Mercy Thompson 06 - River Marked

doing fine.”
    “Otterkin are minor fae,” I told Adam. Not too long ago, I’d read a book about the fae, written by a fae woman. It took me a while to remember them because they’d gotten the barest mention. “They used to be very common, but they aren’t powerful. Probably no more trouble than real otters would be. River otters usually avoid people, which is good for the people.”
    “Ah, is that Mercy I hear? What does she say?”
    That didn’t mean that Uncle Mike couldn’t hear me. Maybe he just didn’t want Adam and me to know that he could hear what we said. Still, Adam politely repeated my words to Uncle Mike.
    “Otterkin were supposed to be friendly and helpful,” I added.
    “Right,” Uncle Mike agreed. “Being hunted to near extinction changes a lot of things. Still, they’re not big enough to seriously threaten anyone.”
    Unless he was hurt and defenseless, as Benny had been.
    “Ask Uncle Mike if they’d be able to do what something did to Benny’s foot,” I said. I couldn’t see how they could, but it would be stupid not to ask.
    After Adam relayed my question, Uncle Mike said, “No. They might be able to sever a toe or finger. They could kill someone, I suppose, just as a regular river otter could under the proper circumstances. But it would be because they opened up an artery.” Then slyly, he said, “Sort of like a coyote might kill a werewolf.” Which I had done—and didn’t plan on doing again anytime soon. Sheer dumb luck is not something I felt like counting on.
    “And Edythe thought that it was important that we check out seven otterkin?” Adam said.
    Uncle Mike made a neutral noise. “Her premonitions aren’t specific to the fae,” he said. “Something bad is going to happen unless the two of you somehow manage to stop it. Or not. Her predictions aren’t perfect.” His voice got very serious. “You have to understand. This is not a favor you are performing for the fae. It may have nothing to do with the fae at all. We just saw to it that you are in the right place.”
    “Fine,” said Adam coolly. “Have it your way for now. We’ll discuss this again when Mercy and I return.”
    He hung up the phone.
    “I was wrong,” I said.
    “About what?”
    “Gordon Seeker wasn’t as bad as the fae. At least he didn’t engineer our presence at a disaster.”
    “You think seven otter-sized fae with very little magic comprise a disaster?”
    “No,” I told him. “But something bad is coming. It doesn’t sound like Edythe has premonitions about stubbing your toe or even about some poor guy getting his foot taken off. And Uncle Mike knew it when he sent us here.”

6

    ONE OF THE REASONS I HATE TO TAKE ANTIHISTAMINES is because of the dreams. They never make any sense, but they are consuming and difficult to throw off the next day.
    That night I dreamed I was encased in stone. No matter how hard I struggled, no matter how hard I fought, I could not move. I grew hungry, and there was no surcease, no ease of the great appetite of my captivity.
    I dreamed that I was freed at last, and I feasted on an otter that filled me more than an otter should, appeasing my hunger for a moment. So I didn’t eat the other otters who swam around me.
    They looked like the otters who had watched me pull Benny’s boat out of the brush.
    I woke up with the dry mouth and feeling of impending doom that were not unfamiliar after I’d taken antihistamines. I felt the same way after vampire, demon, or fae attacks, too. After, because, not being prescient, I never knew when the sword of Damocles was going to fall.
    It didn’t matter that I knew quite well that the dream meant nothing. It didn’t take a Carl Jung to see where the otters had come from. And I suspected that the imprisoned feeling was the effect of the antihistamine itself, which left me sluggish. The hunger? That was even easier. I’d been hopping back and forth from human to coyote yesterday; it would make anyone hungry.
    I almost matched Adam’s appetite when we sat down for breakfast—cooked in utter civilization on the quarter-sized stove.
    “Bad dreams,” he said matter-of-factly. The mating bond had clearly given him insight at an inappropriate time again.
    “Are we ever going to be able to control the mating bond when it does that?” I asked, shoveling in hash browns as fast as I could without having them dribble out the side of my mouth. “Did you get the whole thing?”
    He smiled and nodded. “Otters