Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(46)

He nodded.

Eventually he asked, “What do you intend to do about the witches?”

“Not my call,” I told him. “I’ll let Adam know and he’ll take it from there.”

Not that I wouldn’t give him suggestions. I hesitated, but I needed to talk this out. And Stefan had a tactical mind—he could pick out things that I missed sometimes.

“Why didn’t the witch just pick up the phone and call us? Our pack isn’t exactly hiding out. She killed the goats, turned them into zombies, to get our attention? That is a serious waste of power right before what might be a real fight. Killing Elizaveta’s people would get our attention all on its own. She doesn’t make sense. But, Stefan, she wasn’t lying.”

“Just because something is stupid doesn’t mean it is not true,” said Stefan.

I tapped my fingers on the dashboard. “No, but it’s still stupid.” I thought a little more. “I can understand tonight—just now at Salas’s house. There was no power wasted. She was testing us, to see if we would protect someone who we met just this morning.”

“Probing for weakness, yes,” said Stefan. “I agree. I have another thought you are not going to like. She meant to take the boy—you could see it in her. She took the goats as revenge because that boy stood up to her. She tested the father, but it didn’t anger her. She expected it. Witches have different affinities, but most of them are good with things like bloodline powers.”

“The boy resisted her—and she divined that it was something that might run in his family?” I asked. “Because she could normally control someone? If she asked someone to come to her, they would have to do it?” I swallowed. “I thought they needed artifacts—like the collar Bonarata had on that poor werewolf in Italy.”

“For werewolves,” he said. “But people with no magic?” He shrugged. At least he didn’t sound happy about it. “If it helps,” he added, “it is a rare thing. Back in the days when covens dotted the landscape of Europe, they were highly prized. They called them Love Talkers.”

“Love Talkers are fae,” I told him. “And they are male.”

“In fairy tales,” he said. “But most of those stories are about witches, not the fae. And I think it is one of the few witch traits that is equally strong in men and women.”

I supposed if Baba Yaga was fae, it was only fair that some of the stories about the fae were really about witches.

He continued, “We are safe enough, but I am not sure a blessing, even one given by the pope, could make a human resistant to witchcraft.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But witchborn families can be resistant to magic.”

I didn’t think, upon reflection, that the Salases were even a little bit safe while that witch knew where they were. If they were witchborn and didn’t know it, that would explain why the witch singled them out. It also meant that, like any other white witches, they were prey.

I picked up my phone and called Mary Jo.

She listened while I explained everything.

“You want me to protect them?” she asked.

“I want you to find another two wolves and go keep watch. Call us—me, I suppose, because Adam is in another freaking long meeting—if you notice anything awry. Do not engage unless it can’t be helped. But this man’s whole family has a target painted on their backs.”

“You have any objection to me grabbing Sherwood and Joel?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Only if you don’t force Sherwood,” I said finally. “Accept no for an answer.”

“Done,” she said and disconnected.



* * *



? ? ?

The billboard on Chemical Drive was new. Don’t let the monsters win in our city was sprawled menacingly over a picture of a cute little girl with a terrified expression on her face, down which slid a single tear. A shadow of a wolflike creature fell over her white dress. In case I was in any doubt of who funded the billboard, eight-foot-tall letters on the right-hand corner proclaimed the website address for the John Lauren Society.

The Citizens for a Bright Future were more active in the Tri-Cities, so I was more familiar with their tactics. Bright Future’s focus was more protest marches, graffiti, and vandalism. My builder had spent a lot of time and money (for which I was billed) keeping them away from the garage. Now that the garage was rebuilt, Hauptman Security had run people off twice in the last two weeks. I had killed one of Bright Future’s members a while back. It had been self-defense, but they didn’t intend to let it go. Not as long as his cousin ran the local chapter, anyway.

The John Lauren Society was a different enemy altogether. They had money and their attacks were better planned. The billboards that had begun springing up all over town after the incident with the troll and the bridge were the first hint we’d had that they were interested in the Tri-Cities. Two of the signs on the farmer’s field this morning had been smaller versions of JLS billboards.

It was good, I thought as I drove past the billboard, to remember that not everyone was enamored of living in a city under the protection of a werewolf pack.

I wondered what the JLS would think about witches.



* * *



? ? ?

Hordes of hungry werewolves were awaiting the food I brought. Okay, it was only Lucia, Aiden, George, and Honey—and only some of them were werewolves. But they were hungry.