Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(74)

“It might be useful.” She paused. “There is a saying about the Hardesty witches—they travel in pairs. I don’t know much about them, Mercy, though I am fixing that. They have stayed under my radar. I have inquiries out with seethes that are closer to their home base. The vampires who live near them are unwilling or unable to talk about them. But a vampire from Kentucky told me this creepy little bit of doggerel verse.”

Wulfe’s voice broke in. “One by one, two by two, the Hardesty witches are traveling through. With a storm of curses, they call from their tomes; they will drink your blood and dine on your bones.”

“Hmm,” Marsilia said into the silence that followed. “It sounds remarkably more horrid when you say it, Wulfe.”

“It’s because I’m scarier to start with,” he said.

“Do you need anything more that I can offer?” she asked me.

“Is Stefan okay?”

Stefan grunted an affirmative that managed to sound irritated but not enraged. Pretty impressive communication skills considering I was getting that with the filter of (presumably) a gag and a phone.

“Can I call you if I have more questions?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“I appreciate it,” I told her, and hung up.

“What does this Frost character have to do with what’s going on now?” asked Sherwood, who hadn’t been here for that episode.

“I think it’s the other way around,” I said. “These witches were behind Frost. And now they’re screwing with us again.”

“The vampire is afraid of them,” said Sherwood softly.

“So am I,” I said. “I wish I knew where Adam was.”





10





Kyle and Zack showed up about twenty minutes later, suitcases in hand.

Zack said, “I told Kyle that this didn’t sound like a call for a meeting. This sounded more like a huddle. And huddles sometimes go overnight.”

“Warren and Zack have been watching football together again,” said Kyle, kissing my cheek lightly. “It’s left Zack using sports analogies.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m not sure how a huddle is different from a meeting.”

“A meeting is boring,” said a little girl in passing.

She was about six and carrying a bottle that was probably for the baby I could hear fussing in the living room. The baby belonged to Luke and Libby, Luke’s wife. But the six-year-old, I thought, might be one of Kelly’s. Unusually, for a werewolf, Kelly had four children under the age of twelve.

“And in a huddle all the guys pat each other’s butts,” she finished smugly.

“Makaya,” Hannah, Kelly’s wife, called out in mock anger. “No ‘butts’ in public.”

The little girl giggled and hurried away.

Kyle and Zack watched her with mixed reactions of longing and amusement. Both of them. But Zack’s eyes were sadder.

“I’m not going to pat anyone’s butt,” I announced.

Makaya’s voice said, “Mercy said ‘butt,’ Mommy. Why can’t I say ‘butt’?”

“Thanks, Mercy,” Hannah said. “I always appreciate it when you help me like that.” Presumably to Makaya she said, “Mercy is old. Old and grown-up. Her mommy didn’t teach her not to say ‘butt’ in public—and now she’s too old to change. Poor Mercy.”

I get no respect.

“A meeting is boring,” said Zack. “And nine times out of ten, when Adam calls a meeting, the meeting itself is a punishment for someone being stupid. Peer pressure usually makes sure that person doesn’t do the stupid thing again. It’s amazingly effective, and I’ve never seen another Alpha werewolf do it.”

“Army training,” I said.

“A huddle,” he continued, “is what you do when you are in trouble, but you have a plan that might get you out of trouble. But you have to all come together in a safe place, so that the enemy doesn’t know what you intend to do.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, feeling the weight of the world, which had lifted after seeing Kyle on the doorstep, drop back on my shoulders with a thump, “I’m not even sure we have a problem—”

“Witches,” called Sherwood from the basement. He’d taken all the boys under fifteen (two of them) downstairs to play video games.

“—an immediate problem,” I said. Then I got a momentary mental flash of something.

“Mercy?” asked Zack.

I shook my head. “It’s nothing. Just a flashback to a dream I had last night. Which is pretty stupid considering that I don’t remember what I was dreaming about.” I might not remember it consciously, but something about it was trying to wiggle out.

“Was it a Coyote dream?” asked Zack.

I gave a surprised look. “Yes,” I said—though I had intended to say no. And it had been. “Oh damn,” I said. And I still didn’t know what I’d dreamed about.

My phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket so fast that if it had been a match, my pants would have been on fire. But it wasn’t Adam.

I hit the green button. “Uncle Mike?” I said.

“Ruth Gillman has come to us at the pub,” Uncle Mike told me gravely. “Best you come, Mercy, and hear what she has to say.”