Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(19)

I wondered if she was wearing the veil to hide her eyes or to protect us from her gaze. I was (mostly) immune to vampire magics, but Adam and Zack were not. I didn’t know about Sherwood. Marsilia had captured Samuel with her gaze once, so I didn’t assume Sherwood was safe.

Marsilia took a step closer to us, the smoke following her like a black wedding train. “There has been peace between us,” she said.

“Yes,” Adam agreed, his stance changing a little, Alpha werewolf speaking to the Mistress of the seethe.

“We have come together to keep this territory safe from other predators,” she said.

“Yes,” Adam agreed.

Supernatural beings in confrontational, or semi-confrontational, interactions tended to restate the obvious. I thought it was to make everything absolutely clear so that if death resulted, it would not be by misunderstanding.

“All know my Wulfe has been oft at your door of late,” she said. The archaic wording was unusual. Marsilia, like my friend Stefan (who was also an old Italian vampire), had mostly kept her Italian accent, but otherwise she spoke colloquial American English.

“He’s been stalking me, yes,” I agreed dryly.

“And now he is gone,” she said. “Others say that he is dead and your pack at fault. Adam Hauptman, if you would keep our alliance, you will find my Wulfe, prove he is not dead.” She might have invoked Adam’s name, but the hairs on the back of my neck were certain that she was still looking at me, no matter how much that veil hid.

“Wulfe’s a vampire,” said Sherwood, speaking for the first time. “He’s already dead.”

Sherwood distracted her from me. She looked at him, tipping her head sideways in a motion more wolf than vampire. I wasn’t sure how to read that. Maybe without the subtle disguise Bran had given Sherwood, she, too, recognized him.

But it was a brief pause. She looked squarely at Adam, and he tensed under her regard, even though her veil was now almost opaque.

I gripped Adam’s wrist, leaving my gun in my left hand. I could shoot left-handed, though not as well as with my right or in a proper two-handed grip. Sometimes I could extend my limited immunity to vampire magic to someone by touching them. And keeping Adam free of Marsilia’s influence was more important than whether or not I could hit the side of a barn.

Adam growled, a low rumbling in his chest. He twisted his hand until it closed over mine, so we stood hand in hand.

Marsilia didn’t seem to notice.

“If you do not find Wulfe, all will know what happened to him,” she said, sounding suddenly tired. Her next words were rushed, a little more like her usual self, though the word choice was still off. “All will know that you prey upon your allies. Upon those who count upon your support. There will be war between your pack and the vampires.”

She disappeared, smoke and all, with the suddenness that I was more used to from her. Almost in the same breath, Uncle Mike opened the door, taking three quick steps into the room with the attitude of a sheepdog scenting wolves. I thought I caught a glimpse of a blade in his right hand, but his body blocked my line of sight. When he turned to us, there was no sword in sight except for the cutlass hanging from my belt.

“My apologies, Adam,” Uncle Mike said. “I’d not have thought any enemy could have trespassed my wards here in the heart of my home.”

“Marsilia isn’t our enemy,” said Adam in a thoughtful voice, holstering his gun. “Not yet, anyway.”



* * *



—

When we exited the building, I heard Uncle Mike turn the lock. The big new sign had been turned off, along with the rest of the building’s exterior lights. There was a staff lot on the other side of the building, so our vehicles were the only ones left in the main parking lot. I checked my phone—and yes, it was that late.

We didn’t discuss Marsilia’s visit. We were on Uncle Mike’s ground; whatever we said would probably be overheard. Adam hadn’t told Uncle Mike much about Marsilia’s visit—just that she had brought us a message. If that message turned out to have larger implications, Adam would share it with Uncle Mike.

Uncle Mike hadn’t pushed the issue.

Sherwood was parked near the entrance. The parking lot had been mostly full when Adam and I had arrived, so we were parked near the back of the lot, the black SUV blending in with the shadows where the parking lot lights didn’t extend. A maroon Subaru Outback was parked near us, presumably Warren’s new car.

We were almost to the SUV when Sherwood, who’d stopped by his car, said, “Adam.”

We—Adam, Zack, and I—turned to look at him.

Sherwood stood with one big hand on the top of his car and the other on the open door. He was not looking at us, his gaze turned back toward Uncle Mike’s.

“I know who and what I was,” he said heavily. “But there are a lot of holes in my memory. Zack is correct that for the better part of two years, six hundred years ago in Northumberland, I ran as second in a pack with an Alpha who was not as strong as Warren is. But I do not remember why it was necessary or how I did it.”

A train rolled by on tracks that were less than a half mile away.

“It can be done,” Adam said. “Are you willing to try?”

“It can be done,” Sherwood agreed. He gave Adam a half smile. “I don’t want to fight you for the pack. I am not convinced I would win—but I think that we would damage each other and our fight would damage the pack. I will see what I can do. But in the meantime, you should help me keep clear of Darryl and Warren—because the pack sense is that I am the fourth male in the pack.”