Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(41)

He had never done anything to me that was not my choice. But that didn’t matter. I didn’t want to talk to him at all.

Maybe Adam could.





6





Adam called about five minutes before closing time to say that he had another meeting and Jesse was staying over with a friend. He sounded tired. I told him it was no trouble; I’d just stop and grab something on the way home.

Zee had gone for the day, but Tad was helping me tidy the office.

“You know,” he said, swinging his mop with practiced ease. “You and my dad have been whining all day about how sterile the garage is. But now you’re insisting on cleaning all the nooks and crannies that might have gotten even a smudge of dirt.”

“I don’t know why I surround myself with insubordinate smart alecks,” I said, getting a smudge off the big window with a little elbow grease. “Maybe I should fire a few.”

He gave me a companionable grin. “If you’re going to start firing smart alecks, you’d have to start with the biggest one of all. I dare you to fire my dad, I just dare you.”

I looked around. “You know that he’s going to give us both the edge of his tongue if we don’t have this immaculate when he gets in tomorrow.”

“Yep. Hypocrites, the both of you,” he said affectionately.

We were getting ready to lock up when a battered bug sporting a rattle-can, glitter-gold paint job drove into the lot. The VW known as Stella chugged roughly, coughed, and died as soon as she stopped moving.

“Sorry,” Nick, Stella’s owner and devoted fan, said. “I know it’s closing time, but Stella isn’t doing well—I can’t figure it out. And I need her to run for another three weeks before I can afford to fix her again.”

It took Tad and me and the young man about three hours to fix Stella to our satisfaction. Nick wasn’t an absolute newbie; buying Stella two years ago had turned him from someone who had never put a wrench on a bolt to someone who could change his own oil and spark plugs. But Stella was a diva who would be a challenge for the most experienced mechanic to keep running.

Darkness had fallen by the time Nick drove off, but Stella was purring like a kitten.

“Softy,” said Tad as we cleaned up.

“You donated your time, too,” I reminded him. I’d told Nick that we’d throw in labor because he’d been sending people to the reopened shop. He could pay for the parts when he caught his breath. If money was too tight, he could come put in a few hours—he knew enough to run tools.

I expected Tad to continue teasing, but he turned grim instead. “Last time I left you alone here,” he said shortly and half-embarrassed, “you almost died. Not going to do that again anytime soon. Nick wouldn’t have even slowed your kind of bad guys down.”

And that explained why he’d been coming to the shop before I got here and insisted on locking up afterward. We all had our scars.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.” Contrary to popular belief, I did know my limits. Having Tad guard my back was comforting.

He nodded without meeting my eyes. And he waited until I was safely in my car before he got into his own.

I decided to celebrate surviving the day by driving the extra few miles to a local fast-food place that served an Asian-Mexican fusion that could take the roof of your mouth off with heat and still taste amazing. I grabbed enough food to feed half the pack, just in case, and headed home. Traffic made me turn right instead of left and I found myself taking the long way back.

The long way took me past the turn to Stefan’s house. I had decided that Adam could talk to Stefan. I slowed the car, giving it a bit more gas when it stuttered. I needed to do some fine adjustments still.

Without letting myself think too much, I turned the car and drove to Stefan’s house. I pulled into the driveway and parked next to the dust-covered VW bus that had been painted to match the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine.

I got out of the Jetta but couldn’t make myself go to the house. Instead I wandered around the bus. Life-sized and stuffed, Scooby watched me sadly from the front passenger seat. His coat was getting sun faded.

Stefan opened his front door and walked out, stopping well clear of me, but close enough to engage. He didn’t say anything.

“Shame to let it sit there,” I said finally, not looking at him. “I’ve spent a lot of hours keeping her running. If you leave her there, she’s going to need rebuilding again.”

“I need to drain the gas tank and refill it before I drive it again,” he said. “I confess, the prospect is a little daunting.”

“Call Dale and have him tow it to the garage,” I suggested. Dale was one of the towing guys we both knew. One of the perks of driving old cars is getting to know towing guys. “You might air up the tires first, though; the right front tire is a little low.”

“And having you fix her is messy, too,” Stefan said. “If I pay you, Marsilia might take it into her head that you should be punished for charging me money. If I don’t pay you, I’m telling her that I consider myself a part of her seethe again—which I do not. I’m an ally, certainly. But never again will I owe her fealty.”

Marsilia ruled the vampires in the Tri-Cities. We had a long-standing agreement that I would provide whatever maintenance her cars needed and she would keep her vampires from attacking me. She had destroyed Stefan, who had been her loyal wingman, for her own needs. If that had been the extent of it, I thought Stefan would have forgiven her for that. But to do it, she’d gone after the people Stefan kept in his household to feed upon, his sheep. Most vampires would not have cared, but Stefan believed in taking care and responsibility for his people.