Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(55)

Just as she had dreamed. She pulled the stone out of her pocket—and it seemed to her that she had all the time in the world to use it to cut her right hand open. Then she pointed it, her bloody hand of power at him.

“By the blood we share,” she whispered, and felt the magic gather.

“You’ll die, too,” Kouros said frantically, as if she didn’t know.

“Blood follows blood.” Before she spoke the last word, she lifted her other hand from Tom’s soft fur that none of this magic should fall to him. And as soon as she did so, she could no longer see. But she wouldn’t be blind for long.

•   •   •

Tom started moving before her fingers left him, knocking into her with his hip and spoiling her aim. Her magic flooded through him, hitting him instead of the one she’d aimed all that power at. The wolf let it sizzle through his bones and returned it to her, clean.

Pleasant as that was, he didn’t let it distract him from his goal. He was moving so fast that the man was still looking at Moira when the wolf landed on him.

Die, he thought as he buried his fangs in Kouros’s throat, drinking his blood and his death in one delicious mouthful of flesh. This one had moved against the wolf’s family, against the wolf’s witch. Satisfaction made the meat even sweeter.

“Tom?” Moira sounded lost.

“Tom’s fine,” answered his brother’s rusty voice. He’d talked himself hoarse. “You just sit there until he calms down a little. You all right, lady?”

Tom lifted his head and looked at his witch. She was huddled on the ground, looking small and lost, her scarred face bared for all the world to see. She looked fragile, but Tom knew better, and Jon would learn.

As the dead man under his claws had learned. Kouros died knowing she would have killed him.

Tom had been willing to give her that kill—but not if it meant her death. So Tom had the double satisfaction of saving her and killing the man. He went back to his meal.

“Tom, stop that,” Jon said. “Ick. I know you aren’t hungry. Stop it now.”

“Is Kouros dead?” His witch sounded shaken up.

“As dead as anyone I’ve seen,” said Jon. “Look, Tom. I appreciate the sentiment, I’ve wanted to do that anytime this last day. But I’d like to get out of here before some of those kids decide to come back while I’m still tied up.” He paused. “Your lady needs to get out of here.”

Tom hesitated, but Jon was right. He wasn’t hungry anymore, and it was time to take his family home.

ALPHA AND OMEGA

Charles appeared in my life three-dimensional and in possession of an entire history. He stalked onto the pages of Moon Called, Bran Cornick’s younger son, and he told me who he was. He didn’t care that there were already far too many characters in the book—and that major characters needed to be introduced earlier. There he was.

So I sketched in a bare-bones appearance and promised him his own story. When my editor asked me to write a novella for an anthology of four novellas (two from paranormal-romance writers, two from urban-fantasy writers), I told her I’d write her a story about Charles, Samuel’s younger brother. She read the story and asked if I thought I could write a series based on these characters—and the rest is history.

The events in “Alpha and Omega” take place during the events in Moon Called.

ONE

The wind was chill and the cold froze the ends of her toes. One of these days she was going to break down and buy boots—if only she didn’t need to eat.

Anna laughed and buried her nose in her jacket, trudging the last half mile to her home. It was true that being a werewolf gave her greater strength and endurance, even in human form. But the twelve-hour shift she’d just finished at Scorci’s was enough to make even her bones ache. You’d think that people would have better things to do on Thanksgiving than go eat at an Italian restaurant.

Tim, the restaurant owner (who was Irish, not Italian for all that he made the best gnocchi in Chicago), let her take extra shifts—though he wouldn’t let her work more than fifty hours a week. The biggest bonus was the free meal she got each shift. Even so, she was afraid she was going to have to find a second job to cover her expenses: life as a werewolf, she had found, was as expensive financially as it was personally.

She used her keys to get into the entryway. There was nothing in her mailbox, so she got Kara’s mail and newspaper and climbed the stairs to Kara’s third-floor apartment. When she opened the door, Kara’s Siamese cat, Mouser, took one look at her, spat in disgust, and disappeared behind the couch.

For six months she’d been feeding the cat whenever her neighbor was gone—which was often, since Kara worked at a travel agency arranging tours. Mouser still hated her. From his hiding place he swore at her, as only a Siamese could do.

With a sigh, Anna tossed the mail and newspaper on the small table in the dining room and opened a can of cat food, setting it down near the water dish. She sat down at the table and closed her eyes. She was ready to go to her own apartment, one floor up, but she had to wait for the cat to eat. If she just left him there, she’d come back in the morning to a can of untouched food. Hate her he might, but Mouser wouldn’t eat unless there was someone with him—even if it was a werewolf he didn’t trust.

Usually she turned on the TV and watched whatever happened to be on, but tonight she was too tired to make the effort, so she unfolded the newspaper to see what had happened since the last time she’d picked one up a couple of months ago.