Silver Borne (Mercy Thompson #5)(56)
Author: Patricia Briggs

"Yes," I said, sliding by her and stepping over someone who was lying on their side on the floor. "Don’t ask me what it means long-term; I don’t think anyone knows. Adam?"

He looked up, and I wondered if Warren should have knocked a minute off his countdown to the crash; he looked that bad.

"You should come with me. We need to call the Marrok." Invoking the Marrok’s name should make it unlikely that anyone would follow us. I ensured that by adding, "He’s not going to be happy about being left out of this. The sooner he hears, the better."

There was a twinkle in Adam’s eyes, though he kept the rest of his face stoic. "Better be in my bedroom, if I’m going to get chewed on. Give me a hand up, would you? Paul gave me a few good ones."

He held up one of his poor, sore hands, and I took it without wincing for the pain that closing his hand over mine must have given him. It was a show to reassure the pack he was as strong as ever. The twinkle left his eyes though his mouth turned up in a smile as he stood up easily, without pulling on my hand at all.

When we got to the moron who was sitting in the only path to the stairway, Adam caught my waist and lifted me over before stepping over the man himself.

"Scott?" Adam said as we headed upstairs.

"Yeah?"

"Unless someone shoots you, skins you, and throws the results on the floor, I don’t want to see you lying in the walkway again."

"Yessir!"

When we reached the top of the stairway, his hand was heavy on my shoulder, and he leaned harder on me all the way to the bedroom.

Someone – and I was betting it was Darryl – had left three huge roast beef sandwiches, a cup of hot coffee, and a glass of ice water on the table by the side of the bed. Medea was sleeping on the pillow in the middle of the bed. She looked up at us and, when I didn’t make any move to oust her, closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

"Crumbs on the sheets," muttered Adam, watching the sandwiches intently as I pushed him down on the bed.

"Bet there are clean sheets in this mausoleum somewhere," I told him. "We can find them tonight and remake the bed. Presto, no more crumbs." I took half a sandwich and held it up to his face. "Eat."

He smiled and bit my finger with a playfulness I’d have thought beyond him, as beat as he was.

"Eat," I said sternly. "Food, then sleep. Rescue – " I bit my lip. Adam was a wolf. I couldn’t talk to him about Gabriel, no matter how wrong that felt. "Food, then sleep. Everything else can wait."

But it was too late. He’d never let that word go by without a challenge. He accepted the sandwich from me, took a bite, and swallowed it. "Rescue?"

"I can’t talk about it. Talk to Jesse or Darryl."

Mercy?

His voice wrapped around my head like a bracing winter wind, fresh and sweet to my taste. Here was a way I could communicate without speech – if I could just figure out how. I stared at him intently.

Finally, he smiled. "You can’t talk about it. You promised . . . someone. I got that much. I keep a notebook in my briefcase in the closet. Why don’t you get that and spend some time writing a letter to me about whatever it is you can’t say."

I kissed his nose. "You’ve been hanging out with the fae again, haven’t you? Wolves are usually a little better about keeping the spirit as well as the letter of the law."

"Good thing you aren’t a werewolf, then." His voice was gravelly with fatigue and smoke damage.

"You really think so?" I asked. When I was growing up, I’d wanted to be a werewolf so I could really belong to the Marrok’s pack. I’d always wondered whether, if I had been a werewolf instead of a coyote, my foster father would have reconsidered his decision to follow his mate in death. But when Adam said he was glad I wasn’t a werewolf, it sounded like he meant it.

"I wouldn’t change a hair on your head," he told me. "Now, go get the notebook and write it all down before I die of curiosity."

"I will if you eat."

He obligingly took another bite, so I rummaged through his closet until I found the briefcase. He scooted over, making Medea protest until he scooped her into his lap so I could sit on the edge of the bed. While I sat beside him and wrote down everything I could think of, he finished all but half a sandwich ("Yours," he said. "Eat.") and fell asleep while I was still writing.

I finished. "Adam?"

He didn’t move, but I noticed that his hands were looking better. His pack was behind him again – for the moment at least. Or maybe it was just the way his magic chose to work this time. People who try too hard to explain how magic works end up in funny farms.

I added "Sweet Dreams" at the bottom of the last page and left the notebook beside him. I slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door. I hadn’t taken two steps before my phone rang. It was Zee.

"Get somewhere you won’t be overheard," he said.

I stepped through the open door of Jesse’s room – which was empty – shut the door, and turned on the music again. Adam was sleeping like the dead; it might last five minutes or several hours. No one else would hear anything.

"Okay."

"I know you can’t talk to me about the woman who took our Gabriel," Zee said. "So you’ll just have to hear me out."

"I’m listening."

"I have Phin’s grandmother here, and we need to talk. But no werewolves."

"Why is that?" It wasn’t about the kidnapping, so I figured it was a safe thing to say without ticking off the fairy queen.

"Because she’s scared to death of them, was nearly killed by them. She can’t even look at one without a panic attack. And you don’t want to be around this lady when she has a panic attack."

I wondered if I’d have been as sympathetic if I didn’t have my own panic attacks. "Fine. Where?"

"Good question. Your house is no more," he said. "She doesn’t live here, so she doesn’t have a place. My house is no good. She won’t go where there are so many fae."

"What about the garage?"

"In fifteen," he agreed. "Do you have anything that belongs to Gabriel?"

I opened my mouth and closed it again. How specific would the spell be? Better to play it safe. "I can’t answer that question."

"Get something."

A woman’s voice said, "Something that is his. Something he is connected to, that matters to him or that has belonged to him for a long time."

"You heard her?" Zee asked.

I didn’t say anything.

"Good."

He hung up.

I didn’t have anything like that. Gabriel was incredibly organized; he didn’t just leave stuff lying around.