Moon Called (Mercy Thompson #1)(11)

Half-changed, the body looked even more grotesque under the harsh lighting of the second bay than it had under the streetlight, like something out of a black-and-white Lon Chaney movie. From where I sat I could see the slice in his neck that had killed him.

"He was used to healing fast," I said, to break the silence. "So he didn't pay attention to his wound. But some wounds take longer to heal than others. He didn't know any more than you do. How long have you been a werewolf?"

"Two months," Mac said, leaning his head back against the tool chest and looking at the ceiling. "It killed my girlfriend, but I survived. Sort of."

He was lucky, I thought, remembering the suppositions I'd had while overhearing his phone call earlier. He hadn't killed his girlfriend after all. He probably wasn't feeling lucky though, and I wasn't going to tell him that it could be worse.

"Tell me about your life afterward. Where did those men come from? Are you from the Tri-Cities?" I hadn't heard of any suspicious deaths or disappearances in the last six months.

He shook his head. "I'm from Naperville." At my blank look, he clarified. "Illinois. Near Chicago." He glanced at the body, closed his eyes, and swallowed. "I want to eat him," he whispered.

"Perfectly natural," I told him, though I have to admit I wanted to move away from him. Heaven save me, stuck with a new werewolf in a garage with fresh meat was not anyone's idea of safe. But we had to wait here until Adam came. It could have been worse: it could have been nearer the full moon, or he could have been as hungry as he'd been that first day.

"Deer not only tastes better, it's easier to live with afterward," I said, then reflected that it might be better to talk about something other than food. "What happened to you after that first attack? Did someone take you to a hospital?"

He looked at me a moment, but I couldn't tell what he was thinking. He said, "After... after the attack, I woke up in a cage in someone's basement. There was someone in the room and when I opened my eyes, he said, 'Good, you'll live. Leo will be happy to see it. "

"Wait," I said. "Leo. Leo. Chicago." Then it came to me. "Leo James? Looks as though he ought to be a Nordic skiing champion? Tall, long, and blond."

Leo was one of the Chicago Alphas-there were two of them. Leo held territory in the western suburbs. I'd met him once or twice. Neither of us had been impressed, but then, as I said, most werewolves don't take kindly to other predators.

Mac nodded. "That sounds right. He came down the stairs with the first guy and another man. None of them would talk to me or answer any of my questions." He swallowed and gave me an anxious glance. "This shit just sounds so weird, you know? Unbelievable."

"You're talking to someone who can turn into a coyote," I told him gently. "Just tell me what you think happened."

"All right." He nodded slowly. "All right. I was still weak and confused, but it sounded like Leo was arguing money with the third guy. It sounded to me like he sold me for twelve thousand dollars."

"Leo sold you for twelve thousand dollars," I said, as much to myself as to Mac. My voice might have been matter-of-fact, but only because Mac was right: it was unbelievable. Not that I thought he was lying. "He had one of his wolves attack you and your girlfriend and when you survived, he sold you to someone else as a newly turned werewolf."

"I think so," said Mac.

"You called your family this afternoon?" I asked. I smiled at his wary look. "I have pretty good hearing."

"My brother. His cell phone." He swallowed. "It's broken. No caller ID. I had to let them know I was alive. I guess the police think I killed Meg."

"You told him that you were after her killer," I said.

He gave an unhappy laugh. "Like I could find him."

He could. It was all a matter of learning to use his new senses, but I wasn't going to tell him that, not yet. If Mac did find his attacker, chances were Mac would die. A new werewolf just doesn't stand a chance against the older ones.

I patted his knee. "Don't worry. As soon as we get word to the right people-and Adam is the right people-Leo's a walking dead man. The Marrok won't allow an Alpha who is creating progeny and selling them for money."

"The Marrok?"

"Sorry," I said. "Like I told you, except for the occasional rogue, werewolves are organized into packs under an Alpha wolf."

It used to be that was as organized as werewolves got. But the only thing it takes to be Alpha is power, not intelligence or even common sense. In the Middle Ages, after the Black Plague, the werewolf population was almost wiped out along with real wolves because some of the Alphas were indiscreet. It was decided then that there would be a leader over all the werewolves.

"In the US, all the packs follow the Marrok, a title taken from the name of one of King Arthur's knights who was a werewolf. The Marrok and his pack have oversight of all the werewolves in North America."

"There are more of us?" he asked.

I nodded. "Maybe as many as two thousand in the US, five or six hundred in Canada, and about four hundred in Mexico."

"How do you know so much about werewolves?"

"I was raised by them." I waited for him to ask me why, but his attention had drifted toward the body. He inhaled deeply and gave an eager shudder.