Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(75)

She sniffed one of the cups, then added a teaspoon of honey. She sniffed it again.

“That’s smells right,” she said. Then she added another teaspoon of honey to both cups and shoved one in front of me. “Drink that.”

I looked at her. I knew what had gone into that pot. Moreover, I had a fair suspicion that there was something potent in Granny’s flask of alcoholic splendor.

“Just plug your nose,” she advised.

“Ha-ha,” I told her. “Funny.”

She drank it down. All of it in one gulp. When she was done, her eyes watered and she couldn’t talk—but she pointed her finger at the cup in front of me.

It was a gift, I knew. A thank-you that she’d gotten up ungodly early to prepare and feed to me.

It was the kind of gift that was unrefusable.

I followed her lead and drank the whole thing before I could think too much about what I’d seen her put in the brew.

When I was in college, after my first and only drunken bout, I realized that I knew too many people’s secrets to be drinking. After that, I’d made a habit of avoiding alcohol of any kind—so I didn’t know if my reaction to Hannah’s gift would have been the same if I’d gulped a glass of any old alcohol.

My skin warmed, my ears tingled, and so did the backs of my knees. My broken nose buzzed with a feeling that I was worried was going to wake up nerve endings that didn’t need to be roused. Instead, it settled into a pleasant sort of hum that drove the soreness away.

I couldn’t breathe or see for as much as a full minute, and my taste buds would have run away from my mouth in full revolt if they could have. But that was a fair price to pay for the lack of pain.

When I could focus properly again, Hannah said, “Warren’s going with you to the garage today. He’ll be here pretty soon. I would let him drive. But by the time you get to the garage, you should be okay for handling tools again.”

I moved my right shoulder, working it around in a circle. “I just might live,” I told her.





11





A little buzzed and a lot less sore, I left Hannah making breakfast waffles in the kitchen and went down to the basement.

A red wolf paced restlessly back and forth in the cage. He didn’t seem to take any note of me, even when I stopped in to say, “Hello, Ben.”

Luke, on watch duty, looked up from the video game he was playing to say, “He shifted to wolf about two in the morning. I don’t know why or if it was his decision. And so I told Adam about two hours ago.”

It was six in the morning. That made yet another night of very little sleep for Adam. It was obvious from Luke’s tone of voice that he was worried, too. The last thing we needed in the middle of multiple crises was Adam impaired by lack of sleep.

I couldn’t do anything about Adam just then, but I did have one avenue of progress on other matters. If Adam had been home, I’d have taken him because he was better at negotiations than I was—as long as he didn’t lose his temper. And he’d have been better at this negotiation because Underhill, like most females, had a soft spot for Adam.

I knocked on Aiden’s door. “Up and at ’em. Hannah’s making waffles.”

“I’ll dress and be out,” he said, sounding alert. To survive terrible conditions, you learn to be alert.

I put my hand on his door.

“Waffles?” said Luke hopefully, and I let my hand fall as I turned to face him.

“I think you are on the top of the list,” I told him.

He smiled and went back to his game.



* * *



? ? ?

By the time Aiden made it upstairs, I’d carried Luke’s waffles down to him along with a cup of fresh-made coffee, and was arranging a second plate. Aiden had dressed in a sweater and jeans, even though the day outside looked to be warming up nicely. His fire had mostly returned, he’d told me, but there were lingering effects from what Wulfe had done to him.

The waffles I’d taken from Hannah’s second batch were an even golden brown. I’d poured a thin layer of homemade (by Christy) raspberry syrup and topped that with fresh whipped cream. I’d already dribbled some blueberries around and was slicing strawberries, which were the final touch on my gift for Underhill.

Aiden looked at the plate, raised his eyebrows, and said, “For me?”

“We’ll take it outside,” I told him, and comprehension lit his face.

He opened his mouth, glanced down the stairs, and simply nodded. “Sounds good.”

I started to pick up the plate and remembered another thing from my recent study of fairy tales. I got a small glass from the cupboards and said, “Hey, Hannah? Can I borrow your flask?”



* * *



? ? ?

I carried a glass three fingers full of Kentucky bourbon, made twenty years ago by Hannah’s grandmother in a batch she’d intended for family use only, out to the door in the wall in our backyard. Aiden brought the plate of waffles.

“I don’t know if she’ll come if you knock,” he told me.

“She’s a guest in our backyard. She’ll come,” I said with more confidence than I felt. I rapped the rough wood with my knuckles as if I meant business. Three times, because three is important in fairy tales.