Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(111)

I don’t know if anyone else thought the movie was scary, but I spent a great deal of it with my face pressed against Adam’s shoulder. Adam seemed to spend a lot of the movie trying not to laugh and saying things like “That’s not what arterial spurting looks like” and “Heads don’t roll like that. They aren’t round, they’re rounded.” But he said them quietly, so we only got a few odd looks.

People knew who he was, of course, so we got some of those looks, too. But mostly Tri-Citians were respectful of our privacy. As long as there weren’t scary monsters mucking about (werewolves were respectable monsters), people mostly left us alone.

After the movie was done, the writer came out. He looked nervous, proud, and nervous again by turns—but was a pretty interesting speaker. I had not expected that, considering the lines in the movie. He talked for about fifteen minutes and then took questions. The fourth question was about the two bodies found earlier this week in what looked like a copycat crime.

Adam had anticipated that question.

He stood up and introduced himself for the benefit of anyone who didn’t know who he was. Then, with permission from the writer, he told the story of the Soul Taker. He didn’t tell them everything—all the people in this room thought they knew what the Soul Taker was from the movie they had just watched—and if it had been scarier than that, they didn’t need to know it. He touched on the killings of four decades ago and then credited an unknown evildoer with releasing the sickle into the wild because of the movie.

By the time he was finished, there was a hush in the room, and several local reporters Adam had called earlier today asked a few good questions.

We left eventually.

“Well,” I said, “between your storytelling and Zee’s storytelling, our wolves are once again the heroes of the TriCities and Bonarata is going to be rolling in the grave he should be in.”

Adam snorted. Then he said, “I feel bad for that writer. I took away his moment of glory.”

“Don’t feel too bad,” I said. “You just made his movie into a cult classic.”



* * *



—

The following Friday found me baking brownies for the gamers in the basement. Because there were no extra wolves living with us, I had all the ingredients I needed.

The pack’s ongoing pirate LAN game was open to anyone in the pack who wanted to play. But a couple of weeks ago a spin-off adventure in the Dread Pirate franchise had been released, this one designed to be played Dungeons & Dragons style. Which meant that players had to go in as a team and survive till the end. It was intended for four to eight pirates, and tonight the diehards had gathered for a game-until-we-drop that was expected to run at least until dawn.

Adam, Mary Jo, Ben, Warren, and Darryl had volunteered to test the waters. I wasn’t playing because the part of the game I really liked was killing my fellow pirates, not amassing imaginary treasure.

This afternoon, Sherwood had called me to say he was joining in. I didn’t get to ask him any questions, because he said what he had to say and hung up.

Sherwood had showed up tonight, his one-eyed, half-grown kitten riding on his shoulder like a prince of India riding on an elephant. He hadn’t said anything to me, just waved and headed rapidly downstairs, where the rest of the pirate crew were already gathered.

I put the brownies in the oven and licked the spoon. They’d been at it for about three hours. Jesse had watched for a while, but Tad and Izzy had come over. They’d set up in the big meeting room to use the projector system to play YouTube math videos. Calculus 101, I was informed, was a flunk-out course, and they were all planning on acing it.

The stairs creaked, and I looked over to see Sherwood carrying dishes.

“I’ve been knocked overboard and retrieved unconscious,” he reported. “We’ll find out in ten minutes of gameplay whether or not I survive.”

Sherwood’s eyes looked happy, I thought, as he reached up to scratch Pirate—the cat—under his chin. He flexed his white mittened feet into Sherwood’s shirt and purred.

“Experiment a success?” I asked as Sherwood moved away to put the dishes in the sink.

He looked at me.

“No urges to kill Adam and become Alpha in his place?” I clarified.

He smiled. “None,” he said, then sobered. “I still don’t remember how to tone down how dominant I am when I want to. Which means that Darryl and Warren and I might have to dust up a bit to put everything in order. But not now—because my wolf understands that a dustup might hurt the pack’s ability to defend our territory, and we are at war.” He shook his head. “Wolf logic for you. But yes, Adam and I are all right. And Warren and Darryl and I can engage in mock battle without anyone getting riled.”

“Because?” I asked.

“Because the pair of you together make a better Alpha than I would,” said Sherwood.

I frowned. “That’s not how being Alpha works.”

“Not usually, I grant you,” said Sherwood. “But the way the magic of this pack works, you two are one.” He smiled, a sharp expression. “Coyote’s daughter brings something to the mix. I felt it that night—when Adam was fighting off the Soul Taker.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “We know that you were the Great Beast of Northumberland. Were any of the other guesses right in the betting pool?”