Frost Burned (Mercy Thompson #7)(83)

"I'll keep the phone nearby," she said.

Twenty minutes later, we were through Benton City and headed up on the bluffs that overlooked the Yakima River, surrounded by orchard and vineyard. I hadn't seen a house in miles when Hao turned up a gravel road between rows of orchard trees.

I'd spent the entire time thinking about vampires. Old vampires had money. Marsilia had been going through a fugue - old-vampire version of depression, from what I'd gathered. She had sat around not doing much for years, and that made her look weak, which is why Gauntlet Boy had attempted to steal her seethe. Marsilia would never so much as blink unless it benefited her.

She wouldn't arrange a meeting with the pack unless she needed help. This, all of this, had begun with the vampires. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

Of course a vampire would kill the mercenaries who might know too much. He wasn't scared of what they might say to the police; he was scared of what they would say to Bran or Charles. If the pack died - and he'd intended them to die, probably couldn't believe that they'd let themselves be taken by a handful of mercenaries and Cantrip agents - then the Marrok would hunt down the responsible parties.

The trees fell away first, then the gravel, and we crawled through what seemed like acres of grapes that looked deader than could be attributed to the season alone. Marsilia's car was a city car and wasn't too happy with the rocks and ruts that had replaced the gravel.

Vampires gained powers. Stefan could teleport - and that was a real secret because it made him a target. James Blackwood, the Master of Spokane, could steal the abilities of the supernatural folk he fed upon. Maybe this vampire could create a zombie from my assassin. Why anyone would want to was another matter.

I was so lost in my thoughts that it wasn't until I got a good whiff of smoke that I figured out where we were going. The smoke itself wasn't unusual - this time of year a lot of places burned agricultural rubbish. But this smelled like a house fire and not just burning plant matter.

Hastily, I called Sylvia again. "Tell Adam that we're going to the place where he was kidnapped and held."

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Not necessarily," I said, though I was suspicious that Hao had been so careful not to tell me that we were meeting at the winery Adam and Elizaveta had burned to ash. "She might have something to show me here."

Or maybe not. Maybe I'd just been really, really stupid.

I took a breath. "Tell Adam that I didn't recognize the vampire who brought us here. He says his name is Thomas Hao, and he drives a Subaru Forester with California vanity plates that say DAYTIME." I spelled it for her. On a vampire's car, the plates could mean anything from irony to hope.

"Could be this isn't Marsilia's gig at all," I said, not liking that thought, either.

"I'll tell them."

I hung up the phone and continued to follow the vampire.

We came upon the burnt remains of the winery from the back side, the final confirmation of my suspicions. The fire had burned hot, leaving only stone, cement, and just a few shards of very black wood behind. Elizaveta had been thorough in this as in everything else she did.

The waxing moon, three-quarters full, gave the remains a horror-movie eeriness. As did the ghost waiting next to the vineyard on the opposite side of the dirt track we were following. Seeing ghosts was not unusual, and that one wasn't the only ghost hovering about. I would not have paid any attention to him except that he looked familiar. I sped up until I was close enough to get a good look.

It was Peter, our Peter. He was standing next to one of the angled posts set into the earth to support the wires that the grapevines cling to. He was hugging himself and looking toward the - I checked - mostly empty parking lot in front of the building-that-was.

I stopped, turned off lights and engine both, and got out of the car, forgetting my worries about whether or not I'd been summoned here by Marsilia, by Hao, or by some unknown enemy.

Ghosts are the remnants of the people they had once been. Most of the ones I've met don't have much, if any, intelligence. There was no reason to stop. This wasn't Peter, not really. He didn't need me - but that didn't matter. He looked like he needed someone, and I couldn't leave him alone and vulnerable.

As I rounded the front of the Mercedes, the backup lights of Thomas Hao's car turned on, Warren's truck pulled in behind me - and Peter turned and saw me.

"Get out of here, Mercy," he told me earnestly. "There is someone very bad here." He tipped his head toward the burnt-out building. He was as coherent and aware as I'd ever seen.

"Peter?" I asked, conscious of Honey and Asil getting out of the truck.

"He can't get me," Peter said, sounding more hopeful than certain. "He's calling me. Can you hear it? It's like when Adam calls, but different." He shivered and took a step toward the parking lot.

"Who is calling you?" I asked.

Peter shook his head. Sometimes ghosts appear in their dying state - complete with blood and gore. But there was no bullet hole in Peter's forehead, nor was he wearing the slacks and dress shirt he'd been wearing when I'd last seen him at Thanksgiving dinner, the ones he'd worn when he'd died. Instead, he wore the jeans, steel-toed boots, and flannel shirt that was his more usual garb.

I hadn't noticed at first because his presence had been too faint, but he'd become more real as he talked. If I hadn't known him, hadn't known he was dead, I might not have figured out he was a ghost - he was that solid to me.