Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(25)

When someone asked Sherwood directly about the Robin Hood identity, he hunted me down and asked to see the betting book. Sherwood put a dollar down on Robin Hood himself—and another dollar on William Shakespeare.

“I can shoot arrows,” he’d said. “But I’d rather have been a poet.”

I still wasn’t sure how to take that. Sherwood certainly had given no sign of wanting to be good with words. On the other hand, poets don’t need to use a lot of words to get their point across, even if Shakespeare had.

This morning, our mysterious Sherwood gave me a nod. “Upstairs?”

“Yes,” I said.

He nodded again, this time at all the wolves gathered in the living room, raised his cup to me, and then headed up. After milling around a little more than they had been, the rest of the wolves in the living room followed him. Still wrapped in a blanket, Aiden tagged along behind. Adam had asked him to attend the meeting, too.

Darryl and Auriele came in a few minutes later.

Auriele brushed past me and up the stairs. She pretended not to notice me, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t embarrassment or regret or anything like that driving her. She was still mad at me.

Darryl gave me an apologetic shrug—because he knew she was still mad at me, too—and followed her up.

Warren was the last one to arrive.

“Everyone else is here,” I told him. “But you have fifteen minutes before the meeting starts.” Something struck me suddenly. “You know? This is the most punctual group of any I’ve ever seen.”

“Adam,” Warren said, taking off his hat and tapping it against his thigh, “appreciates promptness. He explained that by holding meetings every four hours until the whole pack managed not to be late. It took two days and nearly resulted in Paul’s death when he was late for the next-to-last meeting.”

Paul had died by other means. We both sucked in a breath before I said, “I could see that. Punctuality was never really his thing. It is yours. Usually you aren’t the last to arrive.”

Warren was wearing jeans and boots, as he had since I met him. But his jeans now fit with an edge that said designer, and his shirt was a polo that clung to the muscles of his shoulders. His clothes had been getting an upgrade lately. In well-fitted, flattering-colored clothing, Warren looked pretty good except for the drawn face and circles under his eyes that were due to more than a single early-morning meeting.

“I would have been here sooner, except the case I’ve been working has me pinched for time,” he explained. “It’s a rough one.”

“A case for Kyle?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered, and there was a little smile on his tired face as he started for the meeting room. “For Kyle.”

Kyle was his boyfriend, though that didn’t quite encompass what they were to each other. They hadn’t taken the final step—the human final step—of getting married. But Adam had told me that they were mates. I couldn’t read the pack bonds that well, but I trusted that Adam could.

Kyle was very human and a divorce lawyer—and was more than likely responsible for Warren’s wardrobe’s improvement. Warren worked for him as a licensed investigator who doubled as protection and intimidation where needed.

I’ve always heard it said that it wasn’t wise for people who were involved romantically to work together, especially when one of them worked for the other. But it seemed to be a good thing between Warren and Kyle.

I didn’t ask Warren what Kyle had him doing—Kyle didn’t believe in gossiping about clients. If there was something they needed from the pack, I’d hear about it. If not, it might show up in the nightly news.

Warren paused on his way up the stairs and gave me a long look. Then he walked back over, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed the top of my head. He was tall, made of whipcord and rawhide, my foster father would have said. He smelled like himself and a little like a new cologne or bodywash. I sank into the uncomplicated embrace; I hadn’t realized how much I needed a hug.

“Heard about Auriele,” Warren told me when I finally stepped away. “That woman is going to get herself killed trying to protect Christy from things she don’t need protecting from.”

“Truthfully,” I told him, “I’m more worried about Wulfe.”

I told him about my new stalker in as few words as I could manage. Warren knew Wulfe, so that cut down on unneeded explanations.

“A hobby, eh?” he said, the words casual enough, but there was a harsh edge to his voice.

“That’s what he said,” I agreed.

“That kind of hobby could get a vampire taken out of this world—you say he was immune to Aiden’s fire?”

“Yes,” I said. “And he was able to stop Aiden from being able to use his magic. And he can come into our house. When Ogden brought him here the night of the zombies—I don’t know that he was invited in, Warren. I think he just came.”

Warren’s mouth tightened, but what he said was, “Well, don’t that beat all. Guess you should have a conversation about him with Stefan.”

“That’s the plan,” I agreed. “I have a call in to him, but I expect that he won’t call now until tonight. We should go up so Adam can start the meeting.”

The door to the meeting room was shut, and Jesse, waiting just outside her bedroom door, flagged us down before we could go in.