Blood Bound (12 page)

“I
know
the vampires have to hide their presence,” I told the sandbag. “I know people aren't ready to find out about all the things that hide in the darkness. I understand keeping them hidden saves us all from mass hysteria that would lead to a lot more people dying. But…that trucker—you remember, the one who was set up as the murderer—he had kids. They'll have to grow up with the idea that their father killed their mother.” I'd written down their names. Someday, when it was safe, I'd see they knew the truth.

Their pain, the murders, and every time I woke up with the memory of the smell of the poor woman's death, and the sound of Littleton's taunting laugh, all of those things were on the sorcerer's account. I wanted to be on the collection committee.

“He played with her.” I sent the bag swinging with a roundhouse, my best kick, hoping if I spoke the worst of that night, it would stay out of my dreams. “I bet she knew that he'd already killed those other people. I bet she knew he was going to kill her. He tortured her, cutting her a little at a time so that it would take her longer to die.”

“Mercy,” Adam's voice was a purr, ready to offer comfort, but I wasn't going to fall down that hole. Everything meant too much to werewolves, and too little. If I let Adam comfort me, he could, and probably would, take it as an admission that I acknowledged him as my leader—maybe as my mate. It wasn't his fault, werewolf instincts are very strong. Samuel was safer, though he was a powerful dominant, because he wasn't Alpha of a pack.

Being Alpha was more than dominant. There is magic in the bindings of a pack that gives power to their leader, he can draw on their strength and give some of it back to them. I'd seen Adam's pack heal him and give him the power to force his dominion on another group of werewolves.

Being Alpha also gives a wolf the need to protect—and control—everyone they believe falls under their command. I didn't. But Adam had declared me his mate so he disagreed with me. I couldn't afford to soften my position at all.

I backed up the length of the garage, then ran hard toward the bag. A jumping, spinning back-kick is one of those moves that my sensei said had one purpose—to intimidate. Sure, if it hit, the kick was devastating, but any martial artist who was any good wouldn't allow one to hit because flashy kicks are too slow. Usually.

I launched as hard as I could, spinning fast enough to leave me dizzy. The heel of my foot caught the bag just below the top edge, as it was supposed to. If the sandbag had been a person I'd have broken his neck. I might even have landed on my feet.

The chain that suspended the bag kept it from falling back the way a person would have, and I hadn't expected the force I generated: I landed bruisingly hard on my butt.

I lay back quickly, flat on the floor, but Adam caught the bag before it could swing back and hit me. He whistled softly as sand started sifting down from a small tear in the seam of the bag. “Nice kick.”

“Adam,” I said staring up at the ceiling, “he saved her for dessert.”

“What? Saved whom?”

“The maid. Littleton saved her like a kid hoarding his chocolate Easter bunny. He put the maid in the bathroom, out of sight, because he didn't want to kill her too soon. He was waiting for Stefan.” There were other reasons he could have stashed her in the bathroom—like he'd fed already on the other people he'd killed—but there had been something in his face when he'd brought her out that had said, “at last.”

“Was he waiting for Stefan in particular? Or for whoever Marsilia sent?” asked Adam, seeing the important part of it before I did.

I thought of how much Littleton seemed to know about Stefan, intimate things, though Stefan had never met him. But it was more than what he'd said that made me certain, it was the way he'd seemed so pleased—as if everything was happening as expected.

“For Stefan,” I said, then continued to the obvious question. “I wonder who told him Stefan was coming?”

“I'll call Warren and tell him you think someone told Littleton Stefan was coming for him,” Adam said. “Stefan will have a better idea how Littleton might have found out, and if it means he has a traitor in his camp.”

I stayed where I was while Adam got the phone off the wall and began punching buttons.

We'd spent years as adversaries, two predators sharing territory and a certain, unwelcome attraction. Somehow, during all those years I spent outwardly acquiescing to his demands while making sure I held my own, I'd won his respect. I'd had werewolves love me and hate me, but I'd never had one respect me before. Not even Samuel.

Adam respected me enough to act on my suspicions. It meant a lot.

I closed my eyes and let the flow of his voice surround me and drive away the frustration. Adam was right. I wasn't suited for going after a vampire, any vampire, and certainly not one aided by a demon. I'd just have to be satisfied when Warren or Stefan did it. If Ben killed Littleton, though…I didn't know if that would satisfy me. I hated to owe Ben any more than I already did.

Adam hung up the phone. I heard the quiet sound of his feet walking toward me on the padded floor, and the hiss as the mat gave way when he sat beside me. After a moment he untied the top of my gi and pulled it off, leaving me in my T-shirt and white gi pants. I let him do it.

“Passive isn't like you,” he said.

I growled at him, though I didn't open my eyes. “Shut up. I'm wallowing in misery, here. Have a little respect.”

He laughed and rolled me over until my face was pressed into the sweat-scented mat. His hands were warm and strong as they dug into the tense muscles of my lower back. When he dug into my shoulders, I went boneless.

At first he was all business, finding the knots left by sleepless nights and days of physically demanding work. Then his hands softened and the brisk rubs became light caresses.

“You smell like burnt oil and WD-40,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“So plug your nose,” I retorted. To my dismay, it came out with more sugar than vinegar.

I was so easy. One back rub and I was his. My susceptibility to him was the reason I'd been avoiding him. Somehow, lying on my face with his hands on my back, it didn't seem like a good enough reason.

He didn't smell of burnt oil, but of forest, wolf, and that exotic wild scent that belonged only to him. His hands slipped under my tee and spread wide over my lower back then feathered over my bra strap. I could have told him that sports bras don't have clasps, but then I'd have to take an active part in my own seduction. I wanted him to be the aggressor—a small part of me, the very small part of me that wasn't turning to jelly under his hands, wondered why.

I didn't want to delegate responsibility, I decided lazily. I was more than willing to accept responsibility for my own actions—and allowing him to slide his warm, calloused hands into my hair was certainly an action on my part. I loved a man's hands in my hair, I decided. I loved Adam's hands.

He bit the nape of my neck and I moaned.

The door between the garage and the house popped open suddenly. “Hey Dad, hey Mercy.”

Ice water couldn't have been more effective.

The hands on my butt stilled as Adam's daughter's quick steps paused. I opened my eyes and met her gaze. She'd changed her hairstyle since last time I'd seen her, going from startling to even more startling. It was no more than a half-inch long and yellow—not blond yellow, but daffodil yellow. The effect was charming, but a little bizarre. Not what a rescuer ought to look like.

Her face went blank as she realized what she'd interrupted. “I'll, uh, go upstairs and watch a show,” she said, not sounding like herself at all.

I scooted out from under Adam. “And Jesse saves the day,” I said lightly. “Thank you, that was getting out of hand.”

She paused, looking—surprised.

I wondered uncharitably how many times she'd walked in on her mother in similar situations and what her mother's response had been. I never had liked Jesse's mother and was happy to believe all sorts of evil about her. I let anger at the games her mother might have played surround me. When you've lived with werewolves, you learn tricks to hide what you're feeling from them—anger, for instance, covers up panic pretty well—and, out from under Adam's sensuous hands, I was panicking plenty.

Adam snorted. “That's one way to put it.” To my relief he'd stayed where we'd been, sinking face down into the mat.

“Even with my willpower, his lure was too great,” I said melodramatically, complete with wrist to forehead. If I made a joke of it, he'd never realize how truthful I was being.

A slow smile spread across her face and she quit looking like she was ready to bolt back into the house. “Dad's kind of a stud, all right.”

“Jesse,” warned Adam, his voice muffled only a little by the mat. She giggled.

“I have to agree,” I said in overly serious tones. “Maybe as high as a seven or eight, even.”

“Mercedes,” Adam thundered, surging to his feet.

I winked at Jesse, held my gi top over my left shoulder with one finger, and strolled casually out the back door of the garage. I didn't mean to, but when I turned to shut the door, I looked back and saw Adam's face. His expression gave me cold chills.

He wasn't angry or hurt. He looked thoughtful, as if someone had just given him the answer to a question that had been bothering him. He
knew
.

 

I was still shaking as I gingerly climbed over the barbed wire fence between Adam's land and mine.

All my life I'd blended in with those around me. It is the gift of the coyote. It's what helps us survive.

I learned early how to imitate the wolves. I played by their rules as long as they did. If they pushed it beyond reasonable limits because they thought I was less than they, being coyote rather than wolf, or because they were jealous that I did not have to heed the moon's call, then all bets were off. I played my strengths to their weaknesses. I lied with my body and eyes, licking their boots—then tormenting them in whatever way I could come up with.

Wolf etiquette had become a game to me, a game with rules I understood. I thought I was immune to the stupid dominance/submission thing, immune to the Alpha's power. I'd just had a very visceral lesson that I was not. I didn't like it. Not at all.

If Jesse hadn't come in, I would have surrendered myself to Adam, like some heroine from a 1970s series romance, the kind my foster mother used to read all the time. Ick.

I walked across my back field until I stood beside the decrepit Rabbit that served as my parts car, as well as my means of getting back at Adam when he got too dictatorial. If he looked out his back window, it sat right in the center of his field of view.

I'd pushed it out of the garage several years ago when Adam had complained about my mobile home spoiling his view. Then, every time he bothered me, I made it uglier. Right now it was missing three wheels and the rear bumper, all stored safely in my garage. Big red letters across the hood said
FOR A GOOD TIME CALL
followed by Adam's phone number. The graffiti had been Jesse's suggestion.

I dropped down in the dirt beside the Rabbit and leaned my head against the fender, trying to figure out why I'd suddenly been overwhelmed with the desire to submit to Adam. Why hadn't I felt like this before—or had that been why I'd run so hard? I tried to think back, but all I remembered was worrying about getting so involved with another werewolf.

Could he have made me submit to him on purpose? Was it physiological or parapsychological, science or magic? If I knew it was going to happen, could I resist it?

Who could I ask?

I looked at the car parked in the driveway. Samuel was home from his shift at the ER.

Samuel would know, if anyone did. I'd just have to figure out how to ask him. It was a testimony to how shaken up I was that I got to my feet and headed home with the intention of asking one werewolf, who had made it plain that he was only waiting to make his move on me, about the way another werewolf had made me desire him. I'm not usually that dumb.

I was already beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of my plans by the time I reached the front porch. I opened the door and was met by a frigid blast of air.

My old wall unit had been able to keep my bedroom about ten degrees cooler than the outside, which was all right with me. I like hot weather, but most of the wolves had trouble with it, which is why Samuel had installed the new heat pump and paid for it. A considerate roommate, he usually left the temperature where I set it.

I took a look at the thermostat and saw that Samuel had punched it down as far as it would go. It wasn't forty-two degrees inside, but it was trying. Pretty decent effort considering it was over a hundred degrees outside and my trailer had been built in 1978 before the days of manufactured homes with good insulation. I turned it to a more reasonable temperature.

“Samuel? Why'd you turn the temperature down so low?” I called, dropping my gi top on the couch.