Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(86)

“Of course I checked them out,” Wulfe said. “A good vampire always knows his enemy’s secrets. A few dogs and the like, but mostly human.” He paused. “And the ogre.”

“Ogre?” asked Tad. “An ogre zombie?”

“It was several hundred years old, I think,” Wulfe said. “They had a few very-well-made zombies—made by a different witch.” He beamed a smile and I realized I was watching him again. If I wrecked the Mystery Machine, Stefan would be unhappy.

“Such craftsmanship,” Wulfe said. “You just don’t find zombies like that anymore. Because the lady who made them had an unfortunate accident with one of her pets. The Hardestys have such hope for Magda, you know, because she has the same combination of gifts. But if you ask me, she is far too careless with her workings.”

Wulfe sounded like someone gossiping about his neighbors. And he knew more about the witches than I’d thought he did. More than I’d gathered. Hopefully he would be on our side this time.

“I brought one home to examine, to be sure,” he said. “It was about two centuries, give or take a year. He was exquisite, not a whiff of rot on him. My mother’s coven would have been envious. He could have passed for human, I think, unless you had reason to look very closely—or talk to him. I am positive it was Lieza’s work. And I think she was the only one who would have been foolhardy enough to try raising an ogre.”

“A zombie ogre,” said Tad. “An ogre zombie.”

“Do you have a glitch?” asked Wulfe. “Or do you always say the same phrase over and over?”

“They have to be well made not to rot,” Zee said. “If they are older, they get smarter. Don’t fret, vampire. Tad and I will take care of the zombies. Even the ogre,” Zee said. “Once we are done with them, we will aid you with den Hexen. The witches.”

Wulfe started to bob his head, as if he were listening to drums. Or my heartbeat. The rat.

He bobbed faster as he spoke. “I can deal with one of the witches—that will leave the other to you, Coyote’s daughter. Do you know how to kill a witch?”

“Nope,” I said, though I was pretty sure that if I could get close enough, my cutlass could do the job. I was really glad I’d started carrying that cutlass wherever I went.

“I wouldn’t shoot at them,” Wulfe advised. “Witches this old can protect themselves from bullets.”

“Noted,” I said. I’d pulled the gun from the safe at work, another Sig. It was now in its concealed-carry holster in the small of my back. I’d never regretted having a gun with me in a fight.

“Don’t worry, Mercy,” said Tad heavily. “Witches die like everyone else.”

I gave him a startled glance that he didn’t see. I wondered if that was the something he’d learned in college that had seen him return home lacking the indomitable cheer he used to carry with him wherever he went.

“Pretty basic plan,” observed Wulfe.

We didn’t know enough to make more extensive plans.

“Kill the bad guys,” Tad said. “Kill the dead guys again.”

“Hey!” said Wulfe with mock affront. “I think I belong to both of those groups.”

“Except for our allies,” I said. “Are you our ally?”

Wulfe smiled at me and said nothing. I realized I wasn’t watching where I was going again. If we all survived, I’d make someone else drive so I didn’t have to have Wulfe lurking behind me.

We did work out a better plan, but Tad wasn’t wrong about the basics of it: kill the bad guys, lay the zombies to rest. We did not specify that Wulfe got to pick a witch and I had to take the other one. Whoever had a chance to kill them would do it.



* * *



? ? ?

I parked the van in the same place I’d found earlier this evening. Hopefully none of the pack would drive by it and figure out where I’d gone. I had turned off my phone after I picked up Wulfe. No sense making it easy for them to find me.

About halfway to Elizaveta’s I’d begun to feel a bit of pull from the pack ties. Adam would have been able to find me—find any of the pack he wanted to locate. But they weren’t the Alpha, and the best they could (hopefully) do would be to know that I was terrified out of my mind.

Zee had had another word with the tunic that Tad wore, and Tad became very, very difficult to see. Wulfe gave a soft whistle when he saw it change.

“So that’s what that is,” he said. “I thought that surcoat was lost in the War of the Roses.”

“Someone made it,” said Zee. “Someone took it. Someone took it back. It was not lost.”

“Hush now, miscreants,” I said. “We’re hunting witches.”

Tad, doubtless hearing the edge of utter terror that I was trying to cover up with humor, ruffled my hair. “We’ve got your back.”

“So do the zombies,” said Wulfe in a whisper that sent the hairs on the back of my neck climbing right onto the top of my head.

“Shut up, Wulfe,” I said. “I’m scared enough.”

“No,” Wulfe said, a little sadly or possibly a little smugly, “I don’t think you are.”

After that optimistic observation, we all lapsed into silence.