Night Broken (Mercy Thompson, #8)(25)

“At least they don’t have trouble passing elementary school like the hawk walkers,” I said because Hank liked to tease and could take as good as he gave.

Hank was laughing when he disconnected.

“Do you know how to visit someone in prison?” asked Tad.

“Do you?”

He shook his head. “No. When they locked up my dad, he wouldn’t let me come home.”

“Adam will know,” I said, and dialed him.

“Adam Hauptman’s phone,” said Christy. “Can I help you?”

“Is Adam there?” I asked. There would, I knew, be a good explanation of why Christy was answering Adam’s phone—especially since he’d told her not to answer her own phone. I’d noticed before, when she wasn’t living in my home, that Christy always had good reasons for doing the wrong thing, reasons that made everyone look stupid for questioning her.

“Yes,” she said. “But he can’t come to the phone right now.”

“I see.”

“Is this Mercy?” she said brightly. “I didn’t know it was you. He’s on the house phone talking to the arson investigator. Can I give him a message?”

I couldn’t tell across phone lines, but I was pretty sure she was lying about not knowing it was me calling in the first place. My name would have scrolled across the caller ID.

“No,” I said. “It’s all right.”

I hung up and stared at my phone for a while. Adam had gone to work this morning the same time I had. He’d called in some of the wolves to watch over Christy. So why was he home, and why did she have his phone?

“I’d make you some brownies,” I told Tad. “But she’s always in my kitchen.”

The expression on his face was compassionate. “I expect that the jail has a web page with phone numbers of people who can help you figure out how to visit the guy you need to see.”

Coyote Ridge Corrections Center is a minimum-and medium-security facility just outside of Connell, which is about an hour’s drive north of the TriCities. It’s a little town of about five thousand inhabitants, not including those who are incarcerated in the prison.

I didn’t go alone.

I glanced at my passenger and wondered if I’d made the right choice. Not that there were a lot of pack members who’d have been free to head out on short notice, especially now that Adam was keeping four wolves at our house all the time.

Honey had lost weight since her husband’s death, and she hadn’t been fat to begin with. She’d cut her honey-colored hair into a severe style that framed her face with its newly hollowed cheekbones. With that and her body reduced to muscle and bone, she should have looked hard, but instead she looked fragile.

She hadn’t said a word to me since I picked her up in my Vanagon. Not even to ask where we were going.

I’d told her I needed someone to come with me on an errand, and she hadn’t asked any questions. I’d decided it was a subtle defiance—following the letter of the law that said I was in charge without actually making an effort to be useful. But either driving or twenty minutes of distance from Christy cheered me to more optimistic possibilities. Maybe Honey just didn’t know what to say.

Or maybe she liked Christy more than she liked me, too.

“I had a fae artifact follow me home,” I told her. I couldn’t remember if she’d known about the walking stick. I’d tried not to talk about it too much. “It wouldn’t stay with any of the fae I tried to give it to. Which would have been fine except that it started to get bloodthirsty, so I found a safe place for it. Night before last, I was visited by a Gray Lord who informed me that it would be a good idea if I retrieved it and gave it back to him.”

“You gave the walking stick to Coyote,” she said. And when I looked at her, she raised a cool eyebrow. “You were raised among wolves. I’d think you’d know well enough how fast and thoroughly gossip travels in the pack.”

“Okay,” I said. “I don’t know how to get ahold of Coyote in a hurry. In my experience, he just shows up when he chooses. So I called around and got the name of another walker who might know how to find him before the fae decide to destroy the TriCities in retribution.”

She looked at me, frowned, and sat up straighter. “You were trying to joke—but you really believe they might destroy the whole town.”

“Not they,” I said, remembering that instant when the glamour thinned, and he’d snarled at the cat. “He. And yes, I think the fae are capable of anything. I’d have given them the stupid walking stick a long time ago if it would have let me.”

“Was it Zee?”

I shook my head. “Zee’s not a Gray Lord. Close, I think, but not. This was Alistair Beauclaire, the man responsible for the fae retreat to the reservations.”

“Good,” she said. “I like Zee.”

She was quiet for a few miles. “Where are we going?”

“To Connell,” I told her. “To visit someone who might know how to find Coyote.”

She glanced down at the clothes she was wearing—rose slacks and a blue silk blouse. She buttoned the blouse another two buttons and began to shed jewelry. “They won’t let you bring a weapon on-site,” she said. “Not even in your car.”