Mercy Thompson 06 - River Marked

with a lead pipe.
    Lugh never made anything that couldn’t be used as a weapon, the oakman had told me just before he’d used the stick to kill a very nasty vampire. Lugh was an ancient hero of the Tuatha de Danann —I’d looked him up later. If the oakman had been right about the walking stick’s origins, it predated Christ’s birth and then some. It might even be older than Bran.
    I dropped the artifact that had been old when Columbus first set foot on the Bahamas on the ground as if it were garbage and returned to my mate’s side before anybody else moved.
    Hank had shot Adam .
    Adam hadn’t even moved. He’d just slumped over on the stupid camp chair. That told me it was bad. Very bad. I could smell his blood.
    As I reached Adam, Gordon was on the other side, plucking Adam off the chair with an ease no old man would ever be able to imitate. Adam was solid muscle and heavy, even in his human form, and Gordon couldn’t weigh half what Adam did.
    It didn’t seem to slow him down, though.
    I ripped Adam’s shirt open so I could see the damage.
    There was a neat hole with a sliver of bone sticking out of his chest. The good news was that his heart was still beating because the blood was pulsing. The bad news was there was no exit hole in his back, and there was too much blood.
    “There’s no exit wound,” Gordon muttered.
    “Noticed that,” I said shortly. “Got to get it out yesterday.” No telling if it was silver or lead, but I had to assume the worst. They all knew Adam was a werewolf, and the silver-bullet stuff was common lore.
    I bolted for the truck and the supercomprehensive-when-hell-breaks-out first-aid kit stored behind the backseat in three backpacks. One of them had a surgical kit. One had bandages of all sizes. Another had various ointments and miscellaneous first-aid paraphernalia. I didn’t stop to try to figure out which one was which, though they were color-coded. I grabbed them all and hauled them back to Adam.
    I dropped them down beside him and knelt by his head—just as Gordon used a very small but wicked-looking black blade to slice into skin because the entry wound had already started to close. That could be good news; wounds made by silver tended to heal as slowly as they did for the rest of us.
    “Hold him,” grunted Gordon. “Jim, Fred—Hank will keep. He’s not dead. Get over here. If he wakes up, we’re going to need you all.”
    “He’s awake,” I told them. “He’ll keep still. Probably better off if everyone else stays back. He’ll sense them, essentially strangers, and come up fighting—and the four of us wouldn’t be able to hold him if he decides he needs to.”
    I’m not sure if Fred or Jim had moved toward us when Gordon called them over, but they stayed back out of the way after I told them to. However helpful in getting the bullet out, unconscious was not a good sign. I found an explanation for it when I turned his head and discovered a bloody cut along his temple where the second shot had creased him.
    It was already healing, so that bullet, at least, had been lead. Even so, if Hank had hit Adam in the forehead with it, it still stood a good chance of killing him. I owed Fred because I wouldn’t have been fast enough.
    I stroked my fingers over Adam’s face, where he would smell me and know that I was watching out for him, then turned to watch what Gordon was doing. Adam was conscious; I could feel it. But he was trusting me to help him while he did his best to keep his body alive. Even if the first bullet had been lead, it needed to come out, or Adam would be sicker than a kid at Halloween for days until it festered out.
    It was about then that I realized the knife Gordon was using wasn’t some sort of fancy thing, painted black to make it look military. It was an honest-to-goodness obsidian knife. Stone knives, I remembered inconsequentially from Anthropology 101, were both sharper and more fragile than most steel knives. More important to me than the oddity of the knife was that Gordon looked like he knew what he was doing.
    “Remove many bullets?” I asked, just to be sure. I scrambled in the bags until I found the surgical kit and a probe and a pair of forceps.
    He gave them a look when I held them up for him. “Usually do this with my fingers,” he told me.
    Infection wasn’t a concern with werewolves—or apparently to Gordon.
    “A probe and forceps do less damage when you have to go in deep,” I told him firmly. “I can do