,