Moon Called (Mercy Thompson #1)(45)
Author: Patricia Briggs

I nodded. "All right."

"But I would have done it for friendship’s sake," he added.

Unexpectedly, Samuel laughed a little bitterly. "Of course. We all do things for our Mercy for friendship’s sake," he said.

Stefan didn’t take us through the front gates, which were large enough to drive a semi through, but led the way around the side to a small, open door in the wall.

In contrast to the undeveloped scrub outside the gates, the interior grounds were elaborate. Even in November, the grass, under the moon’s waxing light, was dark and luxurious. A few roses peeked out from protected areas near the house, and the last of the mums still had a few blooms. It was a formal French-style garden, with organized beds and meticulous grooming. Had the house been a Victorian- or Tudor-style home, it would have looked lovely. Next to a Spanish-style adobe house it just looked odd.

Grapevines, bare in their winter guise, lined the wall. In the moonlight they looked like a row of dead men, hanging arms spread wide and crucified on the frames that supported them.

I shivered and moved closer to Samuel’s warmth. He gave me an odd look, doubtless scenting my unease, but set his hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer.

We followed a cobbled path past a swimming pool, covered for the winter, around the corner of the house to a broad swath of lawn. Across the lawn there was a two-story guesthouse almost a third the size of the main house. It was to this smaller building that Stefan led us.

He knocked twice at the door, then opened and waved us into an entry hall decorated aggressively in the colors and textures of the American Southwest, complete with clay pots and kachina dolls. But even the decor was overwhelmed by the smell of mostly unfamiliar flowers and herbs rather than the scents of the desert.

I sneezed, and Samuel wrinkled his nose. Perhaps all the potpourri was designed to confuse our noses-but it was only strong, not caustic. I didn’t enjoy it, but it didn’t stop me from smelling old leather and rotting fabrics. I took a quick, unobtrusive look around, but I couldn’t see anything to account for the smell of rot; everything looked new.

"We’ll wait for her in the sitting room," Stefan said, leading the way through the soaring ceilings of a living room and into a hall.

The room he took us to was half again the size of the biggest room in my trailer. From what I’d seen of the house, though, it was cozy. We’d left behind the Southwest theme for the most part, though the colors were still warm earth tones.

The seats were comfortable, if you like soft fluffy furniture. Stefan settled into a chair with every sign of relaxation as the furniture swallowed him. I scooted toward the front edge of the love seat, which was marginally firmer, but the cushions would still slow me down a little if I had to move quickly.

Samuel sat in a chair that matched Stefan’s, but rose to his feet as soon as he started to sink. He stalked behind my love seat and looked out of the large window that dominated the room. It was the first window I’d seen in the house.

Moonlight streamed in, sending loving beams over his face. He closed his eyes and basked in it, and I could tell it was calling to him, even though the moon was not full. She didn’t speak to me, but Samuel had once described her song to me in the words of a poet. The expression of bliss on his face while he listened to her music made him beautiful.

I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

"Oh, aren’t you lovely?" said a voice; a throaty, lightly European voice that preceded a woman dressed in a high-cut, semiformal dress of gold silk that looked rather odd combined with jogging shoes and calf-high athletic socks.

Her reddish blond curls were pulled up with elegant whimsy and lots of bobby pins, revealing dangling diamond earrings that matched the elaborate necklace at her throat. There were faint lines around her eyes and mouth.

She smelled a little like Stefan, so I had to assume she was a vampire, but the lines on her face surprised me. Stefan looked scarcely twenty, and I’d somehow assumed that the undead were like the werewolves, whose cells repaired themselves and removed damage of age, disease, and experience.

The woman padded into the room and made a beeline for Samuel, who turned to regard her gravely. When she leaned against him and stood on tiptoe to lightly lick his neck, he slid a hand up around to the base of her skull and looked at Stefan.

I shifted a little farther toward the edge of my seat and twisted so I could watch them over the back of the love seat. I wasn’t too worried about Samuel-he was poised to break her neck. Maybe a human couldn’t have managed it, but he wasn’t human.

"Lilly, my Lilly fair." Stefan sighed, his voice puncturing the tension in the room. "Don’t lick the guests, darling. Bad manners."

She paused, her nose resting against Samuel. I gripped the hilt of Zee’s dagger and hoped I didn’t have to use it. Samuel could protect himself, I hoped, but he didn’t like hurting women-and Stefan’s Lilly looked very feminine.

"She said we had guests for entertainment." Lilly sounded like a petulant child who knows the promised trip to the toy store is about to be delayed.

"I’m sure she meant we had guests for you to entertain, my sweet." Stefan hadn’t moved from his chair, but his shoulders were tight, and his weight was forward.

"But he smells so good," she murmured. I thought she darted her head forward, but I must have been mistaken because Samuel didn’t move. "He’s so warm."

"He’s a werewolf, darling Lilly. You’d find him a difficult meal." Stefan got up and walked slowly around my couch. Taking one of Lilly’s hands in his, he kissed it. "Come entertain us, my lady."

He pulled her gently off Samuel and escorted her formally to an upright piano tucked into one corner of the room. He pulled out the bench and helped her settle.

"What should I play?" she asked. "I don’t want to play Mozart. He was so rude."

Stefan touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "By all means, play whatever you wish, and we will listen."

She sighed, an exaggerated sound with an accompanying shoulder droop, then, like a marionette she straightened from head to toe and placed her hands just so on the keys.

I don’t like piano music. There was only one music teacher in Aspen Creek when I grew up, and she played piano. For four years I banged out tunes for a half hour a day and hated the piano more each year. It hated me back.

It took only a few measures for me to realize I’d been wrong about the piano-at least when Lilly played it. It didn’t seem possible that all that sound came from the little upright piano and the fragile woman sitting before us.

"Liszt," whispered Samuel, stepping away from the window and sitting on the back of my seat. Then he closed his eyes and listened, just as he’d listened to the moon.