Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(16)

“It was not a difficult question,” she said sharply.

He smiled, and the expression showed her that there was such sorrow inside him it made her heart ache.

“Not for most,” he agreed. “My grandmother calls me Sawyl. Will that do?”

For a moment, a flash of insight caught her and she grabbed his hand where it rested on the handle of the tray while the beast tried to take her mouth and spill the True Names that she had for him: Sawyl. Samuel Deathbringer. Samuel Whitewolf. “Samuel Healer,” she said, then managed to close her lips before more escaped.

He tilted his head, tossed an errant strand of long light brown hair out of his eye, and said, “Sometimes. I do warn you that calling me human is a little optimistic. I have not been simply human for a long time.”

“Wolf,” she said, her throat closing as the Name was born on her tongue. “Killer.” She pulled her hand away from him as if his flesh were hot iron. The beast was riled, and the flash of the memory of fangs closing upon her left her too afraid to control it properly.

“Sometimes,” he agreed again mildly, as if unaware of his danger. Maybe he didn’t know. “But it was your father who tried to have us kill you. Happily, his control slipped, or my grandmother the witch did not give him enough control of us because he fair annoyed her. She does things like that. So we killed him instead of you.”

She held still, all of her. The beast was silenced. The wolf sitting beside her was as nothing compared to what he told her. She felt as if time stopped, as if nothing moved inside her at all, not even her heart. “My father is dead?”

Samuel, who evidently was sometimes a wolf, though she’d never heard of such a thing as a human who could turn into a wolf, said, “Yes. It wasn’t an easy thing, not even for us. He killed the rest of the pack, all but my da and me. But your father is dead and returned to the forest.”

Her heart started beating again, but it hurt, and she clasped her fist to her chest in an effort to stop it. Grief, rage, and relief fought for ascendance. Once, she had loved him, her father whose death changed so much.

Samuel sat on the edge of her bed and held up a carved wooden bowl that steamed and smelled of good things. “Drink this.”

Her beast rose at his nearness, teetering on the brink of taking control. But when he simply did not move, she was able to breathe, and the thing her father had made of her subsided reluctantly. When she started to reach for the bowl, her hands shook, so she put them back down.

His mouth flattened, and the corner of his eyes tightened. “I did that,” he said, as if the words pained him.

“What?”

“To your shoulder,” he said. “It went bad—and the fever kept you sick for a while. Haida tells me that usually you heal faster but that you had used all your magic to thwart the forest lord’s will. In any case, the shoulder will bother you for a while longer—I don’t know how long. My patients were regular folk, not fae. Haida seems to think that you’ve been weakened by your magic working and might heal as slowly as a human. In that case, it will hurt for a few more days.”

She blinked at him a moment. Her shoulder hurt, it was true, but compared to what she usually felt after her father had finished with her, it was nothing.

She might have said something, but he lifted the bowl to her lips. She contemplated another True Name she had not let escape: Samuel Silverheart. She was named for the metal—Ariana and silver were not always the same. But she feared that the name meant what it sounded like; she could not love a wolf.

“I am Ariana,” she told him when the bowl was empty.

He bowed his head. “I wish that our first meeting had been different, lady. But upon this our second meeting, I say that I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

•   •   •

Samuel’s eyes held shadows that never left, though they lightened now and then—especially when he sang.

Ariana was not a hobgoblin, like Haida, to read emotions more easily than words. But despite the darkness born of sorrow and anger, he was gentle and patient with her sudden starts. When she fretted over staying in bed, he didn’t argue as Haida did.

While the hobgoblin scolded, he left the room. Ariana had swung her legs off her bed, when he brought in a skin drum.

He frowned at her bare feet. She found herself tucking them up beneath her instead of getting up as she’d intended. Because her bare toes seemed more vulnerable than she liked in front of this man who was nearly a stranger. He sat on the side of her bed, and she scooted farther back, away from him and against the wall.

“Well, then,” he said, not looking at her. “I saw this sitting around in the kitchen for no reason, and though it’s been a while, I couldn’t resist.”

She didn’t recognize the drum, which meant that Underhill had brought it for him—like a puppy seeking to please. It didn’t reassure her completely—Underhill had served her father long—but it helped to make her more comfortable.

He struck up a soft, solemn rhythm and sang.

She’d heard sweeter voices; the fae have singers among them. But music loved his voice just the same. His song was about a wren singing in a field and a man who longed for his childhood home. When he was finished, he raised one eyebrow, set a quicker beat, and hopped directly into a song about a clever mouse and not so clever woman.