Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(101)

See? Life is about problem-solving. Although I was pretty sure that most people’s problems weren’t things like what to do with dead witches and two-hundred-plus zombies.

Adam and the others were gathering around the remains of the dragon. Zee started over toward them, and I heaved myself out of the chair and followed.

“It’s smaller than I expected a dragon to be,” said the senator into the reverent silence. His voice was solemn and the volume was appropriate for a church—or a library.

“I lived for nearly a century in a valley below a dragon’s lair,” said Zee. “I met her twice. The first time, she came to my workshop in the guise of an old and mute lady. She brought me a flower and while she watched, I built her one like it of gold and gemstones. She took it with her when she left. Five or six years later, she showed up at my doorstep, and I have never seen anything so beautiful. That was the only time I saw her in her natural form.” He crouched down and touched the dragon’s neck. “She was as large as a school bus nose to tail. This is a baby.”



* * *



? ? ?

The pack came and helped Zee sort out bodies. The senator and I stayed out of the way—and after a very short while, Adam joined us. I think he was afraid I was going to fall out of my chair. But Mary Jo had given me two energy bars and a thermos of hot cocoa. It wasn’t as good as what I made, but it was hot and sweet and it helped. The senator had gotten a thermos of coffee and a pair of the same energy bars.

Warren and Darryl had taken it upon themselves to carry the bodies of the witches into Elizaveta’s house. They carried the first two bodies in, then spent a while inside the house. I could hear furniture moving—and breaking.

“What are they doing?” the senator asked me. Adam had cleaned and wrapped his leg earlier—and attended to a few other minor injuries. The worst of those were bruises. He’d feel all those wounds tomorrow and the day after that. In a few weeks, he’d be fine, physically at least.

“Making a pyre,” Adam said. “To make sure the flames will consume the bodies.” He looked at me. “We have both Joel and Aiden coming—I asked Lucia to bring them after we’ve taken care of the rest of the dead. Aiden doesn’t need to see this.”

“Aiden?”

“He’s a firestarter,” said Adam. Which was an answer without being a lie. He had been hanging out with too many politicians.

Darryl and Warren came out and gathered the last of the witches—Elizaveta and Patience. I shivered. I don’t think I could have touched either of them.

When they came back, Darryl went to help in the field and Warren headed over to grab the last body on the patio. He bent down to pick up Wulfe—and Wulfe wrapped both of his arms around Warren’s shoulders and gave him a hug and a big fat smooch on the cheek.

“Darling boy,” said Wulfe. “Where are we going?”

I hadn’t killed Wulfe—just made him more dead? Deader? Whatever. Wulfe was okay. I was tired enough to feel happy about that.

“If you don’t let go of me,” said Warren, still bent over Wulfe. He’d pulled his hands away, but Wulfe dangled from him anyway, held by the vampire’s grip on Warren’s shoulders. “I will break both of your arms.”

Wulfe let him go and dropped back onto the concrete with a thump. He stretched out both arms and legs and made snow angels. Or he would have made snow angels if there had been any snow.

Maybe he wasn’t okay.

“Wulfe?” I asked, sliding my chair around so I could see him without giving myself a crick in my neck.

He smiled, a wide, joyful expression—and oddly the fangs didn’t rob the smile of its charm. “I am at peace, Mercy,” he told me. He closed his eyes and quit moving his body. “Just like you told me. I will never be okay again.” He didn’t sound unhappy about it.

We watched him for a minute. But he just looked dead again. After a few seconds of that, Warren backed away warily and looked at me.

I shrugged and turned my chair back to its original position. Everyone took their cue from me and ignored the vampire as they gathered the dead.

The senator began to ask questions and I let Adam answer them, closing my eyes until someone put a hand on my knee. I could hear the murmur of Adam’s voice, so he wasn’t far away, presumably still conversing with the senator. But I was alone on the porch with Sherwood.

He sat on the ground next to my chair—one leg, his prosthetic, up and the other down. As soon as I looked at him, he let his hand fall away from me. My cutlass was on the ground next to him. It was dirty.

Sherwood saw my look and said, “The blade is fine. You just need to clean it.”

I’d stabbed a baby dragon with that blade. It had been the right thing to do and I’d do it again. But I didn’t know if I could wash that sin off the blade as easily as Sherwood thought I could.

“You got rid of me before you set out to rescue Adam,” he said after a minute.

I couldn’t tell what he felt about that.

“Of all the things the witches came here looking to do, retaking you would have been their top prize,” I told him.

“How do you know that?” he asked. Then he frowned. “And why did your brother’s phone call mean that you sent me away?”

“I know some things,” I told him. “Not who you were, or how the witches got you. But I learned a little of your story. Do you want me to tell you?”