Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(15)

“I couldn’t do that,” Sherwood admitted.

Adam nodded. “We need every wolf. If you need me to stay—and you do—you will have to defeat me in combat or my wolf won’t accept you as Alpha. And because you need me to stay, your wolf won’t let me leave, either.”

“And you couldn’t go any more than I could,” Sherwood said wryly.

Maybe, Adam had said to me as we drove to Uncle Mike’s, Sherwood will see something I don’t. Maybe he’ll see a way through this. Maybe he can bring something to the table that will change the situation.

Adam had said that Sherwood felt to him as though he was a Power on par with some of the more ancient wolves in Bran’s pack. Maybe with Bran himself.

I hoped so. I hoped that Sherwood was the greatest, most powerful warrior the werewolves had ever had. Because maybe, maybe if he was better than Adam by more than a little, Sherwood could beat Adam without killing him.

Adam was a very, very good fighter, and he did not think that he could beat the Sherwood Post he now shared a pack bond with. For the first time ever, I wished that I didn’t trust his judgment.

“If you want the pack,” Adam said, “tell me. It won’t change how hard I fight . . . but it might change some of my choices when we battle.”

Zack leaned across the table to put a hand on my arm, though I was pretty sure I hadn’t made a sound.

What had happened to my tidy life where the most dangerous thing I did was tinker with old cars?

Adam’s hand, still clasped tightly with mine, reminded me that I knew exactly what had happened to my contented, safe life. I inhaled his rich scent and thought, Worth it. Worth every bruise, every moment of terror, to be Adam Hauptman’s mate. Even if it ends tonight.

Adam was worth everything.

“What if—” Zack’s voice was almost breathless. He stopped speaking as if he were trying to put something difficult into words.

When I looked at him, he didn’t appear worried or sad or anything else I would have thought appropriate. Instead, there was something approaching awe in his face. Zack’s hand was still on my arm, but the rest of his body was twisted around so he could look Sherwood in the face.

“What if?” I asked when it didn’t appear he was going to finish.

To my surprise, Zack gave me a brilliant smile. He let go of my arm and sat back in his chair. “What if everything just remained the same?”

All three of us stared at him.

Around the question of who is Alpha, there is no room for wishes or wants. Any doubt about the ability or suitability of their Alpha makes the whole pack more dangerous—not to their enemies but to themselves and to their allies.

Warren is more dominant than Darryl, my rebel self observed. And because Warren wishes it, Darryl is still our second. But I knew that the situation wasn’t remotely the same. Darryl wasn’t an Alpha, and neither was Warren.

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” said Adam. He might have been answering my thoughts, but he was talking to Zack. Because the other wolf was a submissive and as fragile as any werewolf I’d ever known, Adam’s voice was gentle.

In response, Zack turned to stare at Sherwood.

Submissive wolves don’t generally do things like that.

I looked at Sherwood to make sure he wasn’t going to take offense. And all the little niggling things my subconscious had noticed finally came together and I saw what Zack had seen.

Sherwood was giving Zack a fond-but-exasperated look. It was a look I’d seen directed at me, but not by Sherwood.

“You’re a Cornick,” I said in shock. “I’d recognize that exasperated expression anywhere. Samuel uses it when I beat him at chess.”





3





I KNEW . . . I knew. But I waited for Sherwood’s response in case I was wrong.

Beside me, Adam quit breathing for a moment, his body tightening like a bowstring. Once I’d pointed it out, he saw it, too.

Bran Cornick, the Marrok, looked like a grad student most of the time, though he was the most powerful werewolf in North America and possibly the world. His firstborn son, Samuel, shared his hair color, but was about eight inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. Bran’s younger son, Charles, took after his Native American mother more than his father’s side of the family.

It was only when the Cornicks were together that it was apparent they were closely related. Their alikeness was subtle, the way they moved, the expressions on their faces—but it was unmistakable. Sherwood looked more like them than they looked like each other.

There were no other Cornicks that I knew of. Bran’s parents were dead. Charles and Samuel were his only surviving children. Samuel had no surviving children. I didn’t know about Charles, but he was half-Salish, and Sherwood showed no signs of having Native heritage. Besides, though Charles was a couple of centuries old, Adam had told me that he thought Sherwood was one of the really old wolves.

“You beat Samuel at chess?” asked Sherwood. I noticed that he didn’t comment about being a Cornick.

“Sometimes,” I answered. Twice was sometimes.

“A Cornick,” said Adam. Only someone who knew him very well would have heard the relief in his voice.

“Does this help?” I asked him. I thought it did, but I wasn’t sure why.