Bone Crossed (Mercy Thompson #4)(25)
Author: Patricia Briggs

I wasn’t worried. The vampires, except Stefan, wouldn’t have been able to cross the threshold of my home. Most anyone else would have woken Samuel.

The air told me nothing, which was odd – even Stefan had a scent. Restlessly, I rolled onto my side and right up against the walking stick, which had taken to sleeping with me every night. Mostly it gave me the creeps when it did that – walking sticks shouldn’t be able to move about on their own. But tonight the warm wood under my hand felt reassuring. I closed my hand around it.

"There’s no need for violence, Mercy."

I must have jumped because I was on my feet, stick in hand, before it registered just whose voice I was hearing.

"Bran?"

And suddenly I could smell him, mint and musk that told me werewolf combined with the certain sweet saltiness that was his own scent.

"Don’t you have something more important to do?" I asked him, flipping on the light. "Like ruling the world or something?"

He didn’t move from his spot on the floor, leaning against a wall, except to put his forearm over his eyes as light flooded the room. "I came here last weekend," he said. "But you were asleep, and I didn’t let them wake you up."

I’d forgotten. In the hubbub of Baba Yaga, Mary Jo, the snow elf, and the vampires, I’d forgotten why he would have come to visit me personally. Suddenly I was suspicious of the arm he’d thrown over his eyes.

That Alphas are protective of their packs is an understatement – and Bran was the Marrok, the most Alpha wolf around. I might belong to Adam’s pack just now, but Bran had raised me.

"I already talked it all over with Mom," I said defensively.

And Bran grinned hugely, his arm coming down to reveal hazel eyes, which looked almost green in the artificial light. "I bet you did. Are my Samuel and your Adam hovering over you and giving you a bad time?" His voice was full of (false) sympathy.

Bran is better than anyone I know, including the fae, at hiding what he is. He looked like a teenager – there was a rip in his jeans, just over the knee, and some ironic person had used a marker to draw an anarchy symbol just over his thigh. His hair was ruffled. He was perfectly capable of sitting around with an innocent smile on his face – and then ripping someone’s head off.

"You’re frowning at me," he said. "Is it such a puzzle that I’m here?"

I dropped to the middle of the floor. It is uncomfortable for me to be in the same room for very long with Bran if my head is higher than his. Part of it is habit, and part of it is the magic that makes Bran the leader of all the wolves.

"Did someone call you about Adam bringing me into the pack?" I asked.

This time Bran laughed, his shoulders shaking, and I saw how tired he was.

"I’m glad I amuse you," I told him grumpily.

Behind me the door opened, and Samuel said cheerily, "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"

How cool was that? In one sentence, one word actually (party), Samuel told his father that we weren’t going to talk about Tim or why I’d killed him, and that I was going to be okay. Samuel was good at things like that.

"Come in," I said. "How’s Mary Jo?"

Samuel sighed. "Da, let me tell you now. If I am dead, and a fae offers to heal me – I’d prefer you tell her no." He looked at me. "I think she’ll be fine, eventually. But she’s not very happy right now. She’s dazed and shocky to an extent I’ve never seen before in a wolf. At least she’s not crying anymore. Adam finally forced her change, and that helped a lot. She’s sleeping with Paul, Alec, Honey, and few others on the monstrosity of a couch Adam keeps in the TV room in the basement."

He gave his father a keen-eyed look, then sat on the floor beside me – and that was a message, too. He wasn’t between Bran and me, not precisely. But he could have sat beside Bran. "So what brings you here?"

Bran smiled at him, having seen the message Samuel wanted him to. "You don’t have to protect her from me," he said softly. "We’ve all seen she does a pretty good job of protecting herself."

With the wolves, there is always a lot more going on in a conversation than just the words. For instance, Bran had just told us that he’d seen the video, from the security camera, of me killing Tim… and of everything else, too. And that he’d approved of my actions.

It shouldn’t have pleased me so much; I was no child. But Bran’s opinion still meant a lot.

"And yes," he told me after a moment, "someone called me about Adam bringing you into the pack. Lots of someones. Let me tell you the answers to the questions I’ve been asked, and you can pass them on to

Adam. No. I had no idea it was possible to bring someone who was not a werewolf into the pack.

Especially you, upon whom magic can be unpredictable. No. Once done, only Adam or you can break those ties. If you want me to show you how, I will." He paused.

I shook my head… and then tempered it. "Not yet."

Bran gave me an amused look under his eyebrows. "Fine. Just ask. And no, I’m not mad. Adam is Alpha of his pack. I do not see how anyone has been harmed by this." Then he grinned, one of the rare smiles he had when he wasn’t acting, just genuinely amused. "Except maybe Adam. At least he doesn’t have a Porsche you can wrap around a tree."

"That was a long time ago," I said hotly. "I paid for that. And after you practically dared me to steal it, I don’t see why you were so angry about it."

"Telling you not to take it out wasn’t daring you, Mercy," Bran said patiently… but there was something in his voice.

Was he lying?

"Yes, it was," said Samuel. "And she’s right – you knew it."

"So you didn’t have any reason to be so mad I wrecked the car," I said, triumphantly.

Samuel laughed out loud. "You still haven’t figured it out, have you, Mercy? He never was mad about the car. He was the first one at the scene of the accident. He thought you’d killed yourself. We all did. That was a pretty spectacular wreck."

I started to say something and found I couldn’t. The first thing I’d seen after hitting the tree was the Marrok’s snarling face. I’d never seen him that angry – and I’d done a lot, from time to time, to inspire his rage.

Samuel patted me on the back. "It’s not often I see you absolutely speechless."

"So you had Charles teach me how to fix cars and how to drive them." Charles was Bran’s oldest son.

He hated to drive, and until that summer I’d thought he couldn’t drive. I should have known better – Charles can do anything. And everything he did, he did very well. That’s only one of the reasons that Charles intimidates me and everyone else.