Bone Crossed (Mercy Thompson #4)(68)
Author: Patricia Briggs

After a time, the oakman stumbled in the door in front of Blackwood. He didn’t look much better than he had when Blackwood had finished with him. The fae looked a little above four feet tall, though he’d be taller if he were standing straight. His arms and legs were oddly proportioned in subtle ways: legs short and arms overlong. His neck was too short for his broad-foreheaded, strong-jawed head.

He walked right into his cell without struggling, as if he had fought too many times and suffered defeat.

Blackwood locked him in. Then, looking at me, the vampire tossed his key in the air and snatched it back before it hit the ground. "I won’t be sending Amber down with keys anymore."

I didn’t say anything, and he laughed. "Pout all you want, Mercy. It won’t change anything."

Pout? I looked away. I’d show him pout.

He started for the door.

I swallowed my rage and managed to not let it choke me. "So how did you do it?"

Vague questions are harder to ignore than specific ones. They inspire curiosity and make your victim respond even if he wouldn’t have talked to you at all otherwise.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Catherine and John," I said. "They aren’t like normal ghosts."

He smiled, pleased I’d noticed. "I’d like to claim some sort of supernatural powers," he told me, then laughed because he found himself so funny. He wiped imaginary tears of mirth from his eyes. "But really it is their choice. Catherine is determined to somehow avenge herself upon me. She blames me for ending her reign of terror. John… John loves me. He’ll never leave me."

"Did you tell him to kill Chad?" I asked coolly, as if the answer were mere curiosity.

"Ah, now, that is the question." He shrugged. "That’s why I need you. No. He ruined my game. If he’d done as I’d told him, you’d have brought yourself here and given yourself to me to spare your friends. He made them run. It took me half the day to find them. They didn’t want to come with me – and… Well, you saw my poor Amber."

I didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to ask the next question. But I needed to know what he’d done to Amber. "What did you eat that let you make zombies?"

"Oh, she’s not a zombie," he told me. "I’ve seen zombies three centuries old that look almost as fresh as a day-old corpse. They’re passed down in their families like the treasures they are. I’m afraid I’ll have to get rid of Amber’s body in a week or so unless I put her in the freezer. But witches need knowledge as well as power – and they’re more trouble to keep than they are worth. No. This is something I learned from Carson – I trust Catherine or John told you about Carson. Interesting that one murder left him unable to do anything with his powers, when I – who you’ll have to trust when I tell you that I’ve done much, much worse than a mere larcenous homicide – had no trouble using what I took from him. Perhaps his trouble was psychosomatic, do you think?"

"You told me how you keep Catherine and John," I said. "How are you keeping Amber?"

He smiled at Chad, who was standing as far from his father as he could get. He looked fragile and scared. "She stayed to protect her son." He looked back at me. "Any more questions?"

"Not right now."

"Fine – oh, and I’ve seen to it that John won’t be coming back to visit you anytime soon. And Catherine, I think, is best kept away, too." He closed the door gently behind him. The stairs creaked under his feet as he left.

When he was gone, I said, "Oakman, do you know when the sun goes down?"

The fae, once more sprawled on the cement floor of his cage, turned his head to me. "Yes."

"Will you tell me?"

There was a long pause. "I will tell you."

Corban stumbled forward a step and swayed a little, blinking rapidly. Blackwood had released him.

He took a deep, shaky breath, then turned urgently to Chad and began signing.

"I don’t know how much Chad caught of what’s going on… too much. Too much. But ignorance might get him killed."

It took me a second to realize he was talking to me – his whole body was focused on his son. When he was finished, Chad – who still was keeping a lot of space between them – began to sign back.

While watching his son’s hands, Corban asked me, "How much do you know about vampires? Do we have any chance of getting out of here?"

"Mercy will grant me freedom this Harvest season," said the oakman hoarsely. In English this time.

"I will if I can," I told him. "But I don’t know that it’ll happen."

"The oak told me," he said, as if that should make it as real as if it had already happened. "It is not a terribly old tree, but it was very angry with the vampire, so it stretched itself. I hope it has not… doneitselfpermanentharm." His words tumbled over each other and lost consonants. He turned his head away from me and sighed wearily.

"Are oaks so trustworthy?" I asked.

"Used to be," he told me. "Once."

When he didn’t say anything more, I told Corban the most important part of what I knew about the monster who held us. "You can kill a vampire with a wooden stake through the heart, or by cutting off his head, drowning him in holy water – which is impractical unless you have a swimming pool and a priest who will bless it – direct sunlight, or fire. I’m told it’s better if you combine a couple of methods."

"What about garlic?"

I shook my head. "Nope. Though a vampire I know told me that given a victim who smells like garlic and one that doesn’t, most of them will pick the one who doesn’t. Not that we have access to garlic or wooden stakes."

"I know about the sunlight – who doesn’t? But it doesn’t seem to affect Blackwood."

I nodded toward the oakman. "Apparently he is able to steal some of the abilities of those he drinks from." No way was I going to talk about blood exchanges with Chad watching. "The oakmen like this gentleman here feed from sunlight – so Blackwood gained an immunity to the sun."

"And blood," said the oakman. "In the old days we were given blood sacrifices to keep the trees happy."

He sighed. "Feeding me blood is how he keeps me alive when this cold-iron cell would kill me."

Ninety-three years he’d been a prisoner of Blackwood’s. The thought chilled any optimism that had survived the ride here from the Tri-Cities. The oakman wasn’t mated to a werewolf, though – or bound to a vampire.

"Have you ever killed one?" the oakman asked.

I nodded. "One with help and another one who was hampered because it was daytime and he was sleeping."