Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(67)

Adam nodded. “I hate fighting a defensive battle. All you can do is react, react, react. And you find yourself running around like Chicken Little, never knowing where the next rock will fall from.”

“Adam,” I said slowly, “if you hate being on the defensive—why are you running a security firm? Isn’t security, by definition, always on defense?”

“I hear your logic,” he said. “But I’m not listening.”

“Ethically,” I said, “defense is easier to defend than, say, assassinations or attacking people because they irritate you.”

He growled, then laughed. “Defense is easier to defend.”

“Hey,” I told him, “it’s two in the morning. I’m not responsible for anything I say after midnight.” I frowned. “I have this weird feeling that we need to hunt down those witches really soon.”

He kissed me long and sweet, then pulled me against him and said, again, “Go to sleep, Mercy.” He rolled until I was on top of him, then rumbled, “We need all the sleep we can get if we are going to hunt witches in the morning.”

“Oh goody,” I said.



* * *



? ? ?

We were on our third day of a full house. Werewolves who had human families were still on virtual house arrest for their own protection. That meant breakfast was a big deal and both the kitchen and the dining room table were full.

Adam had intended to work from home this morning. But when Jesse asked him what he wanted for breakfast when he came downstairs from his shower, he said, “No time for breakfast.”

That was a little unusual. Werewolves have to eat a lot. And “hangry” just doesn’t describe what happens to a werewolf when he is hungry.

He saw my look and grinned at me.

“You’re in a good mood today,” I told him.

“You need to eat,” said Jesse. “There is always time for a good breakfast.”

He breezed through the kitchen, kissing her on her cheek and me, lightly, on the mouth. Aiden got a fist bump. Aiden wasn’t big on touch—so we let him decide when he needed a hug.

“I got called in,” Adam told us. “No rest for the wicked. Jesse, there’ll be food where I’m going.”

He glanced around the room and called all the werewolves to him with nothing more than a glance. After a moment, a few other werewolves appeared from other places, so Adam must have used pack bonds.

“Dress up for an official workday,” he told them. “Meet me at the office. ASAP. Food will be served.”

They scattered. No mistaking the rising energy of “something to do at last” that rose from them.

“No hunting witches?” I asked.

“No witch hunts today,” he told me. “I expect to be late.”

“Where at?” Jesse asked.

“Sorry, I can’t tell you.” He paused. Kissed me again. Then said, “Don’t go hunting without me.”

And then he was gone.

“Huh,” said Jesse. “He seems awfully excited.”

We exchanged mutual raised eyebrows.

“Grrr,” said Kelly’s wife, Hannah. “I hate secrets.” She looked at me with lowered brow. “Do you know how much longer we are all stuck here?”

“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I told Adam we had to go witch hunting today.” I waved a hand at all the werewolves bounding out the door wearing Hauptman Security shirts. “You see the result.”

“Just how dangerous are these witches, really?” she asked.

A cold chill ran down my spine—and for a moment I had a glimpse of the dream I’d had last night.

“Very,” I said. “You all stay inside this house today. If we don’t get the situation taken care of in the next few days, maybe we should see about a camping trip or something for everyone until this all blows over.”

I grabbed a piece of toast and a slice of bacon and slunk out. They all knew that my garage had just reopened and I needed to go to work. They would be safe with Joel—and Aiden for that matter—but they weren’t happy.



* * *



? ? ?

Zee and I spent the morning detailing the cars that had gotten soaked the day before yesterday, using my new steam cleaner and the old Shop-Vac I’d brought over from home. For the heck of it, I detailed Stefan’s van, too. It needed it. I tried the steam cleaner on Stuffed Scooby. The best that could be said about that attempt was that he didn’t look any worse. I managed to reattach the spot that had fallen off his back with a little hot glue.

Tad’s hands were still in rough shape, so I’d sent him home to heal up.

“It’s a good thing,” said Zee, cleaning the outside of the driver’s-side window of the car we were working on, “that it’s high summer. These should finish drying out in the sun this afternoon.”

“I’ll remember to thank the witches for picking this time of year when we finally catch up to them,” I said.

I was working on the interior. The car was a couple of decades old, and I might have been the first person to clean the dash. I hoped that the plastic didn’t dissolve in panic at the touch of my cleaner, but I wouldn’t detail a car and send it out with a gunk-covered dash.