Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(14)

Sherwood scowled at the corner of the room. “You didn’t bring me here to discuss the possible outcome of the Gray Lords’ politicking.”

“I think that might be the heart of the matter,” Adam said, soft-voiced. “The Gray Lords’ politicking leaves us operating on the edge of what we can do, with failure not an option if our pack is to survive.”

He allowed Sherwood to think about that for a minute. The other wolf shrugged, managing to convey sympathy rather than indifference.

“Because our pack is standing between those who live in our territory and those who would harm them, held there by honor and by a bargain with the fae, my actions are limited,” Adam said. “And I think that yours are, too.”

“I don’t want this to happen,” Sherwood said. “But avoidance has obviously gotten me nowhere.” He waved a hand to indicate the discussion we were having. “You are a good Alpha, but I am not going to die tonight.”

A pack could not have two Alpha wolves. One of them would have to submit to the other, or die.

“There are the usual choices,” said Adam.

None of them would work, I thought bleakly. Adam had already been through them with me.

When Adam didn’t continue, Sherwood turned one palm up in invitation. Despite the tension of the situation, I found my attention drawn inexplicably to him again.

Sherwood took up space, physically as well as metaphysically. The only one in our pack bigger than Sherwood was Darryl. Unlike Darryl, Sherwood wasn’t handsome, but there was something about the structure of his face that inspired trust. It was, I suddenly realized, the face of someone people would follow off a cliff, a Rasputin, maybe.

Or a Bran.

A cold chill traveled down my spine as my subconscious stirred.

“You can leave,” Adam said neutrally, and his words brought my attention back to the matter at hand with a jerk.

Here we go. I offered up a prayer, and helpless to stop myself, I put a hand on Adam’s thigh. Hopefully, he wouldn’t find it distracting, but I needed to touch him.

“Is that what you want me to do?” Sherwood asked, but not as if he were seriously considering it. There was a subtle challenge in his tone that made the room harder to breathe in.

To someone who had not understood what Adam had spent the last quarter of an hour saying, Sherwood’s leaving would be an easy solution.

Adam met his gaze and held it this time. The possibility of violence sharpened, the smell of it like ozone in the air before a lightning strike.

“No,” Adam said into that waiting maelstrom. “You were a gift from the Marrok to my pack. I don’t throw away gifts.”

Sherwood gave a sudden, fierce smile that changed the waiting violence, gave it pause, as he said, “A gift from Bran Cornick and you didn’t run? Maybe I was intended as punishment.”

I hadn’t ever seen quite that expression on Sherwood’s face, but I’d seen it somewhere.

It was gone in a moment, but his hazel eyes were still crinkled at the corners as he continued softly, “Or maybe this whole situation was intended to be punishment for me instead.”

Adam gave him a wry smile in return. “I am absolutely sure that all three could be true at once. This is Bran Cornick at work. He is good at that kind of planning.” After a second, he added, “Or taking credit for planning when the whole situation is a total accident.”

Sherwood gave a crack of laughter and quaffed the water in his glass with the flair of a pirate downing a mug of ale, complete with slamming the empty glass on the table. He did not break either glass or table, though it was a near thing.

“If Bran planned this,” I said grimly, “I’m going to make sure he regrets it.”

Sherwood gave me a sardonic look. “This is beyond raw eggs and peanut-buttered seats.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It is.”

“You know I can’t let you leave,” Adam said. “We are just barely managing our part of the balance the fae have constructed here. If the pack fails, the whole house of cards falls down and this chance of peace will be gone. The pack cannot afford for you to leave.”

“Let.” Sherwood showed his teeth.

It was Adam’s turn to shrug. “Leaving is a choice you might have. If you wanted to leave, I would fight to keep you—for the good of our pack.” His eyes flashed yellow. “The wolf requires it of me because you might be the key to the pack’s survival. I—my wolf would fight to the death to keep you.”

The words rang in the air, and Adam let them hang for a moment. The pause wasn’t on purpose. He was fighting his wolf to form words. Adam’s control was very good, but the wolf he carried—even not considering Elizaveta’s parting gift—was uncommonly wild.

I squeezed his leg. He put his hand on mine. When I turned my palm up, he gripped my hand so tightly it verged on pain.

Sherwood spoke, soft-voiced, into the silence. “For those very same reasons, I could not leave.”

Adam nodded. I knew that he had not really expected Sherwood to be able to leave. If he had been able to leave his pack when it was in trouble, he would not be the level of dominant that could challenge Adam.

“If my wolf could be persuaded that the best thing for the pack was for me to leave . . .” Adam’s voice was deeper, even though his eyes were almost entirely human.