Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(104)

“That was just killing,” Wulfe said airily. “Anyone can kill like that.”

“Anyone?” asked Adam, suddenly alert.

“Anyone who spends three days building a circle, and that kind of a circle takes a lot of study. And has the power to wake it—which isn’t trivial,” said Wulfe. “Okay, not anyone, I guess. Me. Elizaveta could have—but she can’t now. Probably the Hardesty witches—they have some more arrows in their quiver.” He paused, and said again, “Me. But I won’t. Way too much work for too little satisfaction. If I want to kill someone, I prefer up close and personal.” He smiled, and the senator scooted his chair a little farther away, even though the table was between them.

“So not that many could work that kind of magic,” I said, wanting to be clear.

“Ten, maybe twelve witches alive today,” said Wulfe. “I’ll let you know if any of them come—” He paused, tilting his head, but I’d heard it, too: booted feet on our porch. I knew the sound of those feet: Stefan. “—knocking.” He timed the last word to the sound of the fist on the door.



* * *



? ? ?

The meeting between the fae and the government did happen. The pack—as represented by Zack, Sherwood, and me—hosted it at one of the big wineries on Red Mountain. A lot of talking got done, but no one said very much—at least not where I could hear it. Adam told me that the smaller conversation in the boardroom was more interesting. Hopeful, even.

Ruth sent Sherwood and me a thank-you note—and so did her wife. To Uncle Mike she sent a bottle of scotch without the thank-you. He wouldn’t have taken it wrong, but that was smarter anyway.

Senator Campbell calls now and again to talk to Adam. He told the families of the people who died at his brother’s home that they gave up their lives to protect him from an assassination attempt. The attempt had to be kept secret, but they should know that their kin died heroically, and he was grateful.

I haven’t told him that I think he’s a walker. I don’t see any profit in that for him or for us. I think the witches went to his brother’s home to kill him—and blame it on the werewolves in some convoluted fashion that counted upon Ruth doing as she was told. When he didn’t die, they decided to take him and see what made him tick. That fits as well as any other scenario.

Sherwood’s cat, Pirate, like Medea, has no trouble with the werewolves. Medea runs and hides whenever Sherwood brings him over—which is whenever Sherwood comes over. Since my cat isn’t afraid of vampires or werewolves, I figure she’ll quit being afraid of a friendly half-grown cat eventually.

Bran thought, based on our description, that the werewolf who had been made into a zombie was Abraham Lessing, a London wolf who disappeared a couple of hundred years ago.

And I can’t forget about the goblin king’s odd and unspecific prediction that we would need to trust him at some future date. That didn’t sound ominous at all.



* * *



? ? ?

I had a nightmare and woke up in a cold sweat. I rolled out of bed and began pulling on clothes.

“Where are you going?” asked Adam.

“To Elizaveta’s,” I said tightly. “To make sure.”

He didn’t ask me what I wanted to make sure of. He just drove me to Elizaveta’s and walked out to the ruins with me. There was only a blackened hole where her house had been. The concrete had melted here and there—Aiden had made sure, he’d told me, that the witches would never come back. But sometimes, like tonight, I dreamed a cat’s dream and I had to come out and make certain.

I shivered and Adam wrapped his arms around me, letting me look my fill.

“They are dead,” Coyote observed casually, hopping out of the hole that had been Elizaveta’s basement. Then he did an exaggerated double take at seeing Adam. “Hiya, Adam. Long time no see.”

Adam inclined his head warily.

“I brought something for you,” Coyote said, digging in the back pocket of his jeans.

He pulled out a scrap of newspaper and held it out to me. I took it cautiously, unfolded it, and saw the president of the United States looking terrified as he touched the head of a disgruntled wolf—Warren.

“People have been leaving these for Warren,” I told Coyote. “Under the wiper blades of his truck, tucked into his hat, taped to his mirror.”

“I did the one taped to his back,” said Coyote, sounding smug. “He never heard me come or go.”

“The dragon,” I said. “You wanted to release the dragon.”

Coyote’s face grew somber.

“That’s why you sent me after the witches,” I said.

Coyote looked at Adam. “Sometimes if you don’t kill the bad guys first, they kill you,” he said.

Adam’s arms tightened around me.

Then Coyote looked at me and his face lit up with a merry smile. “Of course it was the dragon, daughter of mine. Of course it was the dragon. Why else would it be?”





AUTHOR’S NOTE


Here are translations of the spells Zee used in Mercy’s garage to break the witch’s curse. Michael and Susann Bock’s German spells are subtle, using old-style German and rhyme, with a nod to traditional (medieval) versions of authentic spells. It should tell you something to know that when I contact them for help, most of the time I find them going to a medieval faire or coming back from a vampire LARP (live action role-playing) held in an actual freaking castle.