Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(43)

He nodded. “She is generous,” he told me, meaning the opposite.

“If she thinks that your first loyalty is to our pack—or me . . . especially me—she will not abide it.” I held up a finger to make him pause. “And if the pack thinks that I have a tame vampire that I call upon whenever things might get hairy, it will be equally bad for me.”

I put a hand on his arm and he stiffened. “But I am very happy to come over to your house and ask you to help me solve mysteries.”

He drew in a deep breath he didn’t need. Then he turned around and let his arms drop to his side. My hand fell away when he moved.

“All right,” he said. “All right, Mercy. We are friends as well as allies? But I am not pack—nor should I be.”

And I realized that Stefan was lonely. Werewolves are like that. They need a pack to belong to, to be safe with. Some of them don’t like it much, but that doesn’t change the nature of the beast. I knew vampires lived in seethes, but it had never occurred to me that one of the reasons they did so was that they, like the wolves, needed to belong.

There was not much I could do about that. Stefan did not want to be a member of the pack—and the pack would not, could not, make him a member.

Stefan was apparently finished with that conversation, because when he spoke again it was on a different topic. “I don’t know a lot more about Frost than you do. He showed up as a Power maybe twenty or thirty years ago—I don’t keep track of time on that level, so I’m not sure. He seemed to be acting as a minion of Bonarata for most of that, so I watched Bonarata, and not him.” Bonarata was the Lord of Night, ruler of the European vampires, who had, I was assured, long tentacles of power that dug deeply on this continent, too.

Stefan frowned deeply. “I don’t know who made him or why. I don’t know who his affiliates are. But I should be able to find out.”

“What nationality is he?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I had assumed that he was European, given that he initially came as an agent of Bonarata. I can find that out, too.” Stefan rubbed his hands briskly together. “Give me some time to run some things down. I do think it is interesting that a vampire who has power over the dead and a witch who creates zombie goats share a close familial scent. If he was born a witch and someone turned him—that someone needs to be stopped.”

“Creates miniature zombie goats,” I corrected him.

He nodded at me. “‘Zombie goat’ sounds satanic.”

There are reasons that Stefan and I became friends.



* * *



? ? ?

My phone rang when I was about halfway home from Stefan’s house.

I glanced down at my cell phone, which was faceup on the passenger seat. Whoever was calling wasn’t a number my phone knew, but it was a Benton City number. Benton City is not a hotbed of robocallers trying to sell auto warranties or time-shares. I let the phone ring three times before I gave in to curiosity and pulled over to the side of the road.

“Ms. Hauptman? This is Arnoldo Salas. You were at my house this morning with the zombie goats.”

“Mr. Salas,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“There is a car that has been driving back and forth in front of my house. It matches the car my boy saw yesterday. I do not know if it means anything. Maybe whoever is driving the car is lost—we get that here a lot.”

“And maybe we should get you some help right now,” I said. “Okay. Don’t go outside your house. Don’t answer your door if anyone knocks. I will call you from this phone when I get there.”

I called Adam and got his voice mail. I called Warren and got his voice mail.

I called Stefan.



* * *



? ? ?

“What do you think that you and I can do against a witch?” asked Stefan, sounding not overly concerned.

I glanced over at him. He was driving his two-year-old baby blue BMW because my Jetta now only had one usable seat.

“Do you think I should call for some more backup?” I asked. I’d left a message for Adam. I could have called more werewolves, but I wasn’t sure how much help they would be. I, at least, had my undependable resistance to magic. Stefan was Stefan.

I didn’t want to call Sherwood. Not because he wouldn’t be useful, but because he’d been pushed enough today.

“I could call Wulfe,” he said.

I straightened in my seat. “No.”

“He can deal with witches,” he continued. “They are very nearly his favorite playthings.”

“No,” I said again. More firmly.

Stefan grinned at me. “Yes, the ‘very nearly’ thing is a problem. He might just throw in with the enemy because you are ‘more fun as an opponent than any witch.’ I’m afraid that last bit is a quote. A recent quote. I didn’t know, yesterday, why he’d suddenly started blathering on about witches. He must have known about Elizaveta’s visitors.”

A chill ran down my spine. I did not want to be within a mile of Wulfe if I could help it. The crazy-like-a-tornado-in-the-land-of-Oz vampire wasn’t anyone I wanted thinking about me at all. Let alone looking forward to having me as an opponent.

“Hmm,” I said.

“So now you are warned,” Stefan said, his voice remote. The reason for that became apparent in his next sentence. “I need your promise that you will summon me should Wulfe become a problem. Wulfe is not werewolf business.”