Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(75)

“Put her on the phone,” I said.

There was a pause, and I could hear Ruth’s agitated voice in the background saying, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”

Uncle Mike’s voice was dry. “Do you hear that? All she has told us is ‘They are all dead. I have to tell Mercy.’ In my considerably educated opinion, she has been cursed. If you come, we’ll make sure you are safe in our place—but I would bring Adam or someone who can have your back. A lot of somethings about this smells like a trap.”

I had a momentary panic attack when he said “they are all dead,” but the pack bonds were still in place and healthy. I couldn’t tell anything else from them, because the bonds are pretty hit-and-miss for me, even my mate bond.

“Okay,” I said, happy to discover that none of the flash of panic came through in my voice. “I’ll be right down.”

I hung up the phone.

“No,” said Sherwood.

“No,” said Zack.

I raised an eyebrow at them both. “You aren’t the boss of me,” I told them. “I am the boss of you.”

I turned to Kyle. “We have a clue,” I told him. He didn’t have a werewolf’s senses, so he couldn’t be an übereavesdropper.

“I heard,” he said, and at my look of surprise, he continued, “Uncle Mike’s voice carries.”

“You’re not the boss of me, either,” I said.

He raised his hands. “I’m with you. You need to go talk to her.”

I pointed at Sherwood. “I elect you to come with me.”

Joel barked insistently.

“I would love to have you with me,” I said. “But I can’t afford to leave this place undefended. I need you and Zack to keep everyone safe. Kyle.” I turned to him. “You are in charge.”

Joel’s jaw dropped in an approving grin.

“I’m not a werewolf,” Kyle said.

“Maybe not, but you are dominant enough to keep everyone in line.”

“Mercy?” Libby stood in the kitchen doorway, cradling her baby as he drank from his bottle. “Our men,” she said. “They’re in trouble?”

I shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I don’t like it that they all turned off their phones. That’s not like Adam.”

“What can I— What can the rest of us do?”

“Stay here,” I said. “Stay safe. And if you get a call from your wolves, let me know.”



* * *



? ? ?

Sherwood insisted on driving. I’d have backed him down, but we were taking his car—a four-year-old Toyota that was more likely to make the trip there and back than my Jetta.

I might still have insisted, because I had a policy of never letting any of the wolves get away with macho baloney around me, but he was in a state. I could smell his tension and his fear—he was in a cold sweat, never a good sign around werewolves. Scared werewolves are much more prone to violence. If driving gave him the illusion of control, I could let him have that.

And my Jetta still had only one functional seat.

It wasn’t late, so I was surprised at how few cars were at Uncle Mike’s—and that the Closed sign was lit. With Sherwood standing with his back to me, I knocked on the door.

“Who is’t?” hissed Kinsey.

“Mercy and Sherwood,” I told him.

The door opened and the hobgoblin, free of the clothing he had to wear when the pub was running, gestured us in. “Come in’t, come,” he said. “Hurry, do. Don’t want to leave the door open on a night like this.”

Sherwood brushed past me so that he entered first. I gave Kinsey an apologetic smile as I scooted past.

The pub was empty of customers and mostly empty of workers. There were a handful of fae working at cleaning the rooms and getting them ready for the next day’s business.

“Closed early,” Kinsey said, leading us with purposeful strides. “If the witches are hunting that one, the master didn’t want no one here what couldn’t protect themselves.”

“Good call,” I told him.

“Weren’t mine,” he said. “But I agree. Here you are, right through that door. Master has her in his office. On through, first door on the left. I’m to stay out here, first line of defense. Keep ’thers safe.”

I noted that the hobgoblin, whom I’d always liked but had categorized with the lesser fae, was the one Uncle Mike trusted to keep the bad things out.

Sherwood, again, went through the door first, but this time he held it open for me. It was a graceful procedure, and it looked like he’d done it a time or two. A lot of werewolves work as guards of one sort or another, but not all of them know how to be a bodyguard.

We didn’t need Kinsey’s directions to find Uncle Mike and Ruth—all we’d have had to do was follow the sound of her weeping.

“There, there now,” said Uncle Mike, looking up as we entered his office. He had Ruth seated in a big leather chair, and he knelt beside it with his arm around her shoulders in a hold that was half-protective and half-restrictive.

The office was large enough to contain a big desk and a wall of filing cabinets and still have ample room for six large mismatched but comfortable-looking chairs. Nearly twice the size of the office where we’d met Senator Campbell, but far more scabby.