River Marked

“Mercy,” said Stefan, “is this Coyote?”

“Yep,” I agreed. “Stefan, meet Coyote. Coyote, meet Stefan Uccello. He’s a friend of mine.”

Coyote’s gaze grew noticeably colder. “I remember you.”

Stefan smiled at me.“I have not battled with any walkers for a hundred years or more. But I think that it would be good for me to take my leave until your guest is finished. You have your cell phone?” I held it up; he’d retrieved it when we came in from our walk. “Call me when he leaves. I promised Warren I wouldn’t leave you alone. I will tell him that you said he could come back tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.

He kissed my cheek, ignoring Coyote’s throaty growl. Then he disappeared.

Coyote straightened, staring at the place where the vampire had been.“I’ve never seen one of the blood drinkers do something like that before.”

“Stefan is special,” I agreed. “I’m so glad you’re back. How did the others fare, do you know?”

Coyote took Stefan’s chair and sat down with a groan. “Thunderbird—Gordon Seeker—was the only one who beat me back. Surprised both of us. There aren’t any more Thunderbird walkers, and we were certain that he would never return with no one to anchor him. Just goes to show you that no matter how old you are, life can still surprise you. Do you have anything to eat? It’s been a few days.”

“In the fridge,” I told him. “Help yourself.”

He did. He carried me and my wheelchair up to the kitchen and made himself a huge sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and sat down with me. I told him about killing the river devil and the otterkin. I also told him about how worried I’d gotten about the walking stick.

It hadn’t done anything since killing the otterkin, but there was an eagerness, a shadow of violence, that seemed to lurk around it. I had noticed that when I was at my most prickly, the walking stick was usually somewhere nearby. Maybe it was my imagination—I wouldn’t have told Adam, for instance, without better evidence. But Coyote ran more on instinct than logic, so I thought he’d understand. I think I hoped he’d have some sort of suggestion for me, but he just listened and nodded while he ate. I even told him about coping with a broken hand and a broken leg while a pack of werewolves tried to take care of me despite myself, and had him laughing milk out his nose. My leg still hurt, my stitches still itched, and Adam was still all the way in Texas, but somehow I felt better anyway.

Coyote told me a few stories about himself. He used the rude versions, too. Potty humor shouldn’t be fu

He leaned forward and touched my nose.“You’re tired. I’d better get going.”

“Stop in again,” I invited him.

Coyote looked around the kitchen, then he looked at me.“You know, I think I will.” He got up and, behind my back, said, “That is very beautiful.”

I turned as far as I could in my wheelchair and saw that he’d picked up the walking stick, which must have been lurking around. He gave it a Charlie Chaplin swing.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more gracefully etched or cleverly carved,” he said. Then he looked at me and smiled, waiting for me to understand.

“Would you,” I said carefully, remembering what Charles had taught me about guests and things that they admired, “care to accept it? It has delighted me for many days, as have you—which makes it a fitting gift for such an honored and welcomed guest.”

He smiled at me as if I had been exceptionally clever.“But it’s gotten a bit dangerous recently, yes? We shall have marvelous adventures, this walking stick and I.”

I’d given it back to the fae quite often when it first came to me—and it had always returned. But somehow, I thought that it would stay with Coyote.

“Take care of yourself,” I told him. “And tell your sisters ‘hi’ from me.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised, opening the back door. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to me.

“You tell your mate that I expect him to take care of you,” he growled.

“I will.” I smiled a little. “Have fun.”

“Oh, I will,” said Coyote. He shut the door, but I heard the last bit anyway. “I always do.”

MERCY’S LETTER TO ADAM

Dearest Adam,

If you are reading this, I guess it means I didn’t make it out this time. Damn. I was really worried about this one, and if there had been any way out of it, I’d have found it.

Words aren’t my best thing, not when it’s time to tell you how I feel—but you know that. I’m much better with actions than explaining myself. I think it’s because I don’t think in words about you. How can I reduce what I feel for you to mere letters on a page? “I love you” doesn’t seem big enough somehow, and everything else I tried (you can go through that little garbage can under the sink if you want to see the drafts of this letter) sounds like really bad poetry, which is even worse, so I’ll just stick to the simple words. I love you, Adam.

I want you to know that I fought to get back to you. I didn’t take the easy way out. I didn’t give up. I fought this death because I had you waiting for me on the shore. If it had been possible to drag this puny mortal flesh back to you, I would have done it, if I had to crawl to do so. I would have walked through Hell to get back to you, and only failed because of the weakness of my body, not of my heart.

Don’t push Jesse away. She needs you more than she’s willing to admit. I was going to tell you to go hunt down a woman who will love you, but I find that I’m not a big enough person to do that. Still, don’t feel guilty when you do, okay? And don’t leave her waiting for years (like you did me) because you think you are too old, too Alpha, too whatever. Just make sure she treasures you properly.

Love you,

Mercy

Titles by Patricia Briggs

The Mercy Thompson Novels

MOON CALLED

BLOOD BOUND

IRON KISSED

BONE CROSSED

SILVER BORNE

RIVER MARKED

The Alpha and Omega Novels

ON THE PROWL

(with Eileen Wilks, Karen Chance, and Su

CRY WOLF

HUNTING GROUND

MASQUES

WOLFSBANE

STEAL THE DRAGON

WHEN DEMONS WALK

THE HOB’S BARGAIN

DRAGON BONES

DRAGON BLOOD

RAVEN’S SHADOW

RAVEN’S STRIKE

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