Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(103)

I tapped my hand twice on my thigh, giving Adam warning. When the Harvester appeared at Bonarata’s side, teleporting in, Adam had already let the bō slide into both of his hands, ready for action.

Wulfe had fed again since Warren, I thought. The iris of his left eye was white, still in the process of regeneration, but his right eye was clear. He could see. That would change things a little, hopefully in our favor. I wondered that Bonarata had allowed it, then realized it was the Soul Taker that understood Wulfe’s ability to see made him more difficult to keep in thrall.

“This one,” Bonarata said, indicating the Harvester, “belongs to Marsilia.” His words rang with a power that seemed to take him by surprise.

I had done that a few times. Said things in the heat of the moment, and it was like the universe listened. That was how our pack ended up in charge of a supernatural neutral zone.

I could see from Bonarata’s face that he hadn’t meant his statement to be real. But there had been truth in his voice, and something—fate or the universe or magic itself—had decided to take the man at his word.

A binding between Bonarata and Wulfe broke. I saw the Harvester’s robes sway.

Wulfe had always been a spy in Marsilia’s camp, Bonarata’s unwilling servant. If Wulfe and Adam and I survived this night, I’d be pretty interested to see what this changed.

Adam stepped forward, disrupting the moment. “This is my territory,” he said—and there was a bit of unintentional magic in his voice, too.

Maybe he should have waited another minute, because our territory had just expanded again.

There was something in the air tonight, I thought. Then my eyes found the battered sickle in Wulfe’s hand. I knew how dense the collection of souls the Soul Taker had amassed was. Something like that could leave a magical charge just by being in the vicinity.

I put my hand on the girdle—not on purpose, just reflex, to make sure it was still there—and it was warm, a few degrees warmer than my body. It took me by surprise. I had not thought the belt to be anything but an antique. Not only was it warm, but I could feel a few bits of sparking magic caressing my skin.

The Harvester—Wulfe—turned his face toward me, and I saw the exact moment he noticed what I was wearing.

The girdle’s magic had distracted me. Adam and Bonarata had exchanged a few words, but Adam’s growl brought my attention back to them.

“The Harvester may not hunt in my territory,” Adam said.

Bonarata stepped back and waved a gracious hand. “By all means, Alpha. I have told you he is not mine.” His voice had a snap to it I didn’t think he intended because the last two words were nearly a purr. “Stop him.”

Adam didn’t run precisely, though he moved with speed. Wulfe looked at the girdle I wore for half a breath longer before turning to engage with Adam.

I moved to the side so I could watch the fight and keep an eye on Bonarata at the same time. Adam and I had a backup plan if Bonarata threw in—but Adam didn’t think he would. If he attacked Adam in our territory when he was a guest, he would lose face—and provide an opportunity for Bran to claim the attack was an act of war. Our pack might be officially separated from the Marrok, but Bran claimed all of North America. He could legitimately recognize any unprovoked aggression on Bonarata’s part. More to the point, Bonarata knew that Bran would do so.

Adam didn’t think Bonarata would risk a full-scale war with the North American werewolves. Of course, for Bran to act, there had to be witnesses.

I touched the belt again, just to make sure that I hadn’t been imagining things. But it felt entirely normal now. Maybe I had just imagined it.

Like the sickle, the bō had started out as an agricultural tool. It was, essentially, a good, stout stick. Adam used the metal bands on the ends of his stick to protect the wood from edged weapons.

Even though Wulfe was taller by several inches, the bō gave Adam the advantage of reach, letting him stay well out of range of the Soul Taker. Wulfe wasn’t giving Adam any opportunities to break bones. The only reason I’d been able to do that was because Wulfe hadn’t expected me to snatch the walking stick out of the air.

The fight was a near stalemate, an exhibition in martial arts done at supernatural speed. Adam had told me that, having seen Wulfe fight a time or two, this part of the dance might last as much as five minutes.

As long as neither of them made a mistake.

A gun might have been the best choice of weapon—and we had discussed that, too. I had my concealed carry tucked in my waistband, though Adam had left his in the SUV. Adam wasn’t sure that he could kill a vampire as old as Wulfe with a gun, and we didn’t want to do that anyway. Our goal was to separate Wulfe from the Soul Taker. Marsilia needed him in the same way that we needed Sherwood.

I’d thought Wulfe had been holding back when we fought, and I’d been right. Someone who didn’t understand what was going on might think that they were deliberately not hitting each other. But that wasn’t true. They were predicting each other’s moves and getting out of the way. I could do that, a little. I could do it better when fighting with people I’d trained with for months or years. Adam and I could put on a pretty good show. But nothing like this.

There weren’t any giant leaps—once a fighter’s feet left the ground, his trajectory couldn’t change until he hit something. That made him an easy target. Those kinds of flashy moves were for demonstrations, or for fighting someone you held a considerable advantage over.