Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(66)

A man’s voice crooned to me, saying words that didn’t make sense. I knew that voice, but it did not bring me any comfort.

But a warm blanket was laid over me, and the night sky gave way with bewildering swiftness to golden sun that warmed the blanket and made me feel safer. I breathed in the familiar scents of sage, sun, and fresh air.

“Come home, little coyote,” said Coyote. His voice was as gentle as I’d ever heard it, and he petted the top of my head. “You are safe. For now, anyway.”

After a while I quit crying, though I remained curled in a ball in the middle of the road. His touch was an anchor that kept me from drifting back into the witch’s lair.

“Those times are all in the past and beyond changing,” he said, and then his hand stilled. “Huh. I had wondered how that single half-grown cat escaped Death. I found it was convenient because if I’d used one of the animals who died it might have killed you, too. He didn’t appear to be special—and now I find that I saved him myself and didn’t know it. How clever of me.”

I braced myself on my arms and sat up. My whole body ached down to the bone. His hand fell away from my head, but that was okay, I didn’t need it anymore.

He smiled brightly at me, rising to a crouch but keeping his face at my level. “I guess you could claim credit, too. If you hadn’t been with him when Death called—resistant as you are to the magic of the dead—he would have died, too.”

I cleared my throat and tried to speak but my mouth was too dry. I swallowed a couple of times and tried again. “You suck.”

He beamed and rubbed his chest with false modesty. “I do try.” Then all the laughter left him.

“The Hardesty witches are abominations. They take death, a change that is sacred, and they profane it. Kill them, my child. Kill them and kill their kin.”

I looked at him, inclined, after my sojourn, to agree with him. Instead I held up one finger. “You aren’t the boss of me.” I held up a second finger. “I am not an assassin.” I held up a third finger. “Who are you to complain about making the sacred profane? Isn’t that what you do?” I held up a fourth finger. “I am, in this moment, more inclined to kill you than anyone else.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Good. Good. Take that anger and remember, all I did was allow you to see what they are.”

“What do you care about them for?” I said. “Did one of the witches place a curse on you?”

He hung his head and looked up at me through his lashes. His eyes were mournful and sly. “Yes,” he said, then shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He sat on the ground beside me and crossed his legs. “Oh, it’s story time,” he said. Then he sat without talking for a long time.

“Yes?” I said.

“You aren’t ready to hear this story,” he said. “So I’m trying to make up another one. But it isn’t working. So let me just say this.” He looked at me, and his face and body were suddenly very serious. “Death is sacred. It is a change . . . and I am the spirit of change. So death is sacred, specifically to me. The Hardesty witches are blood-tied, by bone, by breeding, and by choice, to death magics.” He paused to give greater weight to his words, then said, “Zombies are anathema.”

“I agree,” I said. “I noticed. A lot of the things those witches were doing are anathema. Especially if you consider death sacred. I ask you again, why the Hardesty witches? Why not Elizaveta?”

He snorted. “Can’t get one by you, can I? Let’s just say that they are particularly stupid about the way they have gone about things.” His face twisted and I saw, to my surprise, honest grief. “They have taken something that was pure and holy and besmirched it with their filthy magic.”

“Why don’t you kill them?” I asked.

“I can’t do that,” he said regretfully. “This isn’t like the river monster. These are once-mortal witches whose flesh originated in a different land. They are in your realm of influence, not mine.”

“I don’t understand,” I told him. Unhappy about the “once-mortal.” “Once-mortal” is a bad thing when dealing with a witch, for whom learning is one of the keys of power. Old things have an opportunity to learn a lot.

He patted me on the head. “That’s all right. You just need to kill them. I’ll do the understanding for both of us.”

“Mercy,” Adam’s voice said urgently. “Mercy, wake up.”





9





“You were crying,” Adam said, his voice soft with sleep. He brushed a finger over my cheekbone.

We were both familiar with each other’s nightmares. I couldn’t recall what I’d dreamed about, but sadness still clogged my chest.

I rubbed my head against his hand for comfort, like a cat. A cat.

“It was something about cats,” I told him. “Sherwood’s cat, I think. But I don’t remember it anymore.”

“Okay.” He tucked me against him. “Go back to sleep.”

I glanced at the clock and saw that I’d been sleeping less than an hour. No wonder I felt so tired.

“We need to find those witches,” I said.