Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(46)
She always left her coffeepot primed for mornings, so all she had to do was push the button and it began gurgling in promise of coffee soon.
“Um,” she said, remembering he’d asked her a question. His closeness distracted her—and not for the reasons it should. “Women tend to be more powerful witches, but you can make up for lack of talent with enough death and pain. Someone else’s, of course, if you’re a black practitioner like Kouros.”
“What are you?” he asked, sniffing at her. His breath tickled the back of her neck—wolves, she’d noticed before, had a somewhat different idea of personal space than she did.
Her machine began dribbling coffee out into the carafe at last, giving her an excuse to step away. “Didn’t Alan tell you? I’m a witch.”
He followed; his nose touched her where his breath had sensitized her flesh, and she probably had goose bumps on her toes from the zing he sent through her. “My pack has a witch we pay to clean up messes. You don’t smell like a witch.”
He probably didn’t mean anything by it; he was just being a wolf. She stepped out of his reach in the pretense of getting a coffee cup, or rather he allowed her to escape.
Alan was right: she needed to get out more. She hadn’t so much as dated in . . . well, a long time. The last man’s reaction to seeing what she’d done to herself was something she didn’t want to repeat.
This man smelled good, even with the scent of his sweat teasing her nose. He felt strong and warm, promising to be the strength and safety she’d never had outside of her own two hands. Dominant wolves took care of their pack—doubtless something she’d picked up on. And then there was the possibility of death hovering over her.
Whatever the ultimate cause, his nearness and the light touch of breath on her skin sparked her interest in a way she knew he’d have picked up on. You can’t hide sexual interest from something that can trail a hummingbird on the wing. Neither of them needed the complication of sex interfering in urgent business, even assuming he’d be willing.
“Witchcraft gains power from death and pain. From sacrifice and sacrificing,” she told him coolly, pouring coffee in two mugs with steady hands. She was an expert in sacrifice. Not sleeping with a strange werewolf who showed up on her doorstep didn’t even register on her scale.
She drank coffee black, so that was how she fixed it, holding the second cup out to him. “Evil leaves a psychic stench behind. Maybe a wolf nose can pick up on it. I don’t know, not being a werewolf myself. There’s milk in the fridge and sugar in the cupboard in front of you if you’d like.”
• • •
She wasn’t at all what Tom had expected. Their pack’s hired witch was a motherly woman of indeterminate years who wore swami robes in bright hues and smelled strongly of patchouli and old blood that didn’t quite mask something bitter and dark. When he’d played Jon’s message for her, she’d hung up the phone and refused to answer it again.
By the time he’d driven to her house, it was shut up and locked with no one inside. That was his first clue that this Samhain’s Coven might be even more of a problem than he’d thought, and his worry had risen to fever pitch. He’d gone down to the underpass where his brother had been living and used his nose through the parks and other places his brother drifted through. But wherever they were holding Jon (and he refused to believe Jon was dead), it wasn’t anywhere near where they kidnapped him.
His Alpha didn’t like pack members concerning themselves with matters outside of the pack (“Your only family is your pack, son”). Tom didn’t even bother contacting him. He’d gone to Choo instead. The Emerald City Pack’s only submissive wolf, Alan worked as an herbalist and knew almost everyone in the supernatural world of Seattle. When he told Alan about the message Jon had left on his phone, Alan had written this woman’s name and address and handed it to him. He’d have thought it was a joke, but Alan had better taste than that. So Tom had gone looking for a witch named Wendy—Wendy Moira Keller.
At his first look, he’d been disappointed. Wendy the Witch was five foot nothing with rich curves in all the right places and feathery black hair that must have been dyed, because only black Labs and cats are that black. The stupid wraparound mirrored glasses kept him from guessing her age exactly, but he’d bet she wasn’t yet thirty. No woman over thirty would be caught dead in those glasses. The cop in him wondered if she was covering up bruises—but he didn’t smell a male in the living-scents in the house.
She wore a gray T-shirt without a bra, and black pajama pants with white skull-and-crossbones wearing red bows. But despite all that, he saw no piercings or tattoos—like she’d approached mall Goth culture, but only so far. She smelled of fresh flowers and mint. Her apartment was decorated with a minimum of furniture and a mishmash of colors that didn’t quite fit together.
He didn’t scare her.
Tom scared everyone—and he had even before their pack had a run-in with a bunch of fae a few years ago. His face had gotten cut up pretty badly with some sort of magical knife and hadn’t healed right afterward. The scars made him look almost as dangerous as he was. People walked warily around him.
Not only wasn’t she scared, but she didn’t even bother to hide her irritation at being woken up. He stalked her, and all she’d felt was a flash of sexual awareness that came and went so swiftly, he might have missed it if he’d been younger.