Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(59)

He had learned to control that monster, when other soldiers had given in to theirs. He’d killed some of those people—the man who hunted Vietnamese children after his platoon had been blown to bits by a shoeshine boy. The colonel who collected fingers. Adam didn’t even remember most of them, because their deaths had not bothered him and the graveyard in his soul was full to overflowing with the dead he did regret.

When Adam had first been bitten, controlling his wolf spirit had not been very difficult for him. He’d been staying on top of a far worse monster for a few years by then. His time in Vietnam had ended. He hadn’t needed the older, more primal beast, so he stuffed it in a cage and forgot about it until Elizaveta had freed it once more.

Adam was pretty sure it was here to stay this time. For a moment he flashed back to a night in Mercy’s garage when the beast had taken him by surprise and broken free.

Belief, he reminded himself fiercely, was important. He could control his monsters, both of them. And he’d use them to protect his pack, his territory. His mate.

“It is a bad sign when you growl, ja?” asked Zee.

“He’s good,” George said. “Hard to leave that little coyote when she’s having a bad time of it. Not like Mercy to stay behind when we go look at bodies. Maybe there’s a ghoul just waiting for us to leave her alone.” George was behind him, but Adam could hear the baiting grin in his voice. “He’s got to think like that. Tough to be the Alpha.” George thought Adam could control his monsters, too.

“Not helpful,” Adam told him, knowing George would hear the grateful lie in his voice. Having George voice his confidence was helpful.

“Not accurate,” said Tony firmly. “She’s armed. She’s dangerous. And she is sitting in the parking lot of the criminal justice center, not in an ancient graveyard in the middle of Transylvania.”

Which had been, more or less, the thought that had allowed Adam to leave her when she’d requested it of him.

Adam held the office’s door open and waited for the others to go in. George gave him a sympathetic glance as he passed by. George was a reliable wolf; he did as he was asked, made good decisions on his own, and took care of the people around him as best he could. He generally thought a lot more than he talked—which was a good thing for a policeman and a werewolf.

Tony Montenegro . . . Mercy had acquired Tony before Adam had met her. He was quick-witted, adaptable, and—although Adam had never seen him in action—moved like someone who had been in a lot of fights.

Tony’d been an undercover agent. According to Adam’s contacts, Tony had been in deep cover a few times, though not in the TriCities. He’d helped to bring down drug traders and a couple of rings of human traffickers. Adam rather thought that Tony probably had his own version of Adam’s beast. If so, he carried it well.

Tony was the ideal person to be their liaison with the KPD because Tony knew when to lie and he did it well enough that not even his fellow police officers knew when he was doing it. It was hard to find a liar with personal integrity.

Last to enter was Zee.

That story about the skull cups with jeweled eyes had not surprised Adam. Some of the Gray Lords in the local reservation had been considered gods—and they still walked softly around Zee. The only one who didn’t, Uncle Mike, was, in Adam’s judgment, the kind of person who ran toward danger rather than away.

Mercy treated Zee like a grumpy old mechanic, and that’s who he had become. Belief like that was important when dealing with magic. The longer Zee wore his glamour, his disguise, and the more people believed in that version of the Smith, the more the disguise became real.

Belief was important.

Adam’s wolf approved of Zee because he made their mate safer. Adam took great care to treat Zee the same way Mercy did, tried very hard to look at the stringy muscles and thinning hair and see only a tough old man. But he never forgot how dangerous the old iron-kissed fae was.

The interior of the coroner’s office was decorated in government cheap and long-wearing. It smelled like death. While a feral part of Adam came to alertness, the coroner, an Indian man in his early fifties, greeted George and Tony like old friends.

“Rahul, Tony and I’ve brought a couple of extra people,” George explained. “This is Zee Adelbertsmiter. Zee, Rahul Amin. We’re here to look at Aubrey Worth and Sarina, last name unknown.”

Amin gave the old man in the greasy mechanic’s overalls a professional smile. He did a pretty good job of professionalism when Adam was introduced, too, making an effort to treat Adam as he would any other visitor. He almost succeeded.

Adam had grown used to being a local celebrity, and he enjoyed the more recent addition of hero status because it meant fewer people were outright afraid of him. Like Mercy’s sword—her late sword—the locals viewed him as protection for them and not a dangerous weapon that could backfire. That attitude made everyone a little more safe.

“Dimitri, our specialist, won’t be here until tomorrow,” the coroner said as he led them through the door into the morgue proper. “So I have to ask you not to touch the bodies.”

“Of course,” Adam said.

The morgue was dominated by the large refrigeration unit on the wall opposite the door they entered by. The floors and walls were covered with materials chosen for easy cleaning. It could have been the kitchen of a high-end restaurant except for the smells. The whole room had a meat locker scent—fresh meat, old meat, old blood and new. Food.