Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson 13)

“Mmm,” I said. “Marry me.”

“Okay,” agreed my husband. “This afternoon at two p.m. work for you? I might manage one thirty in a pinch.”

“Sorry,” I murmured, burrowing deeper under the pillow, “I think I have a date with this guy.”

“Do you?” There was a clink as something, presumably my breakfast, was set down.

“Yep.” I yawned. “Some hot guy. Used to be special forces. Don’t know that he can compete with a man who cooks breakfast for—uhumf.”

He inserted a muscular arm under my belly and heaved me out of the blankets and over his shoulder.

“Mine,” he said smugly, a hand patting my butt.

I let myself go limp and muttered, “The things I put up with for breakfast.”

He laughed and set me on my feet. That hurt for a second—and then it didn’t. I returned his butt pat with interest on my way to my chest of drawers, where my breakfast awaited.

Adam had evidently rolled the walking stick aside to make room for the plate. I hadn’t caught it moving—I seldom did—but I was pretty sure Adam wouldn’t have put the plate half-on, half-off the chest.

The walking stick had been first made by Lugh who knows how long ago and had destroyed itself saving me. It had reappeared a few weeks ago, looking as if it had never been reduced to splinters and bits of melted silver. I rolled it over so I could push the plate back on solid ground. I wondered if the walking stick still counted as an ancient artifact after remaking itself in my dreams.

Dreams. I paused, remembering that dream—or whatever it had been. I decided I’d eat breakfast and digest the dream a bit before I shared it.

“Any news?” I asked, wolfing... coyote-ing down crispy hash browns and bacon. Adam was a wonderful cook. I could bake good brownies.

Adam shook his head. “I thought we could both use fuel before we tackled mysteries.”

He sounded a little preoccupied. I smiled to myself. I hadn’t worn anything to bed, and I wasn’t wearing anything now.

“Sex fiend,” I told him. “The tabloids are right about you.”

“Unusually so,” he agreed. “Almost as if they had an inside source. Are you through eating yet?”

—

“So what do you think it was?” Adam asked, nearly an hour later, as he put away the pans he’d used to make breakfast.

“Did I have a dream, or was it a message from Stefan?” I wiped down the sink and shook my head. “I don’t know. It had the same feel as the one in Stefan’s house—and neither of them felt quite like my normal dreams. But Stefan didn’t say anything materially that I didn’t know, and what was new was something I could have made up.” I paused. “But I am going to have Zee look at my foot. It looks and feels okay—but it should be more painful, I think. It hurt when I stepped on those spiky things, and then I forgot about it.” Feet, I thought. I needed to have Zee look at both of my feet.

“I’ll go with you. Afterward we should gather some of the wolves and go pay—” He stopped talking as the sound of a car outside caught his attention. He glanced at me.

“George,” I said with certainty. George drove a ten-year-old Mazda sedan. There was another Mazda in the pack, but it had a smaller engine. I knew cars.

A second car followed the Mazda. Brand-new cars could be trickier—less individual than older cars.

“And,” I said, “someone driving a newer Chevy Malibu.”

—

Geena Reed’s hand shook as she brought the cocoa up to her mouth. Sleeplessness ringed her eyes and tightened a mouth that looked as though it usually wore a smile. She was short, plump, and maybe fifty.

We made her very uncomfortable. Interestingly, it was just Adam and me who bothered her. She appeared to be quite at ease with George.

We had gathered in the living room because the kitchen seemed a little close quarters for someone who was as scared as she was. The living room had more choices of seating where she could get some distance without looking like she was trying to hide from us.

“Geena has been in the Tri-Cities for about two weeks,” George said. “We met at my club.”

George’s club was where he joined other people who practiced BDSM. Geena didn’t look like my idea of someone who belonged to a BDSM group. But I didn’t look like most people’s idea of a mechanic, either.