Adam didn’t say anything, just watched Bonarata with patience. His wolf was pretty convinced that Bonarata was not going to survive long, no matter what the overarching consequences might be. Bonarata kept setting himself in front of them and making himself a target. Eventually, Adam’s control would fail, and the wolf would feast.
Bonarata tried to outstare Adam. Marsilia let out a huff of air and walked between them, breaking their stare-down with her body. For the first time, Adam realized that the heels she wore made her taller than either of them. “But you didn’t leave her to die,” she told Bonarata.
“No,” he said, his face and body language softening as he spoke to Marsilia. “Because ultimately, my aim wasn’t to destroy what you had built but to use it. Her death was not my intent. So I had my team fly her to Portland, where I have a witch on retainer. She kept Mercedes alive until she could be brought here, and my own healer could bring her out of danger.”
Adam was pretty sure that the pause that Bonarata followed his speech with was intended as an opportunity for Adam to say thank you, which he wasn’t going to do.
“I have a witch on retainer also,” Adam murmured instead. “A very powerful witch.” Elizaveta made a pleased sound. “It would, perhaps, have been better for Mercy to stay in the Tri-Cities when she was so badly hurt—rather than carting her halfway around the world.”
A chime sounded.
“Ah,” Bonarata said. “That would be dinner. I’m afraid my chef insists that we not dine late. I’ve had to increase his salary twice this year after such incidents. We will have to hold this conversation after we sit and you eat. Yes?”
Adam nodded politely and let Marsilia and Stefan follow Bonarata through yet another door, while he lingered to take the rear. Elizaveta kissed his cheek as she passed—probably because of the compliment he’d thrown her way.
Larry and Harris, the goblins, were deep in discussion in a language he didn’t know, but it sounded vaguely Germanic. Norwegian or Norn, or Old Icelandic for all he could tell. Harris’s copilot trailed behind them, apparently following the conversation. Honey, who had taken it upon herself to play guard for the copilot, fell in beside Adam.
“What is his name?” Adam asked, tilting his head toward Harris’s man. He’d been given it when he met the two pilots at the airport, but he’d been struggling with the wolf, and it had gone in one ear and out the other—something not usual for him. But if the copilot was going to be among the people Adam was responsible for, Adam needed a name.
“Matthew Smith,” said the man himself in a meek voice, though he didn’t turn back. “You can call me Matt, sir.” Then he gave Honey and Adam both a shy smile over his shoulder. “I’ve heard all the jokes. I preferred Tom Baker, anyway.”
Honey looked at Adam, puzzled by the reference.
“Doctor Who,” Adam told her. “Matt Smith played the Eleventh Doctor. Tom Baker was the Fifth or Sixth.”
“Fourth,” said Harris with a grin. “He’s the guy with the scarf.”
“Doctor Who,” said Honey slowly, because the whole pack knew that Adam didn’t like TV much.
“Mercy makes me watch it,” Adam said defensively. “She says it’s for my own good.” Matt the copilot huffed a little laugh under his breath, and Adam caught himself smiling a little. “I’m not sure what that means. But I’m enjoying it.” Doctor Who had been unexpectedly good, but he’d have watched reality TV or even a soap opera in order to sit around for an hour with Mercy cuddled beside him.
He checked his bond—and Mercy was there, too distant to communicate with, but she was there. Just as she’d been the last hundred times he checked for her.
—
DINNER WAS THROUGH A DOUBLE DOOR AND INTO A well-lit, high-ceilinged room that could have been the main seating area of any high-class restaurant. Instead of a single long table, there were a number of tables that sat from two to six people, spread with conscientious randomness around the room.
The whole room could have seated maybe a hundred people, but not so many were expected tonight. Numerous tables, each seating four, were decorated with pink linen tablecloths and blue-and-white place settings. There were deep-rose-colored place cards on each plate with names scribed on them. The first one that Adam glanced at proved that Bonarata had investigated Adam’s people: it read MATTHEW SMITH.
He rounded the table, reading the other names at the table—Stefan Uccello, Larry Sethaway, and Austin Harris.
“Matt, here’s your seat,” he said, keeping his voice kind because the other wolf didn’t deserve the sharpness of the sudden, possessive bite of an Alpha wolf who feels like someone is trying to take his pack away from him. It wasn’t just that Bonarata had known Matthew Smith’s name—it was that he had surrounded the vulnerable wolf with the people Adam would have put around him: Stefan for strength, Harris for familiarity, and Larry because no one would expect him to be as dangerous as he was. He’d have weighed replacing Larry with Honey, but the two goblins would be more likely to fight well together.
Bonarata had done him a favor, and it drove his wolf wild because of the impertinence of it—presuming to make decisions that belonged to Adam. Protecting his people was his job. Or maybe he was overreacting because he didn’t know where Mercy was. Probably he was overreacting.
The copilot sat down in the chair Adam had indicated for him. He put a hand on Adam’s knee and asked, “Trouble?” in a low voice that wouldn’t carry, even to the ears in the room.
This wolf was the only person besides Honey in the room whom Adam’s wolf did not view as prey or possible threat. The touch on his knee steadied him as nothing else could have in that moment. Adam had a job to do—and that job did not include playing stupid games with an ancient vampire.
He took a breath and nodded to the other wolf. “Thank you,” he said.
The copilot dropped his eyes and bowed his shoulders to look smaller than he was—and he wasn’t a big man. “Glad to be of use,” he told Adam.
Feeling more in control—though he supposed he wouldn’t be back to normal until he had Mercy back safe—Adam patted the wolf on the shoulder in thanks, and when Harris found his way to his seat, he left him in good hands.
He checked on Elizaveta and Honey, both of whom were sitting surrounded by vampires. Elizaveta was flirting gently in Russian with a vampire who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Honey ignored her table companions, who were not only vampires but also women. Instead, she kept watch on the table where Matthew Smith and Harris were. It would have been rude, but the other occupants of her table were busy ignoring her pointedly, too. He just bet Honey’s tender feelings were hurt—he hid his inner smile. Honey was as tough-minded as any werewolf he knew.
There were, by his count, sixty people in the room, not including the waitstaff. Adam’s small pack was vastly outnumbered. That was probably not an accident. Some of the guests were human. A few were other, people who were magical but fit poorly into established categories.
Adam was mostly intrigued by the people he didn’t see. Bonarata had Lenka, the werewolf he had enslaved. But she wasn’t the only nonvampire Bonarata had in his arsenal. He’d had a powerful witch at one time, though she seemed to be missing—but there were others in his hire now. The only werewolves in the room were in Adam’s party—and Elizaveta was the only witch.
By the time Adam made his way to his table (he aimed for Bonarata, assuming that would be where he’d be eating) the others were seated. The Lord of Night had placed himself across from Adam. Marsilia was seated on Adam’s right (Bonarata’s left), and a strange vampire had the seat to Adam’s left.
“You like the room?” asked Bonarata pointedly. “You took your time examining it.”
“I take care of my people,” Adam said with a peacefulness won from a hand on his knee and watching Honey ignore the people ignoring her—and the solid connection of
his mate bond. He decided that he could also be gracious. “The room is elegant—and interesting.”
“You were going to explain what happened to Mercy after you brought her here,” said Marsilia.
Bonarata sighed. “Not knowing anything about her, except that Wulfe had told me she was powerful—not strong, I grant you, but powerful—I put her up in a safe room outside this house, where I could keep her protected from my people and keep my people safe from her. She woke up, and we had a polite discussion. I thought all was well when I was called away to deal with other issues. I left my own werewolf to guard her. At this point, I was more concerned with my people hurting her rather than the other way around.”
“Concerned,” thought Adam, could be a very unspecific word.
“You left your bloodbitch to guard Adam’s mate,” said Marsilia, real anger in her voice. She looked at Adam. “He stole the wolf female from the Milan Alpha because he could. When the Alpha objected, Iacopo had him brought here and tortured him until he’d broken them both. But Iacopo—”
“Jacob,” corrected Bonarata softly. “Jacob is easier for my American contacts.”
“—Jacob,” continued Marsilia without a change in her voice, “doesn’t feed from males. So he had the Alpha killed but kept his mate. She was quite mad when I left here. I cannot think that a few centuries will have helped her.”
All of which Marsilia knew that Adam knew, which meant that she was bringing it up to get a reaction from Bonarata. It wasn’t working.
“If Mercedes had not run, the wolf would not have chased her,” Bonarata said easily. He didn’t address or acknowledge Marsilia’s charge except for that correction over his first name. “She would not have disobeyed me. Mercedes was safe until she tried to run.”
Adam understood what he was hearing. Mercy had not been what Bonarata was prepared to deal with, so he’d set her up to die. A very practical thing, really. If there was only one person telling the story, there could be no debate about what had happened.
Food was served at just that moment. Adam held his tongue and watched as a very rare steak was set out for him while he fought the beast inside him to a standstill. As soon as all of those eating food were served, vampire waiters brought out trays with golden goblets that they placed before the vampires. The last person served was Bonarata.
He held up his goblet and said, “Eat and drink, my friends. Tonight is a glorious night, and tomorrow will be better.” Then he said something in Italian. Adam was pretty sure the vampire was just repeating his words.
He sipped his drink, and Adam did, too, because there was nothing wrong with drinking to tomorrow. As soon as Bonarata set his goblet down, people started to eat.
Most of the place settings were silver. Adam’s was gold. He glanced at Honey and saw that her tableware was gold as well. He’d assume that Smith received the same courtesy. Adam cut into his steak and took a bite and chewed with what he hoped looked like thoughtfulness instead of restrained rage. If Mercy had not managed to escape, she’d have been dead when they arrived.
“So,” he said softly, “where is your pet werewolf whose job it was . . . to keep Mercy here, I think you said?”
There was a pause, then the beautiful male vampire to his left said, a hint of amusement in his voice, “She was hit by a bus and is currently recovering.”
And just that easily, Adam’s equanimity was restored.
Adam nodded. “People who stand in the way of my mate’s ability to get herself out of trouble often feel like they were hit by buses. I think this might be the first time it is literally true, though.” He looked at the second vampire. “We weren’t introduced.”
“This is Guccio,” Bonarata said. “He is responsible for the night-to-night running of the seethe. My apologies for not introducing him earlier.”
“Don Hauptman,” said the pretty vampire, “I have heard many things about you.”
Adam opened his mouth to tell him that his name wasn’t Don, when Bonarata spoke. “Signore Hauptman is a young wolf, not even a century old.” He looked at Adam. “‘Don’ is an old term of respect; Guccio meant it so.”
The explanation—though necessary—had been given with a hint of patronization.
“A bus,” murmured Marsilia. “At least she never hit one of mine with a bus. I wonder if it was a mark of respect—or the opposite. It doesn’t do to underestimate Mercedes, Jacob, something that I had to learn, too. Did she give you the spiel she likes to bring out now and again about how she’s mostly no more powerful than the average human? It is a most effective speech, because I think she actually believes it.”
Bonarata frowned at Marsilia. “She is weak,” he said. “She is easily broken, easily killed.” He frowned at Adam. “You cannot afford a weak mate if you seek out power. A plaything can be weak, because such a one is disposable. But a mate must be an asset.”
Mercy, weak? Adam thought. “And yet,” he said coolly, “Mercy is not here. And the werewolf you sent after her is still recovering.”
“I have news for you, Jacob.” Marsilia placed a little more emphasis than necessary on the vampire’s name. “There have been a lot of people, monsters, and other things who have tried to kill Mercedes Thompson Hauptman, and most of them died in the attempt. She is not helpless, nor is she weak.”
“I didn’t try to kill her,” said Bonarata.
Adam stared at the vampire, hearing the lie clearly. Did the vampire not know he could hear the lie? Adam couldn’t trust himself to speak.
“I never said you did,” Marsilia said diplomatically. “Nor have I. But I have seen her at work. Your wolf is lucky it was only a bus.”
“Do you know where she is?” asked Adam. “I trust you have been looking.”
On the plane, Marsilia had told Adam that Bonarata would not rest until he found Mercy. She had made him look incompetent, and his ego would not allow him to let her escape without consequences.
Bonarata spread his hands, sighed, and said, “I have my people looking for her. It appears that she has left Italy entirely, probably by bus. We tracked her to a bus stop in Austria, where she either traded buses or changed her mode of transportation. I have some information that makes it apparent that she has made her way to either Prague or Berlin or possibly Munich.”
“Who did you send after her?” asked Marsilia.
“You would not know them,” Bonarata told her. “But they are good hunters. They will find her and bring her back.”
Adam said slowly, “You were given misleading information that inspired you to take my wife. I think it is only fair to give you information that will keep you from making a bigger mistake.”
“Yes?” Bonarata said.
“Bran raised Mercy.”
“She was raised in his pack,” said Bonarata. “Foster parents, of which one was a wolf.” He smiled. “You are correct, I started with too little information. I have made up for it.”
“Very good,” Adam said. “You already know that if my wife dies, I will not rest until you are no longer walking the earth. You don’t fear that, though you should. But what you don’t know is that Bran feels the same—and only an idiot would not fear Bran.”
“Bran has cut his ties to your pack,” said Bonarata.
Adam nodded. “See? I thought you’d gotten the wrong information. That part is true enough. But that is politics—family is different. Bran could not love Mercy more if she were his own daughter. He’s funny about family. His own mother tried to hurt one of his children, and that tale is still told. You do know the story of Beowulf?”
And, from the vampire’s carefully blank face, he was fully aware of how Bran’s descent into madness, when his witchborn mother had tried to force Bran to hurt Samuel, Bran’s son, was tied to the myth of Beowulf.
“Bran is very practical,” Adam said. “He is a zealot whose cause is the survival of the werewol
ves. He will sacrifice almost anything to that cause. He believes that he would sacrifice either or both of his sons—and they believe it, too. But whenever that seems to be a necessity, somehow matters work out differently. And Bran is nowhere near as protective of his sons as he is of Mercy. You need to listen to me as I tell you the absolute truth.” He ate another piece of steak and resisted the need to meet the vampire’s gaze, because Mercy’s magic had rescued him once, and even for Mercy, that only worked some of the time. “If Mercy dies because of you, there is not a hole deep enough for you to hide from him.”
“If Bran behaves aggressively toward me without cause, he will force a war between the vampires and the werewolves,” Bonarata said.
“He won’t care,” Adam said, his voice sure and certain. Not all vampires could tell the difference between the truth and a lie when they heard it. But he was willing to bet that a vampire of Bonarata’s age could. “He might care afterward. He might care that you didn’t intend her death. But that will be afterward. Please don’t push him into it.”
8
Mercy
Running from vampires, again. Still. Go me!
I DIDN’T HAVE A WRISTWATCH, AND, SINCE IT WAS nighttime, there was no sun to help tell the time. It felt like we’d been riding the motorcycle less than an hour, but I had no way to be sure. We sped our way out of Prague proper and into a more rural area, where the road seemed to weave in and out of one tiny village after another.
We turned off the main road onto a blue-railed modern bridge that crossed a river and into the labyrinthian streets of yet another village. We drove past a castle—because it was the Czech Republic, and apparently castles were required by all the best villages.
The Tri-Cities had no castles. I’d never felt the lack before.