Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson 13)

A warning light flashed on.

“You are low on washer fluid,” I told him.

A message came on the car’s tablet-sized screen that said we were low on washer fluid. A moment later a red alert light came on the dash, and when I toggled it, it told me we were low on washer fluid. Warren’s phone chimed and he didn’t even look at it.

“It goes through a lot of washer fluid,” he said. “Gets the windshield real clean.”

I bit my lip and tried not to laugh.

“I’ll have an email about the washer fluid, with an explanation on how to fill it up. And a number for the dealership if I’m too stupid to follow their step-by-step instructions and want a mechanic to fill my washer fluid.” He paused. “Kyle will get the text and email, too.”

I rubbed my face and the car dinged and told me to keep my hands on the steering wheel.

“He don’t say anythin’,” Warren said. “He just buys washer fluid and sets the bottles on my side of the garage.”

“It’s not supposed to turn all of its helpful technology back on,” I offered. “I could try to troubleshoot it, but most of these kinds of programs are proprietary. Probably easier to take it in.”

“It doesn’t do it if I’m not in the car,” he said.

I looked at him. I forgot for a moment that I was supposed to be careful not to look people in the eyes—but nothing happened when I met his gaze. I stared some more, just to be sure. That ability had evidently disappeared when the Soul Taker was destroyed.

The car told both of us to Stay Alert!!!

“Can you trade it in for something a little older?” I asked.

“Kyle gave me this car,” he said carefully.

“I know that.”

“Kyle grew up in a shitty home that taught him a lot of stupid things. Most of them he’s shed like a snake sheds its skin. But the one thing that he’s held on to is that he tells me he loves me with gifts.”

I could see that.

“He don’t want gifts in return,” Warren said. “It ain’t transactional.”

“Okay,” I said.

“But if he can’t give me somethin’, it hurts him. Took me a long time to figure that out. He’s been trying to get me a car for two years and finally talked me into letting him do it. I told him to pick out anything—but it had to be something that wouldn’t stand out, because that was the pretext he was using to buy me a car.”

“And you think he won’t understand about the dinging,” I said.

“It don’t do it if he’s in the car.”

“What?” I said.

“It don’t do it if he’s in the car.”

“I heard you the first time,” I told him. He grunted.

“I won’t hurt that man,” he said in a soft voice. “He only just survived his family. He don’t let no one in as far as I am in. I won’t hurt him by trading this car in.”

“I see,” I said. The only sounds in the car the rest of the way back to the garage were the sounds the car made at me.

Zee came out and scowled at me as we got out of the car. It wasn’t his I’m-angry scowl, just his usual you-made-me-deal-with-customers scowl. I tapped the hood of the car a couple of times and said, “Zee, this car has a problem.”

I explained what was going on, in detail. Zee pursed his lips, opened the car door, and looked inside. Then he held out his hand.

“Keys,” he said.