Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(58)

The truck stopped across the street and a pair of doors opened. I heard three people get out of the truck and stop on the other side of the road. Three people who were werewolves, and not our werewolves. I wasn’t smelling them—my nose was definitely broken—but I could hear the werewolf in the way they moved. I knew they were our invaders because of the truck.

“People are watching,” I told them. “Think about what you do next.” Then in a softer voice I asked, “Auriele?”

“They don’t look like they’re coming for a fight,” she told me, quietly. “That could change.” The enemy werewolves would be able to hear us, but not the humans in their houses.

I needed to move, to get my back to Auriele and my front toward the new threat. The problem was I was still dizzy, my eyes were having trouble focusing, and I wasn’t sure how far I needed to keep away from the downed wolf-mad Lincoln. I had to be close enough to shoot him if he started to regain mobility.

The new werewolves stayed where they were.

“Kids okay?” called a man’s voice.

“The one he manhandled has broken bones,” I said. “She is six.”

“Seven,” said Makaya, her voice wobbly. “I am seven.”

“I told you,” the stranger said. “I told you that he wasn’t right. But you thought you knew better.”

“Lincoln said he was fine. He had eighty years of controlling his beast,” said a woman.

I frowned. I’d heard that voice before. But I didn’t know Nonnie Palsic, the only woman in the group of invading werewolves, according to the data Adam had compiled. Maybe I’d only heard her voice, on the phone or something.

I wished my nose were working. My memory for scent was much better than my memory for voices.

“We were supposed to go out and create a little havoc today,” said the man—I think he was speaking to me. “The houses with kids were supposed to be strictly out-of-bounds.”

I chanced a quick look at the new werewolves.

The man was hard to focus on—as if I were a human looking at a werewolf pulling on the pack bonds to hide themself in the guise of a big dog. I didn’t have time to do more than glance at him, but it didn’t take a genius to know this was James Palsic. Standing just behind him was Nonnie Palsic. Her hair was dark brown, though in the photo Adam had shown the pack it had been lighter. Her face was thinner, but unmistakable. The third person was also a woman, both short and slight, who was faintly familiar.

I turned my focus back to Lincoln as he finally managed to rip his leg free of the ruined front of my car. He hadn’t shown any sign of noticing me at all, up to this point. But, still without looking at me, he rolled sideways with speed, slashing at my knee with a knife I hadn’t noticed him having.

Having two good legs, I managed to get out of his way, but that put me in the middle of the street. And closer to the Palsics and the oddly familiar woman.

James Palsic said, “Would you mind if I took care of him?”

I couldn’t tell if he was asking me.

“Put him in the back of the truck,” the woman with the familiar voice ordered. “We’ll figure out what to do with him when we get back.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

I put the gun up in the air so I wasn’t aiming at anyone and backed up a dozen feet down the middle of the road, so it didn’t put me any closer to the enemy. Auriele, who had given Makaya to her mother, put herself in front of the little family. I wondered if I should tell them what was wrong with Lincoln.

Palsic stalked past me and said something in a Romance language that wasn’t Spanish or Italian—Portuguese maybe, or Romanian. It sounded sorrowful and resolute. He avoided Lincoln’s attack, and the maneuver put him at the damaged werewolf’s back. With a quick and easy movement he picked up the struggling werewolf.

“Don’t let him bite you,” I told him—and he raised an eyebrow at me.

“Don’t intend to,” he said.

“Kill him,” said Nonnie.

“There are about six cell phones pointed at us through windows,” James told her. He didn’t seem to be having trouble keeping Lincoln’s mouth away from him.

“I said we will decide what to do when we get back.” There was ice in the other woman’s voice—and for some reason that made everything click.

I had met her before, in the Marrok’s office. I’d been cleaning it after Bran had been the victim of a glitter bomb. For some reason he’d blamed me—even though I’d only been responsible for the first three or four of the things. Someone who was not me had been gutsy enough to break into Bran’s office and suspend the glitter bomb over his desk. Bran was not interested in my defense—though he must have known I wasn’t lying—so I got to clean the room. It did not take much glitter to make a real mess.

Bran must have forgotten about it—or else he’d assumed that it would only take a half hour or so to clean up. He clearly hadn’t expected to find me there, two hours later, when he came in with a tiny blond woman with a sweet face. But he’d introduced us and explained about the glitter bomb to her—which, as I recall, she’d had very little reaction to. He’d sent me off so they could conduct their business.

He’d summoned me back a few hours later. His room was absolutely sparkle-less, which was more than could be said about me. He had apologized—told me the real culprit had confessed (without telling me who it was) and cleaned the room. Then he told me that if I ever saw Fiona again, to steer clear of her.