Frost Burned (Mercy Thompson, #7)(103)

“Yes,” I told him. “Okay.”

He changed into his wolf one last time and left the room without a backward glance.

I walked over to the bed and slid my sore fingers across the damp skin of Adam’s shoulder. What if we had only one more time to sleep together? One last time.

He could have died instead of Peter.

I pulled the covers out from under him, and he was so tired he didn’t even move. But when I got in bed beside him, he reached out and tugged me close.

“So,” said Adam, holding the back door open for me as the snow smothered the last of the Rabbit’s funeral pyre. “Why are you lucky?”

“Because.” I leaned into him instead of going inside, pressing him against the doorjamb. His lips tasted like smoke and hot dog, with a touch of chocolate. He tasted warm and alive.

“Just because.”





AUTHOR’S NOTE


Once upon a time I proved that I will quit because I don’t like something, but I won’t quit because I can’t do something. That’s how I ended up with a degree in German—which I didn’t speak well when I graduated in 1988, and it didn’t get any better from disuse. When I decided Zee would be German, I threw in a few German phrases here and there in the first two Mercy books. I kept it simple—how hard could it be?

Then I got this lovely e-mail from a nice man in Germany who told me that he liked the books—but my German was pretty bad.

I said, “Thank you, and you know you have a job now, right?”

So from that point on, Michael Bock and his lovely wife, Susann, have given Zee’s German its authenticity. That doesn’t mean I’m right all the time; even they can’t prevent me from transferring things from his e-mail to my manuscript incorrectly. I know just enough to get it wrong.

When Zee needed a good spell to use in Silver Borne, Michael and Susann gave him voice. When Tad needed a spell in this book, Michael came through for me again. He and I worked on the English translation together.

Mirror reflect, find father’s image and voice in the depths of your senses.

His words his form, my words my form, lead, guide, drive together in a connection of your reality.

Bind our realities, our being, in nature and song.



BEST,

PATTY BRIGGS





www.orbitbooks.net





PROLOGUE


The wolf stumbled from the cave, knowing that someone was searching for him and he couldn’t protect himself this time. Feverish and ill, his head throbbing so hard that it hurt to move, he couldn’t pull his thoughts together.

After all this time, after all of his preparations, he was going to be brought down by an illness.

The searcher’s tendrils spread out again, brushing across him without recognition or pause. The Northlands were rife with wild magic—which is why other magic couldn’t work correctly here. The searcher looked for a wizard and would never notice the wolf who concealed the man in its shape unless the fever betrayed him.

He should lie low, it was the best defense . . . but he was so afraid, and his illness clogged his thoughts.

Death didn’t frighten him; he sometimes thought he had come here seeking it. He was more afraid he wouldn’t die, afraid of what he would become. Perhaps the one who looked for him was just idly hunting—but when he felt a third sweep, he knew it was unlikely. He must have given himself away somehow. He’d always known that he would be found one day. He’d just never thought it would be when he was so weak.

He fought to blend better with the form he’d taken, to lose himself in the wolf. He succeeded.

The fourth sizzle of magic, the searcher’s magic, was too much for the wolf. The wolf was a simpler creature than the mage who hid within him. If he was frightened, he attacked or ran. There was no one here to attack, so he ran.

It wasn’t until the wolf was tired that he could gather his humanity—that was a laugh, his humanity—well then, he gathered himself together and stopped running. His ribs ached with the force of his breath and the tough pads of his feet were cut by stones and an occasional crystal of ice from a land where the sun would never completely melt winter’s gift. He was shivering though he felt hot, feverish. He was sick.

He couldn’t keep running—and it wasn’t only the wolf who craved escape—because running wasn’t escape, not from what he fled.

He closed his eyes, but that didn’t keep his head from throbbing in time with his pounding pulse. If he wasn’t going to die out here, he would have to find shelter. Someplace warm, where he could wait and recover. He was lucky he’d come south, and it was high summer. If it had been winter, his only chance would have been to return to the caves he’d run from.

A pile of leaves under a thicket of aspen caught his attention. If they were deep enough to be dry underneath, they would do for shelter. He headed downhill and started for the trees.

There was no warning. The ground simply gave out from under him so fast he was lying ten feet down on a pile of rotted stakes before he realized what had happened.

It was an old pit trap. He started to get up and realized that he hadn’t been as lucky as he thought. The stakes had snapped when he hit them, but so had his rear leg.

Perhaps if he hadn’t already been so sick, so tired, he could have done something. He’d long ago learned how to set pain aside while he used his magic. But, though he tried, he couldn’t distance himself from it this time, not while his body shivered with fever. Without magic, with a broken leg, he was trapped. The rotting stakes meant no one was watching the pit—no one to free him or kill him quickly. So he would die slowly.