Bone Crossed (Mercy Thompson #4)(51)

The steady draw of Stefan's mouth faltered for an instant. Then he resumed feeding, patting my knee with his free hand. It shouldn't have comforted me, but it did. He'd heard the scary monster, too, and he wasn't running.

After a while, the ache deepened into pain - and the now-wordless roar of anger echoing in my head grew muffled. I started to feel cold, as if it wasn't just blood he was taking, but all the warmth in my body. Then his mouth moved, and he laved the wounds with his tongue.

"If you looked into a mirror," he whispered, "you would not see my marks. He wanted you to see what he'd done."

I shivered helplessly, and he lifted me to his lap. He was warm, hot to my cold skin. He lifted me a little and pulled a folding knife out of his pocket. He used the knife and sliced down his wrist like you're supposed to if you want to do suicide right.

"I thought the wrist was too painful," I managed through my sluggish thoughts and vibrating jaw.

"For you," he said. "Drink, Mercy. And shut up." A faint smile crossed his face, then he leaned his head back so I couldn't see his expression anymore.

Maybe it should have bothered me more. Maybe if this had been a normal night, it would have. But useless squeamishness was beyond me. I've hunted as a coyote for most of my life, and she never stopped to cook her food. The taste of blood was nothing new or horrible to me, not when it was Stefan's blood - and he wasn't dying or in pain or anything.

I put my lips against his wrist and closed my mouth over the cut. Stefan made a noise - it didn't sound like pain. He put his free hand on my head lightly and then lifted it off as if he didn't want to coerce me even that much. This was my choice freely made.

His blood didn't taste like rabbit or mouse. It was more bitter - and somehow sweeter at the same time.

Mostly it was hot, sizzling hot, and I was cold. I drank as the cut under my tongue slowly closed. And I remembered this taste. Like eating at McDonald's twice in a day and ordering the same meal. I had a momentary flash of memory, just Blackwood's voice in my ears.

I didn't remember what he'd said or what he'd done, but brief memory of the sound had me curled up on the bench seat, my forehead on Stefan's thigh while I cried. Stefan pulled his wrist away and used his other hand to pet my head lightly.

"Mercy," he said gently. "He won't do that again. Not now. You are mine. He can't fog your mind or force you to do anything."

With my voice muffled by the fabric of his jeans, I said, "Does this mean you can read my mind?"

He laughed a little. "Only while you drink. That isn't my gift. Your secrets are safe." His laugh washed away Blackwood's voice.

I lifted up my head. "I'm glad I don't remember more of what he did," I told Stefan. But I thought that my desire to see Blackwood's body burn like Andre's might have a more personal reason than just what he was doing to Amber.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

I took a breath and evaluated myself. "Awesome. Like I could run from here to the Tri-Cities faster than the van could take us."

He laughed. "I don't think that's true... unless we get a flat tire."

He stood up and he looked better than I'd seen him since... since before he'd landed on the floor of my living room looking like something that had been buried a hundred years. I got up and had to sit down again.

"Balance," he said. "It's a little like being drunk. That'll fade fast, but I'd better drive us home."

I should have felt terrible. Some small voice was yammering that I should have checked with my Alpha before doing anything this... permanent.

But I felt fine, better than fine - and it wasn't just the vampire's blood. I felt truly in control of my life for the first time since Tim's assault. Which was pretty funny under the circumstances.

But I'd made the decision to put myself in Stefan's power.

"Stefan?" I watched the reflectors on the side of the road pass by.

"Hmm."

"Did anyone talk to you about the thing someone painted on the door of my shop?" I'd kept forgetting to ask him about it - though subsequent events had made it more obvious that it had been some sort of threat from Marsilia.

"No one said anything to me," he said. "But I saw it myself." Headlights reflected red in his eyes. Like the flash of a camera, only scarier. It made me smile.

"Marsilia had it done?"

"Almost certainly."

I could have left it there. But we had time to kill, and I had Bran's voice in my head saying, Information is important, Mercy. Get all the facts you can.

"What exactly does it mean?"

"It's the mark of a traitor," he said. "It means that one of our own has betrayed us, and she and all who belong to her are fair marks. A declaration of war."

It was no more than I had expected. "There's some sort of magic in it," I told him. "What does it do?"

"Keeps you from painting over it for long," he said. "And if it stays there long, you'll start attracting nasties who have no affiliation to the vampire."

"Terrific."

"You could always replace the door."

"Yeah," I told him glumly. Maybe the insurance company would replace it when I explained that the bones couldn't be painted over, but I didn't get my hopes up.