Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(44)

I stiffened. But I didn’t think that he was influencing me. I thought that it sounded like a good idea. That right there is the reason vampires are so scary.

“I understand your reasoning,” I said slowly.

“But?” Stefan supplied.

“But,” I agreed. “How about if I make you a promise when I am not sitting in the car next to you?”

A distinct chill settled in the air. “You do know that if I were going to influence you like that, I could do it if I were here and you in Seattle.”

“Thanks for that,” I told him sourly. “How about I promise to consider what you’ve said should the occasion arise?”

“Fine,” he said.

I knew I’d hurt his feelings. But there was a tie between us through which he could make me think and do whatever he wanted—and unlike hypnotism, I was pretty sure that “whatever he wanted” was limitless. I saw a man participate happily in his own death. The vampire involved wasn’t Stefan—it was Wulfe. That knowledge made me understand why trapped animals have been known to gnaw their own legs off. It was a peculiar kind of claustrophobia and there was nothing I could do about it.

Nothing Stefan could do about it, either.

“I am being unfair,” I said grudgingly. “I know it. But . . .” I made a frustrated sound.

“But,” agreed Stefan heavily.

And we drove the rest of the way to Benton City in silence.



* * *



? ? ?

Stefan’s was the only car on the road in front of the Salas house. As we turned down the long drive, the porch light came on and Arnoldo Salas came out.

“She quit driving by as soon as I called you,” he said grimly. He had a gun in a holster on his hip and he was wearing his military posture. His breathing was slow and even—deliberately so, I thought. I didn’t know him, but I thought he was pretty spooked.

I shrugged. “I’m not a witch,” I told him. “I don’t know how they think—and only some of what they can do.”

“I don’t want her near my family,” he said.

“I don’t blame you,” I agreed. “Let me introduce my associate. Arnoldo Salas, this is my friend Stefan Uccello. We’ll wait here for a bit—don’t invite us inside your house—to see if she returns. If she does, we’ll find out if she wants to talk.”

I could hear the sound of a car’s engine in the distance. It might just have been one of his neighbors.

“Do you know why she is stalking my family?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t know the why of any of this. Witches are hungry for power—and killing the goats would give her power. But it would take more power than the goats’ deaths to allow her to do something as spectacular as turning them all into zombies. And that accomplished nothing except to make your family sad and scared. Do you know any reason anyone would have had for that?”

“Scaring people is fun,” said the witch, stepping out of the shadows about ten feet from the porch.

I had not sensed her in any way—and, I could tell by Stefan’s complete stillness, neither had the vampire. Usually supernatural creatures who can hide from sight forget about other things—scent or sound.

I, of course, jumped—as she evidently intended.

Arnoldo Salas pulled his gun.

She smiled at him. I noted that she was tall for a woman and built on a graceful frame. Her hair was dark and her eyes were some light color but I couldn’t tell for certain if they were green, gray, or blue in the dimness of the night. I see very well in the darkness, but colors tend to fade to shades of gray.

Her face had been relatively plain until she smiled and the expression gave definition to her features. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place who. It wasn’t Frost, though she did indeed share a close family resemblance to his scent under the foulness of her magic. Smelling her again, I was absolutely certain of the connection between her and Frost.

I hadn’t been able to scent her until she’d come out of the shadows, though. I didn’t like that at all.

“Aren’t you a darling?” she told Salas in a husky voice with an accent that originated in the Deep South. “But you won’t have any luck with that old thing, so you might as well put it away.” There was magic in her voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

He held his stance, cradling the gun in a classic grip. A light sweat broke out on his face—but the gun held steady.

She turned her smile to me. “And that is the reason I picked this family, Mercedes Thompson Hauptman. I find it so interesting when people don’t do as I tell them. It doesn’t happen too often.”

I wondered if the three tortured members of Elizaveta’s family had been told to go make breakfast. Time to think about that later. Right this moment, I needed to distract her from Salas. I didn’t like the attention she was paying to him, even with her face turned toward me.

Last moon hunt, which we held out on the Hanford Reservation, the pack had been on the trail of an elk when a rabbit broke cover just in front of us. Just for an instant, the pack weighed switching their prey before continuing after the elk.

Salas was the witch’s version of that rabbit and I wanted her focus on me instead.

“Picked them for what?” I asked.