Frost Burned (Mercy Thompson, #7)(61)

Mercy lingered, looking at the photograph.

“Come on, Mercy,” said Tad, and she immediately complied.

“You’ve made your point,” growled Adam, unable to hold back his anger, though Tad didn’t deserve it. “That’s enough.”

Asil hadn’t spoken a word, just took everything in. He didn’t protest when Adam hung back so that the other wolf was never behind them.

Tad took them up the typically Victorian narrow and steep stairs to the second story and from there to a hallway. At the end of the hall was a half door—two feet wide by three feet tall, the kind of door that would have hidden a linen closet or a dumb-waiter. Since it was next to the bathroom, Adam would put his money on the linen closet.

Tad put a hand on the door and closed his eyes. Mercy stirred, staring at the floor and moving closer to Adam, away from the wall. Adam could smell her unease, and he put his arm around her. Her feelings were clearly written on her face, too—and she’d never have shown fear to anyone if she could have helped it. She watched the walls as if something dangerous were crawling up from the floor beneath them.

“Whatever they did to her is more than just following orders,” Adam said.

“Yes,” agreed Tad, his hand still on the door. “I think it steals her will. That way, she’d answer questions, follow orders—and not try to hide it when something scares her. It’s okay, Mercy,” he told her when she took another step back from him. “This is old magic, but it knows me, and it won’t hurt anyone here and now.”

“Carefully worded for a fae who doesn’t have to tell the truth,” said Asil.

Tad turned to the old wolf coolly. “I am always careful with the truth. It is a powerful thing and deserves respect.”

“Of course,” answered Asil. “When you are old, you will find yourself assuming that everyone else is careless with important things, too. My comment was not meant as censure; you merely surprised me.”

“What do you see?” Adam asked Mercy, who was looking at things he couldn’t perceive.

“Magic,” she told him. “Fae magic, old magic, and it’s crawling from the basement up to Tad’s hand like a cat seeking a treat.” She looked at Tad, and for a moment Mercy looked more fae than he did. “It likes you, but it isn’t very happy about us.”

Tad smiled at her. “It’ll behave itself.”

The white milk glass knob on the door turned without help, and Adam liked that no better than he liked the description Mercy had given. Magic was outside his ability to sense unless it was very strong, and he did not like things that he could not perceive.

When Tad pulled his hand off the door, it opened and revealed dark wooden stairs that were even narrower and steeper than the ones they’d just come up. They twisted as they rose so they took up only the same amount of room as the narrow linen closet had, and Adam could only see four steps before they were out of view.

Tad stepped in, and Adam heard the fabric of his shirt catch on a rough spot on the wood at the top of the doorway. Asil followed, and Adam urged Mercy up as soon as the old wolf’s feet disappeared from his sight.

The passage was tight, even for Mercy, and she banged a knee on a step, winced, and stopped climbing.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his hand on her ankle.

“No,” she said without heat. “Not really. That was the knee I hurt in the car wreck, and there’s a ghost.”

“A ghost?” He knew Mercy saw ghosts, but she usually didn’t tell him when she saw them. She’d once explained to him that most ghosts were only sad memories. The ones that were closer to alive were often better off if they didn’t know she could perceive them. He had a feeling that there was a story there, but he hadn’t pressed.

“Mmm,” Mercy said. “Right in front of me. I think she’s the same one that looks out of Zee’s dining room window sometimes.”

Adam couldn’t see anything except for Mercy’s back because of the stupid spiral staircase, but he’d probably not be able to see a ghost even if they were in an open room. “Can you get her to move?” he asked.

“She’s a repeater, I think,” Mercy replied hesitantly.

A repeater, he’d learned from her, was a ghost that she could see but who did not react to the real world at all, just did a certain action over and over again, usually in the same place and sometimes at the same time every day. More an impression than a remnant of a real person.

“What is she doing?”

“Crying.” Mercy’s voice sharpened a little, making her sound more like herself. “That’s what she does in the window, too. I wonder if she was that much of a wet blanket in real life?”

Peripherally, Adam had been aware of Tad and Asil talking somewhere above them. But he’d been paying attention to Mercy, and so he didn’t react quickly enough when Tad called out, “Mercy, what’s the holdup? Get up here.”

She scrambled up the stairs, heedless of the ghost. It was too late to do anything, so Adam hurried behind her. He saw nothing unusual and didn’t feel so much as a shiver. He emerged right on her heels to find Mercy tight-lipped and shaky.

“Mercy, are you okay?” he asked, and she looked at him and solemnly shook her head.

“I was wrong. It wasn’t a repeater.” She rubbed her hands and glanced behind him. “But she can’t get in here.”