Night Broken (Mercy Thompson 8)

“What am I overlooking?” I’d called in all my markers. I’d even called Charles this morning, who had unhelpfully suggested I try a vision quest. Vision quests require fasting, which I could manage, but also a centered focus that I was never going to achieve with Christy in my home. He’d promised to call some shaman priests he knew, but warned me that, as I already knew, Coyote was elusive and mischievous. Searching and calling for Coyote was likely to result in exactly the opposite outcome.

Charles had been my last hope.

“You’ve been concentrating on Coyote when you should have been also looking at Beauclaire.” Tad held up a finger. “Without you, it is unlikely that Beauclaire will ever see the walking stick again—and he knows it.” Two fingers up. “Two: That means that you have a bargaining chip, and it also means that Beauclaire loses if something happens to you. Da also said you’ve been making Beauclaire the villain when he is more comfortably the hero. Beauclaire is honorable, as fae understand the word, and he has spent a human lifetime as a lawyer; he’ll understand compromise. If you can convince Beauclaire that you will sincerely return the walking stick to him when and if you see Coyote, he will probably grant you time to do so. Time, Da also asked me to remind you, is less precious to a Gray Lord like Beauclaire than it is to you.”

My jaw didn’t drop because I had it locked tight.

Tad grinned at me. “He said you’d probably figure it out on your own if you got desperate enough. Then I told him about Christy, and he gave me permission to talk to you tonight if you hadn’t worked it out already.”

I don’t know what expression was on my face, but Tad’s gentled. “Don’t feel too bad. Da knows Beauclaire, and it gives him an advantage. You’ll still have to bargain hard and fast—and be diplomatic. And, Da said, whatever you do, don’t mention his name, or all bets are off. Beauclaire knew that someone was going to have to take out Lugh. He was, apparently, girding up his loins to do just that when Da took care of it. That didn’t mean he didn’t swear vengeance.”

I shook off my chagrin and gave Tad a fist bump. “Thank you. I feel like a lead weight is off my back. I’ll keep looking for Coyote, but more time means that I might not be responsible for the Columbia rising up and out of its banks and wiping the Tri-Cities from the face of the earth.”

“Anytime,” he said. “My duties dispatched, I am off to home. Good luck with Christy and remind her that we work tomorrow, even though it is Saturday, so we’ll need something tasty to get us through the day. And you need to start eating, or your plan to pretend she doesn’t bother you will be revealed to anyone who looks at your ribs.”

I locked up after Tad and set Adam’s security system, Tad’s last words ringing in my ears. I started to get my purse out of the safe when I stopped and went back into the bathroom and peered into the mirror.

I looked just like me. Native American coloring, mostly Caucasian features inherited from my mother. Except, now that I knew to look at them, the shape of my eyes was like Gary Laughingdog’s. I tried to visualize Coyote’s face, but I didn’t know if I was imagining that his eyes were the same or not.

My hair was in the braids I usually wore to work in order to keep it out of the way so it didn’t get covered in grease when I pushed it out of my face. And Tad was right. My features were sharper.

There was no question that not eating the food Christy made was making me lose weight.

There was still a brake job I could do tonight. If I stretched it out, I’d miss dinner. That would give me an excuse to pick up some high-calorie fast food on the way home, food that didn’t taste or smell of Christy. I didn’t want Adam to notice I was losing weight because it would hurt him—my husband took care of the people around him. I didn’t want Christy to notice because she’d know she was getting to me.

I put my overalls back on, pulled on the sweat-inducing gloves, and hoisted the ’94 Passat up on the lift, so I could pull the back tires and take a look.

I was working on compressing the caliper and had just got the six-sided-dice (also known as a piston tool, but only at auto parts stores) to engage the caliper when my phone rang. I’d set my phone on a nearby counter, so I didn’t have to let go of anything to check the display.

Adam. Three days ago I’d have answered immediately, but the day before yesterday it had been Christy asking me to pick up a dozen apples and some butter. Real butter, no salt—make sure not to get the salted version because everyone eats too much salt.

Not a big deal at all. Stopping at the grocery store before I came home wasn’t a problem. Having Christy ask me to do it was a different matter.

Pack is all about hierarchy. I understood how it works even if, before marrying Adam, I had been on the outside looking in. Humans have hierarchy, too. What Christy had done was the equivalent of the new-hire office girl calling the CEO and asking him to bring coffee for the break room—and she’d done it in front of Adam and the four attending wolves. If they hadn’t known about it before, they would have known about it afterward. Pack hierarchy was one of those things I’d agreed to deal with when I married Adam, so I paid attention to make his life easier.

I couldn’t do much about Christy’s faux pas without looking like a jealous, arrogant bitch while Christy graciously apologized because she hadn’t realized what it was she had done—though she’d lived with the pack for years. So I’d filled her order, then brought two dozen Spudnut donuts for the pack.

Spudnuts is a Tri-Cities tradition; they make their donuts with potato flour instead of wheat. I might have lost hierarchy points, but Spudnut donuts bought me credit with the wolves who were at home. The wolves doubtless knew I’d done it to buy their favor—that didn’t mean it didn’t work. Even Christy couldn’t help but eat one.

Maybe I should bring them home every day, and that nicely rounded figure would just be rounded …

Dreams of petty revenge aside, she’d succeeded in making me paranoid to the point that Adam’s cell number on my phone’s display made me wary instead of happy. Four rings sounded before I gave in and answered. If it was Christy, I’d just say no to whatever she asked because I had to work late.

“This is Mercy,” I said neutrally, bracing myself.

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting home sometime soon?” It was Adam. I relaxed and felt my expression soften. “You’ve had the security system on for an hour, so I expected you home by now. But I see you are working still.”