Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(11)

Adam raised a brow at me, then hustled Honey and the last of the now obviously worried wolves out, following them through the door. Presumably he would reassure them—or tell them the truth. He’d do what he thought best. Zack glanced at Sherwood and me, hesitated, then trailed after Adam.

“Is Adam worried I’m unstable?” Sherwood persisted.

How to redirect an angry werewolf. I was experienced at this, having grown up in the Marrok’s pack of too-unstable-to-inflict-on-anyone-else werewolves. I just had to pick my weapon. Make him madder? Or make him think? One was certainly easier than the other, but I picked option two because it was less likely to end in disaster.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said evenly. “Why do you think I should answer yours?”

I smiled my thanks to the waiter, who’d brought a clear pitcher foggy with the condensation clinging to its cold sides and set it down in front of me. The waiter smiled back, displaying sharp yellow teeth as he cleared away my empty limeade glasses. He stayed as far away from Sherwood as he could.

“It is not like you to play games,” Sherwood said, after the waiter had left us via the door leading directly to the kitchen.

“Adam asked that I not start any serious discussion until we were alone,” I answered, pouring myself some water. And in case he didn’t know which question I was talking about, I continued, “I shouldn’t have asked about Shakespeare, but I couldn’t help myself. That betting pool has taken on a life of its own.”

He looked at me a moment. Then he heaved a sigh and said, “No, I’m not Shakespeare.”

“No,” I replied to his previous question. “We don’t think you need Zack to keep your temper under control.”

“Then why do you need him?” he asked.

“Because having a submissive wolf in the room makes conversations between two dominant wolves easier,” said my mate, striding through the doorway with Zack trailing behind him.

Adam offered the empty chair Ben had used to Zack in a way that reminded me, as Adam’s manners sometimes did, that he was a product of another time. There was something protective and gallant in the old-fashioned action. It didn’t have the air of a man pulling a chair out for a lady, but it wasn’t far off.

Once Zack was seated beside Sherwood, Adam brought another chair over to sit beside me. He was close enough that his leg pressed against mine. In no way, shape, or form did his touch make me safer, but I felt like it did.

A movement by the exit door caught my attention as Uncle Mike looked in.

Uncle Mike gave Adam a somewhat ironic salute and slanted an unreadable look at Sherwood—or maybe Zack, it was hard to tell. To me he gave his usual wide grin, his “I’m just a friendly innkeeper, darlin’?” smile that I found significantly less reassuring than I had before I knew him well. My ongoing wariness seemed to amuse him, though, so I’d learned to not let it show.

Uncle Mike touched a controller I’d assumed were lights, but instead the music stopped. He stepped back into the corridor and made a gesture, meeting my eyes meaningfully before he moved out of sight behind the closing door. There was a funny sort of pop as the door shut, something that my ears didn’t quite hear but I knew was magic.

Sherwood’s eyebrow climbed.

“I asked Uncle Mike for a bit of privacy,” Adam said, and I realized that I hadn’t needed to say anything to our waiter. No one would disturb us—and no one would overhear us, either.

I wondered if that magically enhanced privacy was the reason for Uncle Mike’s look. Maybe. Probably.

But Uncle Mike was old. And I was pretty sure that he knew who Sherwood was—or had been. That look . . . had he glanced at Sherwood first and then me? I couldn’t remember.

“What do you want to do?” Sherwood asked bluntly, drawing my gaze back from the closed door.

He looked a little . . . more real than I was used to. I blinked and the impression faded, leaving me not quite sure what I’d seen.

Probably it was my subconscious acknowledging that he was more than he had been, I decided. Possibly the impression had been aided a little by the intensity that the two dominant werewolves at this table couldn’t help but generate. I wasn’t Adam, to read the fine points in our pack bonds, but I could feel the magic warn that trouble was imminent if something didn’t give.

I hadn’t heard the invitation, but Adam had told me he would ask Sherwood to our table, as a guest. For the majority of werewolves it wouldn’t have had any effect. They aren’t fae, who observe guesting laws by necessity. But Adam was sure that Sherwood was old, maybe old enough that guesting laws would mean something. Conditioning wasn’t magic, but it tended to linger.

The little table, designed for two, made a fragile barrier between Adam and Sherwood. I wondered if I should shove the table over a foot—Zack and I didn’t need a barrier between us.

Instead of directly answering Sherwood’s question, Adam poured himself a glass of water. He was being careful to keep his gaze away from Sherwood’s face, except for brief, sweeping glances. Sherwood, I noticed, was doing the same.

Adam took a drink and, with the formal politeness of a dowager duchess in a Jane Austen movie, said, “I don’t know what they do to this, but it might be the best water I’ve ever tasted.”

We all knew that it was an invitation to Sherwood to accept the hospitality of the table. What he did in response would set the tone of the negotiations.