Iron Kissed (Mercy Thompson #3)(77)

He shoved me with an inhuman sound and I stumbled back, then fell hard, knocking into a rolling tool tray that spilled a few tools on the ground.

"You'll do it with me," he said, breathing hard. "You'll do it with the poor pathetic loser - and you'll like it...no, be grateful to me." He looked around frantically, then noticed I was carrying the cup. "You drink. Drink it all."

It was hard. My stomach was so full. I wasn't thirsty, but with his words ringing in my ear, I couldn't do anything else. And the magic in it burned.

He took the cup from me and set it on the ground, next to the walking stick.

"You'll be so grateful to me and you'll know that you'll never feel anything like it again." He dropped to his knees beside me. His beautiful skin was flushed an ugly red. "When I finish...when I leave - you won't be able to stand it all alone, because you know that no one will ever love you after I'm done. No one. You'll go to the river and swim until you can't swim anymore. Just like Austin did."

He unzipped his jeans, and I knew with bleak certainty that he was right. No one would love me after this. Adam would never love me after this. I might as well drown myself when I lost my love, just as my foster father had.

"Quit crying," he said. "What do you have to cry about? You want this. Say it. You want me."

"I want you," I said.

"Not like that. Not like that." He reached out and grabbed the end of the walking stick and used it to knock the cup over, so it rolled toward him. He dropped the stick and grabbed the cup.

"Drink," he said.

I don't remember exactly what happened from there. The next remotely clear thought I had was when my hand touched something smooth and old, something that spread its coolness up my arm when I closed my hand over it.

I stared at Tim's face. His eyes were closed as he made animal grunts, but almost as if he felt the intensity of my gaze, they opened.

The angle was bad, so I didn't try anything fancy. I just shoved the silver end of the walking stick into his face, visualizing it going through his eye and out the back of his skull.

It didn't, of course. I didn't have the strength of giants, or even of werewolves. There is only so much force you can gather when you are flat on your back hitting someone who is on top of you. But I hurt him.

He reared back and I scrambled away, dropping the stick as I moved. I knew where there was a better weapon. I ran to the counter, where my big crowbar sat right where I'd put it after prying the engine I was replacing this afternoon that extra quarter of an inch.

I could have run away. I could have shifted into my coyote form and run while he was distracted. But I had nowhere to run. No one could love me after tonight. I was all alone.

I'd learned to make the strange noises that seem to go along with all the martial arts - though part of me had always winced away at the stupid sounds. As I raised the crowbar as if it were a spear, the sound I made came from the depths of my anger and despair. Somehow it didn't sound stupid at all.

He was strong, but I was faster. When I closed with him, he grabbed my right arm, the one he'd already injured, and squeezed.

I screamed, but not in pain. I was too far gone to feel something as finite as physical pain. I shoved the end of the pry bar into his stomach with my left hand.

He dropped, vomiting and wheezing, to the ground. Even with only my left hand to guide it, the pry bar was heavy enough to crush his skull when I brought it down on his head.

Part of me wanted to beat his head in until there was nothing left but splinters of bone. Part of me knew I loved him. But I didn't give in to love. Not with Samuel so long ago, not with Adam, and not with Tim.

I didn't bring the pry bar back down on his head - I had something more important to do.

But no matter how hard I hit it, the iron bar did nothing to the cup. It didn't make sense because the cup was clearly made of pottery and iron broke through most fae enchantments. I chipped up cement, but I couldn't so much as put a smudge on that damned cup with the pry bar.

I was searching for a sledgehammer, tracking blood and other stuff all over my garage, when I heard a car engine being revved hard as it peeled around a corner.

I knew that engine.

It was Adam, but he was too late. He couldn't love me anymore.

He would be so angry with me.

I had to hide. He didn't love me so he might hurt me when he was angry. When he calmed down, that would hurt him. I didn't want him hurting because of me.

There was nowhere for a person to hide. So I wouldn't be a person. My eyes fell on the shelves that lined the far back corner. A coyote could hide there.

I changed, and on three legs scrambled up the shelves and slipped behind a couple of big boxes of belts. The shadows were dark.

There was a crash from the office as Adam proved that a deadbolt lock is no protection against an angry werewolf. I cowered a little lower.

"Mercy." He didn't shout. He didn't need to.

The voice carried and swept me up in its liquid rage. It didn't sound like Adam, but it was. I pulled back from the boxes just a little so that they would quit shaking.

What came through the door into the garage was like nothing I'd ever seen before. The closest I'd seen was one of the between forms a werewolf takes on when he's changing. But this one was more complete than that, as if the between form had become finished and useful. He was covered from top to tail with black fur and his hands looked very functional - as did his teeth-laden muzzle. He stood upright, but not like a man. His legs were caught halfway between human and wolf.