Night Broken (Mercy Thompson, #8)(61)

“Mercy?” she asked. She seemed distracted and worried.

I nodded. “Yes. Sorry to come over so late without warning you first, but the matter was urgent. I think that Christy’s stalker is a little more dangerous than we thought—and I might have led him right to your door. I know it’s late, but can we come in to talk?”

She gave the men a cautious look.

“This is Gary Laughingdog,” I told her. “My half brother.” That was a simpler explanation for his presence than any other I could come up with on short notice, and it had the additional benefit of being true. I could feel his eyes boring holes in my back, but he didn’t comment. “And this is my husband, Adam.”

“The werewolf,” he said—and it was just exactly the right thing to say because she smiled a little. “Your husband has worked for me a couple of times.”

“I thought you looked familiar. Sure, come on in.” She opened the door, and we trailed behind her into the house. She saw me look around. “The dogs are back in their kennels for dinner. I’ll bring Aruba back in for the night in an hour or so. The rest kennel outside.”

“Why aren’t they barking?” I asked. “I was worried something had happened to you.”

She smiled again as she led us into the living room, but there was tension around her eyes. “No. We teach them not to bark at night unless they are put on watch. That way, our neighbors do not complain about our dogs.”

“Where’s Joel?” I asked, sitting down on the same couch as last time.

She shook her head, and I realized that Joel was what she was worried about, not us. “He’s late.”

I opened my mouth to say something as reassuring as I could, given that I didn’t have a clue why he’d be late, when my eyes fell on the flag on the opposite wall. The one Gary had seen in his vision.

“Joel is from Texas,” I said, staring at the flag on the wall, thinking that what had popped into my head was absolutely ridiculous. Stupid. But there was that flag staring me in the face, so I had to ask. “Is his family, by any chance, from San Antonio?”

She nodded. “That’s right. San Antonio. He was up here visiting some cousins when we met. We moved to Texas first, but I got homesick, and we moved back to the Tri-Cities.”

A handful of families had been shipped to Texas from the Canary Islands by the King of Spain three centuries ago. There was supposed to have been a much larger immigration, but the whole plan had stalled out for reasons that had escaped my magpie collection of historical trivia. Three centuries was a lot of time, and San Antonio was a huge city.

Assuming Gary was right, Guayota was a manitou, the spirit of the volcano, and he needed something with him that tied him to the Canary Islands. He’d said that the dog I’d killed, his “child,” was immortal. Tied to mortal flesh. And when Guayota left, the dog had turned into a man. Kyle had talked about tibicenas, Guayota’s children who were black dogs. What if it was the tibicenas that served as Guayota’s ties to the volcano? I’d killed the “mortal flesh” his tibicena was tied to. What if he needed to find another man to bind to the tibicena? What if that man had to be descended from a Canary Islander? Maybe Lucia and Joel’s troubles weren’t because I’d come to them for help.

“Do you know,” I asked carefully, “if Joel is one of the Canarios?” Adam looked at me sharply. “A descendant of the Canary Islanders who settled in Texas?”

She gave me a tentative smile. “His mother never lets anyone forget it. She’s a proud woman, and she swears that not only were they Canarios, but her family actually was Guanche, descended from the original inhabitants of the islands before Spain conquered it about seven hundred years ago.” Her smile broadened. “She talks about moving back there someday. I really hope that she does. We could vacation in the tropics and also see her less often. Win-win in my book.”

“We should get out of here,” said Gary, looking at the framed flag and sounding nervous. He looked at Lucia and seemed to collect himself. “Ma’am, Mercy brought us here because she is worried that Christy’s stalker might be after you because you helped her.”

“That’s pretty far-fetched,” said Lucia.

Adam looked at Gary, and said, “Why don’t we take you to dinner and tell you some tall tales and you can decide if you want to believe us or not? You pick the restaurant, take your own car, and leave a message for your husband. I think that we might all be easier in a more neutral location.”

She looked at Adam, because people just do. Humans are not immune to the reassurance that he brings with him like an invisible cloak; part of it is being Alpha, and part of it is just Adam.

“I think,” my husband said, giving the Lone Star flag a thoughtful look, “going out might be a very good idea.”

She led the way to a family-style Mexican restaurant off Highway 395 where there were lots of people even at nine at night. No one said anything until we’d all ordered and the waiter had brought out drinks.

Gary shot a glance at me, to see if I wanted to start. I took a chip and dipped it into salsa and gave Adam a look. If Adam told her, she’d probably believe him. It was the air of authority and no nonsense. He raised an eyebrow, and I nodded at him.

“You tell her,” I said. “You’re good at making this kind of stuff make sense.”