Moon Called (30 page)

“Mercy?” she said in a small voice. “When he starts coming out of it, he's . . .”

“Pretty scary?” I patted her hand. I'd thought a time or two that her experience with werewolves had led her to think of them like pets, rather than dangerous predators. It looked as though that wasn't going to be a problem. I remember David saying that Adam had gone crazy when he'd come into the room, and I remembered the ruins of Adam's living room. Maybe the veil had been ripped from her eyes a little too thoroughly.

“What did you expect when he's helpless in the hands of his enemies?” I said reasonably. “He's trying to defend you as best he can. It takes a tremendous amount of will to overcome the stuff they've been pumping into him. You can't expect the results to be pretty.”

I had been going to start with one of the chains, but Jesse's concerns made me realize that I was a little worried about completely freeing Adam, too. That would never do. Not if I was going to get him up and mobile. If I was afraid of him, it would rouse the predator.

Resolutely, I pressed the knife against the heavy manacle that held his left wrist. I had to be careful because the manacles fit his wrists tighter than the cuffs had fit Jesse. There was not enough space between his skin and the metal to slide the dagger in without cutting him. Remembering how the blade had reacted to cutting Samuel, I thought that might be a bad thing. So I let the knife rest on the metal without adding any force so I could pull it away as soon as it was through.

At first I thought it was the heat of my hands warming the haft, but as the blade broke through the manacle, I had to drop it because it had grown too hot to hold. Adam's hand slid off the chair arm to rest in his lap.

It took almost an hour to cut away the rest of the manacles and chains. Each time the knife heated up, it did so
more quickly and took longer to cool off. There were scorch marks on the linoleum floor and a few blisters on my hand by the time Adam was finally free of the silver chains.

Jesse helped me to gather all the chains together and heap them on the bed. We had to be careful not to drag them on the floor because the sound of metal on hard surfaces tends to carry.

We were just dropping the last of it when I heard the sound of the guard's footstep on the stair. I dropped Zee's dagger on the bed with the silver, pushed Jesse toward the closet, and drew my gun. I aimed it about six feet up the door, and froze, waiting for the bolt to turn on the lock.

He whistled as he inserted the key and I steadied my grip. I planned on hitting him in the middle of his chest first, then two shots into his head. If he wasn't dead after that, he'd be incapacitated so I could finish him off. It would rouse everyone, but I had no options: I had neither time nor inclination to rebind the prisoners.

As I drew in a breath I heard a man's voice, distorted by the door and by distance so I couldn't quite make out what he said. But I heard the man outside our door. If I had to kill someone, I was happy it would be the one who'd hit Jesse.

“Checking on the prisoners,” he said. “It's about time to shoot Hauptman again.”

The second man said something else.

“I don't need orders to watch the clock,” he said. “Hauptman needs more of the drug. He's not going to kick the bucket over a little silver. Hang what Wallace says.”

I sucked in my breath as power crept up the stairway. Not Adam's or Samuel's caliber, but power nonetheless, and I guessed that the man talking to our guard was David Christiansen.

The guard growled, but he pulled the key out of the door and tromped down the stairs. I heard the sound of a short, nasty little argument, and when no one came back up the stairs I decided Christiansen had won his point and put my gun away again.

“Well,” I told Jesse as I tried to steady my breathing, “wasn't that fun.”

She'd curled up in the bottom of the closet. For a moment I thought she was going to stay there—but she was tougher than that. She gathered her courage and got to her feet.

“Now what?”

I looked at Adam. He hadn't moved.

I crossed the room and put my hand against his face. His skin was cool to my touch, which was bad. Because of their high metabolisms, werewolves usually feel warmer to the touch. I wondered how much of that silver they'd pumped into his system.

“I need to get some of that coffee into him,” I told Jesse. “And I have some food, too—which should help.”

She stood by me and looked at him, then looked at me. “Okay,” she said finally, “I give. How are we going to get him to drink coffee?”

In the end, we dragged him out of the chair and propped his head up against Jesse's thigh. We dribbled the coffee, which was still hot, into his mouth. Neither of us could figure out how to make him swallow, but after a few dribbles, he did it on his own.

After the third swallow, he opened his eyes, and they were night-dark velvet. He reached up and grasped Jesse's hand where it lay on his shoulder, but his eyes were on me.

“Mercy,” he mumbled. “What the
hell
did you do to my French Roast?”

I had a moment to believe all my worries had been for nothing when he dropped Jesse's hand and his spine curled backward, throwing his head farther into her lap. His skin went gray, then mottled, as his hands clenched. His eyes rolled back until all I could see were the whites.

I dropped the coffee and grabbed Jesse under the shoulders and dragged her away from Adam as far and as fast as I could.

“He'll hit his head,” she said, beginning to struggle as she realized, as I had, that he was having a seizure.

“He'll heal a cracked skull, but you can't,” I told her.
“Jesse, he's a werewolf—you can't go anywhere near him when he's like this. If he hits you, he'll break bones.” I thanked the dear Lord sincerely that he'd let go of Jesse's hand before he crushed it.

As if it had been awakened by the same demons that were causing his convulsions, I felt the sweep of power arise from him—as would any other werewolves in the area. Which, if Christiansen's figures were accurate, numbered twelve.

“Can you shoot?” I asked her.

“Yes.” Jesse didn't look away from her father.

I pulled the SIG out and handed it to her.

“Point this at the door,” I said, digging to the bottom of the pack for the .44. “
If
I tell you to shoot, pull the trigger. The first pull will be a little stiff. It's loaded for werewolf. We have allies here, so wait until I tell you to shoot.”

I found the revolver. There was no time to check it, but I'd loaded it before I put it in the pack. That would have to do. The Smith & Wesson was a lot heavier than the SIG, and it could do a lot more damage.

“What's wrong?” Jesse whispered, and I remembered she was human and couldn't feel the song of the Alpha's strength.

The music grew, abruptly doubling, and the focus faded until I couldn't tell that it was coming from Adam anymore. Light feet ran up the stairs and the bolt turned on the door. Jesse was still looking at me, but I had my revolver up and aimed as the door opened.

“Don't fire,” I said, raising my gun and putting my hand on top of hers so that the automatic's nose stayed on the ground. “He's one of ours.”

The man who stood in front of the door had skin the color of hot chocolate, a green T-shirt that said DRAGONS KILLED THE DINOSAURS, and hazel eyes. It was the shirt that told me he was David's man. He was standing very still, giving us time to decide he was on our side.

“I'm Shawn,” he said, then he saw Adam.

“Damn,” he said, stepping into the room and shutting
the door quietly. “What's going on?” he asked, his eyes on Adam, who was flat on his back, his arms and legs doing a strange, jerky sort of dance.

“I think he's changing,” Jesse answered.

“Convulsions,” I said. “I'm no doctor, but I think that too much of the silver has worked its way into his nervous system and damaged something important.”

“Will he be okay?” Jesse's voice shook.

“He's tough,” I told her, hoping she wouldn't notice I hadn't answered the question. How much silver did it take to kill a werewolf? Usually it was a function of power—but there were some werewolves who were more sensitive to it than others.

“I was switching guard duty with Hamilton when the captain picked a fight with Connor and gave me the high sign to get my ass up here,” Shawn said. “I hadn't taken three steps when every werewolf on the place was converging on the captain. I take it that something about this fit called them all?”

I nodded and explained to both of them as best I could. “I don't know how Christiansen is doing it,” I told him, “but he's pulling Adam's power and muddying it. I bet everyone will think it's him.”

“Because of the fight,” Shawn said in an “ah-hah” voice.

But I'd lost interest in how quick off the mark Christiansen had been, because Adam quieted and lay limp. Jesse would have gone to him then, but I held her back.

“Wait,” I said, using the opportunity to take the automatic back from her so that she didn't fire it by accident. “Make sure he's finished.”

“He's not dead?” she asked.

“No. I can hear him breathing.” It was faint and shallow, but steady.

I stowed the Smith & Wesson on the top layer in my pack and put the SIG back in its holster. Thanks to Christiansen we weren't going to have a pack of wolves converging on us—but that might change at any time.

Adam hadn't moved, but his breathing grew deeper. I started to tell Jesse that it was all right, when Adam abruptly rolled on his side and jerked into a fetal position with a low groan.

“
Now
is he shifting?” asked Jesse.

“That would be bad,” said Shawn. “We don't want him changing until he's kicked off the effects of the drugs. I talked to some of the men who were in your house when he broke free. He was tranqued up then, too.”

“Stop scaring her,” I snapped. “He'll be all right. Besides, I don't think he's changing.” Actually, that were-wolfy feeling of power had died to nothing. I had no idea what he was doing.

The dress shirt Adam wore, dirty, torn, and stained with drops of blood, looked more gray than white. A lot more gray. He'd broken out into a sweat, and the fabric began to cling to him, outlining the taut muscles of his shoulders and back. I could even see the bumps of his spine. The shirt shimmered a little under the cold fluorescent lights as he shivered miserably. I couldn't tell if he was conscious or not.

I holstered the revolver and walked slowly toward him.

“Adam,” I said, because he had his back to me. It is never a good thing to startle a werewolf. “Are you all right?”

Unsurprisingly, he didn't answer.

I crouched and touched the wet fabric, and he grabbed my wrist—his movement so fast that he was just suddenly there, on his back. I don't remember seeing him roll over. His eyes were yellow and cold, but his grip was light.

“You're safe,” I told him, trying to stay calm. “Jesse's here, and she's safe, too. We're going to get you on your feet in fighting shape, then we're getting out of here.”

“It's the silver,” said Shawn, awed. “That's why the shirt is turning gray. Fu—I mean, damn.
Damn.
He's sweating silver. Damn.”

Adam didn't look away from me, though he flinched subtly at the sound of Shawn's voice. His blazing gold eyes held mine, somehow hot and icy at the same time. I should have looked away—but it didn't seem like a dominance contest. It felt like he was using my eyes to pull himself up from wherever the drugs had forced him. I tried not to blink and break the spell.

“Mercy?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

“
C'est moi, c'est moi,
'tis I,” I told him. It seemed appropriately melodramatic, though I didn't know if he'd catch the reference. I shouldn't have worried.

Unexpectedly, he laughed. “Trust you to quote Lancelot rather than Guinevere.”

“Both of them were stupid,” I told him. “Arthur should have let them marry each other as punishment and gone off to live happily on his own. I only like
Camelot
for the music.” I hummed a bit.

The mundane talk was working. His pulse was less frantic, and he was taking deep, even breaths. When his eyes went back to normal we'd be out of trouble. Except, of course, for the small matter of a warehouse full of enemies. One trouble at a time, I always say.

He closed his yellow eyes, and momentarily I felt cut
adrift and abandoned until I realized he was still holding my wrist as if he were afraid I'd leave if he let go.

“I have the mother of all headaches,” he said, “and I feel like I've been flattened by a steamroller. Jesse's safe?”

“I'm fine, Dad,” she said, though she obeyed the urgent signal I made with my free hand and stayed where she was. He might have sounded calm, but his scent and the compulsive way he was holding on to my wrist contradicted his apparent control.

“Bruised and scared,” I said. “But otherwise unhurt.” I realized that I actually didn't know that and gave Jesse a worried glance.

She smiled, a wan imitation of her usual expression. “Fine,” she said again, this time to me.

His sigh held relief. “Tell me what's been going on.”

I gave him a short version—it still took a while to tell. Except for when I told him about David Christiansen's invasion of my home, he kept his eyes shut as if it hurt him to open them. Before I finished he was twisting uncomfortably.

“My skin is crawling,” he said.

“It's the silver that's bothering you.” I should have thought of that earlier. Touching his shirt with my free hand, I showed him the gray metal on my index finger. “I've heard of sweating bullets before, but never silver.” I started to help him remove his shirt when I realized he couldn't run around naked with Jesse here. “I don't suppose you have any extra clothes, Shawn? If that silver stays against his skin it'll burn him.”

“He can have my shirt,” he said. “But I can't leave to get clothes; I'm on guard duty.”

I sighed. “He can have my sweatpants.” The T-shirt I was wearing hit me halfway down my thighs.

Shawn and I stripped Adam as quickly as we could, using the shirt to wipe most of the silver off his skin before covering him in my sweats and Shawn's green T-shirt. Adam was shivering when we finished.

The thermos cup had dumped its sticky contents all over the floor when I dropped it, but both it and the thermos had
survived. I had Jesse pour hot coffee down her father as fast as he'd drink it, and, with something to focus on, she steadied. When the coffee was done, she fed him the raw roast from the Ziploc bags without turning a hair.

I was worried because Adam was so passive, not a state I'd ever seen him in before. Samuel had said prolonged exposure to silver increased sensitivity. I thought about Adam's headache and the seizures and hoped lycanthropy was enough to allow him to heal.

“You know,” said Shawn thoughtfully, “for someone who wants this one to fight the head wolf in a month, Gerry's not taking very good care of him.”

I was frowning at him when I heard the door open.

“Hey, Morris,” said the stranger as he opened the door, “the boss wants to see you and—” His eyes traveled to Adam and Jesse and he stopped speaking and went for his gun.

If I had been alone, we'd have all been dead. I didn't even think to pull my weapon, just stared in shock, belatedly realizing that Shawn hadn't bolted the door when he'd come in. Shawn's gun popped quietly three times in rapid succession, putting a neat triangle of red over the intruder's heart, making little more noise than someone opening a can of pop. He was shooting a small-caliber automatic with a silencer.

The wounded man fell slowly to his knees, then forward onto his face. I pulled my SIG at last and took aim.

“No,” Adam said. “Wait.” He looked at his daughter. “You told me you weren't hurt—is that true?”

Jesse nodded resolutely. “Just bruises.”

“All right, then,” he said. “Mercy, we're going to try to leave as many alive as possible—dead men tell no tales, and I want to know exactly what's been going on. We'll be gone before this man heals enough to be a danger. Leave him be.”

“He's not dead?” asked Shawn. “The captain says you can kill werewolves with lead.”

Not being in the habit of taking on werewolves,
Christiansen's men hadn't had silver ammunition, and my supply was limited. Silver bullets are expensive, and I don't go out hunting werewolves on a regular basis. Only Connor had had a gun that could use any caliber I had anyway. I'd given him a half dozen of my 9mm bullets.

“You have to take out the spinal column if you want to kill a werewolf without silver,” I told him. “And even then . . .” I shrugged. “Silver ammo makes wounds that don't heal as fast, gives them a chance to bleed out.”

“Damn,” Shawn said, with a last look at the bleeding werewolf he'd shot. He took out a cell phone and dialed in several numbers.

“That'll let everyone know we're on the move,” he told me when he'd finished, tucking the small device back into his pants pocket. “We've got to get out of here now. With any luck they'll assume someone's out on the range and won't pay attention to my shots. But someone's going to miss Smitty, and we need to be out of here when they do.” Then he got down to business and organized our retreat.

I put the SIG back in its holster and took out the .44 magnum. I didn't have a holster for it so I'd just have to carry it. I shoved the extra magazine for the SIG into my bra because I didn't have any better place to store it.

We dragged the wounded werewolf out of the doorway, then Shawn and Jesse got Adam to his feet. Shawn because he was the strongest of us, Jesse because I knew how to shoot a gun. I went out the door first.

This part of the warehouse was set apart from the main room. The offices had been set into a section half the width of the building, and below me was a bare strip of cement wide enough for two trucks to drive side by side. Leaning over the railing to check beneath the stairway, I could tell that there was no one nearby, but I couldn't see very well into the rest of the building because of the racks of giant crates.

As soon as the others were out of the room and onto the landing, I ran down ahead of them to the second-floor landing, where I could guard their descent. Shawn's plan
was that we were going to try to get Adam to the cars. One of Gerry's men drove a classic Chevy truck that Shawn said he could hot-wire faster than he could put a key in the ignition.

I tried to control my breathing so I could listen, but the warehouse was silent except for my comrades coming down the stairs and the ringing in my ears that could have obscured the movements of an army.

There was a garage door right next to the offices, the kind that is double-wide and double-high so a semi can drive through it. Shawn told me it was kept padlocked from the outside, and Gerry had shot the motor that opened it when he'd decided to keep Jesse in one of the offices here where he could control who had access to her. We'd have to make our way back toward the other side of the warehouse and go out a person-sized door, which was the only one unlocked.

As I waited at the bottom of the stairs, trying to see into the warehouse past the impossible maze of crates that could conceal a dozen werewolves with a host of hiding places to spare, I thought about what Shawn had said at last. He was right. If Gerry wanted Adam to kill Bran, he'd need him in a lot better shape. It wouldn't take Bran more than a few seconds to kill Adam in his present condition.

Gerry wasn't stupid, Samuel had told me. So maybe that was the result he intended.

It occurred to me that there were an awful lot of things that didn't make sense if Gerry wasn't stupid—and Samuel was a pretty good judge of character. David seemed to think that the bloodbath at Adam's house had served to rid Gerry of some unwanted competition—but it had also drawn the Marrok's attention. And it would have drawn Bran's eye, even if I hadn't taken Adam to him. An attack at an Alpha's home was important. Then there was that payment to the vampires. I might have found out about it sooner than expected, but if Bran had come sniffing around, I was pretty sure he'd've discovered it, too.

If I were trying to get someone to challenge for Marrok,
I wouldn't make my candidate hate me by kidnapping his daughter. If I were going to use underhanded methods to force a challenge I wasn't certain my candidate would win, I would make sure to cover my tracks so Bran would never find out—and Bran had a deserved reputation for finding out everything.

Gerry had all but painted a billboard that said, “Look at what I'm doing!” and, if he wasn't stupid, he'd done it on purpose. Why?

“Mercy.” Shawn's whisper jerked me back to the present. They were down the stairs, and I was blocking their way.

“Sorry,” I said in the same soundless whisper.

I took point, walking a few steps ahead and looking around the crates as we passed. It was slow going. Adam was having problems with the leg he'd damaged in the first attack, and Jesse was too short to be a good crutch when paired with Shawn, who was nearly six feet tall.

I'd heard something, or thought I had, and I stopped. But when the sound didn't repeat, I decided it was still the ringing in my ears, which was coming and going a little. I hadn't taken but three steps when power ran through me like a warm, sweet wind.

“The pack's here,” said Adam.

I'd never felt them like that before, though I suppose I'd never been in a situation where they were all coming together with one purpose. That might have been all it was, or it might have been because I was standing so close to the pack's Alpha.

Adam stopped and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. I could almost see the strength pouring into him, and he straightened, taking all of his own weight.

Jesse was watching her father, too. Only Shawn kept his mind and his eyes on the job, and it was the widening of his eyes that had me spinning back around.

If the werewolf had been after me, I'd have been dead. But he had picked out the most dangerous of us and brushed by me like a cannonball, knocking me into a crate. The Smith & Wesson flew out of my hand, but didn't go off
when it hit the ground. I heard my upper arm crack and felt a wash of pain as the force of his passing continued to spin me until I landed on the floor facing Adam as the wolf jumped on him.

Jesse screamed. Shawn had emptied his gun without slowing down the wolf. He drew a wicked-looking knife and closed in to use it, but the werewolf caught him with one of those quick catlike sideswipes that no canid should have the lateral motion to do. Like me, Shawn hit a crate and collapsed on the floor.