Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly

  I wagged my tail, but made no effort to answer him any other way.

  The next step required me to be human. It took me twenty minutes in the bathroom with the door shut before I managed it. It was stupid, but for some reason I felt more vulnerable as a human than I did as a coyote.

  Warren knocked on the door to tell me that he was going home to catch some shut-eye and that Samuel was home for the night.

  “Okay,” I said.

  I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re going to be just fine, girl.” He banged his knuckles one more time on the door and left.

  I stared at my human face in the mirror and hoped he was right. Life would be simpler as a coyote.

  “You wuss,” I told myself and got in the shower without warming it up first.

  I showered until the water was cold again, which took a while. One of the upgrades Samuel had put in was a huge hot water tank, even though there hadn’t been anything wrong with the old one.

  With goose bumps on my skin, I braided my hair without looking in the mirror. I’d forgotten to bring in clothes so I wrapped myself in a towel. But the bedroom was empty, and I dressed in peace.

  Safely covered in a sweatshirt with a picture of the two-masted sailing vessel, Lady Washington, on the front and black jeans, I headed into the kitchen to look for a newspaper to see when Austin Summer’s funeral was going to be—if they hadn’t already held it. I figured after the funeral was as good a time as any for Jacob Summers to head for the river.

  I found yesterday’s newspaper on a counter in the kitchen and made myself a cup of chocolate from the water that was already hot in the teakettle. It was the instant kind, but I didn’t feel like doing the work to make the good stuff. So I dumped a handful of stale minimarshmallows on top.

  I took the paper and my mug and sat down at the table next to Samuel. Unfolding the paper, I began to read.

  “Feeling better?” he said.

  Politely I said, “Yes, thank you.” And went back to reading, ignoring him when he tugged at my braid.

  I’d made the front page. I hadn’t expected that. When you run with werewolves and other things that people aren’t supposed to know too much about, you get used to fake news. MAN DIES IN MYSTERIOUS FIRE, ARSONIST SOUGHT, or WOMAN FOUND STABBED TO DEATH. Things like that.

  LOCAL MECHANIC KILLS RAPIST was just above STUDENT DROWNS IN COLUMBIA. I read my story first. When I finished, I put down the newspaper and took a thoughtful sip of cocoa in which the marshmallows had softened to chewy.

  “Now that you can talk, tell me how you are,” Samuel said.

  I looked at him. He appeared composed and self-contained, but that wasn’t how he smelled.

  “I think Tim Milanovich is dead. I killed him and Adam ripped him into pieces small enough that not even Elizaveta Arkadyevna is witch enough to call back to unlife if she decided to make zombies instead of money.” I took another sip of cocoa, chewed on a marshmallow, and said reflectively, “I wonder if killing your rapist will ever become a recognized therapy practice. Worked for me.”

  “Really?”

  “Honest to Pete,” I said, slamming my cup down on the table. “Really. That is, if everyone else quits running around here like their best friend died and it was their fault.”

  He smiled, just a little and only with his lips. “Message received. No victims in this house?”

  “Damn straight.” I picked up the newspaper.

  Thursday. Today was Friday. Tad was going to fly down Friday if his father was still in danger.

  “Did someone call Tad?” I asked.

  He nodded. “You asked us to do that. Adam called him when he got back from the police station. But apparently Uncle Mike had gotten the word to him first.”

  I didn’t remember asking. There were a few hazy bits from Wednesday, but I didn’t like having things I didn’t remember doing. It made me feel helpless. So I changed the subject.

  “So are we going to blame Tim for O’Donnell’s murder?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “The police and the fae want to tie up some loose ends and make sure everyone has their story straight. Since Milanovich is dead, there won’t be a trial. Objects found in his house will be linked to O’Donnell and some robberies in the reservation. Officials will conclude that O’Donnell and Milanovich were working together and Milanovich got greedy and offed O’Donnell. Zee connected O’Donnell to the robberies and went to his house to talk, finding O’Donnell already dead. He was taken in for questioning, but released when the evidence proved that he didn’t do it. They are being vague on the evidence. Milanovich decided to try out one of the things he and O’Donnell stole on you but you killed him defending yourself.”

  He grinned faintly. “You’ll be happy to know that the newspaper is going to report that the magical objects they stole were obviously not as powerful as the thieves thought, which is why you were able to kill Milanovich.”

  “Weak magical objects being considerably less frightening than powerful ones,” I observed. “And Austin Summers?”

  “They’re going to try and keep him out of it—but his connection to both Milanovich and O’Donnell is too close to just leave the family wondering. The police will gently tell them that there is some evidence that he was involved, but no one knows exactly how—and never will since everyone is dead.”

  “Have you heard from Adam?”

  “No, but Bran called. The policeman who sent the shortened version of the video has been reprimanded and the copy he made confiscated. Bran seems to think that Adam and Charles are making an impression. Adam should be home Monday.”

  I didn’t want to think about what was going to happen when Adam came home. Today I was going to be very good at only thinking about what I wanted to.

  I pulled the paper up and read the article about Austin. “Funeral’s tomorrow morning. I think I’ll go visit Austin’s brother afterward. Do you want to come?”

  “I have to work tomorrow—I had last weekend off.” He sighed. “Do I want to know why you’re going to visit Austin’s brother?”

  I smiled at him. “I think I’ll take Ben.”

  Samuel’s eyebrows shot up. “Ben? Adam won’t like that.”

  I waved him off. “Adam won’t care, and Ben’s the only one I trust to take things just far enough. Warren may sound like a pussycat, but some things hit his hot buttons. Besides, Ben will enjoy this.”

  Samuel closed his eyes. “You enjoy doing this. Fine, be mysterious. Ben might be a creep, but he’s Adam’s creep.” He may have sounded exasperated but I saw the relief in his body. He was willing to play along that everything was normal if that’s what I wanted. He was even beginning to believe it. I could see it in the way his shoulder muscles were relaxing and in the fading of the scent of his protective anger.

  I needed to leave before I blew it. Besides, I needed to clean up. “I think I’ll just go take a shower,” I said.

  It wasn’t until Samuel stiffened that I remembered I’d just come out of the shower. So much for playing normal.

  On Saturday, I took Ben for a walk. He’d been pretty wary when I let myself into Adam’s house and told him he was going to be my escort today.

  Aurielle, who had been my assigned guard this morning, had tried to invite herself along, but I knew her too well. She had no soft spots for people who hurt the ones she cared about. If she knew that Jacob Summers was one of the boys who’d tried to assault Jesse, she’d have his head. Really.

  Me, I believe in revenge—but I also believe in redemption.

  So I told Aurielle she couldn’t come—and since the pack had decided to treat me as if I had already agreed to be Adam’s mate, there was nothing she could do.

  At my request, Ben changed, so I went walking with a werewolf by my side.

  You’d think that we’d have attracted more attention. Only recently, I’d begun to notice that mostly people don’t see the werewolves when they are out and about. I used to think it was just that people didn’t know
about the wolves, but now they do—and they still don’t see them. It’s probably some sort of pack magic that keeps them unseen. Not invisible exactly, but easily overlooked.

  There was no one at Jacob’s rock and I went hunting with Ben for a place we could see it and still stay out of sight. We found a nice place in some bushes near the canal and settled in to wait. At least Ben did. I fell asleep. I’d been sleeping a lot more than usual. Samuel told me he thought it was a result of the forced healing, but I saw the concern in his eyes.

  Yes, I’d had moments of black depression—but I treated them the way I always treated things that bothered me. My freezer was full of cookies and there were brownies in Adam’s fridge. My fridge sparkled and the main bathroom would have sparkled if the years hadn’t worn the shiny finish off the linoleum floor.

  Someday I was going to get new fixtures for that bathroom, if Samuel didn’t beat me to it. I was really tired of avocado green. My bathroom had been done in mustard yellow when I moved in. Who would put a mustard yellow toilet in a bathroom? Now it sported a boring white sink, shower, and commode—but boring is better than yellow.

  Under my head, Ben moved, waking me up.

  I rolled over and looked up. Sure enough, there was a young man walking down the road who looked quite a bit like Austin. He was limping a little. I guess Jesse had done some damage. The satisfaction I felt meant I wasn’t as nice a person as I liked to pretend.

  I stayed where I was until he’d made it all the way to his rock and sat down. Then I got up and dusted myself off until I looked relatively normal.

  “You wait here until I call you,” I told Ben.

  “Hello, Jacob,” I said when I was still a little ways off.

  He rubbed his face quickly before he turned. Once his initial panic at being found crying was over, he frowned at me.

  “You’re the girl who was raped. The one who killed my brother’s friend.”

  I changed my friendly approach between one breath and the next. “Mercedes Thompson. The one who was raped and the one who killed Tim Milanovich. And you are Jacob Summers, the bastard who decided to get together with his friend and see how easy it would be to beat up my good friend Jesse.”

  His face paled and I smelled the guilt on him. Guilt was good.

  “She wouldn’t tell anyone who you were because she knew her father would kill you both.” I waited for fear, but had to settle for the guilt. I suppose he thought I was speaking figuratively.

  “That’s not why I came, though,” I told him. “Or at least it’s not the only reason I came. I thought you ought to know the truth of how your brother died. This is the story that is not going to get into the newspapers.” And I told him what Tim had done to his brother and how.

  “So this fairy thing made my brother kill himself? I thought those things were supposed to be playtoys.”

  “Even playtoys can be dangerous in the wrong hands,” I told him. “But no. Tim murdered your brother just as he did O’Donnell. If he hadn’t had the cup, he’d have used a gun.”

  “Why did you tell me this? Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell people that those artifacts are dangerous?”

  It was a good question and it would require a little smooth talking interspaced with truth. “The police know the real story. The newspapers aren’t going to take you seriously. How did you find out? Mercy Thompson told me. Then I can say, well, no, sir, I’ve never met him in my life. That’s quite a story, but that’s not how it happened. Your parents…” I sighed. “I think your parents would be happier thinking he committed suicide, don’t you?”

  I saw from his face that he agreed with his brother on that. I don’t understand some people. If you’ve brushed up against evil, you don’t mistake it for anything else, not werewolves, not teenagers dressed in black with piercings on their piercings, and not fae magic, however powerful.

  “The real reason I almost didn’t tell you about this is that the people who will believe you are the fae. And if they think that you are making real trouble for them, you might have a convenient accident some dark night. To their credit, they don’t want to do that. None of us, not the fae, not me, and not you, want that. It would be better if you just kept it to yourself.”

  “So why did you tell me?”

  I looked at him and then looked at Austin, who stood just behind him. Jacob had goose bumps on his arms, but he wasn’t paying attention.

  “Because once, when I was a kid, someone I cared about committed suicide,” I told him. “I thought it was important that you knew that your brother wasn’t that selfish, that he didn’t desert you.” I turned my face to the river. “If it helps, Tim didn’t get away with it.”

  His response told me I’d been right to believe that anyone Jesse had once liked wasn’t irredeemable.

  “Does it help you to know that he’s dead?” he asked.

  I showed him the answer in my face. “Sometimes. Most times. Sometimes not at all.”

  “I think…I think I believe you. Austin had too much to live for—and you have no reason to lie to me.” He sniffed, then wiped his runny nose on his shoulder, trying to pretend he wasn’t crying. “It does help. Thank you.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t thank me yet. That wasn’t the only reason I came. You need to know why you don’t want to hurt Jesse. Ben? Could you come here a moment?”

  I threw the stick and Ben tore off after it. I’d been right. He’d had a great time. Scaring teenage bullies was right down his alley.

  We’d been gentle with Jacob. Ben had played it just right. Scary enough to convince Jacob that Jesse had a reason to worry that her father would kill anyone who hurt her, but just gentle enough that Jacob had asked to touch.

  Ben, like Honey, was beautiful—and he was vain enough to enjoy the attention. Jacob, I thought, was entirely redeemable—and he was ashamed that he’d hurt Jesse. He wouldn’t do it again.

  I’d gotten the name of his friend…and his friend’s girlfriend who had thought the whole thing up. We’d visited them, too. Ben made a really, really scary boogeyman—not that any werewolf wasn’t scary. I don’t know if they’d ever be people I’d care to know, but at least neither of them would go near Jesse ever again.

  Sometimes I am not a nice person. Neither is Ben.

  Sunday I went to church and tried to pretend that all the looks were directed at Warren and Kyle, who had come to church with me. But Pastor Julio stopped me at the door.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I liked him so I didn’t growl or snap or do any of the things I felt like doing. “If one more person asks me that, I’m going to drop to the floor and start foaming at the mouth,” I told him.

  He grinned. “Call me if you need something. I know a good counselor or two.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  We were in the car before Kyle started laughing. “Foam at the mouth?”

  “You remember,” I said. “We watched The Exorcist a couple of months ago.”

  “I know a few good counselors, too,” he said, and being smart, he continued without giving me a chance to respond. “So what are we doing this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know what we’re doing,” I told him. “I’m going to see if I can get my Rabbit running again.”

  The pole barn that served as my home garage was twenty degrees cooler than the sun-scorched outside air. I stood in the dark for a minute, dealing with the momentary panic that the scent of oil and grease brought on. This was the first panic attack of the day, which was exactly one third the number of panic attacks I’d had yesterday.

  Warren didn’t say anything; not when I was fighting for breath and not when I’d recovered—which is one of the reasons I love him.

  I hit the lights as soon as the sweat began drying on my shirt.

  “I’m not too optimistic about the Rabbit’s chances,” I told Warren. “When Gabriel and I brought it home, I checked it out a little. Looks like Fideal turned my diesel to saltwater—and it’s been sitting in my tan
k and lines since Tuesday.”

  “And that’s bad.” Warren knew about as much about cars as I did about cows. Which is to say, not a thing. Kyle was better, but given the choice, he’d opted for the air-conditioned house and chocolate chip cookies.

  I popped the hood and stared down at the old diesel engine. “It’d probably be as cheap to go find another one in a junkyard and use this for parts as it would be to fix it.”

  Problem was I had a lot more places to put money than I had money to put there. I owed Adam for the damage to his house and car. He hadn’t said anything, but I owed him. And I hadn’t been to work since Wednesday.

  Tomorrow was Monday.

  “Do you want to try this later?” Warren’s sharp glance lingered on my face.

  “No, I’m all right.”

  “You taste of fear.” It wasn’t Warren’s voice.

  I jerked my head out from under the hood hard enough to kink my neck. “Did you hear that?” I asked. I’d never run into a ghost at my home, but there was a first time for everything.

  But even before he said anything, I saw the answer in Warren’s body posture. He’d heard it all right.

  “Do you smell anything unusual?” I asked.

  Something laughed, but Warren ignored it. “No.”

  Let’s see. We were in a brightly lit building with no hiding places and neither Warren nor I could see or smell anything. That left two things it could be, and since it was still daylight outside, vampires were out.

  “Fae,” I said.

  Warren must have had the same thought because he picked up the digging bar I kept just inside the door. It was five feet long and weighed eighteen pounds and he picked it up in one hand like I’d grab a knife.

  Me, I picked up the walking stick that was lying by my feet where a moment ago there had been nothing but cement. It wasn’t cold iron, but it had saved my life once already. Then we waited, senses alert…and nothing happened.

  “Call Adam’s house,” Warren told me.