Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(79)

“I found the bill last night in hopes that it might have information we could use, but Adam and I got to talking—”

That wasn’t a lie, and if Warren drew the wrong inference—and he had, judging by his grin—it wasn’t my fault. It also wasn’t my fault that the whole pack seemed to be way too interested in Adam’s and my sex life. I didn’t feel guilty about using it against Warren.

“But when I picked that bill up just now, I thought, Palsic was horrified that Lincoln had been sent to attack Kelly’s house, where there were children. Bran seems to think Palsic is one of the good guys—why not give him the information he needs to save himself?”

Warren nodded. “Sounds like good thinking to me.”

“Nothing might come of it,” I told him as I texted Adam what I’d just done.

“I don’t see how it could hurt us,” Warren said.

Adam asked me to text him the number, so I did.

I will try to put a trace on it so we can follow his movements, Adam texted. It will take time. I think what you did might bear more fruit.



* * *



? ? ?

By six I’d finished everything I’d promised and the last car went home with its owner—who had grumped at me over the bill to the point that I was casting worried glances at Warren, who was supposedly reading his book. He finally paid his bill so I would give him the keys to his car and stormed out, vowing never to come back. He always did that. That was why he was one of my special customers whose car I had to fix instead of sending him elsewhere. Someone else might overreact or hurt his feelings—or overcharge him.

“Someone once told him that if he made a big fuss, people would give him discounts,” I told Warren. “And then it worked. So now he does this every time.” I watched him drive sedately off. “I think this might be his only social outlet. I’m not as fun as Tad. Tad can keep him going for twenty minutes some days.”

“If he had come an inch closer to you, he would not ever bother you again,” Warren said, closing his book with a snap.

Yep. I had been right to be worried.

“The day I need protection from Pat Henderson is the day you decide that pink is a real color.”

He grunted. “I’ve worn pink.”

“Because you love Kyle,” I said. I looked at him more closely. “You look better.”

He grunted. “We had a case turn bad. Leaves a sour taste in your mouth when you know something is going to happen and you can’t do anything about it.”

I watched him, watched his eyes brighten to gold.

“Oh?” I asked softly.

“Happens I did something about it,” he said. “Kyle will start speaking to me again in a few days. I didn’t do anything he wouldn’t have done if he could have—and I reckon that makes him madder.”

“Good guys must win?” I asked.

“And bad guys must lose,” he agreed, and we fist-bumped.



* * *



? ? ?

Adam came in late, but I was waiting up for him.

“Bed,” I said sternly.

His eyebrows rose and I could all but hear the occupants of the house prick their ears—even the ones in human form.

“Oh?” he said slowly. Trying to decide if he should take offense at my tone.

“Oh,” I said. “Yes. You. Me. Bed. Now.” I could raise my eyebrows, too. “Is that simple enough? Or do you need poetry? I might be able to do a haiku if you’d like.”

“I vote for a limerick,” called George from the basement. “There was a young lady named Mercy . . .”

“You don’t get a vote,” I called back.

There was a general round of friendly and interested laughter from various places in the house.

“It seems I am summoned,” said Adam, giving in—as I had hoped—to the pressure of the house’s expectations.

He had a smile on his face, but his eyes were worried.

“You bet, buster,” I told him, and I led him up to the room where I already had the oil warming. Because every good deed deserves reciprocity.



* * *



? ? ?

That night I dreamed of Stefan, dreams that had me sitting up in a cold sweat. Adam was asleep so deeply that I didn’t wake him. By my count he’d been averaging two or three hours a night for weeks; it was hardly surprising that he was out.

Still . . .

I touched his well-oiled shoulder and he grumbled, wiggling down until his face was tucked against my hip, his hand gripping my knee briefly. Apparently reassured, he went limp again.

Leaving my hand on his shoulder, I slipped back into my otherness so I could look at the bonds that tied me to my people. This time, somewhat to my surprise, I took both the bedroom and Adam with me. Adam . . . was lit up with tiny strings of light that crossed and crisscrossed his skin before they went off in all directions. Our mating bond was thicker than it had been but was still the same monster-skin texture and color. It felt . . . sated. Which was, I hoped, a good thing.

But that wasn’t what I was looking for tonight. I found the bond I shared with Stefan. This time it was a strand of lace the color of coffee grounds. It was so brittle that when I touched it, a small piece broke off.

I opened my mouth and pulled out a dandelion in full flower, fuzzily golden and cheerful. I stared at it a moment, because I had thought I was reaching for a gemstone—though in the Perrault story, the virtuous daughter also had flowers fall from her mouth.