Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(112)

He grinned at me, a sudden happy expression, but before he could say anything, we were interrupted.

“Pegleg!” Ben’s shout rose from the basement. “Get your arse down here. You’re waking up and there’s a bleeding kraken after us!”

“All hands!” bellowed Captain Wolf Larsen (Adam).

“Coming, Captain!” Sherwood’s cat clung easily as Sherwood ran down the stairs.

I pulled the brownies out of the oven and set them to cool before I frosted them. As I got out the ingredients for the frosting, I heard the soft sound of a violin being played in my backyard.

I looked out the window over the sink. Night had fallen and it was darker outside than in my kitchen, so I couldn’t see very well, but I thought there were people sitting on the picnic tables in the backyard.

I went outside, shutting the door quietly behind me. As I stepped out, there was a flurry of movement and small shadows scattered away. My eyes couldn’t quite catch them, though I could hear the sound of wings and the rustling of dry grasses.

“Your people?” I asked Tilly, who, in her guise of a ten-year-old girl, was sitting on the ground, her face intent.

She nodded but kept her rapt gaze on Wulfe as if she’d never heard music before. I listened for a few more bars, searching for the title of the familiar piece, and finally found it—The Lark Ascending.

Wulfe sat on top of one of the picnic tables. He wore a white dress shirt unbuttoned too far and black dress pants rolled halfway up his calves. His legs were crossed at the ankles and he was barefoot, though there was a chill wind that made me wish that I’d stopped and grabbed a coat. Wrapped around and around his waist was the embroidered silk belt.

Sitting on the bench of the picnic table nearest to Wulfe’s concert platform was a figure shrouded in a black robe. A hood was pulled over his head and he wore what appeared to be a porcelain mask over his face. There was a small hole in the pursed lips of the mask, but the eyes were just painted on. I tried not to wonder about what his face looked like beneath the mask.

I sat next to Stefan and listened to Wulfe play. After a few minutes, Stefan stirred and tried to talk. But his voice was hoarse and slurry, as if there were something wrong with his tongue, so I only caught “owe.”

I shook my head. “We’re friends, Stefan. There’s no account keeping between friends.”

He made a sound that might have been a laugh, then he started coughing, a dry, dusty sound that made his shoulders heave as he bent down until his forehead pressed into his knees. I reached out a hand but didn’t touch because I couldn’t see how he was hurt.

Adam had told me that Marsilia had been in a bad way, but Stefan had been worse. I understood that Marsilia had already recovered thanks to heavy feeding, but Stefan would take more time. His damage had been more than physical, Marsilia had told Adam. But she hadn’t chosen to elaborate.

Wulfe came to the end of his piece and brought his violin down to rest on his lap.

“If he doesn’t try to talk, then he doesn’t have to breathe,” he said, watching Stefan.

Stefan nodded and the coughing diminished. He sat up with an effort as Wulfe slid off the table and put his violin in its case.

“You’re done?” asked Tilly, clearly disappointed.

“Yes, lady,” he said gravely.

She pouted at him, and he raised an eyebrow. “I come and go,” he told her. “You’ll hear me again.”

She watched him a moment, her mouth twisted unhappily, but finally nodded. Then she was up on her feet and running into the darkness without another word. I heard her door squeak open—it didn’t usually squeak—and the sounds of small creatures scurrying before the door clicked shut.

She hadn’t once looked at me.

“Thank you for the concert,” I said. “And for bringing Stefan here.”

Wulfe smiled at me, and it was a real smile. He walked to me and dropped to one knee, then he took my hand and kissed it.

“Bravissima,” he said. “Excellently well done, Mercedes Athena Thompson Hauptman. Well done.”

I frowned at him. “Does this mean you’ll quit stalking me?”

He laughed but did not answer, just went back to get his violin.

Stefan leaned down until his mouth was next to my ear. “Be afraid,” he whispered clearly, and almost soundlessly.

I stared into his porcelain mask and knew that he wasn’t talking about Bonarata.

Violin in one hand, Wulfe came back and picked Stefan up with careless ease.

“He should still be resting,” he told me, “but he wanted to come with me tonight.”

“I’m glad he did,” I said sincerely.

The kitchen door opened. I didn’t have to look to know that Adam was watching.

Wulfe gave me an angelic smile, then vanished.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


The following people either read this book in its various stages and helped me pound it into shape or they supplied information I needed: Sergeant Dave Allen (retired from the Pasco Police Department), Collin Briggs, Linda Campbell, Dave Carson, Katharine Carson, Michelle Kasper, Christine Masters, Ann Peters, Kaye Roberson, and Anne Sowards. I am grateful for their efforts, and anyone who reads this book should be as well.

Additionally, Zee is very appreciative of his friends Michael and Susann Bock, who keep his German correct and who understand exactly how he feels about customers.