Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(49)

“Your head doesn’t spin around,” I said, trying not to sound as scared as I was.

“Don’t give it any helpful fucking ideas,” Ben scolded me.

He’d bounced around between calling the creature who controlled him by the masculine pronoun and by “it.” I was withholding judgment.

Darryl arrived eventually. “Sorry. Flat tire.”

“No worries,” said Ben. “Just sitting here possessed by an evil fae.”

The minute they touched him, Ben started to struggle. Undeterred, the three werewolves dragged Ben kicking and screaming out to the river.

I followed them, feeling sick. Kyle walked next to me, his hand on my shoulder. I almost didn’t flinch when another hand landed on my other shoulder and Wulfe, wrapped toga-style in the fuzzy red blanket, took up the space on my right.

“Nasty business,” said Wulfe conversationally.

“Yes,” I agreed. There was no way to signal to Kyle to back away—and I knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t, even if I could ask him. I would just have to keep Wulfe’s attention on me and off the vulnerable human on my other side. Kyle, helpfully, kept silent.

Warren caught sight of Wulfe and got Ben’s bound feet in his stomach for his troubles. He was forced to pay attention to what he was doing.

“Interesting to see if the river works,” Wulfe continued.

“You don’t think it will?” I asked.

He pursed his lips, looking, in his toga, like an escapee from a frat party gone wrong. I knew he was older than Stefan, who had been made a vampire early in the Renaissance era, but he would never grow up to look like an adult. His feet were bare, but the rocks and tackweed didn’t seem to bother him.

“Should work,” he said, at last. “I don’t know why it would work for you but not for your little red riding wolf.” Ben’s wolf was red. I didn’t like that Wulfe knew that.

Wulfe tilted his head to watch the struggling wolves just ahead of us.

“But I have an odd feeling that it won’t,” he said in casual tones. “Shame. It was nice of him to bring me a blanket, don’t you think? Though that might have been your idea—I forget what he said.”

His hand tightened on my neck. When had he moved his hand to my neck?

I must have made some sound because Adam glanced over at me and asked if I needed help with a single look. I shook my head briefly. He needed to pay attention to Ben. I didn’t know if Ben could spread his contagion with a bite, but I’d feel better if no one had to worry about it.

Besides, I was fairly certain that Wulfe wasn’t ready to quit playing at whatever game he’d decided upon yet, so I should be safe enough. I wished Stefan would call me back. It wasn’t like him to not return my calls.

“I’m not supposed to be here, you know,” said Wulfe.

“Oh?” I asked.

“Marsilia has called all the vampires to the seethe because . . . oh. That’s why.”

I tried to make his words make sense, then realized he’d been talking to himself for the last bit. “That’s why what?”

“That’s why I don’t think running water will help your wolf. It didn’t help Stefan.”

I stopped. “Stefan?”

“We tried to dump him in the river,” Wulfe said obligingly. “But all that accomplished was getting a whole bunch of us wet. Good thing we don’t need to breathe or several members of the seethe would have drowned. He took one out anyway. But I didn’t like her, so I’m not sorry.”

I thought of all those phone calls I’d made.

I struggled to imagine Stefan caught up by the smoke beast and failed. Stefan was . . . reserved, controlled. I had a sudden memory of him in a rage, his face contorted. But even then Stefan had never moved even when the demon killed a hotel maid in front of him, and used demonic powers to inspire visceral bloodlust in my friend. There was no dignity in Ben’s desperate struggles—I didn’t want to imagine Stefan in the same condition.

“What else have you tried?” I asked, starting toward the river again. There was nothing I could do for Stefan right this moment.

Wulfe shrugged. “The usual. After the river, salt, silver, torture, fire. Nothing seems to work.”

“Do you know how to kill it? Or if killing it will save Ben and Stefan?” I asked, fighting not to visualize someone torturing Stefan. Wulfe was old—Middle Ages old. And he was a sorcerer, a witch, and a vampire. He should know something about this beast.

“I meant to ask you what you knew about it,” he responded, as if we were walking to tea instead of watching Adam, Warren, and Darryl struggle to hold on to the bound form of Ben long enough to get to the water’s edge.

I told him everything I knew. It didn’t take long.

“Smoke beast,” said Wulfe as Ben arced out over the water and entered with a splash. “Never heard of it. Smoking bites don’t ring any bells, either—and I know a lot about things that bite.” He snapped his teeth together.

Kyle let me go and I broke free of Wulfe so I could get a better look at Adam, Warren, and Darryl trying to drag Ben out of the water. He seemed to be trying to slip out of their fingers, and werewolves don’t float—they sink. Too much muscle, not enough fat. Or maybe it was something about the way their magic worked.